Jon Tracy - The Rome Prophecy

Shooter grabs Valentina by the shoulder and spins her round.

He slaps her so hard with the flat of his right hand that the left side of her face feels like it’s been set on fire.

She cannons into the cell wall.

She recovers her balance, sticks her bloodied chin out and spits in his face.

Plucky bitch.

Shooter smiles at her. He’s enjoying this.

Really enjoying it.

He unleashes a vicious backhand slap to the right side of her jaw.

Valentina totters and then falls.

She shuffles back in the dirt. Tries to squash herself into the corner of the cell.

‘You stupid bitch! Did you think you could disrespect me and I’d just walk away?’

He steps forward and tries to grab her feet.

Valentina kicks out at him.

He stamps hard on her thigh.

The dead leg stops her kicking.

Now he grabs her feet. Grabs them and pulls them until she’s in the centre of the cell.

Valentina can’t help but scream.

Shooter leans over and punches her in the face.

The blow shuts her up.

He rips open her blouse.

Her stomach is irresistible. He claws a five-finger scratch mark down to her waistline.

The rage is growing.

Boiling up inside him.

He grabs at the top of her trousers and tears open the button.

Shooter glances up to see her face. To catch the fear about to flicker in her eyes.

But he’s a fraction too late.

Valentina slams her right hand against his stomach.

It feels like nothing.

A girlie slap that doesn’t even knock the wind out of him.

But it’s more than it seems.

He knows that from the expectant look in her eyes.

Valentina places her left hand on top of her right, and keeps pressing.

Now he gets it.

He knows exactly what she’s done.

She’s stabbed him.

He sees it now. She’s broken the thin wire handle off the bucket and stuck him with it.

Skewered him like a pig, and won’t let go.

Shooter grabs her hands, but Valentina uses the shock to shift her weight and push him back.

He tries to fight her off. The more he strains forward, the more he pushes the rusty metal further into his gut.

Shooter topples backwards.

Valentina follows. Driving the metal deep into the abdominal wound.

Her soldier’s instinct and training have kicked in.

No let-up. No mercy. No rest.

Not until he’s dead.

The dusty wooden boards creak and groan like a dying man.

Tom and Guilio stop in their tracks.

Both glance to their left.

The noise is coming from the wall.

Tom glances to his right.

The floor is rising on that side. ‘Stay still!’ he shouts.

He takes half a stride to his right and hopes he’s corrected the balance.

The ground steadies again.

Both men take a deep breath and try to work out what has happened.

They’re standing on a section of false flooring. Centuries of dirt have shifted under their weight and are now spilling like the sand of an egg-timer over the edges of the trap.

Tom guesses that once it’s been dislodged, the floor will become increasingly unstable.

Guilio needs to walk at least another metre to get off it, Tom another five, unless he turns and goes back a metre.

They’re both now standing slightly off-centre. Guilio a little too much to the left. Tom too much to the right.

They look at each other.

They know their lives now depend entirely upon mutual trust.

If Guilio makes a run for it, Tom is dead.

And vice versa.

‘On three,’ Guilio suggests. ‘We both step to the middle, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘One… two…’

They take a final glance at each other.

‘Three!’

They move.

The floor creaks.

Then slowly corrects itself.

They smile at each other.

So far, so good.

‘Let’s try again,’ says Guilio. ‘Nice and slowly.’ He extends his arms and stretches a foot out in the manner of walking a tightrope. ‘Just take really careful, slow steps.’

There’s a creak over towards the left-hand wall. Tom ignores it and copies Guilio.

The creak grows louder.

Much louder.

Tom looks left.

A whole section of painted wall cracks and crumbles.

Pieces of it fall on to the tilting floor.

Heavy pieces.

Tom takes another step.

Guilio is just one stride from safety.

A huge piece of plaster falls from the ceiling.

‘Run!’ shouts Tom.

Guilio glances over his shoulder and sees the falling debris.

He jumps to safety.

Tons of rubble crash down.

The floor tips violently.

Tom is only two metres from the edge.

He moves quickly.

The rubble is still falling. The angle of the tip worsens. One metre from safety.

Tom loses his footing.

He seems to fall in slo-mo.

His right leg slides as the floor rises.

He spins. Skids. Tumbles.

Guilio stretches out a hand.

It’s no use.

He’s too far away.

Their fingertips brush each other.

Tom disappears into the blackness.

Valentina’s hands are glistening with viscera and blood.

She wipes them on Shooter’s corpse and doesn’t even flinch. There’s a gun tucked into his belt. The idiot thought he didn’t need it.

Valentina takes it.

And his cell keys as well.

She searches his body for anything else of value. There’s a special radio, like the ones used by subway staff, a cell phone, a small Maglite, some matches, cigarettes and money.

That’s all.

She searches his shirt pockets, flips him over and checks the back pockets of his pants.

A spare magazine for the Glock.

She looks again at the old cell keys. They may well open the cages just down from her, but she knows they won’t open the security gates on the levels above. She heard electronic buzzing. That means he must have a swipe card of some kind.

She searches him again.

Nothing.

Valentina feels a jolt of panic. Her plan is in ruins. Without a card of some kind, there’s no way out.

Still, she has the gun.

She checks it.

It’s the one he fired in the church. The magazine’s been refilled since then. She slides it back in and flips off the safety catch. If she can’t get out, then at least she’ll kill a lot of people trying.

Slowly she emerges from the cell, and makes her way towards the torches and the staircase.

As she feared, the gate there is a modern one, with an electromagnetic catch.

She shines the tiny Maglite across the lock and over a pillar next to the gate.

Her heart sinks.

There’s a fingerprint sensor.

Valentina looks across to the dead man in the cell.

Maybe she could carry him this far. That’s possible.

She sprints back to the cell and jams the torch in her trousers.

Just lifting Shooter is a Herculean task.

His limbs are floppy. His flesh slippery with blood.

She sits him up. Grabs him under the armpits and lifts him. He’s heavier than she thought. She has to press her body against his and force him against the wall to stop him collapsing like a rag doll.

Within seconds, she needs a breather.

It means standing face to face with the corpse, his head on her shoulder, his dead cheek pressed against her skin.

Valentina takes a deep breath, squats and executes an almost perfect fireman’s lift.

With Shooter draped over her shoulders, she makes her way across the uneven floor to the security gate.

Once there, there’s a new problem.

She can’t reach his hand and lift it to the sensor.

She drops the corpse and there’s a sickening squish of loose organs and spilling body fluids.