Warhol's Prophecy

112

THERE HAD TO be some way of warning them.

That was Hailey’s only thought as she walked from the car with Adam Walker.

There had to be.

She glanced down once or twice at the small case he carried, shuddering each time she thought about its deadly cargo.

The well-lit façade of the Pavilion Hotel shone like a beacon in the darkness, and she also saw the lights glinting on the bodywork of dozens of cars parked outside. They belonged mostly to guests at the party going on inside. A party that was about to become a bloodbath.

Unless she could stop him.

But how?

He had one of the pistols jammed into his belt on his left hip, hidden from prying eyes by the folds of his jacket. He carried the case in his left hand, too.

They were close to the steps that led up to the main entrance now, and Hailey saw two burly security men standing there.

Tell them? Scream? Shout to them that this man is carrying a gun?

‘If you open your mouth I’ll kill you, and them,’ Walker hissed under his breath, touching the butt of the automatic to reinforce the threat.

‘You’re going to do it anyway,’ she rasped. ‘Why wait?’

‘Just keep walking,’ he instructed.

The security men stepped aside as they saw Hailey and Walker, one of them even ushering the newcomers towards the ballroom.

Walker smiled graciously. They continued on through the foyer.

‘Please don’t do this, Adam,’ Hailey said, her voice cracking.

He didn’t answer.

There were two more security men on the doors that led into the ballroom: big-built men in dark suits.

Hailey showed them her VIP laminate. Walker did the same.

Beyond the doors, she could hear music, talking, laughter.

‘Adam,’ she said, looking straight into his eyes. ‘I’m begging you: don’t do this. My husband and daughter are in there – you know that. Please don’t do this.’

She looked at the security men. Saw Walker’s left hand move towards his left hip.

‘No,’ she gasped.

‘Is something wrong?’ one of the security men asked.

The taller of the two men took a step towards her.

‘No!’ Hailey screamed at the top of her voice.

Walker turned, pulling the Steyr from his belt.

To Hailey it was as if the entire world had slowed down. As if every movement was in slow motion.

She saw Walker pull the Steyr free . . . saw him shoot the taller security guard in the face . . . saw the bullet shatter bone, tear through his skull and explode from the back of his head, carrying away a flux of brain matter and blood.

The guard had barely hit the floor when Walker shot the other man, pumping two bullets into his chest. The first of them shattered his sternum, the second burst one lung and erupted from his back. A huge crimson slick of blood splashed across the wall as the second bullet exited. It looked as if someone had thrown red paint at the brickwork.

The guard slumped to the ground.

Hailey took her chance. She launched herself at Walker, but he saw her clumsy attack too soon.

He slammed the butt of the automatic against her forehead, throwing her backwards through the doors into the ballroom.

Hailey felt pain filling her skull. Unconsciousness began to envelop her.

Pushing open the doors, he stepped past her, opening the case with the guns inside.

Through a haze of pain, Hailey saw him pull the MP5 free. She saw him slam in one of the magazines.

The Steyr in one hand, the sub-machine-gun in the other, he stood gazing at the throng of people before him.

For what seemed like an eternity, no one moved.

Every pair of eyes in the place was fixed on Walker.

And on the weapons he held.

The silence was unearthly.

Then, as if a switch had been thrown, everything began moving again.

From somewhere inside the ballroom there came a scream.

Walker opened fire.