Читать книгу The Lost Relic - Scott Mariani, Scott Mariani - Страница 19

Ben froze. It took him less than a second to process what he was hearing.

The sound was unmistakable, one he’d heard many times in the past. It was the harsh snorting rip of 9mm submachine gun fire, and it was coming from the direction of the gallery wing. Two sustained bursts. Then another. More screams. Pandemonium cutting loose among the exhibition guests.

He wrenched open the bathroom door as he heard more shots reverberate through the building. He glanced left, then right.

Marcello Peruzzi, the elderly man he’d encountered a moment earlier in the bathroom, had made it as far as the top of the stairs when the shooting started. He was standing there paralysed with shock, a frail hand gripping the banister rail.

He wasn’t alone. As Ben watched, a pair of men came sprinting up the stairs. From the black ski-masks and the stubby Steyr machine pistols in their fists he guessed they didn’t have invites to the exhibition either.

One of them slung his weapon behind his back and grabbed Marcello Peruzzi roughly by the arm while the other jabbed the muzzle of his gun at his head. ‘Downstairs with the others, grandpa,’ he snarled in Italian.

Marcello struggled weakly, protesting, and tried to lash out with his walking stick. The gunman clubbed him hard across the face with the butt of his weapon, twice, beating him down to his knees. He collapsed onto his belly and the second guy let go of his arm as he began convulsing.

Watching the scene in horror from the shadows of the passage, Ben remembered the heart pills.

The masked men stared down at Marcello as he folded up in agony on the carpet. ‘He’s having an attack,’ one of them said.

‘Fuck him, he’s dead anyway.’ The man pointing the gun casually placed the muzzle against Marcello’s neck and touched off the trigger. A deafening triple-shot burst crackled out across the landing and up the passage. The 9mm bullets ripped into Marcello’s body and his distressed heart stopped for ever.

Ben recoiled into the bathroom, unseen, and turned the lock.

Down below, Anatoly and the rest of his team had rounded up the crowd of exhibition guests. The gallery was filled with shouts of rage and frightened screams and the blast of fully-automatic fire as the intruders let off bursts into the ceiling. It was a technique intended for one purpose only – to strike terror into their victims and reduce them into a state of complete helplessness – and it was very effective. The thirty-five or so guests gave no resistance, allowing themselves to be herded like sheep across the gallery, their shoes crunching on the broken glass from shattered overhead lighting. It took under half a minute to shove everyone into the corner of the side room and make them huddle on the floor across from the refreshments table. The white-haired woman in the blue dress was looking around desperately for her husband and wailing loudly in panic. Rocco yelled at her to shut up, and when she kept on wailing Anatoly grabbed a half-finished bottle of Chianti from the refreshments table, took a long swig out of it and then hurled it at her. The base of the bottle caught her across the forehead and she fell back with a gasp. Another woman and the bearded guy in the sandals caught her as she keeled over.

‘How dare you!’ the bearded guy shouted. ‘This is an outrage!’

Gourko delivered a kick to his stomach that folded him double before slamming a knee into his face. He collapsed, wheezing, blood pouring out of his busted nose into his beard.

Gourko laughed.

The Robert Redford type in the Valentino blazer glowered at him, but did nothing. Crouching among the other hostages, Count De Crescenzo exchanged looks of horrified disbelief with his business partners Corsini and Silvestri. The bearded guy huddled into the arms of the woman he was with. The woman in the blue dress was slumped against the wall in shock, blood running from the cut on her forehead.

‘Am I going to get any shit from you fuckers?’ Anatoly screamed in Russian at the cringing assembly. ‘Am I?’ He didn’t care that they wouldn’t understand him. They’d understand this. He aimed his machine pistol at the table and let off a rattling blast that smashed bottles and plates into flying pieces. ‘Am I?’ he screamed again. Wine and food spilled onto the floor. The hostages cowered in terror.

Gianni Strada was pale and shaking as he clung to his mother. The boy was holding her so tightly that it hurt. Donatella struggled to contain her own panic as the armed men strode up and down the room. The one who frightened her the most was this maniac with the blond ponytail sticking out from under his mask. Was that Russian he was talking? Sounded like it to her. What was happening? How could this be happening? Was no alarm being raised?

Gianni suddenly let out a strange, high-pitched keening sound that dissolved into racking sobs. He clung to her even tighter, grasping handfuls of her hair. She could feel his tears wet against her neck.

‘You. Make that little ratshit quiet or he dies in the next two seconds,’ Anatoly raged, jabbing the gun an inch from her face.

Donatella didn’t need a translator. She closed her eyes and stroked her son’s hair, murmuring words of comfort in his ear. Gianni’s sobs quietened to a low whimper.

Anatoly unslung the padded case from his shoulder and laid it down on the table. He beamed at the hostages.

‘Good. Now let’s get down to business,’