The booming of gunfire intertwined with the ongoing rumbling of thunder.
Bullets knocked off a few blond hairs and had gouged large holes about the size of fists into the wall that Hugue had stood in front of before he dove to the side. From this distance, a gun absolutely had an advantage over a sword. Flinging open an iron door by pushing it with his shoulder, Hugue rolled inside,
"Wait, Watteau," said Tres.
Hugue heard the monotone voice behind him, but he didn't turn around. After cutting off the knob so the iron door couldn't be opened from the outside, he ran up the emergency stairs. Gunslinger wouldn't need much time to force an iron door open, after all—but Hugue aimed to get to the surface in that short period of time. To his surprise, gunfire didn't assault him from behind as he'd predicted—or had Tres forfeited the pursuit? With a flurry of disappointing thoughts swirling in his mind, Hugue ran up the stairs. Bisecting a locked iron door with a swish of his sword, he kicked it down and jumped through. His sword still drawn, he turned around to counterattack his pursuer, but there was no sign that Tres was running up the stairs.
"Did he give up?" asked Hugue, peering through the iron door and slowly stepping backward. Beyond the narrow corridor, there was a gray door with a sign that seemed to indicate it was an emergency exit, and the area outside the police station extended beyond that door. Still walking backward, Hugue carefully made his way toward the exit, but an unexpected shot pierced the wall right next to him. If the timing of his jump had been a half-second off, the shot would've blown off the lower half of his body. The bullets that grazed his pant leg gouged large holes in the opposite wall.
"Through the wall?" said Hugue, clicking his tongue. He twisted his body in the air and assumed a strike posture. Before he landed, he thrust his sword toward the wall, forcefully plunging through its thin layers. Picking up a faint signal through the wall, Hugue set his target and thrust his sword into the wall again—but this time, a spray of bullets hurled back at him.
"Ugh!" Hugue moaned as at least one of the bullets grazed the right side of his head. The 512 Maxima rounds' shockwave rivaled the punch of a pro boxer and could kill an elephant instantly. The vision in his right eye blurry, Hugue literally had to grind his teeth to avoid losing consciousness. Once again assuming the strike position, he plunged his sword into the wall a third time.
A monotone voice addressed Hugue through the wall: "Hugue de Watteau," said Tres, "the Duchess of Milan cares about your safety. Return quietly to Rome now. If you resist more than this, I won't be able to avoid shooting you to death."
His cheek illuminated by a red laser light helming through a hole in the wall, Hugue twisted his face as if he were mocking himself. All of his senses—not only his sight—had sharpened, allowing him to accurately pinpoint his enemy's location. If he thrust his sword, he easily could pierce through Tres' chest. He should've been dead from a bullet between the eyes, but the swordsman couldn't lower his sword. He'd always told himself that those who live by the sword, die by the sword.
"I told you, Gunslinger," said Hugue, "I have no place to return to. If you want to stop me, kill me." Wearing a conflicted expression that revealed both his elation and fear, Hugue gripped his sword as tightly as he could. Hearing the dry sound of a gun hammer lifting on the other side of the wall, he flexed every muscle in his body, unleashing a full-strength blow toward the other side.
"Hugue de Watteau!" shouted Luciano.
The grating voice, muffled by blood, halted the swordsman's swing. As he turned around, Hugue caught sight of a huge shadow looming down the corridor. "Luciano?" he gasped as his eyes opened wide in astonishment. He's alive . . .
The assassin's blood-smeared face contorted fiendishly. The gaping holes gashed into his stomach by gunfire appeared to be fatal, but that wasn't what made Hugue shudder—it was the cylindrical object the howling giant was carrying on his shoulder.
"Grenade launcher—uh-oh!" Hugue exclaimed, knowing there was nowhere to run from a grenade explosion in that narrow corridor.
Luciano roared with laughter at the swordsman who seemed to have gone blank. "Die!"
Suddenly, Tres' low, sharp voice shouted through the wall: "Don't move that sword, Sword Dancer!"
There was no time to turn around. The bullets that flew from beyond the wall caught Hugue's sword from the side. The monomolecular crystal sword withstood the direct hit, deflecting the bullets and causing them to ricochet. The bullets reversed direction down the corridor, disappearing as though they had been absorbed back into the gun muzzle of the grenade launcher.
"Ah?" That one stupid word became Luciano's last. With its explosive force and fragments, the grenade blast turned his body into mincemeat.
The strength of the unearthly wind blew Hugue's body back into the emergency door he'd aimed for earlier. Pushing the door down with his shoulder, he tumbled outside onto the rain-soaked stone pavement. "Ugh—oof!"
His ears still ringing from the blast, Hugue raised his blood-and mud-smeared face with no knowledge of how much time had passed. It was dark outside, but he couldn't figure out if the white fog hanging before his eyes was smoke or if his eyes had been scratched and he was losing his sight.
As the swordsman tried to regain consciousness by shaking his head, an unsympathetic voice spoke over his head. "Hugue de Watteau, you're under arrest," said Tres. As Hugue peered through blurry eyes, he made out the face of his grim-looking former comrade staring down at him. "You've already used all your battle strength. Accompany me to Rome."
Tres knelt beside Hugue, who was still on the ground. After putting his own cassock over Hugue's uniform, which had been tattered by the explosion, Tres flung the swordsman over his shoulder with ease. As he was about to walk off, the mechanical soldier continued in a flat voice, "Concerning Count Four and the old church incident in Amsterdam—the Duchess of Milan plans to take special measures. There's no need for you to settle everything alone."
His vision was still clouded, but Hugue tried to study Tres's profile. The mechanical soldier had no expression—he lacked any such function. Perhaps it was only the annoying ringing in his ears, but Hugue's conscience seemed to be sending him faint feelings of pity toward his captor.
"Hugue!" yelled George from across the road, interrupting Hugue's thoughts as he was about to address his former comrade. At the same time, a bullet had fired, hitting Tres directly in the leg as he was carrying Hugue.
Tres' body—his right thigh pierced by a large-caliber round—wobbled severely. His balancers activated, trying to correct the machine's posture, but a second bullet fired, hitting him directly in the left thigh. This time, it exceeded the balancers' allowable range. As soon as he let go of Hugue's arm, the mechanical soldier stumbled and staggered.
Meanwhile, the young man grasping the handlebars of a motorbike raced along, calling again to Hugue who had been liberated: "Are you all right, Hugue? Get in!"
"Roddenbach!" exclaimed Hugue, noticing that George held a rifle in one hand.
After the young prosecutor threw away the rifle, he held out a hand to the swordsman. "What are you doing? Hurry and get on!"
"Wait, Hugue de Watteau," Tres said, desperately trying to move his wounded legs and correct his posture. Extending his hand to Hugue, he said, "I have to take you to the Duchess of Milan."
As he took one step back from the wounded mechanical soldier, Hugue shook his head. "Sorry." Grabbing hold of Roddenbach's hand, he said goodbye once more. "Sorry, Father Tres."
"Wait, Watteau!" shouted Tres.
Although the mechanical soldier's fingers grazed Hugue's sleeve momentarily, the motorbike carrying Sword Dancer sped down the stone pavement.
✦ ✦ ✦
"A report has come in from Father Tres—he failed to arrest Sword Dancer," the hologram of the nun with the mole under her eye reported to her mistress with a troubled expression. "Tres is asking for permission to continue following him, but . . . What shall we do, Caterina?"
"Have Father Tres temporarily suspend pursuit and return to Rome," Caterina ordered without raising her eyes from the report she'd been reading for quite a while. "There's no time to deal with Sword Dancer now. A serious problem has arisen in Barcelona."
"In Barcelona? Oh no! Has anything happened to Abel or Noelle?" asked Kate, referring to the comrade who'd gone to Catalonia to settle the Neverland Island incident that had occurred last month. She was certain that the retired agent mistress would be following up with Abel in Barcelona. It wouldn't be that strange if Noelle were there . . .
Caterina didn't appear to be feeling very well upon closing the report. Holding her small clenched fist to her mouth, she said, "Last night, the entire city of Barcelona was destroyed. It seems that Sister Noelle is probably dead."
"Wh-what?" Kate was taken aback, unaware that her hologram had wavered noticeably. What does she mean, "the entire city was destroyed"? What in the world happened to Noelle and Abel?
"I'll go now to report to the Cardinals' College. Sister Kate, you confirm the situation in Barcelona. Gypsy Queen should be in Sevilla, right? Have her sent there immediately. Also, commence the procedure to get Dandelion out of his cage," said Caterina. After the Iron Woman crisply delivered orders to the nun, she picked up her outer garment. There was no time left before the Cardinals' College emergency session. With her cardinal's cane in hand, she left the room.
"U-um, Caterina!" shouted Kate in effort to call back Caterina. "What should we do about Hugue? If I recall Tres, some other personnel — '
Caterina shook her head at Kate's question, which seemed to plead for mercy. "There's no need for that." Perhaps because she thought her answer hadn't provided sufficient explanation, she quietly added, "I will divest Hugue de Watteau of his priesthood today. He . . ." Her voice was sweet, but her eyes flashed with the strength of steel. The Iron Woman softly but decisively announced to the frightened nun, "I'm cutting him loose."