"Who?" he said, but he knew what she meant.

"I can see it in your eyes. You're worried." Her voice was like silk. He wanted to wrap himself in it and hide away. But he nodded, just once.

"They need you more than I do right now. Go to them. The people you help ... what you do ... It's wonderful."

He felt the sense of hollowness returning. He wasn't that altruistic.

Celeste sat up, stretching leisurely. "I'll be here when you come back."

"You will? Really?" Gabriel was unsure.

"Of course I will."

"Celeste-"

"Shhh." She put her finger to his lips. "What do you always say? You have someone that you need to see." She kissed him then, and he drank her in: her scent, her taste, the touch of her soft skin through the delicate fabric of her dress. He knew he could drown in that heady wash of sense and emotion.

"110-".

"Shhh. Later."

Gabriel allowed himself to be shushed. He stared into her eyes.

"You can trust me, Gabriel," she said. "I'll do whatever's best."

"Alright. I'll go. There's a wounded policeman who needs my help." He climbed off the bed, brushing himself down. He had the horrible sense that he was walking away from something, that somehow he was abandoning her to the lions. He suppressed the urge to stay. She'd be safe here, at his Long Island home. No one would think to look for her here. "Later, then."

"Yes. Later."

He gave her one last, lingering look, and then left the room.

Celeste waited until she'd heard the sputter of his motorcar, churning the gravel of the driveway as it hissed off into the wintery afternoon. She climbed down from the bed, straightening her dress. She glanced at the mirror, fixed her hair. She could barely look at herself, couldn't meet her own gaze. She wanted to break down and weep, wanted to call after Gabriel and tell him to come back, tell him to throw away his silly costume and run away with her like he'd said, somewhere safe and far from Long Island and Manhattan and all the terrible things to come. But she steeled herself instead. She had a job to do, and the time was coming. Soon, she would need to act.

She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. She looked at herself again in the mirror. Then, as if adopting another persona, slipping it on like a new dress, a new mood, she sauntered out of the bedroom and wandered off in search of Henry.

Celeste found the valet in the dining room, polishing the silverware. He looked up as she entered, a kindly smile on his face. "h.e.l.lo, Miss Parker. Is there anything I can do for you?"

She almost broke then. She could hear the tremble in her voice. "Thank you, Henry. I was wondering if you could bring one of Mr. Cross's motorcars around for me? I need to get some air. I'm feeling terribly cooped up in this big old house. I thought a little spin might do me good."

Henry nodded, carefully placing the candelabra he was polishing on the dining table, dropping the dirty rag beside it. "Quite so, Miss Parker. An excellent idea. If you'd like to make any final preparations I'll go and fetch one directly."

She stepped out of the doorway to allow him to pa.s.s, watched his back as he disappeared along the hallway.

Soon, she would be on her way. Soon, she would be facing the biggest challenge of her life.

She was needed in the city.

he Ghost bustled into his Manhattan apartment around seven o'clock that evening. The drive from Long Island had proved monstrous; there were too many other vehicles on the road, and he hadn't been able to keep his attention on the driving. Too many things were spiraling through his head. Thoughts about Celeste, Reece, the Roman, Donovan. They crowded his mind, jostling for attention.

He was still wearing his day suit, and wondered how much longer he would need to keep up the charade. Since everybody seemed to know already ... In truth, though, he knew there was no escaping it. He could rely on Donovan, of course, but declaring his true ident.i.ty to the world would be tantamount to signing his own death warrant. Donovan was only a lone voice amongst the many, and the Commissioner wouldn't stand for it, wouldn't sanction a known vigilante on his streets, no matter how rich or influential he was. The Ghost needed to protect himself, needed to focus. Discovering that Celeste knew the truth-it had thrown him. But he had to shake the feeling, and quickly. Nothing had changed; the city still needed the Ghost ... and the Ghost still needed the city.

He glanced around. Donovan was nowhere to be seen. Frowning, the Ghost strolled into the living room, looking for any sign of the policeman. He caught sight of him then, silhouetted in the open doorway of the workshop. He couldn't see Donovan's expression.

"Quite an armory you've got here."

The Ghost crossed the room to stand before the other man. "I suppose it is."

Donovan stepped out from under the glow of the shining arc lamp, and his features resolved. He looked tired. He was still wearing the suit that the Ghost had given him earlier. "You took your time."

The Ghost shrugged. "I was busy."

Donovan pursed his lips. "There's been another murder." The Ghost raised an eyebrow, and Donovan continued, "A banker by the name of Mr. Williamson. Seen off by the Roman's men, same as before."

"Do you think it was Reece?"

"Yes, Reece or his cronies. I think he was trying to send us a message. I think he was trying to show us that he won't be stopped, that things carry on regardless. That perhaps we'll end up the same way, too." There was a tremor in Donovan's voice.

The Ghost grinned. "I think Reece says a lot of things."

Donovan brushed past him, heading for the kitchen, placing an empty gla.s.s on the counter with a gentle clink. "So what now? How are we going to find him?"

The Ghost smiled. So they were working together now, it seemed. "The three-funneled car-that's all we've got to go on. But I have a feeling that Reece will prove too impatient to wait for us to find him. Perhaps we should let him come to us."

"A trap, you mean?"

The Ghost grinned. "Something like that." He noticed that Donovan was still holding himself in an awkward posture. "How's your shoulder?"

"Bearable." Donovan's response was curt and clipped. He was clearly still in pain. It would be weeks before the wound would heal.

"I can find you something for the pain."

Donovan shook his head. "Not if it will dull my senses."

"Very well." He understood that impulse, that need the policeman had to keep his head clear. He also understood the need to take the edge off, too, to dull the sharpness of the real world, and felt it now as he considered pouring himself a fat finger of whisky. He looked at the stack of unwashed plates piled in the kitchen sink. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

"Right. Well, get in there and choose yourself a weapon. Preferably two." He indicated the door to his workshop. "I have to change out of this dreadful suit."

Donovan laughed. The Ghost stepped into the bedroom and pulled the door shut behind him.

Ten minutes later, as he was strapping the shaft of his flechette gun along the length of his forearm, the Ghost heard the shrill chime of the holotube receiver. He opened the bedroom door, stepped out to see Donovan standing over the holotube unit. He looked up when he heard the Ghost enter the room, a concerned expression on his face.

"He rang off, didn't even give me a chance to speak. Must have thought I was you in the confusion."

"Who was it?"

"A man, asking for someone named Gabriel. A guy called Arthur. He had a plum in his mouth, British, I think. Something like that. Said he needed your help, that there was something going down at the museum. Said he was calling like you'd told him to if anything happened."

The Ghost stared at the policeman. "This is it. This is our lead. We need to get to the Met, fast."

Donovan frowned, running a hand through his ruffle of dark hair. "The Metropolitan Museum of Art?"

The Ghost swept up his trench coat from the back of a chair. "Trust me, Inspector. The Roman is making a move. This is the chance we've been waiting for."

Together, the two men hurried out into the cold Manhattan evening.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was shrouded in darkness. High above, the moon was wrapped in a wintery wreath, the sky a leaden canopy of thick cloud. Tiny freckles of snow were falling, shimmering in the radial glow of the streetlamps. The snowflakes dusted their coats with fine, powdery blankets, each one existing for only the slightest moment before winking out of existence like a series of miniature dying stars.

The Ghost put a hand on Donovan's arm, holding him back, keeping him hidden in the long shadows thrown down by the tenement buildings across the street from the museum. He scanned the steps at the front of the main entrance with the enhanced vision extended to him by the goggles. His breath fogged in the chill air. He felt cold to the core of his being.

The two men had raced uptown in the Ghost's car, hissing along Fifth Avenue in the driving snow, the windshield wipers pelting back and forth, back and forth as they shot toward their destination. The Ghost had swung the car into a side road just opposite the main entrance to the museum, and now they stood, surveying the front of the building, looking for any signs of the trouble that had been reported as occurring within.

The Ghost noted three soft mounds on the steps at the front of the building: the carca.s.ses of more dead birds, mangled, abandoned, and now being slowly covered by the falling snow. He looked at Donovan. "Nothing. No sign of anything untoward. Shall we try round the back?"

Donovan nodded briskly. Together, the two men stole away from their hiding place, moving swiftly through the thick curtain of snow. They hugged the walls where they could, prowling in the shadows. The Ghost was nervous, taught. He could see that Donovan was squeezing the b.u.t.t of his handgun in the pocket of his borrowed coat as they pa.s.sed along the side of the monolithic building. The place was deserted, the silence punctuated only by the occasional hiss of a car pa.s.sing along Fifth Avenue behind them.

At the rear of the building, the Ghost once again caught hold of Donovan's sleeve, motioning for him to remain still. In the distance the dark shadows of Central Park stood ominous, the silhouettes of the leafless trees jagged, their branches pointing haphazardly at the sky like so many impish fingers. To the left of the two men a large truck was parked on the path, close to the building, its back doors pinned open, the rear end of the vehicle facing them so that they could see into the cavernous s.p.a.ce inside. It was empty, yet to receive its load.

Beyond the truck, further along the path, the Ghost could see four cars parked in a neat row. None of them had three funnels. He frowned. Perhaps he'd been wrong, after all. Perhaps this was just another heist by just another gang of mobsters, trying it on for size. But that seemed unlikely, too much of a coincidence. It had to be connected to the Roman.

A fire escape at the back of the building stood open, dim light leaching out onto the path. This was the door that Arthur had used to admit him the other night. He was sure he'd be able to find his way around inside from there again. Absently, he hoped that Arthur himself had found an opportunity to slip away.

The Ghost edged along the side of the building, keeping his back to the wall. Donovan followed, remaining close behind him. He guessed there would be a driver in the cab of the truck, perhaps also in the four cars, and decided that it wouldn't do to alert them. Not yet. The ensuing fracas would only draw the attention of those inside, and the Ghost wanted to maintain the element of surprise.

Seconds later the two men stepped up to the open doorway like moving shadows, checked briefly to ensure that the entrance was not guarded, and then slipped inside. Almost immediately, the Ghost had to stifle an exclamation of disgust.

One of the museum's night wardens lay on the floor just inside the doorway, a glossy red hole where his face had once been. The congealed blood glistened in the wan light. The man's lower face had entirely gone from the nose down. All that was left was a gaping wound, punched through the jaw and out the back of the skull. He'd been shot at point-blank range, left where he'd dropped. Brain matter had spattered one of the gla.s.s-fronted display cabinets behind him, and puddles of dark arterial blood had formed around the base of a wooden Native American idol. The Ghost glanced at Donovan, who was able only to shake his head in disgust.

The Ghost stepped over the corpse, grimacing, careful that his footsteps didn't ring out too loudly on the marble floor. Donovan had drawn the handgun and was glancing from side to side, trying to cover all of the exits. The Ghost could see the man was still wracked with pain, but he admired the way the policeman was gritting his teeth and forcing himself to carry on. The likelihood was that Donovan would be severely reprimanded for taking matters into his own hands, for allying himself with a known criminal. Perhaps he would even be kicked off the Force. But he didn't seem to care. All that mattered to him was bringing Reece and the Roman to justice, and protecting his family. The Ghost could understand values like that, could empathize with that need for justice. Sometimes the means did justify the ends. Sometimes you had to fight on the enemy's terms. Sometimes the law just didn't come into it.

Cautiously they crept on, both men listening intently for any sounds that might give away the crooks' location. They pa.s.sed through a large display of medieval art, an exhibition housing the ornate Gothic wonders of Old Europe. The Ghost found the place sinister, macabre. Faces stared down at him from the browning portraits that lined the walls, seeming to watch his progress as he made his way across the hall. He could hear Donovan's ragged breath behind him. They moved on, entering a long gallery filled with Byzantine splendor: gold idols, glittering jewels and riches, ancient artifacts and relics, each of them created in the name of human G.o.ds. The Ghost couldn't vouch for the existence of such G.o.ds, but he knew of G.o.ds that did exist, G.o.ds that didn't demand such worship, or require anything so parochial as golden idols.

Donovan moved forward and the Ghost shot to his side, only then realizing that another security guard lay heaped in the gallery up ahead, his uniform crisp and smart, save for where his chest had been punctured in three places, blood still oozing from the wounds. The shots had been made in rapid succession, ensuring the man's absolute, unequivocal death. His pale face stared up at them, now frozen stiff with terror.

The Ghost realized he was clenching his fists. He could feel the rage building inside him. He would make these men pay for their actions. He would harness that anger, and they would quake as he unleashed it upon them, a spinning whirlwind of vengeance and death.

He followed behind Donovan for the moment. Waiting for his chance.

They reached the great hall. It was a vast, cavernous s.p.a.ce, which, during the day, would be filled with the chatter of voices and the press of bodies, the excitement of children brought along by their parents to gaze in awe through a window into the past. Now it was deserted, as silent as the rest of the empty museum.

Donovan paused, leaning closer to the Ghost. His voice was barely audible, but the Ghost could hear the exasperation apparent in his words. "They could be anywhere in this place!"

The Ghost shook his head. He had a notion of where they might be. "No. Come with me. This way."

Taking precautions to ensure they were not being watched from the balcony above, the Ghost led Donovan across the great hall toward the Greek and Roman wing, to the right of the main entrance. That was where they would find the mobsters. He was sure of it.

Mere moments later he was proved right. He saw Donovan start, holding out a warning hand, and took the cue, sliding sideways toward the shadows, keeping himself out of view. He became aware of the sound of voices from somewhere up ahead. Donovan dropped back, covering the entrance to the Greek and Roman exhibition with the hovering aim of his handgun. The Ghost gestured for the policeman to remain where he was. Then, gesturing to show that he was going to take a look, he crept forward, walking on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet to ensure his shoes didn't scuff on the marble floor.

The entrance to the exhibition was a large square archway. The Ghost went right, keeping behind the wall, peering around the edge of the opening to take a look at what was happening beyond.

The scale of the operation was astounding. There must have been fifteen, twenty men in there. Moss men, too, at least five of them, possibly more, lumbering about between the exhibits. The mobsters themselves were standing around, laughing and conversing, whilst two of the moss men were slowly maneuvering the large marble wheelthe artifact that Arthur had shown him just a couple of days beforeacross the floor. They turned it slowly, almost reverently, as they guided it toward the archway where the Ghost was hiding. He heard a footstep to his left, turned to see Donovan approaching. The Ghost shook his head, waved the inspector across to the other side of the entrance. He saw Donovan's eyes open wide as he took in the scene of industry beyond.

So he'd been right. Gardici had been working for the Roman. And since the museum-since Arthur-had refused to sell him the artifact he so desired, the Roman had now decided to take it by force. The Ghost found it hard to fathom the scene before him; the amount of planning it must have taken to prepare for such a bold heist. More than that, though, the Ghost was appalled by the sheer gall of the man; the sheer tenacity required to have his men waltz into the Metropolitan Museum of Art with the aim of stealing a two-thousand-year-old arti fact, simply to satisfy his whims. He watched the mobsters as they milled about, allowing the moss men to carry out the work whilst they smoked and caroused, fearless of any reprisals. They'd killed all the guards, after all; what more did they have to concern themselves with?

The Ghost sensed movement out of the corner of his eye. Donovan was trying to get his attention. He met the other man's gaze, saw he was pointing toward the p.r.o.ne bodies of two further museum guards. Both of them had been shot, one in the belly, one in the throat. Blood still gurgled from the latter wound, but the man's chest had long since ceased to rise and fall with life.

Donovan raised his gun. "Do that exploding thing," he hissed beneath his breath, just loud enough for the Ghost to hear. The Ghost offered him a stern look in reply. But Donovan was right. It would certainly give them something to think about ...

He surveyed the scene once more. Where the h.e.l.l would he start? Slowly, cautiously, trying desperately not to make a sound, he reached down beneath his right arm and eased the barrel of the flechette gun around on its ratcheting gears, wincing as they groaned in quiet protest. It locked into place.

The two mobsters nearest to them were standing beside a gla.s.s case, lost in conversation. They seemed in jocular mood, discussing their latest conquests, the club they had visited, the men they had killed. The Ghost had no qualms about ending their miserable lives. The city would be a better place because of it. But he could not kill in cold blood. He would take the moss men first, eliminate the most dangerous elements. That would give the goons a chance to fight back, too, a chance to be the first to aim their guns at him, to show their hands. That was the way it had to be, the salve he needed for his conscience.

He straightened his arm, leveling the barrel. Donovan was watching him from across the hall. The policeman was holding his body taught, ready to respond to whatever came next. The Ghost breathed deeply. He could sense the adrenaline as it coursed into his veins. His pulse began to race, harder, faster. He was coiled like a spring, ready for the inevitable battle to come.

The Ghost squeezed the trigger, feeling the soft rubber give in the palm of his hand. A spray of tiny, glittering flechettes sighed from the end of his gun, whistling through the air, embedding themselves indiscriminately in the torso of one of the two moss men handling the marble wheel. For a second nothing happened. The Ghost could see the sweat standing out on Donovan's forehead.

And then chaos erupted.

The moss man detonated in a spray of bra.s.s and clay, the top half of it disappearing entirely, leaving just the stumps of its legs, still shambling awkwardly, bereft of any controlling apparatus. The marble wheel lurched dangerously, the remaining moss man struggling to keep it upright. The mobsters raised their voices in confusion, trying to work out from where this terrible, sudden threat had originated. And then Donovan opened fire, answering the question. The two men nearest to them dropped heavily, their bodies crumpling to the floor, one of them falling against the gla.s.s cabinet, his face and hands slapping the reinforced panels as he slid to the ground, a deadweight. Others replied with the chatter of their tommy guns. A gla.s.s case shattered, bursting in a spray of shimmering fragments.

The Ghost waved his arm in a wide arc, spraying a hail of the tiny metal explosives into the air. Howls of pain followed, and then worse, as four of the men exploded. One lost his head in a splash of crimson mist, another his heart and lungs as his rib cage cracked open, a third his left leg, causing him to collapse to the floor, shuddering in a fit as the shock took hold. The other the Ghost didn't see, save for the shadow of red gore he left on the white wall behind him, and on the white marble statues close to where he had been standing. Donovan and the Ghost rushed forward, fanning out, Donovan left, the Ghost right. He slid behind an ornate marble coffin just in time to hear bullets ricocheting off its surface, sending plumes of dust into the air, chunks of the ancient stone crumbling to the floor. Arthur was going to kill him.

The Ghost glanced around, trying to get a sense of what was happening. Another of the moss men had moved in to replace the one he had destroyed, helping the first with its large burden. They had resumed the slow, steady march toward the exit with the marble wheel. One of the mobsters, the man who appeared to be in charge, was shouting to the others to protect the artifact at all costs, to prevent it from getting damaged. Perhaps that was something the Ghost could play for? Get himself near enough to the marble relic that they had to stop shooting at him or risk destroying it. But he would have to wait until the moss men were closer to the exit before he could make that move. At the moment there was a field of statues between him and them, and an army of gunmen behind him, waiting for him to show himself.

He could see Donovan, partly obscured behind a gla.s.s case containing a display of ancient weaponry. The policeman had given up shooting with his left arm, switching the gun to his preferred right. He was grimacing in agony with every shot, but it was clear he intended to stick with the fight, and his aim was true; he had felled a number of the goons.

As if to prove the point another man dropped, one of Donovan's bullets buried between his eyes. More of them rushed forward to fill the ranks of the dead, however, in a seemingly endless onslaught. Their weapons barked furiously, bullets filling the air, as they tried to weed out the two interlopers who had so suddenly introduced such chaos and death into their lives. The goons showed a blatant disregard for the ancient exhibits, hammering them indiscriminately with their ammunition, much as they showed a similar disregard for the deaths of their own compatriots. The Ghost couldn't believe they could be so cold. Perhaps they had learned to save their mourning for a more appropriate time, for the small hours of the night when they were alone with their thoughts? Or perhaps he was crediting them with too much humanity. It mattered little. It made them easier to kill.

Peering around the edge of the coffin, the Ghost could see one of the moss men lumbering through the forest of statues, knocking them aside like bowling pins, fragile marble arms, heads, and other appendages sent skittering away into the corners of the room as the sculptures shattered on the hard floor. The moss man continued on, crushing the tumbledown sculptures beneath its heavy mechanical feet.

The Ghost heard Donovan cry out as the gla.s.s case beside him shattered, showering him with fragments. The Ghost needed to get to him. He leapt up, loosing another spray of flechettes, catching a man in the arm, taking down the other moss man, and inadvertently blowing the head clean off a statue of Nero in the process. Bullets hailed around him in reply and he dove sideways, cartwheeling across the marble floor, his trench coat billowing with the sudden motion. He heard a bullet whistle past his head, inches from his skull; felt another narrowly miss his chest, opening a rent in the fabric of his black suit and scorching the flesh beneath. Pain bloomed, but he fought it down, sliding across the slick marble toward his friend, his nostrils filled with the cloying scent of cordite.

Donovan had shaken off the majority of the gla.s.s, and save for a small shard that had buried itself in his thigh and a few scratches across his right cheek, he seemed relatively unharmed. Together, the two men returned fire t.i.t-for-tat with the mobsters. The Ghost was painfully aware that all the while, the two moss men were rolling the marble relic away toward the exit. If he wanted to stop them, he'd have to make a move soon. He glanced back. They were nowhere to be seen. h.e.l.l! They'd already made it to the great hall. He'd have to go after them while Donovan held their position, take them down, and then get back to help the policeman with the mopping up. He stood and turned quickly, directly into the swinging fist of another of the moss men. The blow caught him hard across the jaw, snapping his head back and lifting him three feet into the air, sending him sprawling backward, careening into another gla.s.s display case that shattered beneath the impact.

The Ghost fell to the floor amongst a shower of shimmering fragments. Bleeding and almost senseless from the blow, he spat blood, shook his head to try to clear the fogginess. The huge golem was looming over him again, raising its fist. He rolled, just in time, as the fist slammed down against the marble floor, narrowly missing his head. Three inches closer and his face would have been a b.l.o.o.d.y pulp, spread across the floor.

The Ghost kicked out his legs, flicking himself up onto his feet. The other fist came around, lower this time, catching him in the guts, causing him to double over. Blood and vomit spewed involuntarily from his lips. He couldn't breathe, but was aware of the sound of bullets yipping all around him as the firefight continued unabated. He toppled sideways. Stars were dancing before his eyes. No. No! He couldn't stop now. He wouldn't give in. It wouldn't end here. He gasped for air, steadied himself.

More gunfire. He looked up. Donovan was standing beside him, his arms fully outstretched, firing shot after shot into the moss man's blank, green face. The only effect was to momentarily distract the lumbering monster, but it was long enough for the Ghost to raise his arm and squeeze the trigger of his flechette gun.

The moss man barely seemed to register the tiny, dull thuds of the explosive shots as they buried themselves in its waist. The Ghost didn't have time to get out of the way, but he called out to Donovan: "Get down!"

The golem exploded in close proximity to the Ghost, its midriff blowing open, scattering its mechanical innards all around him, pattering down on him as he covered his face in the crook of his arm. The ma.s.sive body fell backward, crunching the last remains of the gla.s.s cabinet as it collapsed to the floor, a heap of damp clay and mangled skeletal frame.

The Ghost didn't have time to breathe a sigh of relief. The remaining mobsters were circling closer, readying their guns. Donovan was still taking potshots at them, causing them to duck behind the nearby cover. But they both knew they were running out of time.

The Ghost looked up. High above, the plaster ceiling was molded into thick, white ribs of architrave. He took a measure of the remaining mobsters: four of them, one to the left, three in a huddle behind the ruins of a display case. He hefted the barrel of his flechette gun, pointing it toward the ceiling. Then he squeezed the trigger, closing his eyes, hoping beyond hope that he was within range. He waited for the sound of the tiny blades striking home in the plasterwork, but it never came, lost beneath the sounds of tommy guns chattering and bullets clanging off the walls. He rolled, throwing himself out of the way of the mobsters' deadly projectiles.