His partner pressed him to the limestone floor of the flooded tunnel and patted his clothes with his huge mitt, forcing out every bubble trapped in his clothes. Any residual air could rekindle the phosphorus particles in Gray’s clothing or skin. They had learned this lesson the hard way after the first dunking, when the burning across Gray’s back had reignited.
Kowalski held him down with a palm and went after Gray’s belt next.
He batted his arms away and sputtered up out of the water. “I got it from here.”
Gray stood and stripped off his pants. Standing in soaked boxers, he shoved back into his boots. He had already shed his outer jacket, which lay in the corridor, smoldering and flaming brightly in spots where white phosphorus still glowed.
Kowalski looked his body up and down, clearly prepared to dunk him again. “Anything burning?”
Only my pride.
“Nothing that can’t wait,” Gray said instead.
He had been lucky to survive. When the shell first blew, he had flung himself around, sprawling facedown on the floor. He expected to be killed by the blast, but then there was a blinding flash of light, thick billowing smoke. A rain of burning particles pelted his entire backside.
He had instinctively held his breath, but then came the searing pain, unlike anything he felt before. He blacked out for several seconds, only to find Kowalski dragging him by the back of his jacket, hauling him to water to douse the fire.
Knowing that his partner’s quick thinking had saved his life, Gray reached over and gave Kowalski’s arm a grateful squeeze. “Thanks.”
The big man shrugged. At some point, he had found the time to shove a cold cigar in his mouth. He turned away and lit the stogie off Gray’s abandoned jacket. “What now?”
Gray stared toward the distant glow marking the grenade blast several tunnels away, where white phosphorus still burned. Even this far away, the air stank with an acrid hint of garlic from the chemical smoke, warning them away.
He waved Kowalski in the other direction. “We’re not done with those bastards yet.”
“We’re not?” Kowalski complained. “They surely bugged out of here by now.”
Maybe, but until I know for sure . . .
He led Kowalski away.
His partner puffed on his cigar. “Where the hell are we going?”
Gray returned and stood under the shaft they had stopped at earlier, when he had inspected the damp boot prints of his quarry. He craned his neck, feeling a couple phosphorus particles burning at his nape as his skin dried. He inspected those sheer walls. There was no ladder here. Still, he pointed up.
“That way,” he said.
“That way? You’re nuts.”
Gray demonstrated. With the tunnel roof only inches above his head, he leaped high, pinioned his arms across the shaft, and tucked his legs up. He then planted his boots against the far wall and his back against the other. Straddled across the shaft, he employed a technique called chimneying to climb. Shimmying his back, then his legs, he quickly scaled his way upward.
Kowalski grumbled, but followed, his large bulk filling the well below.
Gray finally reached the manhole cover. He braced himself tightly below it, then pushed his palms against the underside of the steel lid. He grimaced at its weight, slipping frighteningly for a breath. But it finally moved. He lifted and walked it aside, enough for him to squeeze up and out.
He rolled free with a heavy sigh of relief, then helped Kowalski out, which was like pulling a bull out of a bog. Once they were both on their feet, Gray searched the cemetery. Fires blazed all around, but so far, the surrounding walls continued to hold the worst of the massive conflagration outside, where it roared in fiery frustration.
Still, the heat was oven-hot in here, the air choking with smoke.
Movement caught Gray’s attention to the north.
A helicopter rose near the cemetery gate, sweeping up through swirling clouds of smoke and flaming ash.
That’s gotta be them.
“We’re too late.” Gray balled a fist and bit back a curse.
“Maybe not.” Kowalski turned Gray by the shoulders to face the south.
Half-masked by the swirling smoke, another helicopter sat idling on a patch of grass, its rotors spinning as the pilot kept the engine hot. The aircraft was painted bright yellow with a familiar red cross near its tail assembly.
“What’s an air ambulance doing out here?” he mumbled.
“Maybe dropping off the dead.” Kowalski headed toward it. “Let’s go ask.”
They rushed across the graveyard, weaving past tombs and monuments. Gray reached the helicopter first. He ducked under the spinning blades and pounded on the window. The pilot jumped, startled. The man had been looking the other way, staring toward one of the tombs—only then did Gray recognize the mausoleum, the same one that hid the secret entrance to the catacombs.
He frowned, trying to get his bearings on all of this.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
He pounded again. “Open up!” he yelled.
The pilot showed clear reluctance, plainly shocked by a crazed, half-naked man at his door. Still, Gray knew the chopper’s presence had to bear on the threat in the cemetery. Why else land here?
“I’m Commander Grayson Pierce!” he said, identifying himself.
It didn’t help.
What did was Kowalski coming up behind him and pointing his freshly reloaded bullpup at the cockpit, at the pilot. “Fella said, open up.”
Gray pushed the rifle barrel down. “We just want to talk.”
The pilot didn’t open the door, but he did slide open a small side window, just enough to yell back. “Putain! What do you want?”
“Despite appearances, I’m with the U.S. military,” Gray explained. “We need help. Why are you here?”
The pilot cast his gaze up and down Gray’s form, looking doubtful, but he elaborated. “Something tres important. Someone is trying to blow up a nuclear plant?”
What the hell?
Kowalski shook his head. “Yep, he’s definitely here because of us.”
The pilot pointed. “I flew in two young women. A young man. They claim they could stop it. They met another fellow here with yellow glasses, who took them below.”
That had to be Simon.
Gray waved to the rear of the helicopter. “Your passengers? Were they Jason Carter, Carla Carson, and Mara Silviera?”
The pilot leaned back, surprised.
“We’re with them.” Gray didn’t know why the others had flown here or what this threat of a nuclear attack was all about, but he could guess the source of the problem. He pointed to where the enemy had vanished. “Did you see that other helicopter lift off a minute ago?”
“Oui.”
“We need to go after it.”
Gray kept this gaze on the dark skies. He had to trust that the others knew what they were doing below.
“Non,” the pilot said in refusal. “I was ordered to stay here.”
Kowalski lifted his rifle again. “It wasn’t a request, buddy.”
With time running out, Gray didn’t push the barrel down. Instead, he left the threat hanging in the air. He still felt the residual phosphorus burn in the nape of his neck, across the back of his hands. He used that pain to focus on the next task.
To hunt those bastards down.
23
December 26, 2:24 A.M. CET
Paris, France
Where the hell are you, Gray?
Monk paced the length of the stone chamber. He checked his watch. Gray had been gone nearly an hour. Tension chewed at his nerves. Twenty minutes ago, a distant explosion had echoed through the catacombs. It was strong enough to shake some rock dust from the crack in the roof. Gray clearly had tangled again with the bastard who had blasted apart the stacked-stone pillar in this chamber, someone with a grenade launcher.
Since then, the damned tombs had remained deathly silent.
The silence of the grave.
He fought not to picture Kat down here.
Or the girls.
He glanced again at his watch. His pacing brought him back to the computer station. Knowing he was out of his element, he hadn’t touched anything. He feared causing any accidental damage due to his ignorance. So, he did his best to perform a cursory examination of everything left behind by the enemy, making a mental inventory of what was here.
Despite his caution, he kept returning like a curious crow to what glowed in the dim light: the radiant sphere on the floor and the open lap top. He bent again to the computer screen, needing the distraction. Still, he kept tight hold on his SIG Sauer and an ear cocked for any stealthy approach.
On the laptop, a naked woman moved through a flowering bower of rosebushes, gently drooping lilacs, and blooming dogwoods. The resolution was so high that he was tempted to reach and pluck a raspberry from the bush on the screen. His prosthetic hand even rose at this thought. As it did, the woman lifted her own arm, extending a hand toward the bush, long fingers settling on a ripe berry damp with dew.
What the—
The barest whisper of voices snapped his attention back to the room’s entrance. He edged quickly over and hid behind one of the pillars. He aimed his pistol at the dark mouth of the tunnel, readying for a firefight. He would defend this equipment with his life. What was left here offered the best chance to save his girls, and he would let no one steal it away.