The Nosferatu Scroll

75

But before he could remove the robe, there was a sudden bang from somewhere behind him, and a hoarse shout echoed down the stone spiral staircase, followed immediately by the staircase lights coming on and the sound of somebody pounding down the steps. Then the single electric bulb over the stone table snapped on, flooding that end of the room with light. Seconds later, one of the two men Bronson had seen outside the church ran into the cellar, his face flushed and his breath coming in short gasps.

He blurted out something that Bronson didn’t catch, though he did make the words ‘naked’ and ‘robe’, and in that instant he knew they’d found the man he’d attacked in the church.

Immediately, all the men standing around the stone table looked at Bronson, identifying him as the impostor.

In a single movement, Bronson pulled open the front of his robe, pushed the hood back off his head and grabbed for his Browning.

In that instant, Angela called out his name, a single shrill syllable that echoed around the room. But two of the hooded men were already reaching for their own weapons, and Bronson knew he’d be out-gunned in seconds.

There was only one thing he could do to save the situation and buy himself some time. Taking rapid aim, he pulled the trigger. But his target wasn’t one of the menacing hooded men advancing towards him. Despite the circumstances, Bronson still wasn’t prepared to shoot down a man in cold blood – at least, not until he had absolutely no alternative. Instead, he raised the pistol higher, aiming it towards the ceiling, and the single lamp dangling there, and squeezed the trigger.

The sound of the nine-millimetre cartridge firing in the confined space of the cellar was deafening, the noise of the explosion echoing from the walls. The copper-jacketed bullet missed the light bulb, smashed into the concrete ceiling and ricocheted on to the back wall. Still carrying a lot of kinetic energy, it then bounced off the stone and hit one of the robed figures. Bronson heard a man call out in pain and fall to the ground.

He fired again, and again, the crashing blast of each shot deafeningly loud, the bullets ricocheting off the walls and ceiling, fragments of stone and red-hot copper from the bullet flying everywhere.

The last bullet hit either the light bulb itself or, more likely, the lamp holder, because as well as extinguishing the single light in the cellar, there was a sudden flash and the staircase lights went out. Bronson guessed that the bullet’s impact had blown a fuse somewhere.

Instantly, the cellar was plunged into darkness, the only illumination being the candles held by the hooded figures, several of which had already been blown out.

But there was still enough light to see the men around the stone table, and two of them were already aiming pistols directly at Bronson. He shifted his aim, bringing down his weapon until the sights lined up with one of the two men. As he squeezed the trigger, the other man fired, and Bronson felt a tug on the left-hand side of the heavy robe he was wearing as the bullet ploughed through the material.

The shot may have missed him, but Bronson had taken an extra half-second to make sure he didn’t miss his target. The man gave a shriek of pain and fell backwards, clutching at his shoulder while his weapon cartwheeled uselessly from his hand to clatter on to the stone floor.

One down, but eleven men were still facing him in the room. The second man fired, but Bronson was already moving. He ducked down and took a few steps over to his right, moving deeper into the shadows that danced around the far end of the cellar. He heard the impact of the bullet somewhere in the darkness behind him, took rapid aim at the armed man and squeezed the trigger.

His shot missed, and his target dived off to one side, finding cover behind the stone wall that marked the end of one of the cells built along the side of the cellar.

Then Bronson heard a sharp command, and almost immediately all the candles were extinguished.

For a few moments, the only sound in the room was the moaning of the man Bronson had shot. Angela, after her one yell of recognition, had said nothing else, and even the girl on the stone table had fallen silent.

The blackness was Stygian, impenetrable. Bronson took two silent steps to one side, so that he was no longer in the same spot where he’d been standing when the candles were put out. He slid out of the heavy robe and tossed it to one side, a few feet away from him, the garment landing with a muffled sound on the stone floor. Instantly, another shot crashed out, the bullet slamming into the rear wall of the cellar several feet away from him.

OK, Bronson thought. His assailants would fire at any sound they heard because he was a single vulnerable target: if he made a noise, he would die. The only advantage he had was that the men were probably still clustered near the stone table, so at least he knew where they were. But he couldn’t fire at them, not in the darkness without any point of reference – the risk of hitting the girl on the table was too high.

For the moment, it was a stalemate.

Making no sound at all, Bronson stood up and started to ease his way along the wall beside him, touching it with his left hand – he needed to feel the old stones to ensure that he was going in the right direction. All he hoped to do was put a little more distance between himself and the other men. And if he could get as far as the back wall of the room, he could try to work his way across to the cell where Angela was being held and try to free her.

There was another sharp command from the other end of the room. The voice was quiet and he couldn’t make out the words, but the effect was immediate. Bronson heard the sound of movement – someone was cautiously crossing the floor towards him, their robes rustling and their leather sandals slapping faintly on the old stones. He guessed that two of the men, both no doubt armed with pistols, had been ordered to move apart so that they could catch him in the crossfire.

Still he daren’t fire blind. He might hit the girl. He could even hit Angela. And if he did shoot, the muzzle flash from his pistol would instantly give away his position, and he knew exactly what would happen if he did that.

He moved infinitely slowly, backing away from the sound of movement. Then he stopped and crouched down with his back to the wall, making himself as small a target as possible. He held the Browning ready in his right hand, his left pressed against the wall behind him, prepared to move or to shoot as events dictated, listening hard and desperately trying to make sense of what he was hearing.

Then, through the darkness, he heard another muttered command, and almost immediately two shots blasted out from opposite sides of the cellar, the bullets smashing into the wall where he’d been standing just moments earlier, then ricocheting away. The muzzle flashes illuminated the shooters for a split second, just long enough for Bronson to see where they were.

He fired once, at the figure on his right, then dived sideways, changing his own position.

Two more shots deafened him, and he knew immediately that his own bullet had missed.

Then the man spoke again, and this time he was close enough for Bronson to hear exactly what he said.

‘Stop. That’s far enough,’ he said in Italian.

Then another man spoke from the opposite end of the cellar.

‘Drop your weapon, Bronson.’ The voice was familiar, and Bronson immediately recognized the hostile tones of Inspector Bianchi. ‘You have no chance. Give up, and we’ll kill you quickly. But if you don’t surrender, I can promise that you’ll take a very long time to die, though probably not as long as your interfering wife. We’ll make sure she dies first, and we’ll make you watch.’

Bronson didn’t move or respond, figuring the angles. It’s a basic rule of close combat that you never, ever, surrender your weapon. He knew that as well as anyone who’d ever served in the military of any nation, and he also knew that if he spoke, if he responded in any way at all, the men in front of him would open fire immediately.

But there was one thing he could do. He pressed the button on the left side of the Browning and slid out the magazine. Then he extracted a full one from the carrier on his belt and slid it into place in the weapon, the faintest of clicks confirming it was locked home. He replaced the half-empty magazine in the carrier.

‘Very well, Bronson. It is your choice,’ Bianchi said.

Then the sound of loud, angry shouts filled the air, followed by the clattering of shoes on the stones of the spiral staircase. Dancing torch beams illuminated that end of the cellar.

At the moment, Bronson knew he’d reached the end of his rope. Reinforcements had obviously been summoned from the house; they would pick him out in an instant with their torches and, no matter what he did then, he would die. The best he could hope to do was take a few of them with him.

Then, from somewhere over to his left, he heard a sudden movement. There was a faint snap, like the sound of a distant whip-crack, and a flare of dim blue light so transient Bronson wasn’t sure he’d actually seen it. It was followed, an instant later, by a dull sound, like something heavy dropping on to the floor, from that side of the cellar. And then someone started to scream.