Alan Rice made the mistake of following the effect of the attack rather than the source. He screamed and fired his weapon; his wild round barely missed Kuchin’s head and unfortunately embedded itself in Dominic’s forearm, shattering bone and burning tissue. Dominic grunted and fell to the floor.
Whit launched and caught Kuchin in the sternum, sending him heels over ass, the Ukrainian’s weapon sailing away.
Shaw pounced on Rice, swung him around, and slammed him against a crypt. He slid to the floor unconscious as blood streamed out of his smashed nose.
Kuchin got to his feet as everyone scrambled for weapons or cover in the ongoing shimmer of the images on the wall. With the added human movement the entire spectacle took on the aspect of some bizarre performance art. Reggie lunged for her pistol but Kuchin kicked her in the face, slashing her cheek with the heel of his shoe. When Whit hurled himself at the man a second time, Kuchin was prepared. He deftly sidestepped the thrust and, taking a page from Shaw’s attack method, slammed a bony elbow into Whit’s face, dropping the Irishman in his tracks.
Kuchin snatched up Reggie’s Beretta, turned, aimed, and would have fired a bullet into the fallen woman’s brain from inches away if Shaw hadn’t connected with such a massive uppercut to the chin that it lifted the two-hundred-and-thirty-pound Ukrainian completely off his feet. He crumbled backward and hit the floor, spit out a tooth and tried to rise, but he was too dazed by the terrific shot he’d taken.
Shaw jammed one gun in his belt and grabbed another pistol off the floor and tossed it to Whit, who’d staggered to his feet holding his face. Shaw stooped, snagged Reggie’s arm, and pulled her up. With his other hand he hauled Dom to his feet. “We have to get out of here. Now!”
“Not before we kill that bastard!” screamed Whit.
At that instant Kuchin managed to get to his feet, and he ran out of the catacombs.
“Hey!” yelled Whit. He ran after Kuchin, followed by the others.
“Stop!” barked Shaw, and he grabbed Whit, who was lining up a shot. “He’s got other muscle, and they’re probably on their way right now.”
As soon as Shaw had finished speaking, three more armed men clattered down the stairs and saw them. They opened fire. The sleepy hamlet of Gordes probably hadn’t seen such aggression since the Romans had been in town two millennia before.
“This way,” yelled Reggie. She led them to the passage that would carry them to the doorway near the villa.
Kuchin ran toward his men and screamed, “Get them, but don’t kill the woman!”
Shaw turned and fired at the men. As the bullets ricocheted off the stone walls Kuchin’s guards scrambled for cover. Whit pulled a slender canister from his pocket, popped a tab, and tossed it into the room. Dense smoke formed a wall between them and their pursuers.
They turned and fled down the passage, steel-jacketed rounds chasing them every step of the way.
Fittingly for a church, they all mouthed silent prayers as they fled.
59
DOWN THIS WAY,” Reggie told Shaw. “There’s another exit.”
“The one that lets out down by the villas?” said Shaw.
Reggie stared at him as they rushed along. “How did you know?”
“I can recon. But that door opens onto a public street.”
“And Kuchin knows about it,” said Reggie. “I had to show him that route earlier to convince him to go to the church today. Then I led him to the catacombs instead.”
Shaw said, “Then it’s no good for two reasons.” He looked over at Dominic, who ran bent over, clutching his injured arm. “Are you going to make it?”
Reggie took off her bandanna and wrapped it around the wound.
“I can make it,” Dominic said, grimacing.
Whit eyed Shaw. “What then? We can’t go back unless we want to shoot our way out, and those guys have a lot more bullets than we do.”
Shaw pointed to his left. “That way.”
Whit grabbed his arm. “There’s nothing down there. I checked.”
“At the end of the hall is a hidden door built into the stone. The passage there leads to the old fort.”
“How do you know that?” demanded Whit.
“Through a little history reading.”
“What?”
“Catholic priests often had to run for their lives. Just like we are. Now let’s go!”
They reached the end of the hall, Shaw pulled on a stone set in the lower half of the wall, and a slight gap appeared. He tugged on the section and old hinges creaked as the door swung open. They fled through and Shaw clicked the door shut behind them.
As he led them down a dark, musty passageway Shaw hit some keys on his cell phone and the electronic message flew off. They passed through another door and reached a hall through which sunlight eased in via slits in the stone block far above their heads. They were now in the old fort.
He reached one more door, tugged it open, and they entered a courtyard. The car screeched to a stop in front of them and Whit aimed his gun at the driver.
“He’s with me,” said Shaw, putting a hand on Whit’s arm.
Frank rolled down the passenger-side window and said, “The whole town is going nuts.”
Shaw and Reggie helped Dominic into the backseat and then slid in next to him. Whit jumped in next to Frank, who gunned it, and the car sped off laying black tread down on ancient cobblestone.
“Okay, Shaw, start talking,” said Frank as he maneuvered the car through the narrow streets and down the hill toward where the villas were located.
“Your name is Shaw?” said Reggie, looking at him.
He glanced in the rearview mirror to see Frank staring at him. “They snagged Waller, but his men ambushed them. I was there to help out.”
“Help out?” exclaimed Whit. “We’d all be dead but for you.”
“Well, we still might be,” snapped Frank.
As he finished speaking one of Waller’s men ran out from the doorway that led from the church; it was the same passageway out that Reggie and Kuchin had taken when they’d visited the church the first time. The gunman spotted them and fired. Everyone ducked as the windshield cracked. There was a bump, the man was catapulted into the air by the collision with the car, and dropped to the ground. Frank looked up.
“Hey, Shaw?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you drive?”
“Why?”
“Because the son of a bitch just shot me!”
Shaw saw the blood seeping from Frank’s jacket, pushed the man to the side, climbed over the seat, and took over the wheel. He floored it and then checked Frank, who was slumped over next to Whit.
“How bad?”
Frank fumbled with his shirt and looked. “Missed the belly, think it went through me. Hard to say.”
Whit checked the seatback. “It did. Here’s the slug.” He held it up.
“Hang on, Frank, and tell me where to go,” said Shaw.
“Private strip sixty kilometers south of here. Wings waiting.” He gave Shaw the specific directions and then fell silent, his breathing labored and his face turning gray.
Reggie and Whit took off Frank’s jacket, tore open his shirt, and checked the wound more carefully. Reggie said, “Look in the glove compartment for a first-aid kit.”
There wasn’t one but there was a box of sterilized wipes. She used those to clean the wound and then used strips of Frank’s shirt to help stop the bleeding and to bandage the wound. She sat back. “That’s all I can do for now. He needs medical attention.”