The Secret of Excalibur

with its open door as Kruglov swerved the three-ton vehicle straight at her.

No way to dodge—

Nina dived forward, landing on the limo’s long bonnet on her stomach and sliding to hit the windscreen as the car accelerated. It clipped the barrier, scything one of the metal sections into the crowd, before Kruglov regained control.

She grabbed one of the windscreen wipers and looked into the limo, to see Kruglov glaring back at her. He fumbled for his gun as she leapt to her feet—

Bullets blew out chunks of the windscreen beneath Nina as she hurled herself on to the limo’s roof. Slithering across the slick surface, she flung out one hand, just catching the chrome trim along one side of the roof before she fell off the other.

Lying flat, she tried to get a grip with her other hand—

Holes exploded between her outstretched arms, flecks of paint spraying into her face as Kruglov fired through the roof. Each new eruption of jagged steel was closer to her head, closer . . .

The firing stopped. The Russian was out of ammo. Nina could smell the smoke from the last hole, barely a hand’s width from her face.

The limo picked up speed, charging towards the end of the cordon. A movable barrier had been placed across it to let vehicles exit while keeping pedestrians out.

But nobody was going to move it aside this time, everybody throwing themselves out of the limo’s path—

Nina’s free hand closed round the other side of the roof just as the vehicle smashed through the barrier and skidded into Charing Cross Road. Traffic had already been stopped by people fleeing into the street, but the limo’s front wing still clipped a car as Kruglov swerved hard to the right, turning south towards Trafalgar Square.

Nina swung across the roof, legs dangling over the side as she fought to keep her grip. The limo wallowed, a hubcap flying off and clanging across the pavement. The chrome strip began to tear loose beneath her fingertips . . .

With a squeal from the tyres, the limo lurched and straightened out. Nina was jolted back across the roof. The engine surged, and she felt her hair whipping in the wind as Kruglov accelerated through the streets of London.

Paintings lined the high rooms, but Chase couldn’t spare so much as a moment to look at the treasures of the National Gallery as Dominika weaved through the interconnected chambers and corridors ahead of him. Startled visitors jumped out of their path, evening viewings unexpectedly disrupted.

Fire bells burst to clamorous life, the staff in the Education Centre having finally raised the alarm. At least that would get the tourists out of the way. But he still had to deal with Dominika - and whatever she was planning. She was definitely heading for somewhere specific.

She reached another junction, rounding a corner and throwing down a litter bin in his path. Chase hurdled it, barely breaking stride. He didn’t want to use the gun if there were any civilians nearby, but all he needed was a clear line of fire . . .

He saw a large banner ahead, and realised where she was going.

The gallery was holding an exhibition of works by Rembrandt. Art was hardly Chase’s field, but even he had heard of the Dutch painter, knew his works were worth millions . . . and Dominika was about to run through the exhibition with a gun in her hand.

She wasn’t going to hold people to ransom to bargain for her escape. She was going to hold national treasures to ransom.

Chase felt a moment of cold triumph. Dominika’s plan might have worked with Nina, but he was still a self- declared Philistine despite his fiancee’s best efforts. If Mitzi’s killer thought threatening to put a bullet hole in some priceless work of art would save her, she was dead wrong.

Emphasis on the dead.

The Russian ran through the exhibition gallery’s arched entrance, people scattering as they saw her gun. Chase rushed after her. ‘Get down!’ he yelled.

Dominika stopped near the archway at the far side of the gallery. She snapped up her gun to aim at one of the paintings, a scene of the crucifixion. Chase didn’t care. He lined up his own weapon on her—

She fired. But not at the painting.

Instead, she hit its frame. The ornately carved wood splintered, the whole painting shaking.

A siren screamed over the fire bells, alerting everyone in the building that somebody was tampering with one of the most valuable artworks. The piercing screech, intended to disorient would-be thieves, hit Chase hard enough to make him flinch, distracting him for the merest fraction of a second . . .

That was all Dominika needed to escape.

She dived through the archway as a security gate dropped down with the speed of a guillotine blade. The portcullis-like barrier clashed against the floor just behind her.

Chase recovered and fired, but his shot clanged uselessly against the gate. Dominika threw herself into cover. He ran to the exit; the barrier was a heavier-duty version of the kind used to protect shopfronts, horizontal slats linked by chains. He tried to lift it, but it was locked in place. More barriers had already rolled down to block the other exits.

‘Fuck!’ He peered through the gaps between the slats, but Dominika was no longer there.

She’d had an escape plan all along. And he’d fallen for it, ending up trapped while she got away.

He turned, seeing the gallery visitors also locked in the room regarding him with faces of absolute terror. He grinned sheepishly. ‘She’s . . . a modern artist, you can tell by the hair. Really doesn’t like old-fashioned paintings.’

His attempt at levity didn’t change any expressions. Sighing, Chase slumped against the archway, hoping Nina was all right.

She was anything but.

‘Oh, shit!’ she screamed as the limo accelerated towards a crawling double-decker bus, swerving at the last moment to squeeze between it and the cars going the other way.

Sparks sprayed up as the limo’s left side screeched against the bus. Nina lost her grip, the thin chrome strip snapping in her hand. Kruglov hauled the limo back round the bus. She swung helplessly across the roof, about to slide off into oncoming traffic . . .

Her forefinger hooked into one of the bullet holes.

Gasping as the torn metal cut into her flesh, Nina pulled herself back on to the roof.

Sirens ahead. She saw flashing lights at the edge of Trafalgar Square, a police car followed by a van moving to block the road ahead. The limousine had already passed the only side street, to the left—

Kruglov went right, throwing the limo into a skidding turn on to the paved plaza in front of the National Gallery. People dived out of its way, a couple of luckless tourists sent flying with bone-breaking cracks.

Nina clung to the roof, appalled by the carnage but unable to stop it. All she could do was hang on and hope the police intercepted Kruglov at the other side of the square.

The Russian swerved again - and sent the limo hurtling down a broad flight of marble steps into Trafalgar Square itself.

The car was airborne for a moment before crunching down nose first, the chassis buckling. Nina was thrown loose and tumbled on to the bonnet. The engine roared, Kruglov keeping the pedal to the floor. She saw one of the square’s fountains rushing at her—

The limo slammed into the fountain’s thick basin, catapulting Nina forward. She landed in the pool, the water only partly cushioning the impact as she hit the bottom and bounced across it in a stinging spray. The far wall arrived all too quickly; she thumped against it shoulder first, head cracking against the stone rim.

Dazed, pained, she lay unmoving, completely soaked by the cold water. The spotlit pillar of Nelson’s column loomed above her, a spear jabbing into the dark sky. Someone grabbed her arm and she looked round in fear, thinking it was Kruglov coming to finish her off. But it was just a bystander trying to help.