Ghosts Of Manhattan Part 7

The Ghost turned to admire the artifact beside him. It was perfectly circular, about as tall as a man. The center had been cut out to form a ring of glistening white stone, and the band around the opening was as wide as the span of his hand. It was mounted in a tall wooden frame.

The Ghost stepped closer, leaning in. The artifact was covered with an array of unusual symbols and pictograms that had been cut into the facing of the marble. They were unlike anything he had seen before, closer to medieval occult diagrams than anything Roman; circles with geometric shapes enclosed within them, a finger touching a sixpointed star, a crescent moon at the center of a starburst, a tower with an open eye at its base.

"What are these?" He traced one of the pictograms with his finger.

"We don't really know. They must have some pagan significance. They're certainly not symbols that found general use across the Empire, or even elsewhere in Pompeii, as far as we know. These are the only known examples in existence. It makes the exhibit very valuable, but only as an academic curiosity; something for fusty old scholars like me to obsess over. Most historians simply write them off as 'ritualistic' and carry on with the more interesting stuff."

"Do you think Mr. Gardici knows something about them that you don't?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Hardly. I think Mr. Gardici is enamored with the mystery of the piece, and has much more money than sense."

The Ghost nodded. "Thank you, Arthur. Will you call me if he comes back, or if anything else out of the ordinary occurs?"

"Of course I will." He paused. "Are you leaving, then?"

"Yes. Time I was elsewhere."

Arthur smiled. "One thing ... What are you going to do with that coin? It's just that I ..." He stopped as the Ghost flicked the coin through the air toward him, glinting as it caught the light. He scrambled to catch it.

"Keep it. I know where to find you if I need it again."

"Thank you, Gabriel." He clasped the coin tightly in his fist, as if afraid that he might open his hand, only to find that the precious object had disappeared.

The Ghost smiled. "Now, how the h.e.l.l do I find my way out of this place?" He glanced in both directions.

"This way," Arthur said, as he led his friend away from the gallery. "I'll show you out the way you came."

Moments later the Ghost was standing in the chill darkness of the Manhattan night. His trench coat whipped up around his legs in the stiff breeze. He couldn't shake the feeling that what Arthur had told him-about Gardici-somehow fitted with the murders, and with Arthur's thoughts about the Roman. If the man really was trying to identify himself with the Romans of the past, could he be the one behind the attempt to buy the stone relic? Could Gardici be working for the Roman? Anything was possible. He needed to keep an open mind. Now, though, he needed to return to Long Island, to Celeste, to Gabriel Cross. Tomorrow, he would return to the city, to trail the policeman he had met on the roof at Suffolk Street.

Tomorrow, he would become the Ghost again.

onovan heaved a heavy sigh and glanced up at the clock on the wall of his office. It was late. It would be dark outside, with just the play of the airship searchlights hanging over the city, picking out the buildings with their brilliant shafts of white.

He was alone in the office. Mullins and the others had all gone, back to their wives, their beds, their secret drinking dens. Back to the quiet monotony of their lives. Donovan envied them that. He wished for that monotony, cursed himself for years spent craving excitement and adventure. He had that now, in spades. Had it, and wished he didn't.

He glared at the hands of the clock as if trying, futilely, to prevent them from ticking. The room was silent save for that constant reminder, that ever-present tick-tock, tick-tock, counting down the seconds, minutes, and hours until his impending appointment with Gideon Reece.

He'd sent Flora away that morning, to her sister's place in Brooklyn. He'd told her it was a surprise, that he'd arranged everything with Maud, called her the day before to organize the trip. He'd stood over her while she threw some things in a bag, collected her shoes and her makeup. Then he'd driven her to the station, watched her board the train. She'd been bemused, excited, unsure what to make of this uncharacteristic gesture. He'd kissed her hard and full on the lips, told her he would marry her all over again if he only could, and she had waved to him as the train hissed away from the platform, both charmed and-he could tell-concerned for him. He wondered if it was a form of weakness that had caused him to send her away, but decided it was, rather, a form of strength. He was protecting her, from Reece, from the Roman-and from what she might see when they finally got to him.

He had dealt with that eventuality. He'd arranged for Mullins to pick him up in the morning, just in case. He couldn't protect them all. Mullins would know what to do. Mullins would understand.

Donovan sighed a second time. He'd spent the day searching for the car with three funnels. It had proved fruitless, a waste of time. And besides, he knew that car would be coming to find him that very evening, regardless of whether he was able to locate it or not. In truth, the whole thing had been an exercise in trying to do somethinganything-that made him feel less impotent; anything to slow the inexorable movement of those ticking fingers toward their inevitable destination.

He would fight back, of course he would. He had his automatic in his pocket, and he was handy with his fists. He would try to take Reece down with him. That much he had decided. But he knew that in the end, that, too, would prove futile. A gesture born out of desperation. Even if he managed it-even if he put a bullet in the vile b.a.s.t.a.r.dthere were fifty, a hundred more men like him, just waiting for their chance to step up and take his place. That was the nature of the mob. He knew that it wouldn't end, not until the rotten core had been exposed and flushed out, the wound cauterized. They needed to find the Roman himself. But they were a long way from that. At that moment, Donovan was having difficulty even proving the man existed.

In his frustration, in the small hours of the morning, he had briefly entertained the notion of accepting the bribe. He'd dreamed up a whole scenario in which he managed to get inside the Roman's organization, becoming a trusted advisor, worming his way insidiously into the heart of the operation, and then, when the opportunity presented itself, taking out the men who mattered. But he knew how ridiculous that really was. He was no killer, no duplicitous agent, and he didn't have the stomach or the patience to see such an operation through to the end. He'd never win their trust, never do what was necessary. He'd be dead within a fortnight, and he'd die with a sour taste in his mouth and a stain on his hands. His colleagues-his friends-would look on his grave with disdain. No, he wouldn't take their blood money. Not tonight, not ever.

The clock chimed as it reached the hour. Nine o'clock. Enough. He'd wallowed for long enough.

Donovan got to his feet, abandoning the file he'd been pretending to read and reaching for his overcoat. It was a clear night, and he would walk home with a cigarette, maybe two. After all, he wasn't in any particular hurry.

His heart pounding in his chest, palms sweaty in antic.i.p.ation of the meeting to come, he flicked the light off in his office and took his leave.

The Ghost, wrapped in his trench coat and clinging to a perch about thirty feet above street level, watched the policeman depart from the precinct building. A bone-deep cold chilled him to the core, and his breath fogged in the still air. The sky was clear: a thick, black canopy above the city, peppered with shimmering pinp.r.i.c.ks of light.

Far below, people were still milling about on the busy thoroughfare, hailing cabs, waiting for buses; going about their busy lives in search of distraction or entertainment. Going home to eat, drink, and f.u.c.k.

The Ghost watched as Donovan joined the flow of bodies, keeping his head down, his collar pulled up around his neck against the chill. The end of the policeman's cigarette was like a firefly in the gloom, bobbing and dancing erratically as he strode along the sidewalk. Other pedestrians danced out of his way, a symptom, the Ghost suspected, of a hard stare and a purposeful stride. The Ghost wondered what was bothering the man.

Stirring from his position on the ledge of the building, the Ghost tracked Donovan as he crossed the street and disappeared around the corner of an adjacent block, watching through the red filter of his goggles. He scrambled up onto the roof, securing his hat against a sudden gust and reaching inside his jacket to find the cord that would fire his rocket propellants. He gave it a sharp tug and the canisters ignited with a roaring flame. He felt himself lifting slowly off the rooftop and angled his body so that he could drift over to the roof of the department store across the street. From there he'd be able to hop from building to building, tracking the other man along the street, at least until he changed direction again.

It hadn't been difficult to locate the policeman. The Ghost had found him emerging from the ruins of the Sensation Club a few hours earlier and had tracked him back to the precinct building, keeping to the rooftops and alleyways to avoid being seen. He'd taken the risk of venturing out in the mid-afternoon twilight, anxious to get on the trail of the man he hoped would lead him to the Roman. Donovan-that was the name he'd overheard one of the other detectives call him-had then holed himself up in the precinct and had remained there whilst a steady parade of junior officers quit the building, drifting away into the night. The Ghost had considered trying to find a way inside, or else a means to discover what the policeman was up to inside his office, but had given it up as a bad idea when he'd noted the police dirigible drifting ponderously above the precinct building, its searchlight sweeping languidly back and forth across the rooftop. So, instead, he had waited it out, and it looked as if his patience was about to pay off.

Donovan was up to something. That much was evident from the manner in which he carried himself: the nervous gestures with his cigarette, the fact he was chain-smoking, the speed at which he was charging along the street, as if he was running late for something important or wanted to get something over with. He kept glancing over his shoulder at the road behind him, looking at the cars as they hissed past him on the cold tarmac.

The Ghost wondered if someone was putting the squeeze on the detective. Either that or his furtive behavior was down to something else, something less salubrious. He didn't think that was likely; Donovan was a detective through and through. He would die that way, the Ghost knew, unable to separate himself from the job. He was wedded to it. It was so fundamentally a part of him that there was little else left, little of the man he had once been before the hunger consumed him, before he accepted the burden of the city and took it upon himself to put things right. The Ghost had seen it before, seen other men perish in the same way, and he'd recognized the look in Donovan's eyes that night on the rooftop in Suffolk Street. Obsession. Hunger. The desire for justice. He recognized it because he felt it too. Because the same desire burned behind his own eyes, stared back at him from the mirror each and every morning.

He wondered what had happened to the policeman to engender such a spirit; and what had happened in the intervening hours since their last encounter to dampen it. The Ghost still carried the scars of the war, of what he had seen out there in the cold, muddy desolation of Europe. Old things. Ancient things. Things that made his skin crawl. Things that had changed him beyond repair, altered everything he held dear. Now he saw the world through different eyes. But what of Donovan?

The Ghost leapt across another chasm-like alleyway, light flaring briefly and brightly behind him as he sailed toward another nearby roof. He padded down gently, turning to watch the policeman as the man crossed a small park, emerging seconds later on the opposite side, glancing both ways and then darting across the street. He turned down another cross street. The Ghost followed, maintaining a respectful distance.

Soon after, Donovan reached his destination. He hovered outside the gla.s.s door of the apartment building; a modern construction, built in the last decade, with stepped tiers, tall windows, and sweeping curves.

The Ghost observed the policeman as he took a long, deep draw on his most recent cigarette, flicked the stub away into the gutter, and then checked the pocket of his overcoat, probably feeling for a weapon. Then the man glanced up and down the street before disappearing into the lobby, leaving the door swinging wildly on its hinges.

A row of stationary cars lined the curb at the front of the building; squat, black humps in the darkness. The Ghost trained his sights on them, altering the zoom on his lenses, dialing in on the four or five motionless vehicles.

Then he stopped dead, almost breathless. One of the cars had three exhaust funnels. It was unmistakably the vehicle he had seen the other night, purring away from the scene of Henry Sinclair's murder. Gabriel Reece's car.

The Ghost sat on his haunches, flicking the lenses of his goggles back and staring up at the clear sky. One of two things was about to happen. Either Donovan was walking into a terrible trap, or the Ghost was about to discover that the policeman was working for the Roman.

Either way, he knew it wasn't going to be pretty.

Donovan flicked a glance at the elevator as he entered the lobby, and then marched on toward the stairs. If they were lying in wait for him, the sound of the creaking elevator echoing through the building would be a dead giveaway. This way, he could retain at least some element of surprise. He wasn't about to make it easy for them, and besides, he could do with the exercise. He grinned to himself at the thought. Now really wasn't the most practical time to be considering his waistline.

Mounting the stone steps, Donovan rested his hand in his pocket, feeling for the b.u.t.t of his automatic. It was a comfort to him, a rea.s.surance. He hated that, the fact that he relied upon his weapon to imbue him with confidence. But right now, on the stairwell of his apartment building, approaching what would almost certainly prove to be the fight of his life, he would take every bit of confidence he could find.

He took the six stories slowly, listening carefully for any signs of movement. The building seemed unnaturally quiet, and all he could hear was the rasping of his own lungs as he dragged at the air, the thudding of his heart in his rib cage. He'd seen the car parked out front; knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Reece and his cronies were waiting for him inside. Part of him just wanted to get it over with, wanted to rush up that last flight of steps to his floor, charge along the hallway to his apartment, and burst in with a hail of bullets, mowing down as many of the crooks as he could before he was riddled with lead. But he knew that would be foolish. If he kept his cool, there was still a small chance that he could walk away from this alive. He clung on to that thought, no matter how small that chance might actually be.

His nerves jangling, Donovan crept up the last flight of steps to the seventh floor and peered around the corner. The corridor was empty. He allowed himself to exhale. No guards. That must mean they were already inside his apartment. He glanced back down the stairwell and fought the urge to flee. It wouldn't do him any good. It might buy him a few hours, at most. Better to get it over with.

Donovan moved softly along the corridor toward his apartment and stopped a few feet from the door. It was standing ajar, but he couldn't see much through narrow gap. He edged nearer, listening intently for any sounds from within. Nothing. He could feel the tension in his shoulders; taste the bitter adrenaline on the back of his tongue.

One hand in his pocket, one finger firmly on the trigger of his gun, Donovan eased the door a little wider. The hinges were almost silent as the door swung inward, revealing more of the hallway beyond. Empty. He hadn't expected that. Perhaps Reece had come alone? He didn't think that was likely.

Donovan stepped over the threshold, carefully swinging the door shut behind him. The hallway was filled with the scent of fresh, sodden earth. Wrinkling his nose, he glanced around. Everything was as he'd left it: the holotube terminal on the small side table; a vase of flowers; a large mirror on the wall; a shoe stand just behind the door. A pile of mail was heaped tidily on the sideboard where he usually left his keys. It was the perfect picture of homeliness. Clearly, they weren't interested in his belongings.

Three doors led off from the hallway, and all were pulled shut. One opened into the kitchen, another to the drawing room, the last to the bedroom. The bedroom he shared with Flora. His grip tightened on the b.u.t.t of his gun as he thought about Reece and his cronies violating the sanctuary of that room. Leaving that strange, earthy smell about the place. He wouldn't bear that, couldn't stand the thought of them rifling through Flora's things, making a mockery of his marriage. That would be too much.

Donovan continued stealthily along the hallway, stopping to listen at each of the doors in turn. Still nothing. No sign, other than the apartment door hanging open, that anyone else had even visited the place. Unsure what else he could do, Donovan picked a door-the drawing room-and turned the handle, allowing it to swing open. The hinges groaned alarmingly. Almost immediately, he realized his mistake.

They were waiting for him, just as he'd feared.

The room was cast in a gloomy half-light, lit only by the dim glow of a table lamp. Shapes huddled in the shadows around the edges of the room; the outlines of men, crowding in the semidarkness. Donovan had the sense that there were at least five or six of them in there, skulking, waiting. The room was rich with the scent of fresh earth. And on the sofa, one leg crossed over his knee, his spindly fingers steepled before his chest, sat Gideon Reece. He was dressed in an immaculate black evening suit, just as he had been when Donovan had met him before. His eyes seemed to flash in the dim light, and his lips curled in a sarcastic smile. "Inspector Donovan. So glad you could join us."

Donovan didn't speak. His heart was hammering against his ribs. His palm felt sweaty against the b.u.t.t of his gun.

Reece motioned to one of the men in the shadows and the main light blinked on, a sharp, white glare that caused the policeman to squint. Reece laughed. "Nice place you have here. Homely. I like what you've done with it. I'm sure you and Flora could do with someplace bigger, though?"

Donovan bristled at the sound of his wife's name. "You leave my wife out of this, Reece."

Reece shrugged genially. "How is Flora? I understand she's away visiting Maud? A shame. I should like to have met her. I've heard she's terribly pretty." He flashed another grin, and it was all Donovan could do to restrain himself from pulling his weapon, then and there. But he knew that was what Reece was goading him to do, what he wanted. He knew that as soon as he whipped the automatic out of his pocket the five or six other weapons around the room would all bark, and it would be over. He suppressed his mounting rage. How did they know about Flora?

Donovan tried to size up what he was facing. Six of them, plus Reece. Two giants, standing at the back in long trench coats and hats, their faces hidden from view. Four others, all training their tommy guns in his direction. And Reece. He couldn't underestimate Reece. He met the other man's amused gaze. "I thought I had until midnight?"

Reece laughed. He glanced at his watch. "We can wait. We're not in a hurry, Inspector."

Donovan gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. "No need. I have my answer."

Reece shifted slightly in his seat. He reached behind him, producing the large brown packet of notes he'd first offered Donovan in the car. Casually, he tossed it over to the inspector. Donovan didn't move, didn't make any attempt to catch it. The paper envelope struck his chest with a dull thud and fell to the floor, scattering banknotes over the carpet in a flurry. Donovan watched the notes settle on the deep, red pile. There were hundreds of dollars in there, if not thousands. He lifted his head to face the crook. "There's my answer for you, Mr. Reece. You can tell the Roman that his offer is not welcome. I've given over my life to protecting the city from men like him-like you-and I'm not about to throw all that away for ... for this." He waved his left hand to indicate the pile of cash on the ground, careful to keep his right hand in his pocket, firmly gripping his automatic. He could hear the ire in his own voice; knew that he had only moments before the whole place descended into chaos.

Reece smiled, feigning resignation. He shook his head. "Such a waste. You could have been so useful to us, Inspector. And Flora could have been so happy." He motioned with his hand and two of the goons rushed toward the motionless policeman.

For Donovan, everything that followed happened in a blur, over in a matter of seconds. He pulled the automatic from his pocket and loosed three shots into the chest of one of the oncoming crooks. The man bucked as the bullets slammed home, spraying gobbets of blood into the air, spattering the wall behind him as he went down, his arms flailing wildly in the throes of death. Donovan whirled around toward the other man, but the on-comer was already too close. He had no time to bring the gun round to get a shot. Instead, he flicked his wrist out and slammed the b.u.t.t of the weapon into the man's forehead as he charged in, stepping backward to avoid being taken down as the goon collapsed, unconscious, at his feet.

Donovan barely had time to breathe before the report of a second gun followed and his arm was punched backward, his fingers releasing their grip on the automatic as he staggered in shock. The gun clattered against the doorjamb, skittering away down the hall. Donovan realized he'd taken a bullet in his shoulder. The pain was like a hot poker being pushed through his flesh, the blood warm and wet and sticky. He suppressed a howl of agony, biting down hard, clenching his teeth in an attempt to allay the pain. The room was filled with the stench of cordite and spilled blood.

Donovan looked up through watery eyes to see Reece clapping his hands, slowly and sarcastically. A small silver pistol was lying on the arm of the sofa beside him. So the b.a.s.t.a.r.d wasn't beyond doing his own dirty work. Donovan knew he'd been right not to underestimate the man.

He sensed movement by his feet. The man he'd struck with the gun was beginning to stir. The other was lying facedown in a growing puddle of dark blood. At least he'd taken one of them out for good.

Donovan stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, waiting to see what would happen next. The pain was like a foggy cloud all around him, m.u.f.fling his senses, wrapping him in its terrible embrace. Then Reece was speaking once again. His thin, reedy voice cut through Donovan's pain like a knife. "A valiant attempt, Inspector. You're to be congratulated for your courage." A pause. "But you really should have taken the money ..."

Reece stood, uncurling languorously like a cat stretching its limbs, and beckoned to the two big men who were still standing, motionless, at the back of the room beside the bookcase. The giants lumbered forward, and Donovan didn't struggle as they took his arms in their strange claw-like grips and pinned them behind his back. He couldn't suppress a short cry of pain as his shoulder was twisted awkwardly in the process. He felt more blood seeping out of the wound, soaking his shirtsleeve.

He looked up at the face of the giant on his left, and was shocked to find it was blank and green beneath the brim of the hat. So that was why the place stank of damp earth. These men-these creatures-were constructed out of clay and moss. He wondered what appalling technology had granted them life; realized he would likely go to his death without knowing.

Donovan's shoulders slumped as the two moss men took his weight. Reece crossed the room to stand before him, a Roman governor before a crucified prisoner. The man's pale face gleamed in the bright light. He spoke to the two golems: "Take him to the roof," and then to Donovan: "You're going to have a nasty fall, Inspector. Flora will be told it was suicide. She'll wonder why. She might even blame herself. But you needn't worry." His face cracked into a toothy grin. "One of the boys will be sure to ... comfort her."

Donovan thrashed against the moss men's grip. His shoulder felt like it was on fire, but he still tried to kick out at Reece, tried ineffectually to do something-anything-to hurt this terrible man. They could do what they wanted with him. But Flora ...

His mind raced as they dragged him from the room, pulling him along the hallway, his feet sliding on the wooden floor, unable to gain a footing. He had no idea how he was going to find his way out of this. There were simply too many of them to fight back. But he had to. He had to find a way. He couldn't let them get to Flora. Somehow, he had to find the strength to protect her.

The mobsters followed behind the moss men in a black troupe as they heaved their prisoner up the stone steps toward the eighth floor, and then to the roof. The door slammed open onto a howling wind, a terrace shrouded in nightmare shadows and bristling cl.u.s.ters of holotube receivers. The two moss men dragged Donovan toward the rear of the building, where only a small lip separated him from a long fall. Beneath, the hard concrete beckoned. He was feeling woozy now, the pain and the blood loss causing his strength to seep away. The cold wind buffeted his face. He blinked. Was he falling already?

He heard Reece's voice shouting over the howl of the wind, and realized he was not. "It's not too late to change your mind, Inspector. One more chance. Think of what we can offer you. Working for us ... you'll finally be able to make a difference."

Donovan spat. It was his only response.

Reece laughed. "Flora won't thank you for it, Inspector."

Donovan looked down at the dark abyss beneath him. He made one final attempt to tug his arms free, but it was no use. They were too strong. He sucked at the chill air, preparing himself for the inevitable.

And then one of the moss men's heads exploded.

he Ghost watched as Donovan crumpled to the ground, suddenly free of the lumbering moss golems. The mobsters were in disarray, waving their weapons around in the darkness as they tried desperately to spot their attacker. The remaining golem was stomping ponderously across the rooftop toward him, as if somehow drawn to him, as if it instinctively knew where he was concealed behind a stand of holotube aerials. Most likely, it had calculated the trajectory of the flechette that had destroyed its partner. The Ghost smiled to himself. Perhaps the moss men were more intelligent than the mobsters, after all.

He swung his arm out, brandishing the long bra.s.s barrel of his flechette gun in the direction of the oncoming golem. He squeezed the trigger, releasing a shower of silvery blades. They zipped through the night air, twinkling in the starlight, embedding themselves in the moss thing with a series of tiny dull thuds. The moss man continued to lurch toward him. The Ghost counted the seconds, three, two, one...

The golem detonated in a flash of light, scattering mud, clay, and bra.s.s over the surrounding rooftop. Tiny cogs and clockwork components tinkled in a shower over the nearby mobsters, pattering down on them like obscene rain. As one they raised their voices in alarm. One of them let loose with his tommy gun, spraying a nearby chimneystack with bullets, more out of sheer desperation than any real sense that the brickwork concealed his invisible a.s.sailant.

The Ghost allowed himself a wide grin. The explosive rounds had delivered exactly the result he'd hoped for.

He peered between the metal struts of the transmitters and caught sight of Gideon Reece, standing over the policeman, a tiny silver pistol held aloft. He couldn't get a bead from his position behind the aerial cl.u.s.ter. Nor did he want to finish Reece, at least not before he'd had chance to question him. Reece was his ticket to the Roman, his only lead.

He needed a distraction.

The Ghost leapt out from behind the forest of wires, loosing a spray of flechettes into the air. They scattered on the ground in a wide semicircle around Reece and Donovan, and seconds later went up in a pyrotechnic display, flashing brilliantly in the darkness, the pattering boom echoing away across the adjoining rooftops. Reece, panicked, glanced from side to side, spotting the Ghost in the stuttering light. He squeezed the trigger of his pistol, but his aim was wide in the smoky aftermath of the explosions. The distraction was exactly what Donovan had been waiting for, however. The policeman, finally coming to his senses, leapt to his feet and charged Reece, bowling him over and sending them both careening across the flagstones. The Ghost moved just in time to miss a storm of lead, spat from the mouth of a tommy gun. The goons had likely spotted the red glow of his goggles, bobbing in the darkness.

The Ghost rushed to where Donovan was lying on his back, nursing his wounded shoulder. The man looked pale. He needed to get him out of there. Injured, he was a liability, and the Ghost wanted him alive. "Donovan. On your feet! Out of here, now!"

The policeman looked up, his eyes darting from side to side as he tried to focus on the vigilante. The Ghost grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to his feet. He pointed to the open door that led down into the apartment building. "There! Go. NOW!" He shoved Donovan in the direction of the stairs.

The policeman nodded once and then set off at a run, his damaged arm trailing behind him as he pelted for cover. One of the mobsters moved to go after him, but Reece was back on his feet, dusting himself down. "Leave him! We can deal with him later. I want this one dead."

The Ghost swept the barrel of his flechette gun in a wide arc that would encompa.s.s two of the mobsters. He needed Reece alive, but the others ...

A handful of shimmering flechettes spat from the end of the gun, but to his dismay, the Ghost watched as the silver spray stuttered and petered out. He squeezed the trigger again. Nothing. He must have used up all of his explosive rounds on the moss men and the pyrotechnic display he'd put on for Reece.

The remainder of the tiny blades struck the ground and detonated ineffectually, allowing the goons to duck easily out of the way. They swung their weapons around and took aim. The Ghost was out of time, a sitting target, and there were three sub-machine guns pointing in his direction.

He had to think quickly.

He ran to the edge of the building and leapt into the air, tugging the cord inside his jacket as he fell into a graceful dive. The darkness swam up to meet him as he rushed toward the street below. His heart was thudding wildly. What if it didn't work?

Then, all of a sudden, the rocket canisters tied to his boots ignited with a roar and he was kicked sideways by the force. He spiraled, keeping his hands clasped tightly by his sides to avoid slamming into the nearby building. For a moment he spun out of control, thought he was going to break his neck as he smashed into the sidewalk. Then, fighting the urge to panic, he arched his back, swinging his feet down low so that his body was now angled upward, back toward the lip of the building's roof. The rocket boosters caught his fall and he soared through the air, feeling the cold wind whistling past him as he rose once again into the night sky. His hat came loose, gusting away into the street below, but he plowed on through the darkness, riding on a plume of orange light.

By now the mobsters were at the lip of the building and had realized what had happened. They let loose with their tommy guns, bullets chattering into the sky as they tried to pick out the soaring vigilante. The Ghost didn't give them the chance. He weaved and twisted, turning gracefully as he dodged the oncoming streams of bullets. One tore through the skirts of his trench coat; another pinged off the bra.s.s barrel of his flechette gun. But miraculously, the Ghost himself never felt the expected thud of hot lead burrowing into his flesh.

The gap between Donovan's apartment building and the next building on the block was only a matter of a few feet. The Ghost swept up through the top of the narrow alleyway, bursting out over the roof of the adjacent structure and cutting the rockets dead. He slammed painfully into the roof terrace, sliding along on his belly, his arms outstretched, sending clouds of gravel pluming into the air. He rolled quickly onto his back and scrambled to his feet. The three goons had not been dissuaded by his momentary escape, and whilst he had temporarily put himself out of the range of their bullets, he knew it would not be for long. He watched, dismayed, as one by one they leapt across the gap between the two buildings, each of them still carrying their black snub-nosed guns. Reece, it seemed, had made other plans, for he was nowhere to be seen.

The Ghost cursed himself for letting the man get away. He needed Reece. But first he had to deal with the imminent threat of those guns. He glanced around, weighing options and risks. He could fight, or he could run. Running most likely meant another leap off the side of the building, and that was risky. But so was standing his ground. He'd need to get close enough to the goons to fight back, and that wasn't likely, given the weapons they were sporting.

He backed up, glancing over his shoulder to judge where he had landed. Behind him, three biplanes sat on tall ramps, stark silhouettes in the moonlight, their noses pointing to the sky. The Ghost smiled. There was his answer.

He turned and made a dash for the second of the three flying machines. One of the goons called out, and then his tommy gun barked, but he was still too far away to hit his mark. The Ghost heard their boots crunching on the gravel as they gave chase.

The Ghost dashed up the steps alongside the old biplane, his lungs burning from the exertion. He glanced at the aircraft in its launch housing. It was modified from an original design: an older vehicle that had been retroactively fitted with a modern rocket launcher. The rocket booster was bolted into a sub-frame at the rear of the aircraft, a long, thin canister containing enough rocket fuel to power the vehicle up off the ramp and across the rooftops until the main propeller kicked in. It dispensed with the need for a runway for takeoff, but landing on the confined s.p.a.ce of the rooftop again was a real skill, and most pilots found themselves ditching on a nearby airfield and having the biplanes lifted back in situ by airship.