by Matt Hilton
‘Didn’t you have breakfast today?’ Bowlam cajoled.
Oxford grunted, swung back the ram, and this time delivered it with his entire weight behind it. The locking mechanism shattered and the door sprang inward a few inches.
‘Breakfast, lunch and tea,’ Ox said. ‘Ready for dinner now.’
Rembrandt slapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’ve earned it, Ox, and I’m buying.’
Standing aside, Oxford made way for Rembrandt as the chief officer went inside the vault room. Bowlam stood guard, while the big man held the ram as if it was a baby being cradled. He stared over Rembrandt’s shoulder at the long room the flashlight displayed. Rows of shelving filled both walls, and at the far end was a workbench. Rembrandt made his way along the stacks, assessing and discarding stored items as he went. Halfway along on the left he paused. He wedged the Maglite under his left armpit, freeing both hands and then reached up to slide out a cloth-wrapped bundle. He carried his prize to the workbench, lay it down gently, and began unsheathing the painting within. Under the muslin cloth was a layer of plastic, followed by a second layer of muslin. When the painting inside was displayed, Rembrandt nodded to himself, even as he straightened. He turned and waved Bowlam inside. ‘Ox will need to carry the ram, I need you to look after the painting for me, Harry.’
Bowlam peered down at the woman’s face peeping out from beneath folds of cloth. ‘This is what the Guv was after, an old dowager? Way his eyes were all lit up when he saw us off, I thought he’d sent us after a secret stash of porn magazines.’
Rembrandt shook his head. ‘Don’t go saying anything like that in front of him. This here’s his great granny’s cousin. I can’t see him taking too kindly to her being called a dowager, or likened to a porno queen for that matter.’
‘When I heard her name was Lay Hard what was I meant to think?’
‘That’d be Layard. Lady Layard,’ Rembrandt corrected him, but he was grinning behind his respirator.
Bowlam repackaged the painting, and hefted it up with a grunt.
Rembrandt headed out of the vault.
‘Chief?’ Bowlam called. ‘Don’t you want to check what else is in here? Could be something worth bartering lying around on these shelves.’
‘Leave it,’ Rembrandt said. ‘We’ve already pushed our luck. I don’t want to spend any longer in here than I have to.’
Bowlam eyed the shelves and the packaged treasures longingly. But he came on.
‘You got it?’ Ox asked, a pointless question.
‘We got it,’ Rembrandt confirmed. ‘Now come on. I owe you dinner, Ox.’
‘What do I get for humping this bloody thing all the way back to the van?’ Bowlam asked.
‘My undying gratitude,’ Rembrandt said with a laugh.
‘Great,’ Bowlam moaned.
‘There might even be a bottle or two of whisky coming our way from the Guv,’ Rembrandt added. ‘So long as we get the painting back to him undamaged.’
‘I’ll make sure I don’t drop it then.’
Rembrandt went ahead of Oxford, angling the light up the stairs. Twenty steps and they’d be above floor level once more. He couldn’t wait. He hated the feeling of claustrophobia that had assailed him the entire time he’d been down in the basement. He picked up his pace, going up the stairs two at a time. Above his head the darkness paled to the familiar grey swirl of dust he’d grown used to over the years. A few more steps and he’d be clear. He began to breathe a little easier.
Then the air caught in his chest as the space above him came alive with blazing tracer fire. The racket of machine gun clatter, and of bullets caroming off rubble, filled his senses. He could hear Kwolek screaming a warning, and the more laboured shout of Brent Walker as he returned fire. Other guttural shouts filled the air, and the volleys of shooting intensified.
‘Fuck!’ Rembrandt snapped. ‘I knew this was too easy.’
Chapter 4
July 12th 2002
British Museum, London – Old City
Rembrandt pushed past Ox, who was already setting down the ram so he could get at his gun.
‘Protect the painting, Ox,’ Rembrandt said. ‘Bowlam, I need you up here now.’
He didn’t wait to watch the transfer of the painting to Oxford, trusting that his men would do as asked. Unlike Ox, Bowlam wasn’t timid about shooting anyone.
Rembrandt reached the top, flinching as a ricochet struck the rocks to his left and caromed past his visor. He snapped his carbine into position. ‘Status,’ he yelled.
For a second or two he received no reply. Kwolek’s assault rifle blazed. ‘A dozen at least,’ she finally yelled. ‘They’re in the passage. More out on the grounds outside the wall.’
‘Another…group…this end, Chief.’ Walker’s voice stuttered as he pulled on the trigger of his gun.
Return fire clattered against the crumbling walls, knocking loose sharp daggers of stone. Something struck Rembrandt on his right shoulder. He ignored it. ‘What’s your cover like, Kwolek?’
‘I’m good for now, but if they storm the passage, I’m fucked.’
‘OK, on three, retreat to my position.’
Rembrandt lurched up, aiming along the hallway past where Kwolek was wedged behind a pile of fallen masonry. He had his selector on semi-automatic. He popped off one grouping of rounds. At the far end of the hall, figures moving towards Kwolek ducked, and then returned fire. Rembrandt stood his ground. He fired another burst. The attackers again crouched. Rembrandt pulled the trigger a third time.
Kwolek jumped up and ran for it. Rembrandt’s view was blocked. He hoped Kwolek would make it before their ambushers decided it was safe to stand and shoot her in the back. Two seconds later, Rembrandt grabbed Kwolek by a shoulder and forced her down into the stairwell beside him. Bowlam steadied her with one hand, and then popped up alongside the chief. Both men fired a volley down the hall. Someone screamed amid the furious rattle of gunfire.
‘Who the fuck are those guys?’ Bowlam demanded. ‘Scavengers aren’t usually as brave as this…’
Rembrandt had no idea. But Harry was correct. Most scavenger groups were dangerous, and would target other groups for robbery and murder, yet it was unknown for them to attack a heavily armed police team. Most likely they’d invaded the ruins of the British Museum in search of treasures, and once Rembrandt’s team had opened up this vault decided that now was their only opportunity to get at the riches stored within it. Or perhaps their attack was for other reason: simply that they wanted the police team’s equipment and guns. Whatever the case, it didn’t matter. The scavenger’s were bold enough to kill for their booty.
Walker shouted something wordless. He was tucked in between two stanchions of marble and had a clear view along the passage. A second group of men and women in ragged costumes were firing at him in unison. Sparks danced off the pillar in front of him. Another of the attackers out in the grounds fired at him, bullets striking the rearmost pillar.
‘You need to get out of there, Walker,’ Rembrandt shouted.
‘If I fall back we’ll all be pinned down in that stairwell, Chief,’ Walker yelled back.
‘At least you’ll live a few minutes longer. Stay there and one of the pricks outside is going to get you.’
Rembrandt and Bowlam wasted no more time on talking. The group to their right, having missed an opportunity to kill Kwolek, was now advancing. Rembrandt and Bowlam fired at them. Shouts of anger, and the occasional bullet filtered back. The roar of Walker’s gun drowned out much of the other noise.
Out in the grounds silhouettes moved. Rembrandt caught snatches of movement through the lower gaps in the walls. Emboldened by numbers more scavengers were moving on their position.
Walker had a point. If they were forced into the stairwell then they’d be pinned down. There was no other escape route from the catacombs that he’d seen on the map. But he hoped that, on hearing the gunfire, Jamal would have sense to get to The Castle and bring back the cavalry. They need only ho
ld out long enough for Semple to order all available hands to their assistance. ‘Walker, get in here now!’ he barked.
‘Chief!’ Walker slung his carbine, but snatched at another object on his harness. He underhanded it towards the group who had him penned in.
The flash-bang grenade burst with ear-pulsing intensity and a magnesium blast. As the group went to their knees, hands over their eyes and ears, Walker spurred backwards, shooting through the cloud of thick smoke. Rembrandt and Bowlam directed their fire at the second group to their right. Walker cursed and grunted, taking a hit, but he didn’t stop. Bowlam grabbed his harness and dragged him into the stairwell. Both the friends tumbled down into the passageway below. Kwolek traded positions, moving to flank Rembrandt.
‘Is Walker hit bad?’ he asked, while firing.
‘Don’t think so,’ Kwolek said as she joined the fight. ‘There was blood on his thigh, but that’s all I saw as he came down the stairs. He’s still able to swear, if nothing else.’
Rembrandt grunted.
A couple of figures burst from the smoke bank to their left. They were swathed in grimy cloth sheets that had been wrapped around their heads and bodies. They wore goggles. It was poor protection against the poisonous atmosphere. Poorer protection against jacketed rounds. Rembrandt tore them to pieces with a quick burst of automatic fire.
Another figure jumped into the passage through one of the holes in the wall. He was holding a pistol in both hands, swinging it around wildly as he sought a target. Kwolek placed a bullet in the man’s chest. It knocked him back against the crumbling brickwork, but didn’t kill him. Under his ragged blanket poncho he must have been wearing a bulletproof vest like theirs. The impact had likely broken a rib or two, but there was enough life left in him to scream a challenge and aim the pistol at Kwolek. Rembrandt shot him in the head, cloth wraps and plastic goggles dissolving in a crimson mush as the bullets pulverized his skull.
Rembrandt reloaded his carbine, slapping a new magazine in place. Then he reached out and picked up the pistol dropped by the dead man. It was a piece of shit, rusted to hell, and more likely to kill its wielder than a target. He flipped open the chamber and emptied the shells on the step next to him. A quick glance told him the bullets were useless for his gun. He dumped the pistol.
‘I’ve two clips,’ Kwolek told him. ‘The others are still well equipped.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Rembrandt said. ‘If we stay here trading rounds like this, we’ll run out soon enough. Go down with the others, Crystal. Conserve your ammo.’
Kwolek bobbed down, and Rembrandt heard stilted conversation behind him. He couldn’t make out words for a fresh barrage of gunfire whistling in, but he guessed that Crystal was relaying his instructions. He retreated a few steps so that only his gun and helmet poked above ground. Immediately he heard the pounding of boots along the passageway. A figure came through the same hole in the wall as the first man. A young man, barely out of his teens judging by the sparse hair on his chin, landed feet away from Rembrandt. He was holding a fire axe, and swung it like some old time barbarian warrior at Kwolek’s head. Rembrandt tore bloody fissures in his body with a burst from his carbine.
Suddenly more figures clambered over the fallen portions of wall. It took a moment for them to pinpoint Rembrandt, and he was able to drop a couple of them, before the others began shooting and he was forced downward. As he fled, Rembrandt kicked against the Universal Key Ox had propped against the wall. He tripped and slid, accompanied by the ram into the waiting arms of Bowlam and Kwolek. He swore savagely at the inanimate object.
Above them two silhouettes blocked the murky skyline. Walker yelled a warning, and then lurched past the group, shouldering his carbine. He fired at the same time as the two men above. The stairwell was set ablaze by tracer rounds zipping both directions. Walker grunted twice in quick succession, but above him the two gunmen fell back with pained cries. Rembrandt, Kwolek and Bowlam had all charged for cover deeper in the catacombs. Walker backed up. Blood dripped from a wound to his thigh, but the other two hits he’d taken were to his anti-ballistic vest. After the few seconds of confusion, Bowlam and Kwolek moved to support their friend. They took places at the bottom of the stairs, hunkering to make smaller targets. Walker moved back, still firing as other figures tried to storm inside. A corpse rattled down the stairs. Another youth. Though he’d few qualms about executing a murderous cannibal like Warren Frome, Rembrandt couldn’t help feeling bad about killing these youngsters. Old City bred hardness of the soul, but he wasn’t totally pitiless. He shook off the regret, and turned his attention on the door ram that had tripped him.
‘Ox. Put the painting down somewhere safe, then come get the Universal Key. I need you to open a few more doors.’
They might be pinned down in the catacombs, but it was defendable. With the door to each room opened, he could place a man at each, offering crossfire against anyone charging down the stairs. If a position was compromised and overwhelmed, they could retreat back into the bowels, utilizing each room in turn. He was satisfied that they could hold out until Jamal Dhand arrived with reinforcements.
While Ox battered open a few more doors, Rembrandt outlined his plan. Bowlam and Kwolek took the first two openings, propping their guns around the doorframes and guarding the stairs. Walker limped over.
‘How badly hurt are you, Brent?’
‘I’m OK, Chief. Just a flesh wound.’ Even through the visor, Rembrandt caught Walker’s macho grin.
‘Flesh wound my arse, you’re pissing claret all over the place.’
‘It feels like a through and through,’ Brent admitted. ‘Need to get it strapped up before I lose too much of the red stuff.’
‘Do it now, we can’t afford for you to go weak-headed on us.’
‘Yeah we’ve enough with Ox as it is.’
Rembrandt slapped the back of his hand against Walker’s chest. ‘Go tend to your wounds and enough of the sarcasm.’
Walker back-pedaled to a room Oxford had just opened. The big man feigned hitting him with the battering ram. ‘I heard what you said about me, Walker.’
‘Nothing wrong with your ears, Ox, it’s just the bit between them that needs a little attention.’
Rembrandt left them to their joking as he moved gingerly for the stairwell. Above them he could make out the scuff of feet, harsh whispers.
‘First one of you down those stairs I’ll gut shoot, then I’ll make you watch me kill the rest of your friends,’ Rembrandt shouted.
There was another mutter, a few angry exclamations, then an elected spokesperson yelled, ‘Lay down your guns, pigs. We only want what’s down in the cellar. We’ll let you go.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Rembrandt called. ‘You’ll shoot the lot of us first chance. We aren’t coming out, unarmed or otherwise. You’re welcome to try coming down and making us, but by then our back-up team will be on you.’
‘There isn’t any back-up team coming, copper,’ someone else shouted. ‘We know you don’t have radios like in the old days. And if you were counting on your pal in the van, think again.’
Something clattered wetly down the stairs and rolled to within feet of Rembrandt’s boots. His first reaction was to flinch, expecting a grenade had been tossed at them. But his flinch went from one of reaction to one of revulsion.
Staring back at him were the dead eyes of Jamal Dhand. The ex Para had a look of extreme shock on his face, his mouth open in a frozen shout. His neck was a raw stump, his blue-black hair matted in the gore.
‘Bastards!’
Rembrandt stepped into full view of those above, catching them grouped at the opening. He hot-hosed them with bullets from his carbine, watching as they were knocked aside trailing ribbons of blood. He kept firing, and roaring in fury until the gun ran empty. Then he was forced to back away as guns were poked over the edge of the stairwell and return fire was delivered with as much rage as Rembrandt had unleashed.
Hotel metal singed the air of the catacombs.
Rembrandt and his team were forced to duck inside the rooms to avoid being picked off by ricochets. Boots scuffed the stairs, meaning that the scavengers were coming down.
Bowlam and Kwolek stared at each other across the passageway, and Kwolek lifted a gloved hand, counting down on her fingers. As she made a fist, they both leaned out of their respective doorways and opened fire. The foremost scavengers were caught in the hail of copper-jacketed lead. Men and women fell; others ducked and tried to use their fallen comrades as shields. Bowlam and Kwolek retreated inside their doors, and behind them Walker and Rembrandt leaned out and laid down fire. Neither team shot at the same time as the other, allowing each couple to reload as they cut their attackers down.
There was a rumble, and it was followed a moment later by a cascade of rubble and dust, and riding it the door that Oxford had recently laid up against the wall in the passage. Those scavengers that followed the door down into the catacombs grabbed it and hauled it up on its edge, offering the steel reinforced side as a target to Rembrandt’s team. Using the door as cover, the attackers returned gunfire while more scavengers rushed down the stairs.
Oxford, usually reluctant to shoot, had no misgivings when it meant life or death for his friends. He’d dumped the Universal Key in favour of his carbine. He was further down the passage, in a decent position to offer cover to the others. He opened up on full-automatic sending bullets walloping into the steel barricade, forcing down the heads of the attackers.
‘Move back, move back!’ Rembrandt’s order was for the foremost duo of his team. Immediately Bowlam and Kwolek swung out of hiding and backed up, passing Rembrandt and Walker and ducking into rooms directly behind theirs. Noticing that the cops had begun to fall back some of the scavengers reared up, hoping for a killing shot. Instead they died as Rembrandt shot with the skill of a sharpshooter.
