Page 35 of Home Free

They stopped at the railing over the great hall. Elise counted eight of them.

And now a few of the people on the mezzanine had noticed them too, their gazes locked on the men even as they pretended to listen politely to their companions.

Elise glanced at Finn and Ronan. Both of them had their attention focused on the men.

Two of the men stepped forward, each holding one end of a long object. The volume in the crowd seemed to lower a decibel as little by little the crowd noticed the men standing over them.

Something was wrong.

A guttural shout rose from one of the men on the mezzanine.

Elise strained to hear as he spoke, but his words were distorted by the great hall and the marble and glass in the museum.

He finished shouting with his fists raised in the air, and the men at his sides fumbled with whatever it was in their hands. For a split second, Elise thought they would start shooting.

Then they released what they’d been holding: a banner.

DEATH TO IMPERIALIST SCUM — YOU DON’T OWN OUR HISTORY

Elise’s gaze was glued to the words, written on the black banner, red paint dripping from the letters like blood.

The hall became a tomb of silence.

Then the shooting started.

19

Finn watched it unfold with growing horror.

The men walking in coordinated movement.

The words shouted in anger from the mezzanine, half a football field away from where he and Ronan stood, their inane conversation with the couple (Archibald and Viola? Or was it Violet? He couldn’t remember) in front of them coming to a stop, the banner.

When the shooting started, he immediately swung his gaze to the hall below, searching out the blue-gray of Elise’s dress, her blond hair, praying to god she’d hit the floor.

He spotted her a second later, dropping to the ground next to Julia, her dress a blood red smear on the floor.

The crowd was in a panic, and his gaze snagged on four tuxedoed men rushing someone out of the hall. Finn could barely make out the man at their center — slight and balding — but they were moving in a pattern Finn recognized from the way Secret Service covered the president.

He wasn’t the president, but he was somebody.

Their bodies closed around the small man they were trying to protect, weapons drawn and at the ready as they pushed him toward the front door. Two of the terrorists were in pursuit about twenty feet behind, their focus on the escaping entourage.

Another round of gunfire burst forth in a staccato rhythm that chilled Finn to the bone.

He ran for the stairs. He didn’t give two fucks about the men firing from the mezzanine. Not right now. Not with Elise and Julia on the floor dodging their bullets.

“There are more in the hall,” Ronan said as they sprinted down the staircase toward the main floor. His voice was measured. “I counted twelve — two at twelve and six, two more at two, four, eight, and ten.’’

He’d slipped back into military lingo, but Finn got the gist of it.

Finn saw them, men dressed in black tac gear, automatic weapons aimed at the crowd.

But not shooting. Not yet.

All the fire was coming from the men on the mezzanine, glass from the windows in the ceiling and the stained-glass panels raining down on the crowd, half of which was on the ground ducking for cover, the other half stampeding in a panic toward the door.

Elise and Julia had been right to duck for cover, make themselves less of a target, but they risked being trampled if Ronan and Finn didn’t get there soon.

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