The Lost Relic

Chapter Forty-Two

Ben ran hard through the passages, shining the Maglite this way and that, searching for a way out. Gleaming metal flashed in his beam, and he spotted a ladder running up through an open shaft in the ceiling. A winch cable dangled down from above, holding up a platform with a safety rail around its edge. At the foot of the ladder was scattered an assortment of cases and boxes. He guessed they contained whatever kind of archaeology equipment was needed for the excavation of the discovered catacomb. He stuck the torch in his belt and climbed the ladder.

The next level up was still underground, some kind of gloomy circular tunnel that was just about high enough to stand up in. It looked like a disused sewer. It was getting hard to believe there was any solid ground at all under Rome. Maybe one day the city would just cave in and disappear.

Ben shone his torch around him. There was more equipment lying about near the shaft, and across on the other side of the tunnel. Next to it was another ladder, climbing up to a freshly-cut trapdoor that he was certain led to street level.

He was halfway to the ladder when the tunnel filled with the stunning noise of a gunshot and a bullet wailed off the stonework near his head. He whipped round to see Darcey Kane clambering out of the shaft behind him, clutching a Beretta identical to the one he’d taken from her.

There wasn’t time to stick around to say, ‘You just don’t give up, do you?’ There wasn’t even time to draw the gun from his belt and return fire. He’d have been dead before he could release the safety lever. He took off at a zigzagging run, keeping low.

She fired again. The ricochet howled off the wall and rattled around the tunnel like a pinball. She was shooting at the light. He ditched the torch. Heard the clatter behind him as she did the same. Not stupid, that Darcey Kane.

Rats slithered out of Ben’s path as he sprinted through the gloom. He was a fast runner, but it was clear that his pursuer had been putting in some serious track practice. Her pounding footsteps weren’t far behind him as he went flying around a corner, nearly losing his footing on the slippery stone. His shoulder connected painfully with the tunnel wall, and he felt the hard edge of an iron rung embedded in the brickwork. He hauled himself up, found another, then another. There was a cast iron manhole cover above him. He punched out hard with the heel of his hand, praying the lid wasn’t rusted in place or bolted down. It gave way with a grinding clang. He shoved it aside, and fresh air flooded down the round hole. He clambered up to the top rung, thrusting his head and shoulders out into the night air.

A screech of air horns almost blew out his eardrums. He twisted his head around to see the blinding headlights and massive front grille of a truck bearing down on him like some kind of monster. The truck’s tyres screamed, smoke pouring from its wheel arches. Ben ducked his head down in a hurry. A fraction of a second later, and it would have been torn off. The manhole was filled with roaring noise and grit and diesel stink as the truck passed overhead.

By the time it had come to a shuddering halt fifteen metres further down the road, Ben was clambering out of the hole and kicking the cast iron lid back into place. He was in a broad, straight street with old buildings and shops and parked cars and scooters gleaming under the street lights. He glanced around him for something to lay across the manhole cover to delay the SOCA agent – but large, heavy objects weren’t readily to hand in the middle of the road. All he had was himself. He stood on the plate, feeling just a little self-conscious and all too aware this didn’t present a lasting solution to his predicament. A car sped down the street and swerved to avoid him. Ben ignored the stream of abuse that came at him from its open window. The truck driver had pulled into the side of the road and had jumped down from his cab, storming over with clenched fists to yell obscenities at him. Ben ignored him, too. He had other things to worry about.

Under his feet, the plate gave a lurch as something hit it hard from below. Here she comes, he thought. A second’s pause, then there was a muffled explosion and something struck the underside of the cast iron plate with a loud clang and an impact that rattled him all the way up to his knees. She was trying to shoot her way out. She must have been deafened down there.

Ben looked up as he heard the buzz of a motorcycle approaching. A tall, skinny trail bike was coming down the road towards him. Its helmetless rider was a young guy of about twenty. He slowed the bike uncertainly as he got closer, probably thinking Ben was a drunk who was about to stagger into his path and bring the bike down.

Ben slipped the Beretta out of his belt and yelled ‘Alt! Polizia!’ at the top of his voice.

Seeing the pistol, the truck driver instantly stopped screaming abuse and beat a hasty retreat back to his vehicle. The motorcyclist’s eyes opened wide as he brought the bike to a sliding halt. Up close, Ben could see the Honda legend on the shiny blue tank and the letters ‘250cc’ on the side panel beneath the seat.

‘Sorry about this,’ he said. Still pinning the manhole cover with his weight, he grabbed the young guy’s arm and hauled him roughly out of the saddle. He caught the bike as it began to topple, swung his right leg over it and gunned the throttle.

The instant Ben took his weight off the manhole cover, the iron lid flipped up with a clang. Darcey Kane came bursting out of the hole, pistol first. Her eyes were wild, her face streaked with sweat and dirt.

Ben flashed her a grin, stamped the gear lever into first, opened the throttle wide and dumped the clutch. Before she could make a move, the Honda’s front wheel lifted a foot in the air and the machine took off like a startled horse.

As he raced down the street with the warm wind whistling in his ears and fluttering his jacket, Ben glanced in the handlebar mirror. Darcey was already waving down an approaching car with her drawn pistol. Not just any kind of car, but a low-slung gleaming red sports convertible that looked worryingly like a Ferrari under the street lights. She bundled the protesting driver out, leaped in behind the wheel. Over the tinny howl of the Honda’s engine, Ben heard the roar and screech of spinning wheels as she accelerated after him.

‘This damn woman’s unstoppable,’ he muttered. He ground the throttle against its stop and the little 250cc engine screamed in protest. Parked vehicles and buildings flashed by in a blur. He snatched another glance in the mirror. The sports car was already gaining on him fast.

It was a Ferrari. Not good. No way he could outrun her on this sewing machine on wheels.

Do what you can with what you’ve got. Boonzie had taught him that one.

Ben kept his eyes on the mirror just an instant too long. When he looked back at the road ahead, there was a fat man crossing the street dragging a chihuahua on a lead. He swerved violently to avoid them, narrowly missing crunching into the side of a parked Fiat Cinquecento. He hammered up onto the kerb and rode down the pavement. A corner café was closing for the night, with plastic chairs and tables strewn outside and a waiter gathering up glasses. Ben ducked down behind the bars, gritted his teeth and went ploughing through the tables, sending the waiter diving for cover. The little Honda wobbled furiously but he somehow managed to keep it upright. He jumped the bike back down off the kerb between two parked cars, hit the road with a screech and accelerated away.

It was only as he sped off down the street that he realised the bumpy ride had jolted the Beretta out of his waistband. Any thoughts he had of going back for it were quickly scotched as the Ferrari came hurtling round the bend just a few metres behind him, glued tight to the road, bearing relentlessly down on his tail.

A street sign flashed by: Via dei Coronari. Buildings parted, and Ben could suddenly see the city lights glinting off the smooth waters of the Tiber to his left. A line of lanterns traced the shape of a bridge spanning the river and illuminated the facing rows of angelic white statues along its sides. But it wasn’t the graceful beauty of the architecture that made Ben swerve the Honda hard left and take a closer look at the bridge – it was the fat concrete bollards set across its entrance, blocking the way to anything wider than a skinny little trail bike. He passed between them and sped out across the smooth paving stones of the bridge. Heard the scream of tyres behind him as the Ferrari skidded to a halt at an angle in the road.

Halfway over the bridge, Ben stopped the bike and looked back. Darcey Kane was out of the car, standing under the glow of a street light, gun in hand. Even at this distance he could see she was virtually dancing with frustration. Her shout of rage echoed across the river.

Ben had to smile to himself as he rode away into the night.

Though somehow, he had the feeling he hadn’t seen the last of this Darcey Kane.