Warhol's Prophecy (50 page)

Walker smiled graciously. They continued on through the foyer.

‘Please don’t do this, Adam,’ Hailey said, her voice cracking.

He didn’t answer.

There were two more security men on the doors that led into the ballroom: big-built men in dark suits.

Hailey showed them her VIP laminate. Walker did the same.

Beyond the doors, she could hear music, talking, laughter.

‘Adam,’ she said, looking straight into his eyes. ‘I’m begging you: don’t do this. My husband and daughter are in there – you
know
that. Please don’t do this.’

She looked at the security men. Saw Walker’s left hand move towards his left hip.

‘No,’ she gasped.

‘Is something wrong?’ one of the security men asked.

The taller of the two men took a step towards her.

‘
No!
’ Hailey screamed at the top of her voice.

Walker turned, pulling the Steyr from his belt.

To Hailey it was as if the entire world had slowed down. As if every movement was in slow motion.

She saw Walker pull the Steyr free . . . saw him shoot the taller security guard in the face . . . saw the bullet shatter bone, tear through his skull and explode from the back of his head, carrying away a flux of brain matter and blood.

The guard had barely hit the floor when Walker shot the other man, pumping two bullets into his chest. The first of them shattered his sternum, the second burst one lung and erupted from his back. A huge crimson slick of blood splashed across the wall as the second bullet exited. It looked as if someone had thrown red paint at the brickwork.

The guard slumped to the ground.

Hailey took her chance. She launched herself at Walker, but he saw her clumsy attack too soon.

He slammed the butt of the automatic against her forehead, throwing her backwards through the doors into the ballroom.

Hailey felt pain filling her skull. Unconsciousness began to envelop her.

Pushing open the doors, he stepped past her, opening the case with the guns inside.

Through a haze of pain, Hailey saw him pull the MP5 free. She saw him slam in one of the magazines.

The Steyr in one hand, the sub-machine-gun in the other, he stood gazing at the throng of people before him.

For what seemed like an eternity, no one moved.

Every pair of eyes in the place was fixed on Walker.

And on the weapons he held.

The silence was unearthly.

Then, as if a switch had been thrown, everything began moving again.

From somewhere inside the ballroom there came a scream.

Walker opened fire.

H
E SWEPT THE
sub-machine-gun back and forth, firing quick bursts. The muzzle flash left a searing white imprint on Hailey’s retina. The sound of the weapon filled her ears as she tried to crawl away.

The noise was absolutely deafening, and Hailey feared for a second that her eardrums had been ruptured by the savage sound-blasts.

Spent cartridges rained down like brass confetti, some landing on the marble floor.

The stink of cordite stung her nostrils.

Through a haze of pain she saw the appalling results of those first few bursts of firing.

Bullets had thudded into wood, glass and flesh alike. Chunks were blasted from tables. Crystal was shattered by the heavy-grain slugs. Some of the windows at the rear of the ballroom were hit, holes punched through them as if by invisible fists.

Hailey saw two men being shot. One pitched backwards over a table, blood spouting from a wound in his throat. The other collapsed onto a pure white tablecloth, crimson spilling out around his upper body.

Screams began to fill the air.

Walker calmly slammed a fresh magazine into the MP5, and opened up again.

Apart from one exit door to the rear, there was only one way in and out of the ballroom – and he was blocking it. Standing there like some murderous sentinel, pouring fire into those before him.

His face was expressionless, only creased occasionally by the effort of changing magazines – something he did with chilling efficiency.

A woman in her forties took a bullet in the back. It smashed her right scapula and burst from her chest. As she tried to rise, to continue her escape, another slug tore off the left side of her face.

The man with her hesitated a moment, realized he could do nothing to help, and turned to flee. But two more shots cut through his spine, and sent him toppling over a table.

Walker muttered under his breath as the hammer slammed down on an empty chamber. He gently laid the sub-machine-gun down for a moment, and gripped the Steyr in both hands.

The slide flew back as each shot was squeezed off.

Very few missed a target.

Hailey was murmuring something under her breath, her lips moving silently as she crawled across the floor, touching one hand to her forehead. When she pulled it away, she saw blood.

She had to get out of here.

Get help.

Find Becky and Rob.

If they were still alive?

Walker put the Steyr aside, slammed a fresh magazine into the MP5, then pulled the Scorpion from the case, too.

Holding one in each hand, he advanced towards the other terrified people in the ballroom.

Above him, the chandelier that dominated the room looked like thousands of frozen tears.

He raked the ceiling with fire from the Scorpion, and stood watching as the massive crystal construction wavered, then came loose.

It struck the floor with a deafening crash, pieces of glass flying in all directions like gleaming shrapnel.

Those crammed into the one doorway, trying to get out, now redoubled their efforts – those at the back of the crush aware that Walker was no more than twenty yards from them.

He saw James Marsh. Looked directly into his eyes.

Walker shot him.

Dotted lines of death appeared across Marsh’s chest and abdomen as the bullets hit him, a number of them exiting from his back, carrying pinkish-red lung tissue with them. It spattered those who stood behind him.

Walker stepped over the corpse and shot down three more people.

The room was not acoustically suited to such thunderous noise, and each fresh explosion of gunfire reverberated off the walls and ceiling, deafening those who were about to die.

Walker emptied a magazine into the terrified crowd that clogged the doorway.

Many of the bodies remained upright because of the crush. Others toppled backwards, or sideways, like bloodied mannequins.

More of the windows were blasted out by bullets, the sound of crashing glass now mingling with the staccato rattle of the submachine-guns and the shrieks of pain and fear.

Hailey managed to rise to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks.

From her position behind an overturned table, she could see Walker spraying the rest of the terrified guests with bullets. Saw them falling in untidy heaps. Others were trying to escape through the broken windows. She saw one man even punching glass out of a smashed frame, trying to pull himself through to safety.

Walker shot him in the head and back.

She looked towards him, then at the door behind her.

Could she make it?

He fired off another burst.

Hailey saw him stop to reload.

Now, run! Go now, for God’s sake!

She got to her feet and hurtled for the doors that led out into the foyer.

Walker chambered a round and prepared to fire again.

Hailey was inches from the door when he spotted her.

T
HE FIRST BURST
of gunfire swept over her head, missing her by less than six inches.

Hailey threw herself down, feeling the air part above her, shredded by the high-velocity shells.

She saw holes blasted in the double-doors. Then, to her horror, she saw them open. Saw people standing there.

Security guards.

The second burst took out two men. Hailey screamed as she saw one reel backwards, his right eye socket drilled empty by a bullet.

The other man dropped to his knees, hands clasped to his stomach as if to hold the blood in. She noted, with horror, that part of his lower intestine was bulging out through the gaping hole in his belly, like a bloodied swollen worm. He fell forward.

Hailey made another dash for the door, and this time made it.

She threw herself to the floor, then rolled. Chanced a look over her shoulder to see if Walker was pursuing her.

He wasn’t.

Find a phone. Get the police here now, while there’s still someone left alive.

The foyer was deserted.

When the shooting had begun, she assumed that anyone else in the hotel had fled. Or perhaps, even now, some were cowering in their rooms.

The reception area was totally empty.

She looked around desperately, the rattle of gunfire still filling her ears.

Deafened by the continuing blasts, her face bloodied, her head reeling, she staggered towards the reception desk.

Towards the phone.

She lifted the receiver and jabbed out three nines.

Tears were coursing down her cheeks.

She waited for the phone to be answered.

Waited . . .

Were Becky and Rob already dead?

Waited . . .

Her daughter and her husband, both riddled with bullets?

She looked towards the open ballroom doors, expecting Walker to emerge at any minute – his weapons aimed at her.

The phone was still ringing.

Inside the ballroom the bursts of fire were replaced by an appalling silence, now broken only by screams of agony and moans of suffering.

He must be reloading yet again, she thought, her body racked by sobs.

Jesus, how much fucking ammunition did he have with him?

To Hailey it seemed as if this nightmare had been happening for hours.

Less than six minutes had actually passed since he’d fired the first shot.

‘Emergency here. Which service do you require?’ She heard the calm voice in her ear.

‘Police and ambulance,’ she said, trying to control her gasping. ‘Please hurry.’

‘Can you give me your name?’ the voice asked.

‘Help me,’ Hailey shrieked.

‘I need your name and . . .’

‘The Pavilion Hotel. For God’s sake, send someone to the Pavilion Hotel now, please,’ she begged and dropped the phone.

Inside the ballroom the shooting had begun again.

T
HREE MEMBERS OF
Waterhole were already dead.

Adam Walker could see them lying on the marble floor, each in a pool of his own blood.

Nearly everyone else inside the ballroom was either dead or wounded by now . . . Apart from a small group still trying to force their way through the emergency exit at the rear.

There were corpses piled up in front of them, and the stench of blood and excrement filled the air as densely as the more pungent odour of cordite.

Walker laid the MP5 on a table and pulled the Sig-Sauer P225 from his belt.

Nicholas Barber turned to face him, his features contorted with fear and splashed by blood.

‘Please don’t kill me,’ whimpered the MP, dropping to his knees. He clasped his hands together before him in prayer. ‘Please.’ He lowered his head slightly, unable to look at the yawning barrel of the Sig.

Walker touched the automatic to his forehead, and he heard a soft rumbling sound. Barber had filled his pants.

‘Please,’ the MP sobbed.

Walker fired once.

The bullet punched in a portion of Barber’s skull, ripped through his brain, and erupted from the back of his head.

He went down like a butchered calf in an abattoir, blood spouting from the hole in his forehead, his body quivering.

Jenny Kenton was lying close by. A bullet had punctured her left eye, blasting the lens of her dark glasses back into the riven socket. Pieces of glass had been forced into the blood-filled hole. Vitreous liquid was spilling down her cheek. Another bullet had punched in two of her front teeth, and ripped away most of her top lip.

Her blonde hair was matted crimson.

Beside her, Trudi was trying to crawl away on one arm, the other having been practically severed at the elbow by a 9mm round. The shattered bone protruded whitely amidst a bleeding pulp of flesh. Another bullet had torn off her right ear: just the lobe remained attached to her head, her earring still hanging from it grotesquely.