But Kat stared down at him and said, “Wrong answer.”
Kat tried to ignore the sirens that grew louder and louder with each inch. She squinted and crawled through the blackness. Focusing on a small square of light in the distance, Kat crawled closer and closer. Louder and louder the sirens wailed. And as badly as Kat wanted to stop and think about what had just happened, there was no room for thought at that point—no time.
When she finally reached the end, she could see Gabrielle beneath her, ripping off the skirt of her docent’s uniform, turning it inside out to reveal a burgundy plaid that matched Kat’s own. Simon was helping Hamish with his tie, the brothers’ blue jumpsuits now shoved deep into a wastebasket somewhere inside the Henley. And then she glanced down at the blazer in her hand. Nick wouldn’t be needing it. Not now. So she left it tucked inside the shaft and lowered herself to the floor through the glow of a whirling red light.
Laser grids were flashing angrily. In the chaotic wash of lights, she could barely make out the paintings on the walls— Renoir. Degas. Monet. She felt dizzy with the thought of being that close to so many masters. But then again, maybe it was just the thick gas being pumped into the room.
She thought of the oxygen mask that she’d left behind, but of course it was too late.
Through blurry eyes she saw the doors swing open, armed guards rushed inside.
“Henley security!” Kat heard the cry over and over, reverberating up and down the halls.
Kat’s head felt thick. She had already started to fall.
Chapter 34
From the backseat of Arturo Taccone’s Bentley, the entire world seemed to be falling apart. A small television showed live coverage of a correspondent who stood a mere twenty feet away. Taccone looked between the scene on the screen and the one unfolding in real life, and he wasn’t quite certain which showed the real picture.
“Things have taken a dramatic turn here at the Henley today,” the correspondent was saying.
“What do you want me to do, boss?” the driver turned and asked.
Arturo Taccone took a last look at the scene, then placed his sunglasses over his eyes. “Drive.” His voice was cool and free of emotion; as if another round of his favorite game were finally over. A bystander wouldn’t have known if he had won or lost. Arturo Taccone was simply happy to be able to play again another day.
He leaned farther back into the plush seat. “Just drive.”
The first men through the gallery doors that day were seasoned professionals. They had trained with the American FBI and the UK’s Scotland Yard. Most were former military. Their equipment was state of the art. The Henley staff took it as a personal insult whenever a great museum got robbed. Some might have said that their extreme security measures were overkill, a waste, but at this particular moment on this particular day, they seemed like a very good idea.
Ten men stood at the gallery’s entrance, tasers drawn, gas masks over their faces, as they watched doors swing open up and down the Henley’s halls.
Collectively, they represented one of the most highly trained private security forces in the world.
And yet nothing could have prepared them for what they saw.
“Wait,” the news correspondent said, and immediately Arturo Taccone turned back to the screen. “We are receiving the first, unconfirmed accounts that the Henley might be secure.”
“Stop,” Arturo Taccone said, and his driver pulled to the curb.
“Kids!” Kat heard one of the guards yell through the haze that filled her mind. “It’s a bunch of kids!”
She rolled onto her side and looked up through the fog as a man knelt on one knee and leaned toward her. “It’s okay,” he told her softly.
“Gas,” she mumbled and coughed. “Fire. The museum was on—” A coughing fit cut her off. Someone handed her a mask, and she breathed in fresh air.
There was more coughing around the room. From the corner of her eye she saw Simon holding a mask to his face. He was lying on the ground beside an empty artist’s stand, clutching a blank canvas. The guards were busy helping Angus and Hamish to their unsteady feet, so they never saw the smallest of the boys smile behind his mask. But Kat saw.
Lying on the floor that day, Kat saw everything.
“What is this?” Kat knew the voice. She had last seen the man disappearing into the crowd and the smoke, but this time Hale was not beside him. “Who are these children?” Gregory Wainwright demanded of the guards.
The guard pointed to the seal on Simon’s burgundy blazer. “Looks like they’re from the Knightsbury Institute.”
“Why weren’t they evacuated?” the director asked of the guards, but didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and snapped at the teens. “Why didn’t you evacuate?”
“We—” Everyone in the room turned to the girl with the long legs and the short skirt who was rising unsteadily to her feet. Two of the guards rushed to take her by the arm and help her to stand. “We had a”—coughing overtook her for a moment, but if Gabrielle was playing her part too fervently, Kat was the only one to think it—“had a class.”
She pointed to the bag at her feet. Brushes and paints were strewn across the marble floor where they’d fallen in the chaos. Wooden easels stood in a long line, facing the rows of art. No one stopped to notice that there were five children. Five easels. Four blank canvases. No one was in the mood for counting.