Ghosts of Manhattan by George Mann

position; see his friend, Olsen, with a hole in his skull the size of a human fist, his tin helmet spinning on the ground like a dropped coin. He took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut. When he peeled them open again, the moment had passed. But Johnny Franco was lying on the ground, dead, a bullet through his heart, and everyone was screaming.
    Gabriel leapt into action. He whipped his weapon out from his pocket and swung it round, drawing a bead on the nearest goon. Almost without thinking about it he squeezed the trigger and let off a shot, which whistled with deadly accuracy, catching the mobster in the temple and spattering brain matter across the wall. The man's body slumped in a heap on the tiles, and Gabriel didn't wait to see how his comrades would react. He turned and ran for the stage, dimly aware of the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire chewing up the bar in his wake.
    Celeste was staring at him in blunt shock. "You ... you-"
    Gabriel grabbed her by the shoulder. "Get down!" The command was uncompromising, and she did as he said, dropping to the stage just as the whole place ignited in a storm of bullets. Gabriel hit the wooden boards beside her and then rolled, keeping his weapon pointed at the intruders. He wasn't about to let them take Celeste, whatever the reason.
    The thin man with the scarred ear had disappeared, and now the two hulking giants were lumbering forward, slapping people out of the way in an attempt to get through to Johnny Franco's guys, who were showering them with bullets, to little or no effect. Relentless, the looming figures stomped forward in the dimly lit bar, single-minded, resolute.

    The other goon, the one who had originally fired the warning shot when they'd first stormed the club, was coming after Gabriel and Celeste. And behind him, Gabriel could see more of them flooding down the staircase, blindly firing their guns into the sea of seething shadows; the clientele of the club, desperately trying to escape. It was turning into a massacre.
    Gabriel raised his head just enough to squeeze off a shot, but his aim was wide and he missed the goon. A moment later the mobster replied with a spray from a submachine gun, which he was wearing on a strap around his neck. The glass panels behind Gabriel and Celeste exploded in a hail of colored fragments, and Gabriel felt glass embed itself in his back. He gasped with pain. But it was better than a bullet. He glanced at Celeste and then rolled again, crunching broken glass as he moved to the other side of the stage, coming up on one elbow and letting off another shot from his revolver. This time he caught the man in the throat, and the goon's head snapped back as his larynx was ripped out in a gobbet of soft flesh. Blood fountained into the air as he went down, his finger still depressed on the trigger of the tommy gun, spraying the floor with hot lead.
    Gabriel didn't waste any time. He scrambled to his feet and darted over to where Celeste was still lying on her belly, her hands covering her head. Blood was streaming down his face from cuts caused by the glass shards. He wiped it away from his eyes, looking back at the stairs. There was no chance they were getting out that way, and what was more, the second wave of goons had now divided, half of them rounding on Johnny Franco's men, who were still putting up an extraordinary fight, and half of them heading in Gabriel's direction. He had bullets, but he knew he'd never be able to hold off six or seven armed men. He turned to Celeste, raising his voice over the clamor of the blazing guns and the screaming. "Is there another way out of this place?"
    Celeste looked at him, her eyes wide with shock.

    "Celeste! Listen to me! Is there another way out of here?"
    She nodded weakly. "Under the stage. We have to get under the stage!"
    Gabriel gave a curt nod and then squeezed off another three shots, trying to buy them some time. One of them struck home, burying itself in the shoulder of one of the men, who