Ghosts of Manhattan (10 page)

Gabriel didn't waste any time. He scrambled to his feet and darted over to where Celeste was still lying on her belly, her hands covering her head. Blood was streaming down his face from cuts caused by the glass shards. He wiped it away from his eyes, looking back at the stairs. There was no chance they were getting out that way, and what was more, the second wave of goons had now divided, half of them rounding on Johnny Franco's men, who were still putting up an extraordinary fight, and half of them heading in Gabriel's direction. He had bullets, but he knew he'd never be able to hold off six or seven armed men. He turned to Celeste, raising his voice over the clamor of the blazing guns and the screaming. "Is there another way out of this place?"

Celeste looked at him, her eyes wide with shock.

"Celeste! Listen to me! Is there another way out of here?"

She nodded weakly. "Under the stage. We have to get under the stage!"

Gabriel gave a curt nod and then squeezed off another three shots, trying to buy them some time. One of them struck home, burying itself in the shoulder of one of the men, who cried out in pain as he dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, clutching at the wound. There was nothing between them and the advancing goons except for an overturned table. That would give them precious little cover. But why had the men stopped shooting at them? A thought dawned on him. Celeste!

He grabbed for her arm. "Do you trust me?"

"What?"

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course, but-"

"No time to explain." He grasped her roughly by the shoulder and then, in one swift movement, leapt to his feet, hauling her round in front of him like a shield. His heart pounded in his chest; his palm felt sweaty and hot against the grip of his revolver. He was taking one hell of a gamble.

Celeste was screaming. "What? Gabriel, no!"

He whispered in her ear. "Be quiet and trust me!" He glanced over her shoulder. The advancing men had stopped, lowering their weapons. He was right, then. They were under orders to take her alive. Gabriel pulled her closer, so close that he could smell her perfume over the heady scents of damp earth and cordite that were otherwise overpowering in the confined atmosphere of the club. He glanced to the left. Franco's men had been decimated by the lumbering giants in the black overcoats. The army of bodyguards now lay sprawled and broken on the floor, limbs torn from torsos, shattered bodies still writhing in agony, but not long for the world. And all the while the strange, shambling things seemed able to absorb any amount of gunfire that was thrown at them without even flinching.

One of them had lost its hat, and Gabriel caught flashes of a green, faceless mask; he knew then that he had to get away, that even if he could hold off the goons with his ancient revolver, it was only a matter of time before the monsters finished with the remnants of Franco's men and turned on him. He guessed the thin man in the evening suit was counting on it. They would tear Celeste away from him, and then pound him to oblivion.

He glanced at the assembled men. Five of them, each one armed. Slowly, tentatively, keeping his revolver trained on the nearest of the crooks, he backed up, practically dragging Celeste across the stage with him. She was clearly terrified, and she had no idea what he was up to. He stopped when he saw one of the other men take a step forward.

"Easy ..." Gabriel waved his gun. "Just stay right where you are." There was a loud crash from over to the left, and he realized that signified another of Franco's men being flung across the room by the bizarre, green-faced henchmen. The crowds were thinning now, the revelers either dead or hiding. The scene was one of utter chaos and brutality.

Gabriel leaned in closer to Celeste, his lips practically brushing her right ear. "How the hell does that platform work? The one that brings you up onto the stage?"

"There's a paddle. It's on the floor, connected to a cable. It controls the speed."

Gabriel glanced around, looking for the paddle. It was just by his foot, a small black box with lever on it. He gripped Celeste even more firmly around the waist. "Hold on tight." He moved his foot.

Suddenly, the ground gave way beneath them. Gabriel was vaguely aware of the sound of Celeste screaming, of howling voices from above, and then blackness overwhelmed him.

he sky was on fire.

Gabriel craned his neck to watch the light show. Black funnels of oily smoke rose like inky towers in the distance, far beyond the trees, and searing plumes of orange and red streaked crazily across the bright canopy of blue. Rockets. Bombs.

He was in France.

He shook his head, tried to get his bearings. He was on his side. His leg was hurting. God! It was hurting so much. He felt around with his hands. Grass and metal. Mud. He was still in the plane, or at least what was left of it. He strained against his seat straps. The nose was crumpled and the propeller had gone, lost as he'd struck the ground. He'd lost a wing, too-that much was obvious by virtue of the fact that he was on his side-but the other was still intact, pointing up at the sky like an accusatory finger.

Forcing himself to breathe, Gabriel reached down and felt for the buckle that would release him. His fingers were numb with cold; he noticed his breath was fogging in the frigid air. He pulled the catch and slid out of the pilot's seat onto the damp loam, crying out as his injured leg snagged on the rim of the cockpit.

Fumbling, he managed to extricate himself and struggle into a sitting position. The plane was buried in a long, deep furrow, ploughed as the machine had hurtled out of the sky, as he'd struck the ground at such tremendous speed, out of control and hoping not to die. He was lucky to be alive.

Gabriel pulled himself up against the fuselage, testing his weight on his damaged leg. He could hardly stand. He needed help. He surveyed the surrounding area. A farm. He was in a farmer's field, and about two hundred yards away the farmhouse sat small and squat, a tumbledown building that had likely stood there, unchanged, for cen turies. The battle was far off, now, raging away under that canopy of fire, and he knew that no one would come looking for him. They'd all assume he was dead-struck by an enemy missile, dropped from the sky. People didn't walk away from disasters like that.

The farmhouse it was, then. He looked up at the old building, suddenly cast in shadow, with some trepidation. Something about the look of the place caused the hairs on the nape of his neck to stand on end. But it was the only shelter for miles, and he needed to take a look at his leg. If he could get help there-or even find some sort of provisions with which to bind his wound-he could start thinking about how he was going to get back to the front and join up with his squadron.

The trek felt like miles, and each step caused him to whimper in pain, his feet sinking in the soft, sticky mud. He steadfastly refused to look at his injury. It would be of no use. There was nothing he could do until he got to the farmhouse. He kept telling himself that, over and over. Get to the farmhouse and everything will be okay. "Everything will be okay." He even spoke it aloud in his delirium.

It was only when he got closer that he realized the building was a partial ruin. There were gaps in the stonework and one of the windows was missing. The chimney had slumped to one side, too, opening the roof to the elements and scattering bricks to the ground. The place had been abandoned for some time, perhaps since the onset of war, perhaps even earlier. He felt his heart sink. At least it was somewhere safe, away from the crashed plane, away from the hail of bullets and rockets and death. At least in the farmhouse he'd be able to strap his leg and formulate some sort of plan.

Wincing, he shuffled toward the door and tried the handle. The old latch creaked as he turned the wooden doorknob, and he pushed the door open, stumbling inside. It was dark, lit only by the pale shafts of light that filtered down through the holes in the ceiling. The place was sparsely furnished, from what he could see in the half-light: a roughly hewn wooden table; two chairs, one upturned; an old dresser against one wall. He crossed to the table, leaned heavily against it to catch his breath.

And then he heard it move. Something close by, in the darkness. Something large. He was suddenly alert, the pain in his leg forgotten. He backed away from the table, edging toward the door. What was it? What had he disturbed? A bear? Did they even have bears in France?

He caught sight of something then, in the thin light, a thick, glistening tentacle, curling slowly across the floor toward him. He stood transfixed, in abject horror, as another, and then another, crept forward, reaching out for him as though sniffing at the air. The thing must have been huge.

He turned and ran, all sense of pain in his leg gone. All he could think about was getting as far away from that farmhouse as was humanly possible. All he could think about was ...

Gabriel woke with a start.

His cheek was smarting. Celeste was on top of him, a look of desperation in her pretty eyes. "Wake up, dammit! Wake up, Gabriel!" She raised her hand to slap him again, but he parried the blow with his arm.

"I'm awake. I'm here." Groggily, he pulled himself up onto his elbows and looked around. He was in some sort of cellar. The walls were redbrick and slick with mildew. The ground wasn't much better. He could smell the damp, too, stuffy and pungent in his nostrils.

He tried to get his bearings, tried to shake off the remnants of his dream, of his memories. The club! Joe's club. They'd dropped through the stage. Now they were in a small room, positioned directly beneath the stage. A naked electric bulb was clipped to a bracket on the far wall, casting a pale, watery light. A long cable snaked away into the darkness, and Gabriel realized the room was flanked by two tunnels, one heading east and one heading west. It was remarkable, a cellar beneath a cellar. It was little wonder Johnny Franco had chosen the place as his base of operations. Absently, he wondered what these walls had seen in their time.

Gabriel glanced at Celeste. His vision was limned with fuzziness; he must have banged his head in the fall. He became aware of a series of sharp pains in his back. Glass, tiny fragments of it buried in his flesh. And then shouting, coming from somewhere above: a husky male voice barking commands.

Celeste, on her knees before him now, cupped his face in her hands. Her touch was soft and gentle, and it sent a shiver along his spine. "Gabriel. We have to go. They're coming for us."

Still a little dazed, Gabriel got to his feet. Then, realizing he must have dropped his gun in the fall, he began searching the ground where he'd been lying.

"Are you looking for this?"

He turned to see Celeste holding his service revolver. The weapon looked incongruous in her small, gloved hands. He nodded, and then took it from her, slipping it into his pocket. Then, giving her his hand, he allowed her to lead him along one of the passages at a run, their footsteps echoing in the empty space.

Minutes later, it became clear to Gabriel exactly where she was taking him. The tunnel terminated in a short flight of steps leading up to the basement level of the next building. Johnny Franco must have bought the building next door to the club and kept the connecting tunnel as an escape route, should Joe's ever be raided and he needed to make a quick getaway. As he mounted the steps behind Celeste, Gabriel couldn't help thinking that Johnny could have done with an escape route that night. Not that he'd mourn the passing of another gangster. Crooks usually got what they deserved, one way or another.

Celeste hesitated at the top of the stairway, putting her ear against the plain wooden door, listening closely for any sounds from the other side. She glanced back at Gabriel and shrugged.

He met her gaze. They could hear voices in the tunnel behind them. They didn't have much choice. If they encountered someone on the other side of the door, they'd just have to deal with them.

Gabriel climbed the last few steps, brushing past Celeste in the tight space of the stairwell. He pulled his revolver from his pocket; cracked it open and slipped a couple of extra bullets into the chamber. Then, taking a deep breath, he grabbed the door handle, gave it a sharp twist, and flung it open, covering the dark space inside with his gun.