“Levy!” Harrigan screamed his name. Stanley Levy, Bi
aggi realized. He hadn't seen him. Must have been behind Sonnenberg. Take your time, Michael. Nothing in Levy's
hands. Biaggi shifted his position for an insurance burst into
Sonnenberg, who was fast sinking out of sight.
“Levy, get down!” Harrigan yelled again. The running
man faltered, glancing back at Harrigan, who was furiously
waving him out of Biaggi's line of fire. Indecision slowed
Biaggi for no more than a second. Sonnenberg was gone. He
swung his weapon onto Connor Harrigan. A short burst and
Harrigan dropped. Was he hit? Biaggi wasn't sure. Once
more he hesitated before swinging the barrel back to Stan
ley Levy, who looked different now. He seemed more agile.
The mincing step was gone and the eyes were filled with a
cooler kind of hate. An ice pick was in his left hand and he'd
sidestepped so his approach was just at the edge of Biaggi's
field of fire. With both hands Biaggi wrenched the Uzi toward Levy and against the constrictions of the hole he'd cut. Biaggi fired, then coughed in pain. Christ! The Uzi's recoil raked the
back of his hands against the ragged glass. Jesus! He was
hung there. Relax your hands. Straighten them. Easy. Biaggi
saw only the blur that was Stanley Levy diving at his gun bar
rel. And then the ice pick. It arched low and wide, and its thin
spike seared into the knuckles of Biaggi's right hand, raking
through to the Uzi's grip. Biaggi screamed.
Levy's right hand gripped the Uzi's sight and his face
pressed flat against the glass, his teeth bared and biting as if
they could chew through to Biaggi's throat. Levy twisted
and ripped with the ice pick, then pulled it free for another
thrust. Again Biaggi screamed. Desperately, he braced one
knee against the glass and hurled himself backward, scoring
his hands and stripping the flesh from his knuckles. But he was free. In agony, he cradled his hands. The Uzi had fallen
to the ground three feet beneath the bloodied hole. He
reached for it but pulled away in horror. Stanley's arm was
coining through the hole, the ice pick in his fist, slashing,
sweeping, forcing Biaggi back. Measuring the arm's arc, Bi
aggi crouched lower, his torn fingers stretching for the
weapon. Now Stanley was snarling insanely, his shoulder
slamming against the glass for an extra inch of reach. Biaggi lunged for the Uzi. He had it. Hands trembling, he found the
trigger and fired. A three-foot slab of safety glass exploded inward at Stanley's beltline.
Headlights. Splashing on the museum's north wall as
their vehicle mounted the roadway's curb and climbed up on
the grass. Biaggi stood up, waving, directing the van toward
him, toward the shattered glass. Burleson leaped from one
side, his weapon ready, while the van slowed.
“Hit the wall,” Biaggi screamed at the driver. The man at
the wheel hesitated but Burleson understood.
“Make a door,” he called, pointing with his machine pis
tol and waving the van forward. “Put a hole in it and back
away.”
The van surged forward, grinding over the shrubbery
until its bumper was flush with the wall. Then it surged
again. There was a screeching, wailing sound as the glass re
sisted and stretched, then the crack of a giant bullwhip as an
eight-foot section collapsed. Duncan Peck was out of the
van before it could back away.
“Michael?” He glared.
“Baker's in there,” Biaggi said quickly. “Baker's daugh
ter, the actress, Harrigan, everybody. I got Sonnenberg. I got
Sonnenberg and I just got Stanley Levy.”
Peck wanted to slap him. He wasn't sure why, but he
wanted to thrash Michael Biaggi.
“Baker's loose in there, sir,” Biaggi said quickly.
“Where's Chuck Graves?” Burleson asked. “The man on
the other door.”
Biaggi shook his head. “He didn't come to the sound of
the gunfire. I guess he's holding his post.”
Burleson jerked a thumb at Peterson. “Get back with Graves and go in from that side. Take him with you.” He
pointed to the van's driver, a balding, long-armed hulk
named Gorby. “Are you able to function?” he asked Biaggi, noting his hands and remembering those of Philip Poindex
ter.
“They still shoot,” Biaggi answered. He worked the ac
tion of his Uzi as if to prove it.
“Darts, Edward,” Peck snapped. ”I want Baker alive.”
“If he'll cooperate, sir.”
“You cooperate, Edward. I want him alive.”
Baker stopped inside the small dark foyer where the
firearms were displayed. Breathing heavily, his head pound
ing from the raging inside, he lowered Tina to the floor. Tan
ner Burke dropped beside her, her hands over Tina's cheeks.
“Oh, Jared, look.” Tina seemed to be in spasm. Her eyes
flashed excitedly and her body trembled. “She's terrified.”
“No she's not,” he hissed. Baker wiped at a well of tears that had formed in his right eye. He pushed to his feet and
stepped back to the atrium entrance. Connor Harrigan, hob
bling but moving quickly, almost knocked him aside.
Harrigan glanced at Baker but did not speak. Taking his
weight off a punctured and bleeding leg, he fished into the
pockets of his trousers. Grunting, he pulled free a handful of
change and keys. In their midst he found three spare car
tridges. Penlight and cartridges in hand, he hopped to the
nearest display case and played a small beam on the cards
describing the exhibits. Finding the caliber he sought, Har
rigan half-turned and brought his elbow against and through
the glass of the case. He seized a Walker Colt, .36 caliber.
Close enough, he hoped. Harrigan thumbed the cylinder free
and forced in the three cartridges, first lubricating their jack
ets with oil from the sides of his nose. “Let's go,” he told
Baker. “Out the way we came.”
Baker shook his head. “They have three men coming that
way.”
Harrigan didn't bother asking how he knew. He waggled
the Walker Colt. “Three bullets,” he said.
Baker reached into the case and withdrew another pistol,
which he cracked, holding the barrel up to the light.
“Plugged,” he said simply. “It's an art museum, Harrigan.”
Harrigan checked his Walker Colt and cursed. He hefted
it, weighing whether to discard the pistol, then jammed it into his belt. Good for a bluff if nothing else, he decided.
“Wait a minute.” He brightened. “Your gun, Miss Burke.
The one in your purse.”
“Out there.” Tanner pointed. “Oh, my God!”
She saw her purse where she had dropped it when the
first shots were fired. She saw it at the marble stairs leading
into the Federal Gallery and she saw Melanie Laver.
Melanie was slumped against a ceramic urn at the bank façade's entrance. Her face was ashen, and she was looking
down at blood-smeared fingers that she kept pressed against
a spot low on her belly. Roger Hershey was holding her,
rocking her. His rifle lay several feet away, across the atrium
steps. To her left, the corner of her eye caught movement
and she ducked back, it registering only then that the move
ment was more of a drunken stagger. She looked again. Har
rigan saw it too. It was Stanley Levy.
He too had been shot, it seemed. Harrigan remembered
the distant chattering sound the Uzi had made, a sound like
the first the Uzi had made when it punched its gunport
through the glass and unlike the booming roar that meant its
muzzle had been thrust into the echoing room. Stanley had
been shot from outside the window, he knew, which meant
flattened tearing slugs like the single stray that had found
Melanie Laver. Stanley had to be ripped apart inside and yet he was standing. Staggering. Reeling away from the jagged hole some vehicle had made and stumbling toward Sonnen
berg's pulpit. He'd reached it now. He was groping blindly
at its sides as if searching for an opening that would take
him to its core. To where Sonnenberg had fallen. Sonnenberg was inside it someplace.
Harrigan heard voices now. Back toward the hole where
the slaughter had started. He heard his own name. And he
heard Michael Biaggi's voice. Harrigan cursed Biaggi in his heart but he cursed himself more. Now he knew what trou
bled him about entering the museum and what eluded him when he tried to question Baker about what Duncan Peck
might have going for him. Peck knew something or he'd
made a collar. Of either or both Harrigan was sure. The col
lars he was trying to make, the ones he'd identified from the
numbers in Hershey's wallet, were all accounted for by the time Peterson ran down to the basement and wrote out his note. Baker was with him and Coffey was dead. He didn't
know it then,
but Notre Dame and the Laver woman were
waiting up above on the other side of the fairway. That left
the museum guy. Poindexter. Stupid. He was too god
damned Irish thick to remember the connection. And so god
damned cocky about figuring out this Sonnenberg and
Tortora business that he waltzed everybody right into a trap
an amateur should have smelled.
“We have to get out of here,” Harrigan said, his brain re
calling the visitor's map he'd scanned when they entered.
“How?” Tanner asked, her horrified stare still fixed upon
the carnage in the atrium.
“There are towns that are smaller than this place.” Harri
gan looked over his shoulder toward the Hall of Armor. “We
get out of this wing and there are more rooms than Peck's
crowd can cover. We can hide out or take them one at a
time.”
“Can you carry Tina?” Baker asked quietly.
“Me?” Harrigan asked. He looked down at the puncture
wound in the flesh of his thigh. Better tie that up, come to think of it. He stripped off his necktie. “Maybe. Depends
how far. What do you have in mind?”
“baker”
It was Abel.
“Take my daughter, Harrigan, and take Tanner. Back past
the stairs we used you'll see a bunch of English and French
period rooms. It's like a maze. Hide there, Harrigan. Hide
there and keep them safe until I come back for you.”
“Jared,” Tanner protested.
“What are you going to do?” Harrigan's face was skepti
cal. “Take this bunch on by yourself?”
“yes, baker, yes.”
“No,” Baker answered. “Go now, Harrigan.”
Tanner Burke started to shake her head in refusal but
stopped. She stared into Baker's eyes, blinked, and then
looked toward the pulpit. “No, Jared,” she whispered. “You
don't even know if he's alive.”
“What the hell is this?” Harrigan asked.
“Get moving, Harrigan,” Baker said again. “I'm going to get Sonnenberg.”
“Who is?” Harrigan asked. “You or the beastie? Because
even if it's him, he better damn well be bullet-proof, which he
damn well isn't. The only reason Peck hasn't busted in here
already is because he thinks we're armed. But if you make for Sonnenberg, you have to cross a clear killing ground. Even if
you make it one way, odds are you'll find a stiff.”
Baker turned away without answering. He lifted Tina
from the floor and carried her back to Connor Harrigan, who
hesitated, scowling at Baker, then reluctantly took the
weight that Baker held against his chest. Baker looked once
more into her eyes. He had to look away. “Take care of her,”
he said to Tanner. “Take care of yourself.”
”i won't let you, baker, i won't.”
“Stuff it, Abel.”
Baker lowered his head and charged into
the atrium.
“It's Baker.” Biaggi tapped Burleson's arm and winced at
the pain in his hand. He brought the Uzi to his eye.
“No.” Peck stepped from behind the safety of the van's open door and snatched away the weapon. “Darts, Michael. Darts, Edward. I want the man alive. Now, Michael.” He
pushed the shoulders of both men closer to the breach the
van had cut.