Whether the pilot heard or not, the helicopter plummeted earthward. Even Mara gasped at the abruptness of the drop—then its skids slammed into the grass.
Jason yanked off his headphones. “Everybody out.”
They piled from the craft, with Carly practically climbing over Mara to escape. Phone in hand, Jason led the way down a row of tombs and graves. The pilot remained with his aircraft, ready to lift them to safety if they could secure her device.
Which was a big if.
Without any means of communicating, there was no telling if Commander Pierce and the others had been successful in their mission. The plan was to proceed to the entrance to the catacombs and wait, to be ready in case the others returned with the prize, then use the helicopter to get away. They dared not wait anywhere else. Every minute could mean the difference between stopping the cyberattack or total destruction.
They hurried through the smoky graveyard. Ash rained all around them, igniting new fires across the cemetery, fanned to life by their hurried arrival. Mara held an arm across her mouth and nose. Still, the heat burned her lungs, the smoke blurred her eyes.
Jason finally gasped out, “That must be the spot.”
They rushed toward a crumbling limestone mausoleum with a rusted door that stood partly ajar. As they neared it, the door suddenly shoved the rest of the way open.
Startled, they all fell back a step.
A lone figure ducked through the opening and stumbled into view. He pulled off a set of bug-eyed night-vision goggles and looked equally surprised to see his welcoming committee.
“Simon?” Jason said.
Mara lunged toward Orange’s cybersecurity chief. “Did . . . did Commander Pierce find anything down there?”
Simon nodded. “I think so. Someone was definitely there.”
The Crucible?
Mara shared a concerned look with Jason.
“And what happened?” Carly asked, still hugging the case in one arm.
Simon shook his head and glanced back to the mausoleum. “Je n’en suis pas s?r. They sent me away.”
Mara stared toward the crypt’s dark mouth.
Then what the hell is happening down there?
1:55 A.M.
Far beneath the cemetery, Gray stopped at a crossroads in the tunnels. This section of the catacombs had been flooded long ago as rainwater pooled in these lowermost levels. The ice-cold water reached his knees.
He shone his UV light ahead and studied the three branching tunnels through his night-vision goggles. Which way did those bastards go?
He pointed his beam in each direction. The waters pooled in the passages to the right and ahead were pristine, clear enough to see the bones littering the limestone floor. But the waters flooding the left tunnel were milky with disturbed silt.
As good as footprints in mud.
Gray pointed that way and set off again, wading quickly, trying to follow as silently as possible. The watery path wound through several more turns before leading him out of the drowned corridors and back to dry passageways. He paused under what passed as a skylight down here, one of the smooth-walled shafts that led up to a distant manhole cover. The firelight piercing the steel grate shone brighter as the fires of Paris worsened, reminding Gray he needed to hurry.
Under that fiery light, he examined the sets of wet prints on the floor. There were three distinct tread patterns to the boots. Gray straightened. The fleeing pair must have collected another one of their men on the way out.
He set off again, watching the damp prints grow drier and fade away. He was forced to slow, to waste time at cross tunnels, searching the dust for clues.
Then finally he heard an echo of tromping feet, furtive whispers.
Heedless of the danger, knowing he dare not lose the others, he rushed in that direction. Around a corner, he came upon a tableaux, brightly lit by flashlights affixed to weapons. Thirty yards down the next tunnel, a trio clustered at the base of a wooden ladder leading up into another of those shafts. The scrawniest of the group had already mounted the rungs, the box frame with the device lashed over one shoulder.
Unfortunately, the giant noted Gray’s arrival, either spotting the shift of shadows or hearing some telltale scuff of his boot. He swung his weapon at Gray. Even more than the threat, the painful flare of light into his sensitive goggles drove Gray around the corner. He ripped away the goggles, dropped low, and peered back around, blinking away the retinal burn as he pointed his SIG.
The giant had already shoved the smaller man up into the shaft, then followed behind. Gray fired twice, but the man leaped up, his legs vanishing into the low roof in a single bound.
The lone gunman who was left in the tunnel returned Gray’s volley, strafing the passageway, forcing him back.
Kowalski huffed and stepped over Gray. Carrying his bullpup one-handed, he shoved his arm around the corner and blindly returned fire. The chattering roar of his weapon in full-automatic mode deafened as Kowalski emptied his entire fifty rounds down the passageway in less than four seconds.
Knowing nothing could survive that barrage, Gray burst out of hiding and ran headlong down the tunnel. Ignoring the dead gunman, he sprinted for the ladder. He estimated the shaft had to stretch forty to fifty yards.
In other words, a long climb.
He sprinted, knowing he needed to close the distance and get into close quarters.
Before that bastard risked using—
A sharp blast cut off this thought.
A grenade shot out of the shaft and ricocheted off the floor.
Gray skidded and backpedaled—but knew he could not get out of the way in time.
2:04 A.M.
Past the end of the ladder, Todor hung from an iron rung pounded into the limestone. With his other arm, he shielded his eyes as the grenade burst below. With a thunderous roar, a blinding blast wave of white fire swept his position.
Blessed by God, he did not feel any of its searing heat, nor the burn of his flesh as his pants caught fire. Instead, he held his breath, worried more about the toxic smoke billowing up from the grenade.
His weapon’s launcher was a single-shot breech-loader, capable of firing one grenade at a time. He regretted wasting the high-explosive shell earlier. He had intended to use it to destroy the computer gear abandoned at their camp in the catacombs. Instead, he had reacted instinctively, firing at the intruders, both to protect Mendoza with his precious cargo and to eliminate the enemy. Afterward, with no time to reload, he drove Mendoza onward, choosing a quick evacuation instead.
Still, while marching to their exit, he had slapped in a new grenade, choosing a white phosphorus round this time. Such a shell in close quarters was far more effective at discouraging an enemy. Between its lung-scarring smoke and scatter of white phosphorus particles—specks that would continue to burn, melting flesh down to the bone—such a blast would kill anything near it and contaminate surfaces for hours, making them impassable.
Todor finally lowered his arm as the flash of light subsided. He patted the flames from his clothes and scaled the remaining rungs, which led up the shaft like a row of iron staples.
Wrapped in toxic smoke, he continued to hold his breath as he climbed. Before firing his weapon, he had managed to ascend a quarter way up the shaft. The distance and the ricocheting bounce of the grenade had deflected the worst of the blast. Once he reached the evac helicopter, he would shed his clothes and smother any phosphorus particles that reached his skin.
Above his head, the manhole cover had been removed.
Mendoza tumbled out of the smoky shaft and vanished.
Todor soon joined him, taking deep breaths after retreating several steps. The air still choked with smoke, but only from the fires ravaging Paris, not from the chemical inferno below.
Todor searched around. They had emerged near the north end of the cemetery. A helicopter sat on the road that cut through the tombs and crypts. One of the evac team helped Mendoza, who coughed and choked, toward the spinning blades of the aircraft.
Todor hurried after them.
Another teammate came forward, ready to offer him assistance, but the man’s eyes widened with shock at Todor’s blistered face, at the smoke wafting from his scorched clothes, from his burnt hair. He knew he must look like some fiery demon freshly ascended from hell, but he also knew the truth—so he did not hide his smoldering glory.
I am a soldier of God.
He glanced back toward the smoking hole. While he did not know who had pursued them in the catacombs, the hunters clearly had military training. Still, the enemy’s cause was not righteous and just.
Firm with this certainty, he turned his back and headed to the helicopter.
God will not save you.
2:12 A.M.
Kowalski shoved Gray underwater.
Again.