As missions went, this one was pretty tame, but even so, allowing Fiona to accompany him and get her feet wet had been a tough decision for Pierce. She was an adult now, in both the legal and literal sense of the word. Old enough to vote and enlist in the military, old enough, as she all too often reminded him, to make long-term life decisions for herself. Nevertheless, she was still young and immature, and more importantly, she was Pierce’s responsibility, which meant that if anything happened to her—if she was caught and arrested, or God forbid, injured—it would be on his head. The fear of what might go wrong hadn’t been enough for him to leave her behind, though, especially since she was eager to take on greater responsibility. But that did not mean Pierce would throw all caution to the wind.
Some discreet inquiries had revealed that the museum utilized only one watchman for the night shift. He walked the galleries and manned a security station at the locked front entrance. Because there was no way to completely eliminate the possibility that the guard might stumble upon them, they had rehearsed several egress routes. The escape plan hinged on giving the guard two targets to pursue, each going in a different direction. Pierce, however, had not told Fiona the whole plan—specifically, his part of the plan. After splitting up, it was his intention to draw the guard after him, to give Fiona the best possible chance for a clean getaway. Unfortunately, he was the one with the Phaistos Disc, which meant that if he was caught, there would be hell to pay.
He definitely had the watchman’s full attention. The man cursed loudly as he collided with a display case, rattling pieces of three-thousand-year-old pottery off their shelves, but he managed to keep his flashlight trained in Pierce’s general direction. Pierce moved along the wall of the gallery, toward the opening in the corner that led to another room, but he didn’t turn and run until he was certain the guard would follow.
The next room contained artifacts from other major Minoan palace sites, but Pierce kept his focus on the spaces where there were no relics on display. There was an arched opening to his left, and the archway ahead led to the gallery where treasures from the Stone Age were exhibited. Beyond that room lay the entry foyer and one possible exit from the museum.
He glanced back and glimpsed the dancing beam of the watchman’s flashlight only ten steps away.
Okay, maybe this part of the plan is working a little too well, Pierce thought, returning his gaze forward. No more fooling around.
He flicked off his light and sprinted toward the lobby. The museum was not pitch black, but the abrupt absence of illumination from the MagTac made it seem that way. Pierce knew that there were no obstacles ahead but he had to fight an almost primitive urge to slow down and grope in the darkness like a blind man.
Once he reached the relative openness of the lobby, he hooked left, away from the main entrance, which was too close to Fiona’s exit. He darted through another gallery full of Minoan antiquities, making a beeline for the stairwell on the other side of the room.
He risked a glance back as he veered toward the stairs and saw that his lead on the security guard had shrunk to just a few steps.
This isn’t working, he thought. Change of plans.
As he ducked into the stairwell, Pierce grasped the central handrail and vaulted over it like an Olympic gymnast. He felt an abrupt strain in his forearm as his forward momentum stretched the limb, but then like the business end of a bullwhip, he was flung around 180 degrees, right into the path of the watchman.
At the instant of collision, Pierce curled into a fetal ball, protecting his head and vital organs. His shoulder caught the unsuspecting guard squarely in the chest, and the man was driven back as if hit by a wrecking ball. The impact sent Pierce flying as well, but because he was prepared for it, he recovered quickly, regaining his feet and whirling around to mount the stairs.
Beneath the knit weave of his ski-mask, Pierce was grinning like an idiot.
Growing up, he had not exactly struck an ideal balance between intellectual and physical pursuits. While the dream of being a two-fisted adventurer like his hero, Indiana Jones, had set him on the path to a career in archaeology, he had avoided athletic pursuits and focused on academic excellence, which had made him a top-notch professor but a piss-poor action hero.
Fortunately, since taking the directorship of the Herculean Society, he had been working to correct that deficiency, with a regimen of exercise and mixed-martial arts training. It was slow going, but evidently it was possible for an old dog to learn a few new tricks.
He bounded up the stairs, shaking out the mild pain in his shoulder. As he rounded the landing, he saw no sign of pursuit. The watchman was either still recovering or knocked out cold. Pierce’s elation faltered a little as he considered the possibility that he might have seriously injured the man.
Nothing you can do about it now, he told himself. Focus on the mission.
The mission.
Burglary and brawling weren’t the only new tricks he’d had to learn since taking on his new role as the leader of the Herculean Society.
As an archaeologist and a historian, he had been committed to advancing the cause of knowledge. Only by learning about the past could mankind chart the course to a better future. Or so he had always believed. But experience had taught him a lesson that no textbook ever could. Some secrets needed to stay buried.