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seeped out onto the floor of the Colosseum. Fearing the man to be either dying or dead, Alton prayed emergency workers would arrive soon.
    After a seeming eternity, Alton heard a cacophony of shouts. A crowd of policemen and medics streamed into the hallway and encircled him within moments. Exhausted, Alton moved aside so they could continue the patient’s treatment.
    While one of the medics picked up the CPR, another attached monitors to the injured man’s chest. The medic flipped on a switch to activate the equipment, which produced an even tone. He shouted something in Italian to his companion and filled a long, hypodermic needle. After jabbing the syringe into the patient’s heart and emptying its contents, he stared at the heart monitor, scarcely breathing himself.
    The ominous, even tone of the heart monitor never changed. Despite the administration of two more injections, the victim’s heart never regained a single beat.
    The medics eventually discontinued their efforts and slumped to the ground. One of them checked his watch, mentioned “ momemto della morte ” to his comrade, and typed a note into a handheld electronic device.
    Alton thought to examine the victim in a little more detail. As he picked his phone off the ground and swept a beam of light onto the victim’s face, he gave a start of surprise. Duncan Wells, Alton’s taxi-ride companion, lay dead at his feet.

CHAPTER 11
    Zane Crowe dashed through random corridors on the Colosseum floor until he emerged from the structure on the opposite side of Naumachia. Despite his muscular build and a height just over six feet, he moved along the paver stones with a lithe, flowing motion.
    “Bloody hell!” he murmured to himself. “Half of the bloody Polizia di Stato showed up tonight. Plus a couple o’ bleedin’ hearts.”
    Upon exiting the Colosseum and scaling its protective fence, he deposited his leather jacket into the nearest trashcan, then set the container alight. Now that he had been spotted in the jacket, he couldn’t continue to wear it. But neither could he leave a prime piece of evidence behind for the police to examine. Burning it was the only answer. By the time the police noticed the fire, he’d be long gone, and the jacket would be destroyed.
    He untucked his shirt to conceal the Glock still tucked into a mini-holster inside the rear waistband of his pants. God bless Italian laws. These jobs are so much easier when you know you’re the only one packing heat.
    The appearance of the party-crashers at the end had rendered the job less effective than Crowe had hoped. But on the positive side, at least he had witnessed the sale firsthand, and Duncan Wells—the seller—wouldn’t be alive to finger him. He wished he had been afforded the opportunity to pursue the buyer tonight, but no matter. When Wells had turned on his phone to verify receipt of the payment, Crowe had used the device’s feeble illumination to snap several photos of the buyer. The photos were blurry, but he felt confident he’d be able to track down the man. After all, tracking people was one of the activities his clients paid him to perform.
    His client for this job had never mentioned how valuable the technology was—only that a clandestine sale would occur. During the transaction, Crowe had heard the seller discuss a payment of twenty-five million dollars. Had he heard that right? If so, the fee he would receive for tonight’s job would be dwarfed by the money he could make if he acquired the smart phone he had seen change hands minutes earlier. His client would have no way of knowing what had happened to the phone. Crowe could sell it to the highest bidder.
    The Englishman rubbed his hands together. He would never have to worry about money again…never have to take on any more jobs like this. Not that he really minded, but why go to the trouble if you didn’t have to? He could buy his own little slice of South-American paradise, a casita with sunshine, lounge