"One of the cardinals pulled a few strings with a security company that works for the Banca di Roma."
She looked up, just as Hellboy had moments ago, an instinctive impulse now that she knew the next couple of minutes might turn into a kill-or-be-killed situation. Fry-or-be-fried.
Abe latched the enormous cuff over Hellboy's wrist.
As they started for the exit, she took one last look behind her, not without regret. It had nothing to do with the danger. Join the BPRD, travel the world, visit interesting places, she thought. And bug out again before you've actually had a chance to see them.
Hellboy was through the doors first, ready to absorb the brunt of another attack in case the seraphs were lying in wait, perched outside on the roof like gargoyles ready to swoop in for the kill. Tough gig, walking point under these circumstances. Fire wouldn't kill him, only hurt like a bitch for a long time. He stood in the open for several moments, tensed and ready for a fight, seeming to dare them to come for him. With his left hand he'd drawn the massive revolver he carried on his hip and, aiming it upward, extended his arm back toward them like a traffic cop's: Wait, just waaaait...
Lingering near the doorway, Liz wondered--in that way one's mind can lock onto small things during tense moments--if he ever broke sweat. She'd known him since late childhood and couldn't think of a single time that she'd seen him sweat.
All clear? So it seemed. Hellboy gave the gun barrel a couple of twitches and the rest of them were on the move, she and Abe rushing out the museum doors--Abe, ever the gentleman, lugging her suitcase--and flanked by a pair of Swiss Guards who stepped up the pace to beat them to the outer gate. Hellboy threw his gun arm around her shoulders and she felt herself yanked off her feet, puppet girl, boot tips skimming the ground in abnormally long strides as though she were on the surface of the moon.
The North Gate swung open before them and they dashed through onto the sidewalk along the Viale Vaticano--into another land, literally, the traffic and tumult of Rome so much louder now that they were on the other side of the wall. On the street sat the armored car, rumbling and grumbling like a small tank. They made straight for the back end, where a dark-skinned security guard stood in a uniform and jacket and beret, a machine pistol slung from a shoulder strap. He swung the doors open and motioned them in.
The skies were clear in the chilly autumn night, and she found it hard to look away. If they came, she feared they would come not like doves but like missiles.
She was inside the armored car then, a cross between an ambulance and a bank vault, Hellboy practically tossing her in the way men in cartoons pitch noisy cats out the door in the middle of the night, and then Abe was right behind her, with H.B. bringing up the rear, the titanium case bouncing at the end of its chain as if it were no more to him than a trinket on a charm bracelet, and the guard was pushing the doors closed and Hellboy turned and pulled them the rest of the way, two bone-rattling impacts and a sequence of sharp metallic clacks as he engaged the locks.
And they were in. Safe.
He stood framed by the doorway, staring at her peering behind him.
"What are you looking at?" he asked.
"Just making sure you cleared your tail," she said, and burst into laughter that was more relief than anything. "Because if you didn't, I don't think you'd even realize."
A moment later they heard and felt the slam of the front side door as the guard jumped back in the cab, and the armored car surged forward into traffic they couldn't see.
"So what's the plan here?" she asked once they were settled into the seats. "I feel like I'm in a hazing. You guys have grabbed me up but I don't know where I'm going."
While they'd been waiting in the museum lobby, Kate Corrigan had already filled her in on the Masada Scroll, so she'd been apprised of that much. And that the end
She looked up, just as Hellboy had moments ago, an instinctive impulse now that she knew the next couple of minutes might turn into a kill-or-be-killed situation. Fry-or-be-fried.
Abe latched the enormous cuff over Hellboy's wrist.
As they started for the exit, she took one last look behind her, not without regret. It had nothing to do with the danger. Join the BPRD, travel the world, visit interesting places, she thought. And bug out again before you've actually had a chance to see them.
Hellboy was through the doors first, ready to absorb the brunt of another attack in case the seraphs were lying in wait, perched outside on the roof like gargoyles ready to swoop in for the kill. Tough gig, walking point under these circumstances. Fire wouldn't kill him, only hurt like a bitch for a long time. He stood in the open for several moments, tensed and ready for a fight, seeming to dare them to come for him. With his left hand he'd drawn the massive revolver he carried on his hip and, aiming it upward, extended his arm back toward them like a traffic cop's: Wait, just waaaait...
Lingering near the doorway, Liz wondered--in that way one's mind can lock onto small things during tense moments--if he ever broke sweat. She'd known him since late childhood and couldn't think of a single time that she'd seen him sweat.
All clear? So it seemed. Hellboy gave the gun barrel a couple of twitches and the rest of them were on the move, she and Abe rushing out the museum doors--Abe, ever the gentleman, lugging her suitcase--and flanked by a pair of Swiss Guards who stepped up the pace to beat them to the outer gate. Hellboy threw his gun arm around her shoulders and she felt herself yanked off her feet, puppet girl, boot tips skimming the ground in abnormally long strides as though she were on the surface of the moon.
The North Gate swung open before them and they dashed through onto the sidewalk along the Viale Vaticano--into another land, literally, the traffic and tumult of Rome so much louder now that they were on the other side of the wall. On the street sat the armored car, rumbling and grumbling like a small tank. They made straight for the back end, where a dark-skinned security guard stood in a uniform and jacket and beret, a machine pistol slung from a shoulder strap. He swung the doors open and motioned them in.
The skies were clear in the chilly autumn night, and she found it hard to look away. If they came, she feared they would come not like doves but like missiles.
She was inside the armored car then, a cross between an ambulance and a bank vault, Hellboy practically tossing her in the way men in cartoons pitch noisy cats out the door in the middle of the night, and then Abe was right behind her, with H.B. bringing up the rear, the titanium case bouncing at the end of its chain as if it were no more to him than a trinket on a charm bracelet, and the guard was pushing the doors closed and Hellboy turned and pulled them the rest of the way, two bone-rattling impacts and a sequence of sharp metallic clacks as he engaged the locks.
And they were in. Safe.
He stood framed by the doorway, staring at her peering behind him.
"What are you looking at?" he asked.
"Just making sure you cleared your tail," she said, and burst into laughter that was more relief than anything. "Because if you didn't, I don't think you'd even realize."
A moment later they heard and felt the slam of the front side door as the guard jumped back in the cab, and the armored car surged forward into traffic they couldn't see.
"So what's the plan here?" she asked once they were settled into the seats. "I feel like I'm in a hazing. You guys have grabbed me up but I don't know where I'm going."
While they'd been waiting in the museum lobby, Kate Corrigan had already filled her in on the Masada Scroll, so she'd been apprised of that much. And that the end
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