That was a bold admission, which meant Gallo thought himself in control of the situation.
He returned to perusing the objects on the table. “These manuscripts are impressive.”
“As a bookseller, I thought you might appreciate our collection.”
“I do. Why are the Churchill–Mussolini letters so important to you?”
“They are a means to an end.”
Only two things made sense. Either James Grant had no idea what was going on and he’d sent someone to find out. Or he had every idea and he’d sent that same someone so they would not come back.
He chose option two.
Which made his next course clear.
His target was now about four feet away, and the blankness of the young, robed man’s gaze seemed almost like a warning. He stopped and admired another of the exquisite manuscripts under glass. He almost hated what he was about to do.
But what choice did he have.
Gallo’s gun beneath his suit jacket was in easier reach than the ones the brown robes toted. He’d need a few seconds so, on the pretense of admiring the manuscript before him, he suddenly grabbed the heavy glass cover and hurled it toward Gallo. His left hand flew up in a back fist to the face of the brother standing beside him, followed by an elbow to the kidneys.
The guy went reeling.
He used that moment to part the robe and grab the man’s weapon. He then kneed the guy in the face, sending him downward. The glass cover had hit Gallo, but he managed to deflect it away where it shattered across the hard floor. The other brother was reaching back for his gun.
So was Gallo.
He sent two bullets their way.
Both men disappeared beneath the tables.
He readjusted his aim and fired into the lighted glass fixtures hanging above him, exploding two of them in a burst of sparks and smoke. Gallo was rising back up, so he fired that way again, the round ricocheting off the top of the table. He exploded another fixture, which added more sparks and smoke.
Would it be enough?
An alarm sounded and the sprinklers erupted, called to action by the possibility of a fire. He upended the table before him, depositing the artifacts it displayed onto the wet floor, their glass domes bursting to shards. He left the thick oak top lying perpendicular to the floor, using it as a shield to block Gallo and the other robe from firing beneath the tables. He could now use that protected route to make his way toward the exit. Dropping down, he rolled across the tile, alternating between patches of dry and wet as he passed more tables and the aisles in between. Gallo would surely figure it out and change positions, but it would take a few seconds.
He had to make the most of the time he’d bought.
Three shots came his way, but the downed table continued to run interference. He scrambled up on all fours and hurried past the last row. Before coming to his feet he carefully peered over the top and saw Gallo and the other robe standing, guns ready, waiting for him to emerge.
Water continued to rain down.
The klaxon still sounded.
Shots came his way.
He decided to keep doing the unexpected and fired twice, once each into the clear domes on the tables where the two men stood. Glass exploded, shards spreading outward like seeds cast from a hand. Gallo and his acolyte reared back to avoid the projectiles. He used that moment to flee the chapter house, back into the cloister. He could retrace the route toward the refectory, but that was a long, open run and he wouldn’t make it far without drawing fire. Neither could he escape left or right—the cloister would only become a shooting gallery. But a set of double plank doors about twenty feet away might offer refuge.
He raced toward them and the iron lock clicked open on the first try. He shoved the leaden oak door inward, then closed it gently, hoping his pursuers wouldn’t notice.
There was no lock on the inside.
More incandescent fixtures lantern-lit a chapel, the interior spacious, an impressive gilded altar and sculpted statues casting ghostly images through the dim light. No one was in sight.
The fire alarm stopped.
He searched the darkness toward the altar and spotted stairs to the right. A pallid glow strained from below. He headed for them and descended into a crypt, a cold cloud of worry filling him. Was he simply heading down into a dead end? An iron