“I can live with that,” said Mitchell. He smiled. “So, let’s—”
Chase stepped up behind Kruglov and thrust the ornament into his back, hoping its shape and hardness would convince the Russian he had a gun. “Ay up. How’s things?”
“Eddie!” Mitchell exclaimed.
“Planning a trip, were you? Keep still,” he warned Dominika as she reached into her coat. “Try anything and Toadface here has a nine-millimeter heart attack.” She lowered her hand.
“You would shoot me in the back?” said Kruglov calmly. “With all these policemen around?”
“I’d shoot you in the fucking face for what happened to Mitzi,” Chase growled. “Jack, put down the case. I can’t fucking believe that after everything we went through, you were working for these bastards all along.”
Mitchell put the long metal case on the ground. “Eddie, if you’ve got any of the sense you finally convinced me you had, you’d walk away right now.”
Chase pushed Kruglov forward. “Guess you were wrong. Okay, everyone back up.” Still advancing, he watched as Mitchell, Maximov and Dominika warily retreated. He prodded Kruglov in the back with his “gun.” “All right, shithead. Pick up the case. Very slowly.”
“So, you are Chase?” Kruglov asked, voice still not betraying the slightest concern, as he bent and took the case by its handle. “You’re as brave—and as stupid—as I’d heard.”
“Maybe, but I’m not the one with a gun in my back, am I?”
“No, but Nina is,” said Mitchell.
Chase grinned mirthlessly. “Nice try.”
But the look of malevolent pleasure spreading across Dominika’s face warned him Mitchell might not be bluffing. He risked a brief glance over his shoulder—
And saw the last of Kruglov’s henchmen, the man with the topknot, standing behind the terrified Nina.
It wasn’t a gun he was holding to her back. It was a knife—the one he had used to kill Chloe Lamb.
TWENTY-TWO
Nobody moved, the group forming a strange tableau amid the bustle of Leicester Square.
Nina was the first to speak. “I’m sorry, Eddie. I didn’t see him coming.”
“Put down the gun, Chase,” said Kruglov. “Or she dies.”
Chase jammed the point of the ornament into his back. Kruglov grunted. “If he even twitches, I’ll kill you.”
“He won’t do it, Aleksey,” said Mitchell. “He loves her too much.”
“You shut up, you fucking two-faced—”
“He already blames himself for the death of a friend,” Mitchell continued. “He won’t let anything happen to Nina as well. Even if that means letting you go. Eddie, I’m giving you both a chance here. Just walk away.”
Chase angrily jolted the case with his knee. “People have died for this fucking thing. You seriously think I’m going to let you hand it over to this bunch of twats?”
“You don’t have a choice,” Kruglov said. “Yorgi, when I count to three, kill her. One.”
“Eddie, he’ll do it!” Mitchell said. “Just—”
“Two.”
“—walk away, right now!”
Chase stepped back and dropped the metal souvenir, which clanged to the ground between Kruglov’s feet.
The Russian looked at it and chuckled, then turned to face Chase, smiling his froglike smile. “Three.”
“No!” Chase screamed. Behind Nina, Yorgi moved, about to thrust the knife into her back—
His face blew apart.
Mitchell had whipped out a silenced handgun and fired it almost directly at Nina, the bullet passing so close to her face that it singed her hair. The dead Russian fell backward, chunks of ragged flesh flapping from the shattered bones of his skull.
“Get out of here!” Mitchell shouted—
Maximov slammed him back against the bust of Newton. The gun flew from his hand. Chase spun to face Kruglov, but the Russian smashed the case into his stomach, knocking him to the ground. Kruglov yelled an order, then sprinted into the garden.
A bystander saw the mangled corpse and screamed, panic quickly spreading across the square.
Nina snapped out of her shock as Kruglov ran past her, the case in his hand. She saw Chase struggle to his knees, winded but unharmed. She paused, caught between conflicting impulses … then ran after the Russian. If he got away with Excalibur, everything she had been through, all the deaths she had witnessed, would have been for nothing.
Chase stood, and realized Nina was no longer there. “Shit!” He was about to follow her when a metallic sound reached him, clear as a musical note even through the yells of the crowd. Dominika had drawn and cocked her gun, aiming it at him—
Shouting from his right: two policemen running toward them. Dominika’s eyes flicked toward the noise, then she looked back and fired—but Chase had already rolled away, and the bullet chipped the pavement. She turned and ran.
The policemen went after her—and were sent flying back as Maximov swung Mitchell at them like a human baseball bat. The three men tumbled to the ground as the Russian bellowed in triumph before lumbering away across Leicester Square, swiping pedestrians out of his path.
Chase was about to run after Nina when another gunshot made him whirl. Somebody had tried to be a hero and attempted to tackle Dominika—and had received a bullet in the gut. The green-haired assassin was sprinting south out of the square. More screams erupted in her wake. Chase snatched up Mitchell’s gun. He wanted to find Nina and Kruglov—but Dominika was the more immediately dangerous target. She had to be stopped before she hurt anyone else.
And he had a score to settle with her.
Kruglov reached the north side of the garden, barging people aside. Nina was gaining, the Russian slowed by the awkward case. Another cheer rose from the crowd outside the Empire, cameras flashing as a limo disgorged its celebrity cargo.
Nina saw Kruglov looking for an escape route. The cordon ran the full width of Leicester Square, completely cutting off the northern end, and all the other streets leading away were jammed with people. He glanced back to see her running after him. His free hand moved inside his coat, emerging with—
“Gun!” Nina screamed, hoping the police—and the pedestrians in the line of fire—would hear and respond. “He’s got a gun!”
Kruglov fired at her. Nina dived onto the grass behind a bench, bystanders scattering like frightened pigeons.
The crowd outside the cinema was still cheering, oblivious to the events behind it. Kruglov saw police officers closing from both sides and charged into the crush, battering people with the case and his gun as he clawed his way toward the barrier. Nina jumped up and raced after him.
• • •
Dominika ran down a road out of the square. Chase followed, a momentary glance at a sign telling him he was on St. Martin’s Street. He knew he was heading in the general direction of Trafalgar Square, but there was no direct route. Dominika’s path was blocked by buildings.
Fewer people here. He raised the gun, a silenced Ruger SR9, and risked a shot at the fleeing woman’s legs. It missed, cracking off the road surface just past her. Dominika returned fire over her shoulder. She had almost no chance of hitting him, but the two shots still forced Chase to duck and swerve, slowing him.
She reached a crossroads and went left. Chase pounded around the corner after her and saw her heading for the glass doors at the rear of the large building to the south.
The National Gallery.
Dominika fired another shot just before she reached the doors, preventing Chase from taking aim as she went through. Not that he would have: he could see people inside, a group of children—she had just entered the gallery’s Education Centre. For one terrible moment he thought she was going to take them hostage, but when he reached the doors he saw her haring up a flight of stairs.
He kicked the doors open and pointed his gun after her, but she had already rounded a corner. Some of the children had seen Dominika’s gun, and his arrival only made mat
ters worse. “Everyone get down!” Chase yelled over the high-pitched screams as he ran to the stairs. He looked up. Dominika was aiming at him—
Chase threw himself backward as three shots echoed through the room, blasting craters in the wall beside him. He landed flat on his back, sending four rapid shots back at Dominika. She dived for cover as the banister splintered, then scrambled to her feet and ran to the top of the stairs.
“Clear the building!” Chase yelled at the gallery staff as they tried to help the terrified children. “Get everyone out!” He raced up the stairs, gun at the ready. As he reached the top he saw Dominika dart down a corridor to the left.
What the hell was she doing? She seemed to be fleeing at random, in a panic—but Chase couldn’t believe Kruglov and his people would have agreed to meet Mitchell in a crowded public place without having an escape plan.
Something was wrong.
He rounded the corner and followed her into the galleries.
• • •
Kruglov reached the edge of the cordon, thrashing at the crowd with increasing fury. An enraged man tried to grab him; Kruglov smashed the butt of the gun into his face, breaking his jaw. As the man fell back, spitting blood, Kruglov flung himself over the barrier. A nearby security guard saw the commotion and ran to deal with the intruder—
Kruglov shot him. A hole burst open in his chest, showering the crowd with blood. People screamed, the fun turning to fear. All order broke down as they trampled each other in their desperation to get away. Nina threw up her arms to shield her face as she ran into the mob, flailing elbows and feet swiping at her from all directions.
Another gunshot. Through the chaos she saw a yellow-jacketed figure tumble to the ground: a policeman shot in the shoulder.
Nina fought her way forward, and suddenly burst free of the retreating crowd, crashing against the railing. Kruglov was running for the nearest limo, gun raised. Despite the threat cameras were still flashing, paparazzi and public alike capturing the deadly spectacle, a real-life action scene playing out at the premiere of a Hollywood version. The Russian lowered his head in a futile attempt to avoid being photographed as he pointed his gun at the limo driver, screaming at him. The driver didn’t need to know any Russian to understand his orders, and scrambled frantically from his vehicle.
Nina jumped over the railing and ran for the limousine. Kruglov kicked the driver away and leapt into the limo, tossing the case and the gun onto the passenger seat. He rammed the car into drive, looking up as he stepped on the accelerator—
He saw Nina running toward him.
The stretch limo surged forward, ripping up a section of the red carpet and smashing a photographer aside with its open door as Kruglov swerved the three-ton vehicle straight at her.
No way to dodge—
Nina dived forward, landing on the limo’s long hood on her stomach and sliding into the windshield as the car accelerated. It clipped the barrier, scything one of the metal sections into the crowd, before Kruglov regained control.
She grabbed one of the windshield wipers and looked into the limo. Kruglov glared back at her. He fumbled for his gun as she leapt to her feet—
Bullets blew out chunks of the windshield beneath Nina as she hurled herself onto the limo’s roof. Slithering across the slick surface, she flung out a hand, just catching the chrome trim along one side of the roof to keep from falling off.
Lying flat, she tried to get a grip with her other hand—
Holes exploded between her outstretched arms, flecks of paint spraying into her face as Kruglov fired through the roof. Each new eruption of jagged steel was closer to her head, closer …
The firing stopped. The Russian was out of ammo. Nina could smell the smoke from the last hole, barely a hand’s width from her face.
The limo picked up speed, charging toward the end of the cordon. A movable barrier had been placed across it to let vehicles exit while keeping pedestrians out.
But nobody was going to move it aside this time—everybody throwing himself out of the limo’s path—
Nina’s free hand closed around the other side of the roof just as the vehicle smashed through the barrier and skidded into Charing Cross Road. Traffic had already been stopped by people fleeing into the street, but the limo’s front fender still clipped a car as Kruglov swerved hard to the right, turning south toward Trafalgar Square.
Nina swung across the roof, legs dangling over the side as she fought to keep her grip. The limo wallowed, a hubcap flying off and clanging across the pavement. The chrome strip began to tear loose beneath her fingertips …
With a squeal from the tires, the limo lurched and straightened out. Nina was jolted back across the roof. The engine surged, and she felt her hair whipping in the wind as Kruglov accelerated through the streets of London.
• • •
Paintings lined the high rooms, but Chase couldn’t spare so much as a moment to look at the treasures of the National Gallery as Dominika weaved through the interconnected chambers and corridors ahead of him. Startled visitors jumped out of their path, evening viewings unexpectedly disrupted.
Fire bells burst to clamorous life, the staff in the Education Centre having finally raised the alarm. At least that would get the tourists out of the way. But he still had to deal with Dominika—and whatever she was planning. She was definitely heading for somewhere specific.
She reached another junction, rounding a corner and throwing down a garbage can in his path. Chase hurdled it, barely breaking stride. He didn’t want to use the gun if there were any civilians nearby, but all he needed was a clear line of fire …
He saw a large banner ahead, and realized where she was going.
The gallery was holding an exhibition of works by Rembrandt. Art was hardly Chase’s field, but even he had heard of the Dutch painter, knew his works were worth millions … and Dominika was about to run through the exhibition with a gun in her hand.
She wasn’t going to hold people for ransom to bargain for her escape. She was going to hold national treasures for ransom.
Chase felt a moment of cold triumph. Dominika’s plan might have worked with Nina, but he was still a self-declared Philistine despite his fiancée’s best efforts. If Mitzi’s killer thought threatening to put a bullet hole in some priceless work of art would save her, she was dead wrong.
Emphasis on the dead.
The Russian ran through the exhibition gallery’s arched entrance, people scattering as they saw her gun. Chase rushed after her. “Get down!” he yelled.
Dominika stopped near the archway at the far side of the gallery. She snapped up her gun to aim at one of the paintings, a scene of the crucifixion. Chase didn’t care. He lined up his own weapon on her—
She fired. But not at the painting.
Instead, she hit its frame. The ornately carved wood splintered, the whole painting shaking.
A siren screamed over the fire bells, alerting everyone in the building that somebody was tampering with one of the most valuable artworks. The piercing screech, intended to disorient would-be thieves, hit Chase hard enough to make him flinch, distracting him for the merest fraction of a second …
That was all Dominika needed to escape.
She dived through the archway as a security gate dropped down with the speed of a guillotine blade. The portcullis-like barrier clashed against the floor just behind her.
Chase recovered and fired, but his shot clanged uselessly against the gate. Dominika threw herself into cover. He ran to the exit; the barrier was a heavier-duty version of the kind used to protect shop fronts, horizontal slats linked by chains. He tried to lift it, but it was locked in place. More barriers had already rolled down to block the other exits.
“Fuck!” He peered through the gaps between the slats, but Dominika was no longer there.
She’d had an escape plan all along. And he’d fallen for it, ending up trapped while she got away.
He turned, seeing the gallery visitors also locked in the
room regarding him with faces of absolute terror. He grinned sheepishly. “She’s … a modern artist, you can tell by the hair. Really doesn’t like old-fashioned paintings.”
His attempt at levity didn’t change any expressions. Sighing, Chase slumped against the archway, hoping Nina was all right.
• • •
She was anything but.
“Oh, shit!” she screamed as the limo accelerated toward a crawling double-decker bus, swerving at the last moment to squeeze between it and the cars going the other way.
Sparks sprayed up as the limo’s left side screeched against the bus. Nina lost her grip, the thin chrome strip snapping in her hand. Kruglov hauled the limo back around the bus. She swung helplessly across the roof, about to slide off into oncoming traffic …
Her forefinger hooked into one of the bullet holes.
Gasping as the torn metal cut into her flesh, Nina pulled herself back onto the roof.
Sirens ahead. She saw flashing lights at the edge of Trafalgar Square, a police car followed by a van moving to block the road ahead. The limousine had already passed the only side street, to the left—
Kruglov went right, throwing the limo into a skidding turn onto the paved plaza in front of the National Gallery. People dived out of its way, a couple of luckless tourists sent flying with bone-breaking cracks.
Nina clung to the roof, appalled by the carnage but unable to stop it. All she could do was hang on and hope the police intercepted Kruglov at the other side of the square.
The Russian swerved again—and sent the limo hurtling down a broad flight of marble steps into Trafalgar Square itself.
The car was airborne for a moment before crunching down nose first, the chassis buckling. Nina was thrown loose and tumbled onto the hood. The engine roared, Kruglov keeping the pedal to the floor. She saw one of the square’s fountains rushing at her—
The limo slammed into the fountain’s thick basin, catapulting Nina forward. She landed in the pool, the water only partly cushioning the impact as she hit the bottom and bounced across it in a stinging spray. The far wall arrived all too quickly; she thumped against it shoulder first, head cracking against the stone rim.