Ghosts of Manhattan (25 page)

A fire escape at the back of the building stood open, dim light leaching out onto the path. This was the door that Arthur had used to admit him the other night. He was sure he'd be able to find his way around inside from there again. Absently, he hoped that Arthur himself had found an opportunity to slip away.

The Ghost edged along the side of the building, keeping his back to the wall. Donovan followed, remaining close behind him. He guessed there would be a driver in the cab of the truck, perhaps also in the four cars, and decided that it wouldn't do to alert them. Not yet. The ensuing fracas would only draw the attention of those inside, and the Ghost wanted to maintain the element of surprise.

Seconds later the two men stepped up to the open doorway like moving shadows, checked briefly to ensure that the entrance was not guarded, and then slipped inside. Almost immediately, the Ghost had to stifle an exclamation of disgust.

One of the museum's night wardens lay on the floor just inside the doorway, a glossy red hole where his face had once been. The congealed blood glistened in the wan light. The man's lower face had entirely gone from the nose down. All that was left was a gaping wound, punched through the jaw and out the back of the skull. He'd been shot at point-blank range, left where he'd dropped. Brain matter had spattered one of the glass-fronted display cabinets behind him, and puddles of dark arterial blood had formed around the base of a wooden Native American idol. The Ghost glanced at Donovan, who was able only to shake his head in disgust.

The Ghost stepped over the corpse, grimacing, careful that his footsteps didn't ring out too loudly on the marble floor. Donovan had drawn the handgun and was glancing from side to side, trying to cover all of the exits. The Ghost could see the man was still wracked with pain, but he admired the way the policeman was gritting his teeth and forcing himself to carry on. The likelihood was that Donovan would be severely reprimanded for taking matters into his own hands, for allying himself with a known criminal. Perhaps he would even be kicked off the Force. But he didn't seem to care. All that mattered to him was bringing Reece and the Roman to justice, and protecting his family. The Ghost could understand values like that, could empathize with that need for justice. Sometimes the means did justify the ends. Sometimes you had to fight on the enemy's terms. Sometimes the law just didn't come into it.

Cautiously they crept on, both men listening intently for any sounds that might give away the crooks' location. They passed through a large display of medieval art, an exhibition housing the ornate Gothic wonders of Old Europe. The Ghost found the place sinister, macabre. Faces stared down at him from the browning portraits that lined the walls, seeming to watch his progress as he made his way across the hall. He could hear Donovan's ragged breath behind him. They moved on, entering a long gallery filled with Byzantine splendor: gold idols, glittering jewels and riches, ancient artifacts and relics, each of them created in the name of human gods. The Ghost couldn't vouch for the existence of such gods, but he knew of gods that did exist, gods that didn't demand such worship, or require anything so parochial as golden idols.

Donovan moved forward and the Ghost shot to his side, only then realizing that another security guard lay heaped in the gallery up ahead, his uniform crisp and smart, save for where his chest had been punctured in three places, blood still oozing from the wounds. The shots had been made in rapid succession, ensuring the man's absolute, unequivocal death. His pale face stared up at them, now frozen stiff with terror.

The Ghost realized he was clenching his fists. He could feel the rage building inside him. He would make these men pay for their actions. He would harness that anger, and they would quake as he unleashed it upon them, a spinning whirlwind of vengeance and death.

He followed behind Donovan for the moment. Waiting for his chance.

They reached the great hall. It was a vast, cavernous space, which, during the day, would be filled with the chatter of voices and the press of bodies, the excitement of children brought along by their parents to gaze in awe through a window into the past. Now it was deserted, as silent as the rest of the empty museum.

Donovan paused, leaning closer to the Ghost. His voice was barely audible, but the Ghost could hear the exasperation apparent in his words. "They could be anywhere in this place!"

The Ghost shook his head. He had a notion of where they might be. "No. Come with me. This way."

Taking precautions to ensure they were not being watched from the balcony above, the Ghost led Donovan across the great hall toward the Greek and Roman wing, to the right of the main entrance. That was where they would find the mobsters. He was sure of it.

Mere moments later he was proved right. He saw Donovan start, holding out a warning hand, and took the cue, sliding sideways toward the shadows, keeping himself out of view. He became aware of the sound of voices from somewhere up ahead. Donovan dropped back, covering the entrance to the Greek and Roman exhibition with the hovering aim of his handgun. The Ghost gestured for the policeman to remain where he was. Then, gesturing to show that he was going to take a look, he crept forward, walking on the balls of his feet to ensure his shoes didn't scuff on the marble floor.

The entrance to the exhibition was a large square archway. The Ghost went right, keeping behind the wall, peering around the edge of the opening to take a look at what was happening beyond.

The scale of the operation was astounding. There must have been fifteen, twenty men in there. Moss men, too, at least five of them, possibly more, lumbering about between the exhibits. The mobsters themselves were standing around, laughing and conversing, whilst two of the moss men were slowly maneuvering the large marble wheelthe artifact that Arthur had shown him just a couple of days beforeacross the floor. They turned it slowly, almost reverently, as they guided it toward the archway where the Ghost was hiding. He heard a footstep to his left, turned to see Donovan approaching. The Ghost shook his head, waved the inspector across to the other side of the entrance. He saw Donovan's eyes open wide as he took in the scene of industry beyond.

So he'd been right. Gardici had been working for the Roman. And since the museum-since Arthur-had refused to sell him the artifact he so desired, the Roman had now decided to take it by force. The Ghost found it hard to fathom the scene before him; the amount of planning it must have taken to prepare for such a bold heist. More than that, though, the Ghost was appalled by the sheer gall of the man; the sheer tenacity required to have his men waltz into the Metropolitan Museum of Art with the aim of stealing a two-thousand-year-old arti fact, simply to satisfy his whims. He watched the mobsters as they milled about, allowing the moss men to carry out the work whilst they smoked and caroused, fearless of any reprisals. They'd killed all the guards, after all; what more did they have to concern themselves with?

The Ghost sensed movement out of the corner of his eye. Donovan was trying to get his attention. He met the other man's gaze, saw he was pointing toward the prone bodies of two further museum guards. Both of them had been shot, one in the belly, one in the throat. Blood still gurgled from the latter wound, but the man's chest had long since ceased to rise and fall with life.

Donovan raised his gun. "Do that exploding thing," he hissed beneath his breath, just loud enough for the Ghost to hear. The Ghost offered him a stern look in reply. But Donovan was right. It would certainly give them something to think about ...

He surveyed the scene once more. Where the hell would he start? Slowly, cautiously, trying desperately not to make a sound, he reached down beneath his right arm and eased the barrel of the flechette gun around on its ratcheting gears, wincing as they groaned in quiet protest. It locked into place.

The two mobsters nearest to them were standing beside a glass case, lost in conversation. They seemed in jocular mood, discussing their latest conquests, the club they had visited, the men they had killed. The Ghost had no qualms about ending their miserable lives. The city would be a better place because of it. But he could not kill in cold blood. He would take the moss men first, eliminate the most dangerous elements. That would give the goons a chance to fight back, too, a chance to be the first to aim their guns at him, to show their hands. That was the way it had to be, the salve he needed for his conscience.

He straightened his arm, leveling the barrel. Donovan was watching him from across the hall. The policeman was holding his body taught, ready to respond to whatever came next. The Ghost breathed deeply. He could sense the adrenaline as it coursed into his veins. His pulse began to race, harder, faster. He was coiled like a spring, ready for the inevitable battle to come.

The Ghost squeezed the trigger, feeling the soft rubber give in the palm of his hand. A spray of tiny, glittering flechettes sighed from the end of his gun, whistling through the air, embedding themselves indiscriminately in the torso of one of the two moss men handling the marble wheel. For a second nothing happened. The Ghost could see the sweat standing out on Donovan's forehead.

And then chaos erupted.

The moss man detonated in a spray of brass and clay, the top half of it disappearing entirely, leaving just the stumps of its legs, still shambling awkwardly, bereft of any controlling apparatus. The marble wheel lurched dangerously, the remaining moss man struggling to keep it upright. The mobsters raised their voices in confusion, trying to work out from where this terrible, sudden threat had originated. And then Donovan opened fire, answering the question. The two men nearest to them dropped heavily, their bodies crumpling to the floor, one of them falling against the glass cabinet, his face and hands slapping the reinforced panels as he slid to the ground, a deadweight. Others replied with the chatter of their tommy guns. A glass case shattered, bursting in a spray of shimmering fragments.

The Ghost waved his arm in a wide arc, spraying a hail of the tiny metal explosives into the air. Howls of pain followed, and then worse, as four of the men exploded. One lost his head in a splash of crimson mist, another his heart and lungs as his rib cage cracked open, a third his left leg, causing him to collapse to the floor, shuddering in a fit as the shock took hold. The other the Ghost didn't see, save for the shadow of red gore he left on the white wall behind him, and on the white marble statues close to where he had been standing. Donovan and the Ghost rushed forward, fanning out, Donovan left, the Ghost right. He slid behind an ornate marble coffin just in time to hear bullets ricocheting off its surface, sending plumes of dust into the air, chunks of the ancient stone crumbling to the floor. Arthur was going to kill him.

The Ghost glanced around, trying to get a sense of what was happening. Another of the moss men had moved in to replace the one he had destroyed, helping the first with its large burden. They had resumed the slow, steady march toward the exit with the marble wheel. One of the mobsters, the man who appeared to be in charge, was shouting to the others to protect the artifact at all costs, to prevent it from getting damaged. Perhaps that was something the Ghost could play for? Get himself near enough to the marble relic that they had to stop shooting at him or risk destroying it. But he would have to wait until the moss men were closer to the exit before he could make that move. At the moment there was a field of statues between him and them, and an army of gunmen behind him, waiting for him to show himself.

He could see Donovan, partly obscured behind a glass case containing a display of ancient weaponry. The policeman had given up shooting with his left arm, switching the gun to his preferred right. He was grimacing in agony with every shot, but it was clear he intended to stick with the fight, and his aim was true; he had felled a number of the goons.

As if to prove the point another man dropped, one of Donovan's bullets buried between his eyes. More of them rushed forward to fill the ranks of the dead, however, in a seemingly endless onslaught. Their weapons barked furiously, bullets filling the air, as they tried to weed out the two interlopers who had so suddenly introduced such chaos and death into their lives. The goons showed a blatant disregard for the ancient exhibits, hammering them indiscriminately with their ammunition, much as they showed a similar disregard for the deaths of their own compatriots. The Ghost couldn't believe they could be so cold. Perhaps they had learned to save their mourning for a more appropriate time, for the small hours of the night when they were alone with their thoughts? Or perhaps he was crediting them with too much humanity. It mattered little. It made them easier to kill.

Peering around the edge of the coffin, the Ghost could see one of the moss men lumbering through the forest of statues, knocking them aside like bowling pins, fragile marble arms, heads, and other appendages sent skittering away into the corners of the room as the sculptures shattered on the hard floor. The moss man continued on, crushing the tumbledown sculptures beneath its heavy mechanical feet.

The Ghost heard Donovan cry out as the glass case beside him shattered, showering him with fragments. The Ghost needed to get to him. He leapt up, loosing another spray of flechettes, catching a man in the arm, taking down the other moss man, and inadvertently blowing the head clean off a statue of Nero in the process. Bullets hailed around him in reply and he dove sideways, cartwheeling across the marble floor, his trench coat billowing with the sudden motion. He heard a bullet whistle past his head, inches from his skull; felt another narrowly miss his chest, opening a rent in the fabric of his black suit and scorching the flesh beneath. Pain bloomed, but he fought it down, sliding across the slick marble toward his friend, his nostrils filled with the cloying scent of cordite.

Donovan had shaken off the majority of the glass, and save for a small shard that had buried itself in his thigh and a few scratches across his right cheek, he seemed relatively unharmed. Together, the two men returned fire tit-for-tat with the mobsters. The Ghost was painfully aware that all the while, the two moss men were rolling the marble relic away toward the exit. If he wanted to stop them, he'd have to make a move soon. He glanced back. They were nowhere to be seen. Hell! They'd already made it to the great hall. He'd have to go after them while Donovan held their position, take them down, and then get back to help the policeman with the mopping up. He stood and turned quickly, directly into the swinging fist of another of the moss men. The blow caught him hard across the jaw, snapping his head back and lifting him three feet into the air, sending him sprawling backward, careening into another glass display case that shattered beneath the impact.