Warhol's Prophecy

119

GUNFIRE.

Screams.

Sounds welded together to form one monstrous cacophony.

Hailey’s eyes bulged madly in their sockets as she saw her child and her husband shot down.

She could hear screams, but she was barely aware they were hers. And yet they rose like the gunsmoke – screams torn raw from the base of her spine.

Screams of complete abject devastation.

She was still screaming as she pumped the trigger of the Steyr.

Once. Twice. Three times. More.

The recoil was massive.

The pistol slammed back against the heel of her hand. The muzzle-flash blinded her. Pieces of lead and fragments of carbon flew out. Some struck her cheeks. The spent cartridge cases spun into the air and bounced off the floor.

The first bullet missed.

The second caught Walker in the chest.

It tore through his lung, erupted from his back, and sent him toppling.

The third hit him in the left forearm, shattered bone, caused him to drop the Scorpion.

The fourth hit him in the thigh.

Severed the femoral artery.

Massive gouts of blood began to spurt high into the air as he hit the floor. Some of the crimson fluid struck Hailey in the face, but she continued to advance. Continued to pump the trigger.

From such close range it was difficult to miss.

Another hit him in the stomach.

Green bile mingled with the dark blood as his spleen and gall bladder were lacerated by a high-calibre slug travelling at over 1,500 feet a second.

He was lying on his back, the Sig still gripped in his right hand.

Hailey stopped firing.

She stood over him. Between the bodies of her husband and her child.

She knew there was no point checking to see if they were still alive.

Was there?

Do you believe in miracles?

Her hearing was practically gone. It felt as if she’d been struck repeatedly with a hammer.

Numbness.

Her throat was dry. Clogged, like her nostrils, with the stench of cordite and gunpowder.

And blood.

Her husband’s blood.

Her daughter’s blood.

Walker was smiling slightly, blood dribbling over his lips.

He was trying to speak, but the effort seemed too great.

Somewhere in the distance Hailey heard sirens. Drawing closer.

‘Tell them,’ Walker managed to gasp, and the effort caused him to vomit. Bloodied matter gushed from his mouth as he coughed. ‘Tell them who did this.’

Hailey moved like an automaton, eyes blank, movements mechanical.

She picked up the Scorpion and wiped the butt and frame.

Then she did the same with the MP5.

Walker watched in bemusement.

She wrenched the Sig from his hand and did the same.

Then, as he watched, she gripped each of the weapons in her own hands.

She held each to her breast for fleeting seconds, as if it were some kind of suckling child. Then she dropped each on the table behind her.

The sirens were really loud now.

Hailey knelt close to him. Between the bodies of her husband and her daughter.

‘My witness,’ he gasped, the smile fading slightly. ‘Tell . . . who . . . did this.’

Hailey spun the Steyr in her fist, pushed the barrel up under her chin.

Why live?

If Walker had possessed the strength, he would have tried to stop her.

She fired.

Blew the top of her own head off.

‘No,’ Walker gasped.

Hailey’s body fell sideways, across that of Becky.

The sirens were even closer.

Walker heard urgent footsteps rumbling through the hotel, towards the dining room. Voices were raised. Shouts heard.

He saw uniformed men.

He raised a hand – but barely an inch.

Blood was still jetting madly from the wound in his thigh, but now even that was beginning to abate.

His heart was stopping.

He felt so cold.

And afraid.

He closed his eyes . . .