from behind. It looked like a whole army of them.
The odds were definitely getting interesting, but Ben guessed he had more to worry about from Darcey Kane than from the rest put together. He moved forward a step. To his left, the hundreds of piled skulls watched like silent witnesses from an alcove as he held out his wrists to be cuffed.
‘Looks like you got me.’
She smiled. ‘Wasn’t hard, either.’
‘No bones about it,’ he said.
And lashed out with his left foot. His shoe connected with one of the supporting struts holding up the tall wooden framework on which the human remains were heaped. A few centuries ago, the wood might have been solid. Not any more. Ben’s kick cracked it in two with an explosion of dust and the whole towering edifice gave a lurch and came crashing down in a splintering bony avalanche that filled the passage. Ben threw himself back out of the way as a hundred bouncing skulls rained down where he’d stood a second before.
Darcey barely had time to react before she was swiped off her feet and half buried in the slide. Her torch fell and rolled away from her, cutting a milky swathe in the billowing dust. Her face and hair were white with it. Coughing and spluttering, she tried to struggle to her feet. Her partner was down on his knees and elbows, a streak of blood above his eye where a section of the falling wooden framework had caught him a glancing blow. The passage behind them was almost completely blocked with debris and swirling dust.
Ben snatched up Darcey’s Maglite and swung it like a club, knocking the Beretta out of her hand. She cried out in pain as the weapon clattered away from her.
‘Sorry, Darcey,’ Ben said. ‘Maybe another time.’ His Ruger was buried. He grabbed her Beretta instead and bolted away up the passage, leaving the agents floundering among the wreckage.
Ben ran hard through the passages, shining the Maglite this way and that, searching for a way out. Gleaming metal flashed in his beam, and he spotted a ladder running up through an open shaft in the ceiling. A winch cable dangled down from above, holding up a platform with a safety rail around its edge. At the foot of the ladder was scattered an assortment of cases and boxes. He guessed they contained whatever kind of archaeology equipment was needed for the excavation of the discovered catacomb. He stuck the torch in his belt and climbed the ladder.
The next level up was still underground, some kind of gloomy circular tunnel that was just about high enough to stand up in. It looked like a disused sewer. It was getting hard to believe there was any solid ground at all under Rome. Maybe one day the city would just cave in and disappear.
Ben shone his torch around him. There was more equipment lying about near the shaft, and across on the other side of the tunnel. Next to it was another ladder, climbing up to a freshly-cut trapdoor that he was certain led to street level.
He was halfway to the ladder when the tunnel filled with the stunning noise of a gunshot and a bullet wailed off the stonework near his head. He whipped round to see Darcey Kane clambering out of the shaft behind him, clutching a Beretta identical to the one he’d taken from her.
There wasn’t time to stick around to say, ‘You just don’t give up, do you?’ There wasn’t even time to draw the gun from his belt and return fire. He’d have been dead before he could release the safety lever. He took off at a zigzagging run, keeping low.
She fired again. The ricochet howled off the wall and rattled around the tunnel like a pinball. She was shooting at the light. He ditched the torch. Heard the clatter behind him as she did the same. Not stupid, that Darcey Kane.
Rats slithered out of Ben’s path as he sprinted through the gloom. He was a fast runner, but it was clear that his pursuer had been putting in some serious track practice. Her pounding footsteps weren’t far behind him as he went flying around a corner, nearly losing his footing on the slippery stone. His shoulder connected painfully with the tunnel wall, and he felt the hard edge of an iron rung embedded in the brickwork. He hauled himself up, found another, then another. There was a cast iron manhole cover above him. He punched out hard with the heel of his hand, praying the lid wasn’t rusted in place or bolted down. It gave way with a grinding clang. He shoved it aside, and fresh air flooded down the round hole. He clambered up to the top rung, thrusting his head and shoulders out into the night air.
A screech of air horns almost blew out his eardrums. He twisted his head around to see the blinding headlights and massive front grille of a truck bearing down on him like some kind of monster. The truck’s tyres screamed, smoke pouring from its wheel arches. Ben ducked his head down in a hurry. A fraction of a second later, and it would have been torn off. The manhole was filled with roaring noise and grit and diesel stink as the truck passed overhead.
By the time it had come to a shuddering halt fifteen metres further down the road, Ben was clambering out of the hole and kicking the cast iron lid back into place. He was in a broad, straight street with old buildings and shops and parked cars and scooters gleaming under the street lights. He glanced around him for something to lay across the manhole cover to delay the SOCA agent – but large, heavy objects weren’t readily to hand in the middle of the road. All he had was himself. He stood on the plate, feeling just a little self-conscious and all too aware this didn’t present a lasting solution to his predicament. A car sped down the street and swerved to avoid him. Ben ignored the stream of abuse that came at him from its open window. The truck driver had pulled into the side of the road and had jumped down from his cab, storming over with clenched fists to yell obscenities at him. Ben ignored him, too. He had other things to worry about.
Under his feet, the plate gave a lurch as something hit it hard from below.
Ben looked up as he heard the buzz of a motorcycle approaching. A tall, skinny trail bike was coming down the road towards him. Its helmetless rider was a young guy of about twenty. He slowed the bike uncertainly as he got closer, probably thinking Ben was a drunk who was about to stagger into his path and bring the bike down.
Ben slipped the Beretta out of his belt and yelled
Seeing the pistol, the truck driver instantly stopped screaming abuse and beat a hasty retreat back to his vehicle. The motorcyclist’s eyes opened wide as he brought the bike to a sliding halt. Up close, Ben could see the Honda legend on the shiny blue tank and the letters ‘250cc’ on the side panel beneath the seat.
‘Sorry about this,’ he said. Still pinning the manhole cover with his weight, he grabbed the young guy’s arm and hauled him roughly out of the saddle. He caught the bike as it began to topple, swung his right leg over it and gunned the throttle.
The instant Ben took his weight off the manhole cover, the iron lid flipped up with a clang. Darcey Kane came bursting out of the hole, pistol first. Her eyes were wild, her face streaked with sweat and dirt.
Ben flashed her a grin, stamped the gear lever into first, opened the throttle wide and dumped the clutch. Before she could make a move, the Honda’s front wheel lifted a foot in the air and the machine took off like a startled horse.
As he raced down the street with the warm wind whistling in his ears and fluttering his jacket, Ben glanced in the handlebar mirror. Darcey was already waving down an approaching car with her drawn pistol. Not just any kind of car, but a low-slung gleaming red sports convertible that looked worryingly like a Ferrari under the street lights. She bundled the protesting driver out, leaped in behind the wheel. Over the tinny howl of the Honda’s engine, Ben heard the roar and screech of spinning wheels as she accelerated after him.
‘This damn woman’s unstoppable,’ he muttered. He ground the throttle against its stop and the little 250cc engine screamed in protest. Parked vehicles and buildings flashed by in a blur. He snatched another glance in the
