Free The Lost Relic by Scott Mariani

about the exhibition. ‘My wife doesn’t think much of it,’ Marcello said ruefully. ‘But then she always hates everything. Married fifty-two years,’ he added, and Ben wasn’t quite sure whether he meant it with pride or bitterness. With a wave of his hand, Marcello turned towards the door and started making his wobbly way back towards the stairs. Ben asked him if he needed any help, but Marcello assured him he could manage fine, thanks.
    The bathroom was large and plush, with French windows leading out onto its own little balcony with a view of the grounds. Once he was alone, Ben went over to the sink and stripped off his wine-stained shirt. The TYRELL Genetic Replicants T-shirt under it was only slightly wet, and he decided it didn’t need washing.
    He had the shirt bundled under the hot tap and was rubbing the dark red stain out of the material when he heard the first gunshots blasting out from somewhere down below.
    And then came the screams.

Chapter Thirteen
    Ben froze. It took him less than a second to process what he was hearing.
    The sound was unmistakable, one he’d heard many times in the past. It was the harsh snorting rip of 9mm submachine gun fire, and it was coming from the direction of the gallery wing. Two sustained bursts. Then another. More screams. Pandemonium cutting loose among the exhibition guests.
    He wrenched open the bathroom door as he heard more shots reverberate through the building. He glanced left, then right.
    Marcello Peruzzi, the elderly man he’d encountered a moment earlier in the bathroom, had made it as far as the top of the stairs when the shooting started. He was standing there paralysed with shock, a frail hand gripping the banister rail.
    He wasn’t alone. As Ben watched, a pair of men came sprinting up the stairs. From the black ski-masks and the stubby Steyr machine pistols in their fists he guessed they didn’t have invites to the exhibition either.
    One of them slung his weapon behind his back and grabbed Marcello Peruzzi roughly by the arm while the other jabbed the muzzle of his gun at his head. ‘Downstairs with the others, grandpa,’ he snarled in Italian.
    Marcello struggled weakly, protesting, and tried to lash out with his walking stick. The gunman clubbed him hard across the face with the butt of his weapon, twice, beating him down to his knees. He collapsed onto his belly and the second guy let go of his arm as he began convulsing.
    Watching the scene in horror from the shadows of the passage, Ben remembered the heart pills.
    The masked men stared down at Marcello as he folded up in agony on the carpet. ‘He’s having an attack,’ one of them said.
    ‘Fuck him, he’s dead anyway.’ The man pointing the gun casually placed the muzzle against Marcello’s neck and touched off the trigger. A deafening triple-shot burst crackled out across the landing and up the passage. The 9mm bullets ripped into Marcello’s body and his distressed heart stopped for ever.
    Ben recoiled into the bathroom, unseen, and turned the lock.

    Down below, Anatoly and the rest of his team had rounded up the crowd of exhibition guests. The gallery was filled with shouts of rage and frightened screams and the blast of fully-automatic fire as the intruders let off bursts into the ceiling. It was a technique intended for one purpose only – to strike terror into their victims and reduce them into a state of complete helplessness – and it was very effective. The thirty-five or so guests gave no resistance, allowing themselves to be herded like sheep across the gallery, their shoes crunching on the broken glass from shattered overhead lighting. It took under half a minute to shove everyone into the corner of the side room and make them huddle on the floor across from the refreshments table. The white-haired woman in the blue dress was looking around desperately for her husband and wailing loudly in panic. Rocco yelled at her to shut up, and when she kept on wailing Anatoly grabbed