Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(162)

Dim voices could be heard ahead.

“This way,” Pendergast said, nodding toward a small open door. They ran through it to find themselves in an old armory. Rusted swords, armor, and chain mail hung from the walls. Without a word, Pendergast took down a sword, examined it, put it back, took down another.

The voices grew louder. And then a group of men passed by the doorway, running at top speed toward the dining room and the kitchen.

Pendergast peered out, and then motioned to D’Agosta.

They continued down the gallery, then veered away through a maze of elegant chambers, arriving at last in the small, damp, windowless rooms surrounding the old keep. D’Agosta heard no footsteps but their own. It seemed they were temporarily in luck: nobody expected they’d head for the heart of the castle instead of making toward the outer walls.

No sooner had this thought occurred to him than he heard a voice ahead, talking furiously. He looked around. There was no place to hide in this series of bare stone rooms.

Pendergast swiftly got behind the door, D’Agosta crouching at his back. A man appeared in the doorway, jogging, radio in hand. Pendergast raised his sword with one swift motion; the man grunted, then sprawled forward onto the floor, run through, blood running out over the paving stones.

In an instant, Pendergast had retrieved the man’s handgun, a 9mm Beretta. He handed the sword to D’Agosta and gestured for him to follow.

Ahead yawned the entrance to a circular staircase, leading down into darkness. They began flying down the steps, two at a time. Then Pendergast raised his hand.

Footsteps rang faintly from below. Someone was running up toward them.

“How many thugs does the fat f*ck employ?” D’Agosta muttered.

“As many as he wants, I imagine. Stay still. We have the advantage of surprise and altitude.” And Pendergast aimed the gun carefully down the curve of the stairs. Moments later, a man in peasant dress appeared. Pendergast fired without hesitation, then knelt beside the crumpled form, retrieved his weapon, and tossed it to D’Agosta.

A second man was shouting up from below. “Carlo! Cosa c’è?”

Pendergast darted down the stairs, tattered suit flapping behind him, and—leaping toward the second man—sent him sprawling backward with a kick to the head. He landed lightly, paused to pluck the man’s gun from his hand, and thrust it into the waistband of his trousers.

They ran down the dank corridor leading away from the staircase. Behind them, D’Agosta could hear shouts and cries. Pendergast switched off the flashlight to make them less of a target, and they continued forward in almost complete darkness.

Ahead, the tunnel divided. Pendergast stopped, examined the ground, the ceiling.

“Note the guano? The bats fly out this way.”

They took the left-hand tunnel. Now a faint light appeared in the distance behind them. A shot rang out, whining off stone. D’Agosta stopped to return fire. Their pursuers hung back.

“What about the microwave weapon?” he asked.

“Useless in this situation. Takes too long to operate, doesn’t have the range. Besides, we don’t have the time now to figure out how to use it.”

The tunnel branched again. D’Agosta smelled fresh air ahead, then caught a faint glow of light. They ran around another corner, then another—and suddenly came up against a thick grate of iron bars, bright light streaming in between them. D’Agosta could see that the grate opened onto the cliff below the castle. Beyond, he could make out the steep flanks of the mountain, to the left plunging into a deep ravine and to the right rising to pinnacles and crags.

“Shit.”

“I expected something like this,” said Pendergast. He swiftly examined the bars. “Ancient, but sound.”

“What now?”

“We make a stand. I’m counting on that shooting ability of yours, Vincent.”

Pendergast flattened himself against the last angle of the tunnel, and D’Agosta did the same. The men were coming up faster now—judging by the footsteps, there were at least half a dozen of them. D’Agosta turned, aimed, squeezed off a shot. In the dimness, he saw one of the figures fall. The rest scattered, flattening themselves against the rough rock walls. There was an answering blast of a shotgun. This was followed by the fast stutter of an automatic weapon: two short bursts, the bullets caroming off the ceiling in showers of sparks and stone.

“Shit!” D’Agosta said, shrinking back involuntarily.

“Keep holding them, Vincent, while I see what I can do about these bars.”

D’Agosta crouched low, ducked briefly around the corner, fired. The automatic weapon returned fire, the bullets once again ricocheting off the ceiling, thudding into the ground in a scattered pattern not far from D’Agosta.

They’re deliberately aiming for the ricochet.

He yanked his magazine out of the grip, examined it. It was a ten-shot magazine: six bullets were visible, plus the one in the chamber.

“Here’s the spare clip,” Pendergast said, tossing it to him. “Conserve your fire.”

D’Agosta glanced at it: full. He had seventeen shots.

Another short burst of automatic-weapons fire came zinging off the ceiling, thudding into the ground directly before his feet.

Angle of incidence equals angle of refraction, D’Agosta vaguely remembered from his pool-shooting days. He fired at the place where he’d seen the rounds ricochet off, fired a second time, each time aiming for a smooth patch of stone, carefully angling for the ricochet.