People scream.
I bound back up onto my feet and make for the exit. Shoot a glance back. Boris getting back onto his feet, hobbling after me.
For a brief moment I think I can make it out of there since Boris is simply too slow to keep up. But the second I make it out into the hall, I run into another black-jacketed goon who’s working the rooms in pursuit of me. It’s the tall, football-player-sized goon. He plants a bead on me with his automatic, takes a shot that ricochets off the wood doorjamb. People are scattering, going down on their bellies. Parents becoming human shields for their kids. Between the screaming and the blaring alarm, the big goon’s pistol doesn’t need a silencer.
I make a run for it through the people, in the direction of the second Uffizi corridor and the area designated as “Café.” I know from a previous visit that the café is outdoors. I know that if I can make it out there, I can make it over the wall and down into the piazza.
If only I can somehow manage to stay alive.
I’m plowing through the people, praying I don’t run into a team of guards.
On my tail is the second goon. Boris not far behind him. How he can keep up with a fake knee I have no idea. Desire means a lot in these matters.
I have my automatic gripped in my shooting hand. But I nearly killed an old lady smuggling it in here. I might as well use it.
Making the corner for the café, I stop dead in my tracks, about-face, drop down to one knee, assume a shooter’s stance, squeeze one off at the big goon. Big motherfucker makes a great target, even when he ducks away for cover. I see the slight spray from the round as it grazes his left collar.
But it doesn’t slow him down.
He straightens up and keeps coming at me, like a deer during hunting season that doesn’t know it’s been hit.
I stand, proceed to the café.
The patrons seated on the interior of the white marble and plate-glass walled café are already down on the floor, hiding under the tables. The alarm is blaring inside the place. I head out the glass door onto the terrace. A collective exhale of panic ensues from the people who occupy the round, umbrella-covered tables. I barrel through tightly positioned tables, tipping a couple over along with the bone-white espresso cups and sandwich plates set upon them. I move toward the knee-wall to a soundtrack of screams, breaking plates and glasses, and more rounds exploding all around me, kicking up shards of tile against my lower legs.
The knee-wall isn’t a knee-wall exactly.
More like a wall constructed of both concrete pillars and metal grating that I’m forced to climb if I want to get my body over it. This is the hard part. Climbing. It’s when I present a lovely full-body target. Might as well have a red bull’s-eye painted on my ass. Lucky for me the big goon behind me is changing out his clip. That leaves me with maybe two or three seconds to play with.
I set my right foot onto the grating and begin to climb.
It doesn’t take much effort to get to the top. But the lead has started flying again, and the rounds are whizzing by my head. A quick look over my shoulder reveals both the collar-injured big goon and Boris shooting at me. I wonder if I’m like the big goon—hit without knowing it. It can take up to an hour for the pain of a bullet to register. Either that, or these goons are not Putin’s grade-A primo shooters. I flip my left leg around and begin to climb down onto the overhang. From there it’s a fifty-foot drop down past the loggia into the Piazza della Signoria. But not if I shimmy my way to the far side of the ledge.
Like a lizard on a windowpane, I begin to shimmy.
I’m clear of the gunfire.
But on the other hand, I’ve become quite the spectacle for the tourists who swarm among their tour groups inside the piazza. Some of the people scream with terror while others cheer me on in about half a dozen languages. A few people clap. Some Italians shout out, “Vi! Vi! Vi!”
Go! Go! Go!
I inch my way along, knowing I have a short window of opportunity to get myself free and clear of the Russians. Somehow I know they’re not about to be contained by the Uffizi guards or the police. Every electric-charged, instinct-filled synapse in my body tells me to run and keep running.
I’m picturing the weapons I hid under the Dumpster. I need to get to them and then I need to get the fuck lost. When I come to the edge of the ledge, I have no choice but to climb the pillar down into the loggia, the open, porch-like area below the Uffizi café that houses a couple dozen massive sculptures. There’s no way I can make my way all the way down the pillar. The first few feet of it are just too wide for my outstretched arms. But if I can manage to set my foot onto the small portion of sculpted cherub relief that protrudes from the wall and from there shift myself down along the top of the pillar, it’s possible I can manage to grab a foothold onto the bronze statue of Perseus.
I slide down, inch by inch, and at the same time, reach out with my right foot until it supports my weight on top of the cherub’s head. Leaning into the wall, I ease myself down until I set my injured left hand onto the cherub while releasing my right leg. The pain shrieks from my cut finger, shoots up and down my arm. But I manage to hold on. What the hell choice do I have? Now releasing my left leg, I manage to leverage my full body weight by hanging off the cherub with both hands, like a rock climber hanging by a piece of exposed rock. The pain in my hand is intense enough to rob me of my breath, but I hold on long enough to cradle the pillar with my legs.
Sliding down a few feet, I reach out with my right leg until the tip of my right boot touches Perseus’s sword. By now the crowd has gathered all around the loggia. Happy, shiny, smiling faces. Maybe they think this is Florence’s idea of performance art.
I inch down some more, until I have both my legs wrapped around the sword. When I’m confident I have a secure enough hold by clenching my legs into a pretzel, as if the sword were the bar on a jungle gym, I release my hold on the pillar.
That’s how I come to find myself hanging upside down, staring at two Russian goons dressed in black leather barreling their way through the tourists, pistols gripped tight in their hands.
To the collective roar of a now-panicked crowd, I monkey my way down the cold, bronze Perseus. Past his curly haired head, down his six-pack abs, onto the severed head of Medusa, and then a short drop to the concrete landing.
I don’t bother with taking steps.
I jump the wall, onto the cobbled piazza, and sprint for the back alley where my weapons are hidden.
If I had to guess, I have maybe twenty-five steps on one Russian goon hobbled by a bad knee and another with a grazed shoulder. I can only hope they haven’t called for backup, which they most surely have.
The answer to my question appears for me immediately.
As I take the corner into the alley, I see two more goons coming my way. One of whom is the short one with the big bowie knife who cut my finger and Francesco’s neck. Or so I gotta believe.
These guys aren’t fucking around.
They carry AK-47s. I dive for the Dumpster just as I see the spit of fire coming from the barrels. As the shots spray all around me, pinging off the cobbles and the metal Dumpster chassis, I grab the .22 and empty the five-round cylinder in their general direction. Dropping the revolver, I slap a fresh clip into the .9 mm and discharge it at the two men, forcing one man to take cover inside a doorway, but dropping the short one when a round pierces his neck.
That’s for Francesco. And that’s for my finger.
Standing, I finger off three more rounds into the doorway where one of the goons is still hiding. I pocket the one clip I have left and the .22, and re-sheath the fighting knife. Then I run, full sprint, in the direction of the Duomo. Like that was the plan all along.
I enter the Piazza del Duomo at an all-out sprint, coming to a stumbling stop when I catch the attention of a police officer to my left, who no doubt has been alerted to the crisis at the Uffizi. Sirens permeate the stone and ancient cement of Florence. My heart is pounding inside my head, blood-f
illed flesh squeezing out the temples. That bullet fragment just better sit tight inside my gray matter. It’s all I can ever hope for.
The policeman appears frozen in place, then snaps into action toward me. I enter into a sprint once more. What the hell choice do I have?
To my right, I see two more men wearing leather coats and dark sunglasses. Their automatics might be concealed for now, but I recognize Boris and his injured lead goon plain enough. They’re coming at me at a jogger’s pace since that’s the speediest pace they can manage, given Boris’s bad leg and his lead goon’s shot collar. Even so, they’re closing the gap between me, the cop, and the massive white-and-green marble cathedral. A major part of me just wants to raise my weapon, plant a bead on them both, and make them instantly dead. But that would make me a cold-blooded killer in the eyes of the police. Maybe even the eyes of God. In my head I see the final level of Dante’s hell. The final resting place for the violent and the murderous. Eternal damnation in the form of pitchforks, fire, and brimstone.
I have to make some kind of decision here. Make one quick.
Directly in front of me, there’s a giant stone statue of Brunelleschi. The big, gray stone statue depicts the architect holding a compass in one hand and the other holding an open book. He’s staring straight up at the top of the Duomo he built six hundred years ago, to the entire known world’s amazement. But even from down on the ground, he seems to be looking into my eyes.
I look to my left: the Russian goons.
To my right: the cop pulling out his service automatic with his shooting hand while using his free hand to call for backup on his walkie-talkie.
I once more peer into Brunelleschi’s gray eyes.
His stone mouth doesn’t move, but his words speak to me clear as water.
I turn and make a mad dash for the Duomo.
The cop shouts at me to stop.
The Russians, as though oblivious to him, pull out their automatics and begin firing at will. The tour groups that queue all around the dome-topped cathedral duck for cover. I plow through them and enter into the side entrance, up the short flight of stairs, barrel my way past the ticket window before jumping the turnstile on my way to the interior staircase that leads to the holy Duomo interior.
God forgive me.
The ancient staircase before me is narrow, made of stone blocks that have been stacked with a surgeon’s precision. I start on the worn stairs, bounding them two at a time. The stairs corkscrew the circular rim of the dome precisely and seem never ending. Climbing them at a walk would be enough to make your heart beat in your throat. It’s like running up a man-made mountain.
By the time I reach the first level, which empties out onto a narrow stone ledge that rims the dome’s interior, I’m sucking serious wind. Displayed before me, like I’ve somehow died and entered into Judgment Day, are brilliant mosaics of men and women suffering at the hands of a horned devil right next to much luckier dead people who are languishing in the Lord’s loving glow. I’m sweating bullets, panting my lungs out, and witnessing the culmination of good and evil, heaven and earth, the saved souls and the banished, blackened, tormented souls. But it’s my mortal ass I’m more worried about saving at the present time.
As I’m coming out of the first stairwell I make out the strained voices of Boris and the injured goon. I know I can simply stand my ground at this point and just shoot the bastards as they emerge from the stairwell, but no doubt they’ve already figured that one out. They’ll be ready for me. I glance down through a narrow window opening like the kind you’d find inside a medieval castle. Peer directly at Brunelleschi. He looks up at me, tells me to keep climbing.
The cathedral and its dome were built to allow man to diminish the impossible distance between heaven and earth. I enter into the second interior Duomo stairwell on my way to see God.
My rotten luck…Dick Moonlight kind of luck.
Yet another Japanese tour group is on the way down.
The stairwell is simply too narrow for two full-grown human beings to pass without one of them pressing his or her back up against the stone wall. I don’t bother with politeness. I pull out the .9 mm, shout out, “Polizia!”
It does the trick.
The Japanese group reacts as one, pressing their backs up against the circular wall, allowing me ample space to slip on through.
I continue my roundabout climb to the second level.
I bound through the stairwell door and onto another narrow stone walkway identical to the first one. Although this walkway also runs along the perimeter of the rotunda, it offers a much closer bird’s-eye view of the Duomo’s interior from just below the cupola. To my right, I once more come face to face with evil. I’m so close I feel like I can reach out and burn my fingers by touching the horned beast himself.
It’s Dante’s evil angel.
Satan.
The horned beast.
Gray-brown skin, black eyes, bald head, bat-like ears, and two bony horns topped off with sharp points. The keeper of the fire inside the lowest level of the inferno. He takes my breath away. I can only pray he is not my eternal future.
To my left I gaze out another narrow slit of a window, back down onto a piazza that’s now far below. But I still see Brunelleschi looking up at me. Keep going, he tells me.
Vi! Vi! Vi!
I know better than to argue with a Renaissance genius.
Lungs flaming, I climb until entering into the third and final stairwell. I trek up the last flights of stone stairs until I reach the Duomo’s top parapet walk. Pistol in hand, I ascend the short ladder that accesses the exterior. When my head emerges from the hatch-like opening at the top, I find myself surrounded by more Japanese tourists. A swarm of them occupy the parapet with their cameras and video cams.
Worked once: I climb all the way out and once more shout, “Polizia!” and then follow it up with “Vi! Vi! Vi!”
The tourists make a mad dash for the exit, leaving me alone at the top of the cultural world. Heading out onto the narrow exterior walk, I look for a way off the dome aside from simply jumping to my death. I make a quick inspection of the entire circular parapet.
The only way out of here is to climb down. This is not the most pleasant of prospects.
If I can get over the tower’s metal suicide barrier and out onto the dome, it might be possible to slide down the tile ceiling and onto the cathedral roof. Possible. Might be.
Voices coming from the interior of the Duomo.
“Moonlight!” I hear. “Son of bitch! Moonlight motherfucker! Dead man, Moonlight!”
I can either die here or take my chances out there.
I jump up, grab hold of the metal bars, and begin to chin myself up and over the suicide barrier, as if hell-bent on killing myself for real.
I make it over the barrier as I hear at least one goon enter onto the parapet walkway. I cautiously ease myself down, ass-first, onto the copper flashing. The downward angle is sharp, but not so steep I can’t keep my footing with my rubber-soled combat boots. Heart in throat, I take a crabwalking step out onto the orange/brown tiles. I feel the tile crunching and shifting under my feet. At this height, I feel the cool wind blowing against my face and against my sweat-soaked chest and neck.
Behind me, a limping Boris and his big goon are making their way around the narrow parapet walkway. I once more flash to the sliver of .22 caliber bullet in my head that, during times of extreme stress, can cause me to pass out. Now is not the time to pass out. Passing out would mean a fall of five hundred feet and certain death.
I continue my crabwalk out onto the dome, knowing that it will be impossible for Boris to follow me out here with his bad leg and just plain suicidal for a bigger-than-Zumbo-sized goon with a wounded collar to follow.
But then it’s me…Dick Moonlight. Captain Head Case.
I’ve been known to be wrong on occasion.
A tile slides out from under me.
My right leg slips out and I drop down onto my ass, press
ing my full body weight against the angled dome so that I don’t begin a deadly slide over the side. More tiles come loose and skate off the dome. Coming from down below I hear the cries of the massive crowd that has gathered. I hear the sirens from the police cars and EMS vans. I know it’s only a matter of minutes or seconds until helicopter rotors can be heard chopping through the cool air. What a television spot my presence on the dome will make.
Then I hear the crack of an automatic, and I know the Russians are shooting at me, as if they’re shooting at the pigeons that nest up here. I want to look back at them but I can’t. Both hands are pressed flat against the tile while the soles of my booted feet cling to the angled dome. Only a foot or two of rooftop separates me from a portion that’s even more severely angled downward and will send me careening south like a helpless child falling down a schoolyard slide.
I look to my left and pick out the concrete seam that runs perpendicular to both the parapet and the base of the dome. I was so quick to get over the suicide barrier and onto the dome that I didn’t think to look for some kind of support ladders roofing contractors must use during their constant repair work on the dome’s tile roof. If the ladders exist, these concrete seams are all that could support them.
The wind picks up. It blows cold on my sweat-beaded face. My body begins to tremble while my injured left hand throbs up and down the length of the nerve bundles. But I hold on tight and run my eyes down the gray concrete seam.
It does indeed support a ladder. Rather, the metal rungs of a ladder are embedded into its concrete. Now it’s just a matter of shifting myself the twenty feet to my left in order to access the metal rungs.
Sounds easy.
But not with a spray of bullets raining down on me from above.
I don’t give my next move any more thought.
Blue Moonlight Page 12