Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

"Here," Anna said.

A larger niche stood at the end of the corridor.

"The crowbar," she ordered.

Mathilde opened the bag she had slung over her shoulder and took the crowbar out. At once, Anna stuck it between the marble and the wall and pressed down as hard as she could. A crack started to snake across the surface. At the base of the block, she applied the crowbar once more. The plaque crashed to the floor, in two pieces. Anna picked up the tool and used it as a hammer against the plaster wall at the back of the niche. Particles flew up, sticking in her black hair. She continued to bang stubbornly, without paying heed to the noise she was making.

Mathilde could no longer breathe. It felt to her as though these thuds were resonating as far as Place Gambetta. How long would it be before the watchmen showed up?

Silence fell once more. In a white cloud, Anna dived into the niche and removed the rubble. Large clouds of dust hit the wall.

Suddenly, a tinkling sound was heard behind their backs.

The two women turned around.

At their feet, a metal key was shining amid the plaster debris. "Try using that. You'll save time."

A man with short-cropped hair was standing at the entrance of the gallery, his figure reflected on the floor tiles. It looked as if he were standing on water. Lifting up his shotgun, he asked, "Where is it?"

He was dressed in a rumpled raincoat, twisted across his body, but this in no way lessened the impression of power that he radiated. Especially his face, lit to one side by the rays of a lamp, gave off a look of quite startling cruelty "Where is it?" he repeated, taking a step forward.

Mathilde felt like death. A stabbing pain was digging into her guts: her legs were giving way. She had to grab hold of the niche to stop herself from falling. This was no longer a game. This was not shooting practice, the triathlon, or any sort of calculated risk.

They were quite simply going to die.

The intruder kept coming. With a precise gesture, he aimed his gun. "For fuck's sake! Where's the fucking smack?"

The man in the raincoat caught fire.

Mathilde dived to the ground. At the moment she hit the floor, she realized that the flame had burst out of his gun. She rolled over the plaster rubble. At that instant, a second fact became clear to her. Anna had fired first. She must have hidden an automatic pistol in the niche.

More shots followed. Mathilde curled up, her fists clenched over her head. Niches were exploding above her, freeing their urns and their contents. When the ash started to fall on her, she screamed. Gray clouds rose up as the bullets whistled and ricocheted. In a fog of dust, she saw sparks flying from the marble angles, filaments of fire springing up across the debris, vases rolling onto the floor, then bouncing up with silvery glints. The corridor was like a starry hell, mingled with gold and iron..

She curled up tighter. The shots were smashing apart the niches, ripping up the flowers. The urns broke open, spilling their ashes as the bullets crashed through space. She started to crawl, closing her eyes, jumping at each explosion.

Suddenly, silence returned.

Mathilde stopped at once, waiting a few seconds before opening her eyes. She could not see anything. The gallery was covered with ash, as though after a volcanic eruption. The stink of cordite mingled with the cinders, worsening her sensation of asphyxia.

Mathilde dared not move. She almost called out Anna's name, but she stopped herself. She should not let the killer spot her.

While analyzing the situation, she examined her body. She was unwounded. She closed her eyes again and concentrated. Not a breath, not a sound anywhere near her, with the exception of a few pieces of rubble, which continued to fall with dull thuds.

Where was Anna?

Where was the man?

Were they both dead?

She squinted in an attempt to see something. Finally, two or three yards farther on, she noticed a lamp giving off a vague light. She remembered how they punctuated the alleyway about every ten yards. But which one was it? The one by the entrance to the corridor? Which way was the exit? To her right, or to her left?

She fought back a cough, swallowed her saliva, then silently picked herself up onto an elbow. She started crawling toward the left, avoiding the rubble, the shells, the spillage from the urns…

Suddenly, the fog materialized in front of her.

A completely gray figure: the killer.

Her lips opened, but his hand pressed hard over her mouth. In the bloodred eyes that were staring at her, Mathilde could read: One sound, and you're dead. The barrel of a revolver was rammed against her neck. She rapidly fluttered her eyelashes as a sign of assent. Slowly, the man removed his fingers. She gave him another imploring look, guaranteeing her total submission.

At that moment, a ghastly sensation hit her. Something had happened that made her feel even more awful than the idea of dying: she had dirtied herself. Her sphincter had loosened. Urine and excrement oozed between her thighs, soaking her tights.

The man grabbed her by the hair and dragged her across the floor. Mathilde bit her lips to stop herself from screaming. They passed through the clouds of mist, between the vases, flowers and human ash.

He prowled around the galleries several times. Still being pulled brutally, Mathilde slipped along in the dust, making a soft rustling sound. She kicked her legs, but the movement made no noise. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out of it. She was sobbing, groaning, whistling between her teeth, but the dust absorbed everything. Through her pain, she realized that this silence was her best ally. At the slightest sound, the man would kill her.

The advance slowed. She felt his grip loosen. Then the man grabbed her again and started going up stairs. Mathilde braced herself. A wave of agony ran from her skull to the base of her spine. It felt as if deadly clamps were pulling the skin of her face. Her legs were still kicking, heavy, wet, filthy with shame. She smelled the ghastly waste that was staining her legs.

Then everything came to a halt again. It lasted only a second, but that was enough.

Mathilde twisted around to see what was happening. Anna's form was standing out against the fog while the killer soundlessly aimed his gun.

With a wrench, she lifted herself up on a knee to warn Anna.

Too late. He pressed the trigger, causing a deafening crash.

But nothing happened as expected. The figure exploded in a thousand shards; the cinders changed into a lethal hail. The man yelled. Mathilde freed herself and rolled backward, down to the bottom of the steps.

As she fell, she realized what had happened. He had fired not at Anna but at a glass door, stained with dust, that was sending back his own reflection. Mathilde landed on her back and witnessed the impossible truth. Just as the back of her head hit the floor, she saw the real Anna, like a gray statue, crouching in the gutted window. She had been awaiting them there, as though floating above the dead.

At that moment, Anna leapt down. Hanging with her left hand from a niche, she swung her body as fast as she could. In her other hand, she held a spike of broken glass. Its sharp end stuck into the man's face.

By the time he had aimed his gun, Anna had pulled out the blade. The bullet flew through the dust. The next second, she attacked once more. The shard slid across his temple and sliced into his flesh. Another bullet went astray through the air. Anna was already crouched against the wall.

Forehead, temples, mouth. Back she came again and again. The man's face was being torn apart in bloody slices. Staggering, he dropped his gun, clumsily flapping his arms, as though pestered by killer bees.