The Lost Relic

Chapter Twenty-Three

Ben had raced out of the library just in time to see the heavily armed Carabinieri come swarming into the hallway. He waved his arms and yelled ‘No! There are hostages!’ at the top of his voice – but his shout was lost in the noise as the two gunmen opened fire and drove the assault team back towards the entrance foyer. Ben had just enough time to recognise one of the shooters as the hulk he’d encountered earlier; then he had to duck back inside the library, shielding his face from flying splinters as the two thugs shot everything to pieces with their automatic rifles. He ran back to the girl, trying to shield her as best he could from stray bullets, his mind racing to think what he could do to protect her if the gunmen came in here.

But moments later he realised that the gunfight had moved to the gallery room. He ran back out into the hall and was met by the gun muzzles of the Carabinieri. He raised his arms and laced his fingers over his head. As they closed in on him, he explained that he was one of the exhibition visitors. Rough hands started hauling him away towards the entrance foyer.

That was when the grenade went off inside the gallery. The whole building seemed to rock.

‘Jesus Christ!’ yelled the Carabinieri sergeant who’d been clutching Ben’s arm. He let go of Ben and ran with the rest of his men towards the shattered glass walkway as thick black smoke billowed out into the hall.

Nobody was stopping him in the chaos, so Ben followed them through the acrid smoke. For the first time since the robbery had started, he found himself back inside the exhibition room.

However many more gunmen there’d been, they were all gone now. In their wake they’d left a battlefield. Burning bodies of fallen cops, some dead, some maimed and trying to roll out the flames and crawl to safety. Broken glass covered everything. Many of the precious exhibits were destroyed.

Ben didn’t care about those. His heart was in his mouth as he looked around him, peering through the smoke. No sign of the hostages anywhere – then he looked through the open door to the side room and saw something.

A foot. Someone lying motionless. Ben ran. He burst into the room.

He stared.

He’d found the hostages.

Or what was left of them. Thirty or more bodies lay strewn and piled across the floor. Some lying flat. Some propped against the wall. Blood everywhere, and plaster and dust and debris and scattered bottleneck shell cases from an automatic rifle.

Ben heard a groan. A survivor. He rushed over and saw a dusty hand groping out from the piles of bodies, and a pale face staring at him streaked with dust and blood. It was Pietro De Crescenzo, the count. As Ben looked around him, he realised one or two others were stirring.

And then he saw Donatella and Gianni.

Ben staggered back and slumped against the opposite wall and closed his eyes and felt sick and then the room was filling with shouting Carabinieri.

He scarcely even noticed them haul him to his feet and half-carry him away. Barely registered the chatter of radios and the screech of the sirens, the chaos around him as he was led outside, or the paramedics who sat him down and covered him with a blanket.

The ambulance ride was just a faraway dream.