The old bastard still hadn’t broken. Still. There was a lot of pain in his future, Philip knew, but the possibilities were drawing nearer to the right conclusion. He would break. He would shatter. And then, once it was all but certain, Janus would do everything he asked.
But before that time came—and because the old bastard had been so reticent to surrender—there were other concerns.
“Two minutes,” Liliana said from the driver’s seat.
“Yes, I know,” Philip said from the back. Antonio was waiting on the street ahead, having already completed his work. He’d been out all night doing it with help from Liliana, but now he was finished with his last task. That much, Philip could see. Liliana slowed the van and Antonio hopped in, slamming the door shut as Liliana accelerated again.
“Ready and go,” Antonio said, pulling off his black leather gloves to reveal the burned hands. Philip hadn’t bothered to ask him how those had happened. Bomb maker with scarred hands; the answer seemed fairly evident.
“One minute to the back of the building,” Liliana said, voice calm. It grated on Philip’s nerves, but that was her lifetime of training from the Cold War, surely. Either that or she was being intentionally irritating.
This plan was perfectly timed. Every possibility was covered. Every eventuality would be dealt with.
They came out from under trees that hung over the road as they passed the church on the left. Philip looked out the window at the ivory bell tower and saw the dumpster pushed against the facade of the church. It was green, stained with refuse, and didn’t look out of place even pushed against the white stone wall. It sat in the shadow of the bell tower, as much a part of the urban scenery as anything else.
The gallery was ahead. It had such a sophisticated name—The Hartsford Gallery—and contained a priceless collection of art the like of which Philip would have gladly spent untold hours surveying.
Unfortunately, they did not have hours.
The gallery sat perfectly positioned on a triangular cross street where five separate thoroughfares met. It was quintessential old London; poor city design for a place with automobiles passing through because it had been built in an age of wagons and horses, oxen and yokes. It was a remnant of the old world, like much of London was, like the narrow alleys and the clock in Westminster. Part of the city that had seen the sun rise and set on its empire.
In spite of all that, to Philip, it had never lost its charm, even in the waning days.
They drove straight ahead, taking a slight right turn to follow the triangular edge of the Hartsford Gallery. It was a tall building, five stories. The fact that it had once been a private mansion was of particular interest to Philip. The Hartsford family had only opened the home—and their exquisite collection—to tourists because the family had fallen on lean times. The thought of the old world decaying came back to Philip, and he sighed as the van pulled around the back of the gallery.
He opened the side door and got out, straightening his suit as he put the black ski mask on and replaced his glasses. “Remember—we don’t hurt the people in the gallery unless we have to. One particularly brutal display ought to quell any resistance, if even that is needed. But for the police—” He smiled. “Do your worst.”
Liliana gave a smile that was visible under her mask. She had not opted for the simple ski approach, preferring instead to go with something pink and garish. It was one of the more peculiar choices she had made since Philip had first approached her, but every now and again she seemed to take actions that emphasized the femininity that she rarely showed.
Antonio was pulling his gloves back on, mask already placed on his face. “Thank you for this,” he said simply.
Philip forced a smile. “You wanted it. I will deliver it for you.”
Antonio bowed his head, and Philip swept forward, past the both of them and to the back door of the gallery. He opened it with one good pull, ripping apart the lock that was barely adequate to keep it closed on its own. A poor choice, but as this neighborhood was not particularly dangerous, Philip supposed the proprietors had never bothered to invest in something more durable.
Liliana brushed past him, both knives drawn as they stepped into a storage room. Pallets of water and food, probably for the Gallery’s cafeteria, lined the sides of the room. When this had been a house, the room in which they stood had doubtless been part of the servants’ quarters.
Ten steps. Philip knew the blueprints of the house by heart. He’d studied them, memorized them, and made Antonio and Liliana do the same. He knew his limitations, and preparation simply opened up all the possibilities to him. The entrance to the main gallery was just ahead, ten steps, and through that door the game would truly begin. Once they crossed that particular Rubicon, they were committed to this until the end.
And what a glorious end it would be.
With a breath, Philip took the last steps and placed his hand on the door handle. So far, all they’d done was spit in the face of the Metropolitan police. This… well…
“Let’s go,” Philip said, and he smiled as he tugged on the handle. “I think it’s time that New Scotland Yard loses an eye.”
Chapter 30
We walked into the bullpen. It was buzzing with activity once more. The faded quiet that had hung in the place close to the fall of night yesterday was gone, replaced with a healthy hum of people talking, yet to start their paperwork for the day. It was a companionable chatter, detectives standing around and talking over cups of that vile coffee, brewed in an old cistern and seasoned with sewer water. The aroma was not pleasant. I followed in Webster’s wake as he made his way to his desk, shedding his trench coat as he walked and giving me a view of his backside that I—once again—did not completely ignore.
Any elation I might have felt was stripped away by the sight of Dylan waiting in Webster’s chair. The piggish man was spinning idly, moving his hips left and right as though it was the grandest game he’d ever played.
“They don’t normally make spinning chairs in your weight class, huh?” I asked as we approached.
“Wha—?” Dylan spun to see us, and his expression darkened at the sight of me. “Oh, it’s you.” He nodded at Webster. “Webbo.”
I blinked and looked to Webster, whose lips had folded in on each other. “Webbo?”
“It’s a—” He stopped himself and I realized that he was embarrassed.
“It’s what we call him at the pub,” Dylan said, grinning broadly. “It’s what his mates call him.”
“I didn’t realize you two were mating,” I said. “Awkward.” Sarcasm. It’s more of a best friend to me than any diamond.
“What have you got, Dylan?” Webster sauntered over to the desk, but I could see the pained expression. “I know you didn’t drive out here from Hounslow for the coffee.”
“Maybe he came for the insults,” I said. “Let’s not rule that out. He could just be a glutton for punishment.” I looked him up and down. “Because he’s clearly already a glutton of the garden variety.”
“I’ve got something for you,” Dylan said with a sour look, “though I wouldn’t say no to a cuppa. Ours in Hounslow tastes like someone’s been pissing in the kettle again.”
“Was it you?” I asked. “Be honest. Quicker than hauling your fat ass to the toilet, I’d guess—”
“Will you piss off already?” Dylan said, raising his voice so loud that it brought a hush over the bullpen. My mission of irritation accomplished, I dialed back a little in order to let the bastard speak. The look that Webbo shot me only contributed a little to it.
Oh, the fun I was going to have with that nickname later.
“What is it?” Webster asked, leaning over his desk. Dylan had brought a manila folder with him, something a few centimeters thick.
“Maybe nuffink,” he said, just like that, like “nuffink” was a real word. “Maybe something.” He opened the file with a flourish to reveal a murder scene in photos. It was messy. Really messy.
“That�
�s a bit sprayed with blood,” Webster said, looking up.
“Killer used a knife. Shallow gashes. Forensics said it was a short blade,” Dylan said, not looking up from the photos. He seemed kind of stuck on them, his head trapped in the pictures. His face didn’t paint him as a very happy guy; more like he’d been seeing these pictures for a while in his sleep.
“Preliminary said something similar about Maxwell Llewelyn,” Webster said, gesturing to his computer. He looked back to Dylan. “Still, short-blade knife isn’t much to go on. That might not be any link at all.”
“This lad’s practically flayed,” Dylan said. “I mean, look at this, then look at what you had. You telling me you run across this sort of mess every day? I mean, we deal with a lot of shit, but people missing the balance of their epidermis is not the normal run-of-the-mill murder.”
I gave him points for use of the word “epidermis” in a sentence. “Is that true?” I asked Webster. “Is it unusual for you to see this sort of… mess?”
“It’s uncommon,” Webster admitted after a moment. “In spite of what you see on the telly, there truly aren’t that many serial killers out there. Most of the time, motives for killings are a hell of a lot more mundane, which means they’re not going to take the time to completely skin the victim.”
“That’s rage you don’t see very often,” Dylan agreed, a cringe on his pudgy face. “Maybe this was personal, maybe it wasn’t, but whoever did it had a bloody madness creeping through their brain.”
“Who was he?” I asked, looking at the body in the pictures. It was barely recognizable as a he.
“Elijah Collins,” Dylan said, looking down. “Poor bastard worked for the government.”
I blinked. “What did he do?”
“Something technical,” Dylan said, pushing pictures out of the way in the file to get to a piece of paper. “Something to do with integration of surveillance camera systems in the Greater London area.”
I felt a little chill creep down my spine and turned to face Webster. He looked back at me, alarm growing in his eyes. “Doesn’t London have like a bajillion surveillance cameras?”
“They’re not all linked together,” Webster said, stricken with uncertainty. “A lot of them are private and all—”
“Did you ever pull the footage from the ones around Angus’s house?” I asked. “Or the Russian’s apartment?”
“They were out,” Webster said, reaching for his desk phone and dialing numbers furiously. “Dammit. I need to speak with the commissioner immediately.” He pulled the mouthpiece away from his face and covered it. “This is not a department we’ll be able to have access to without help. Pray the commissioner is in—” He stopped midsentence as I heard a voice break onto the line. “Out of the office? Out of the office where?” He paused. “No, I haven’t heard—”
He listened for a moment as his eyes widened, and then he slammed down the phone and looked straight at me.
“What?” I got out before he managed to say anything.
“Three people just stormed the Hartsford Gallery,” he said. “They took hostages, but a few people were able to escape.”
“Another day in lovely London,” Dylan said. “Think I’ll flee back to Hounslow.”
“All three of the hostage takers were wearing masks,” Webster continued, undeterred, “and one of them was carrying—and using—two knives.” He wore a look of grim satisfaction. “One of the witnesses who escaped said she hit one of the gallery patrons so hard that they flew across a twenty-foot room like they’d been struck by a car.”
Chapter 31
Philip watched Liliana make a messy example of a man— a tourist, probably—who was a little slow to pay heed to her shouts. It was a long flight for the gent and came to an abrupt stop against a far wall. She had the knives out, now. There didn’t seem to be much doubt that she would use them, and the screams of the patrons signaled a certain amount of submission.
“Your attention, please,” Philip announced in a voice loud enough to gain, well, their attention. There were screams, but they died as Liliana circled with her blades, like a shark in the waters. She cut off the exit of the balance of the gallery patrons, and stood there, pink mask screaming against the deep crimson walls. It was an odd choice, in Philip’s mind, but apparently the original owners of the Hartsford Gallery had decided it was majestic or some such silliness. Now it was surely tradition, and thus forever rooted in the stale air of this place.
“Your attention,” Philip called again. “I am your captor today. In order to make our stay as brief and as bloodless as possible, I’ll need your cooperation on a few things.” He held up a hand as if to calm them. He very much doubted it had any such effect. “First of all, get down on your knees and place your heads against the floor. Keep your hands flush against that lovely hardwood. Yes, thank you.” The compliance was nearly immediate, prompted by a poke to the back for the slowest mover in the room. This was from Liliana, and she even held back, keeping from penetrating the skin on the poor bastard.
“We have a very specific objective today,” Philip said. “Keep your hands to yourselves and your heads on the ground, and you won’t be harmed. This is a robbery; it’s not meant to be a mass homicide. Every single painting in this gallery is insured, and the owners will be financially compensated by the company who takes their money for just such a possibility as this. Should you oppose us, there will be no one to make your family whole. Your death will be bloody and will come at the edge of a knife. Do not be foolish; you have no reason to try any heroics. In twenty minutes we will leave, and you will have the rest of your life to live. Or, alternatively, you can die now, and spend the last moments screaming as you bleed to death over a piece of canvas covered in oils that doesn’t even belong to you.” He scanned the small crowd, saw not a single head looking up at him, and smiled. “All right, then, let’s begin.”
Chapter 32
“You’re thinking metas?” I asked as we rolled up on a vacant lot that the police had commandeered into a command post.
“It’s a possibility,” he said. “But we’re just observers in all this, keeping an eye out unless asked for more.”
I could see the Hartsford Gallery from where I stood as I got out of the car. It was a pretty tall building, constructed in that London style with the columns and stonework. The roof was sloped, and the building was practically a whole block unto itself. A short, triangular block, right at the joining point of five different roads, but still. I could see an alley leading down the back of the building from here, but it looked narrow.
The front of the building faced us; we were at the point of its triangle, staring across the street at the glorious grand entrance, with its massive steps and impressive arches leading to the main door.
There were buildings of a similar height across the alley, to the left of the building, and also beyond to the right. The avenue on that side was covered with tall trees that looked like they’d been growing for a few centuries. Immediately across the street to my right, past the blockades the police were setting up, was a massive white church with a bell tower that stretched into the air higher than the gallery.
“Snipers already positioned,” Webster said, leaning against the open door of his car. He wasn’t exactly springing into action or heading for the command post. “Armed response team ready, probably about to storm in before the terrorists get too comfortable.”
“You assume they’re terrorists?” I asked.
“They’re causing terror, that’s for sure,” he said, still not moving.
“What are we doing here?” I asked. I thought I knew, but I wanted to hear it from him.
“Staring straight ahead and watching what happens,” he said and gave me a significant look. “It’s not like I’m far enough up the ladder to be involved, but they like to have as many of us on scene as they can for these sorts of things.”
“Because staring at the exterior of an art gallery is a productive use of your time, Detective
Inspector?” I wasn’t razzing him, really. Just probing.
“It’s the department’s time,” he said, just a little tense. “I do what they tell me when I’m on it.”
“I could help,” I suggested, sending him a sidelong glance.
“Or you could sit right here and stay out of trouble,” he said. It wasn’t an argument, really. I wasn’t in charge here and neither was he.
I stared at the gallery across the way. He was right, the British equivalent of a SWAT team was moving into position up the steps. There was really nothing else for us to do but watch.
Chapter 33
“What the bloody hell are you doing?” Philip asked. The air smelled of richness, of culture, of a history and tradition that he had always found so appealing. And, of course, it smelled of fear.
Liliana was running one of her blades in a broad stroke down some of the shorter canvases that lingered near face level. The room they had occupied was a large one, an enormous… well, gallery… that reached two stories at least. Paintings filled the room from floor to ceiling over the deep crimson walls. Paintings that were hundreds of years old, representative of the crowning achievements in the art of western civilization…
And Liliana… that savage, silly little bitch… was slashing them one by one.
“I’m striking out against the bourgeois tastes of the thieves who have taken so much of the world’s wealth for themselves,” she said, running her blade down a landscape of a lake done in bold colors.
“Stop immediately,” he said, flushed. Philip could feel his hands shake. “That is priceless cultural heritage, regardless of who owns it.”
“These should be in a public museum for all the people to see,” Liliana said with a flash of crimson rage. “Not here in a place where only those who are willing to pay can come in.” She spat on one of the shredded canvases, and Philip felt a twitch at the corner of his eye as he contemplated killing her right there. He’d killed for less.
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