PART ONE: THE SHADOW BEFORE

Chapter Nine: Tumbling Into A Fiery Grave

I hit the benches hard and they crumbled beneath me, sending shards of wood into my back and leaving my covered in scrapes and grazes. Around me hunks of flaming wood tumbled down like small meteorites. For a second I felt an incredible blast of pain in my leg, and then the world faded into blackness.

As I blinked it off, as the world flooded back in a grey haze, I realised that I was in terrible danger. I lay trapped in the rubble beneath the balcony, my body burnt and grazed, my head spinning. The auditorium was full of men, all armed, all walking calmly towards me with a grim determination in their eyes. And victory.

I pushed myself up, wincing at the pain as I shoved my hand into a nest of smoky, jagged rubble. For the first time I noticed the flare of pain in my lower leg, and I saw in horror that a huge broken jagged end of wood was stuck in my leg, greased with my blood – the evil spike jutted out of my trouser leg. Streams of blood, horribly black in the shadows beneath the wrecked balcony, pooled on the floor.

Ignore it, I mumbled, reaching for my pistol. These guys will make that little graze seem insignificant. I opened fire on the approaching men, firing a barrage at them, keeping them back. The nearest man, who had been cocking his rifle, fell to the floor, clutching his gut. The others began to back off, rolling out of the way of the firepower. Not much time. Not much ammo. Hold them back. Maybe you can make your way out.

I pushed back, wincing at the sheer agony in my leg, pushing up against the wall. My leg, the gash in my trousers soaked in dark blood, a horrible fiery pain reverberating up into my gut, made me want to throw up. Keep moving. I opened fire on them, driving them back, limping on my working leg to the shadow of the staircase. My spare hand, the one scratched by the rubble, steadied myself on the peeling plaster wall.

They were recovering now, rolling into defensive positions, preparing to open fire. I was running out of places to hide. Keep firing. Keep them back.

A goon who was briefly firing at me from a nearby bench fell backwards, clasping his right eye. As he fell I noticed the blood oozing between his fingers. Others were standing up now, taking pot shots, calling out orders to each other. A bullet whistled past my right ear, another blew off part of my jacket, leaving a streak of smoke.

I fell to the floor, landing in the sawdust, feeling chips of plaster dust rain down on me from the gunfire. It's over, I thought.

Gunshots rang out in the auditorium. As I watched in astonishment, the goons began to look up in horror. One was thrown backwards by the force of a bullet, smashing into a bench. Another's face disintegrated in a brief puddle of blood. A goon reached for his semi-automatic, pointed it up into the air, and was thrown back by a bullet shot, his gun flying out of his hand and into the air.

"Go!" a voice cried from above. "Go, Max!"

I ran from out of my cover. Above me, resting on the rim of the balcony and clutching a Desert Eagle, was Mona. My guardian angel. Relief bloomed in my chest.

"Mona!" I called. "Can you make your way down from there?"

"I… I don't know," Mona replied. "My legs are feeling weak… look out!"

I spun around just in time to see three goons running at me, guns close to hand. I spun around, instinctively jamming one finger on the trigger. The bullet took out the goons kneecap and he fell to the floor, screaming in agony. Mona shot the man behind him in the chest, and his guts were blown out. He fell down. The third rolled away and I took the opportunity to make a break for it.

"Stay there!" I cried up to Mona. "I'm going to make my way round."

I stumbled up the aisle, attempting to run, but my wounded leg protested. The goon who had rolled away was running now. I ignored him. Instead I focussed on getting to the stage, and beyond. Had to get around the building. The goons were probably flooding the place through the front entrance. If I could get behind the stage, and into the network of maintenance corridors, it would be easy. That was a big 'if.'

I reached the other stage of the auditorium and climbed up on to the stage, falling to my hands and knees. Behind me the auditorium stretched away like a cave, and Mona's shattered balcony looked small and insignificant. There were more goons making their way through the entrance. I prayed that Mona would have enough ammo, and I slipped behind the tatty velvet curtains, down a short staircase, into the dressing room corridor.

There was something unpleasant about that corridor. It was short, narrow, lined with wood and cobwebs. I couldn't help thinking about the dead voices that had once filled this corridor – the nauseous fear of the actors, the harried cries of the director, the distant murmurs of the audience. Now it was dark and silent. The smell of rot was strong back here. A tramp had, I hoped, fallen asleep in the doorway of a dressing room, wrapped in an old army blanket. I guessed this was a cool shelter from the heat, if nothing else. From behind one of the old doors, all of them topped with faded silver stars, I could hear murmured conversation. I gently pressed an ear against the door.

"Yeah, I been working with Hades for a few years now, since back when he was a capo, and trust me when I say this, he's one bad mother," an Italian-American voice explained. "I mean, there was this one guy who tried fiddling the old Don out of some cash. So Hades finds him, and grabs him, and nails his shirt to the wall, and he says, 'You're going to realise that messing with the Don was a big mistake.' Then he kicks the guys legs out from under him and leaves him hang on his own shirt."

"Ouch," another voice grunted. "I hear he shoots people who screw up."

"Yeah, wouldn't surprise me," the first speaker said. "So we'd best not screw up, huh? Pass me that smoke."

I kicked open the door. It flew back on its hinges and I leapt in like a demon, gun close to hand. The two speakers didn't have a chance. The Italian-American dropped his cigarette and went to cry out. I shot him three times and he spun to the floor. His partner reached for his gun. I terminated his existence with a shot to the head, and he fell back in his rusty seat.

Hades, I thought, as the smoke cleared. I'd seen his file back in the precinct. George 'Harvard' Desoto. One of the smartest mobsters in the city. Had a college degree under his belt. Could have gone on to better things, but he was tight in the mafia, and he found that there was more money to be had selling blow and V. He rose up quickly to become one of the don's capos, and probably would have taken over the family, but he never got the chance – I put paid to that career when I went after the family four years ago. The don was killed, his family disbanded. There was a big police investigation, the Valkyr industry collapsed, and whatever was left of one of the city's largest crime families fell into the hands of the inept Vinnie Gognitti. Hades took his men and instead began to take jobs from whoever was willing to pay him the most. Hired mercenaries, who occasionally pulled off bank jobs and such.

I wasn't surprised that it had been Hades behind all this. He had the manpower, sure. The only piece that didn't fit was why? Our force had kept a file on him, and we'd been after him for a while, but we were no more a risk to his operation than any other precinct in the city. Why would he want us wiped out? Why would he go after me? I knew exactly where to find the answers. I slipped through the door and out into the winding corridor.

To be continued…