Jon Tracy - The Rome Prophecy

She manoeuvres him so he’s facing the gate.

His hand still won’t reach the sensor pad.

‘Damn!’

Once more she grabs him under the arms and heaves him into an upright position.

She doesn’t have enough hands.

She needs to shift one hand from under his armpit to grab his right hand, select a finger – presumably his index one – and swipe it across the sensor.

If she tries that, then the body will fall.

She drops him again and looks across to the cells.

The girl she saw in the nearby cell is watching her.

Valentina moves towards her.

The poor kid looks frightened to death.

Valentina remembers that she’s soaked in Shooter’s blood. It must be all over her face, her hands and her blouse. ‘It’s all right, don’t be afraid.’ She holds up the keys she took from Shooter. ‘I’m a policewoman. I’m coming to get you out.’

The kid backs away, eyes wide with fear.

Valentina wipes blood from her face.

She finds the lock, and slips the key in.

A splash of light shows that the girl is covered in bruises.

There are cuts all over her hands, legs and arms.

She can’t be more than ten.

Maybe even younger.

She has big brown eyes that no doubt once shone with fun, and an oval face with an impossibly cute, dimply chin.

Valentina pushes open the cell door.

She stares more closely at the girl.

The kid looks just like Anna.

Tom is either unconscious or dead.

Guilio’s not sure which.

The tilting floor is jammed open, caught by the rubble that has piled up. He kneels on the edge of the safe part and stares into the abyss. ‘Are you all right? Can you hear me?’

He knows he can’t afford to wait here. Such a loud noise may well have been heard in the other chambers. Galli guards could already be on their way.

Maybe he should just leave him.

But he knows he can’t.

He shuffles closer to the collapsed wall and shines his torch down into the blackness.

About a metre beneath him he sees what he thinks is Tom’s body.

He moves the light around. Tom appears to be collapsed on some kind of ledge.

It’s not a ledge.

Guilio can see more clearly now. The fallen debris has all slid into a heap, like slurry from the back of a tipper lorry, and Tom is face-down on top of it all.

Hardly a soft landing, but no doubt better than falling all the way to the bottom – wherever the bottom eventually is.

Guilio slips the rucksack off his back and dangles his legs over the edge.

It’s trickier to get down than he first thought.

It seems the only safe place to jump is actually on top of Tom. If he does that, then apart from hurting him even more, there’s a risk he will dislodge the pile of rubble and send them both crashing into the depths of the hole.

He sits and tries to work out what to do.

The pit beneath him stinks worse than a sewer.

Tom lets out a weak groan.

He’s coming round.

Tom moves his left arm. His fingers feel rock. He tries to get a grip to turn himself over.

‘Careful!’ shouts Guilio. ‘You’ve fallen into a hole. Don’t turn to your right or you’ll drop even further.’

He’s not sure if Tom’s heard him.

There’s another groan.

No, not a groan.

And it’s not coming from Tom.

Guilio suddenly recognises the awful smell.

Animal dung.

There’s something down there.

Some kind of animal is making its way across the floor of the pit.

‘Tom! Move yourself! There’s something coming for you!’

Valentina swings open the heavy iron door and slowly steps into the child’s cell. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. You can trust me. I’m going to take you out of here.’

It’s a gamble the child’s ready to take.

She runs to the policewoman, grabs her waist and presses herself tightly against her.

It breaks Valentina’s heart to see such desperation.

She strokes the youngster’s hair and lets her cling for a moment.

From the grip around her, it’s clearly been a long time since the kid felt safe in someone’s arms.

She stoops a little and puts her hands either side of the child’s dirty and bruised face. ‘My name is Valentina. I’m in the Carabinieri and I’m going to look after you.’ She strokes her cheek tenderly. ‘What’s your name?’

Tears well up in the youngster’s big brown eyes. She shakes her head.

‘It’s okay, you can tell me. What are you called, sweetheart?’

The child opens her mouth, but no words come out.

Valentina is about to ask again when the girl shows her teeth and jabs a finger pointedly to the back of her throat.

‘Oh my God!’ Valentina grabs her and hugs her tight. ‘You poor baby.’

Someone has cut out the child’s tongue.

Valentina tears up.

How could anyone do such a thing?

There’s a noise from the stairwell.

Footsteps coming their way.

The kid bolts from Valentina’s arms and disappears into the shadows.

She thinks about running after her, but instead rushes to where Shooter is laid out. She quickly grabs him under the arms and pulls him back and out of sight behind the stairwell.

The gate buzzes and clicks open.

Valentina listens intently.

The door clicks closed.

No voices.

One set of footsteps.

She draws the Glock from her waistband.

It’s a man.

Valentina recognises his hunched shoulders and thin outline.

Trench Coat.

Shooter’s radio unexpectedly crackles.

Trench Coat turns.

Valentina has no choice.

Her first shot hits him in the face.

The second blows a hole in the centre of his rib cage.

He hits the ground with a thump and Valentina sees something shimmer as it spills from him.

She runs to the body.

Handcuffs.

Her mind is working at warp speed.

She digs for the key in his pocket and runs to the gate at the foot of the stairs.

The cuffs won’t help her bypass the fingerprint scanner, but they will stop Shooter’s friends getting down. She clicks one of them to the gate and the other to the bars of the pillar, near the sensor.

Now she sets off after the kid.

But she’s not in her cell.

She must have run off during the shooting.

Valentina walks past the other cages.

Ahead in the darkness, off to the right, she sees a pool of light. A staircase, leading down.

There are no locked gates, no guards.

The stone steps lead to an open area of marble.

There’s a centrepiece made up of three identical waist-high statues of Cybele. They are arranged with their backs to each other to form a triangle.

Beyond the statues are two huge oak doors. Sitting beside them is the child from the cell, her head buried in her hands.

She looks up as she hears Valentina.

Instead of being comforted, she looks terrified.

Valentina realises she’s still holding the Glock.

She slides the gun into the back of her waistband. ‘Please, sweetheart, let me help you; let me look after you. If you do what I say and stay with me, everything will be all right.’

The kid stares intently into the policewoman’s eyes. She’s learned the hard way – the only way that abused children understand – that lies show in the eyes of adults long before they leave their mouths.

Valentina stretches out her hand and takes hold of the tiny fingers.

They’re icy cold.

She gives them a gentle squeeze, then covers them with both her own hands. ‘I’m going to call you Sweetheart until I learn your name.’ She lifts the chilly hand, kisses it and clasps it between her own palms. ‘We need to get you warmed up. When we get out of here, I promise you the biggest, creamiest hot chocolate drink that’s ever been made.’