Thomas Greanias - The Atlantis Prophecy

She wiped her eyes. "I was supposed to betray you, Conrad, to use you to find the globes and take them from you. Please forgive me," she begged. "You have to believe I'm sorry."

Conrad could see she was. "But you always told me you believed that the Church is the hope of the world."

She shook her head. "Jesus is the hope of the world, Conrad. And the hope of the Church. We are called to be the Church and serve people in His name. I don't have to be a nun to do that. And I don't want to go on without you. I told you. I knew it the moment Max took me to your room and I expected to see your body instead of Brooke's."

"You swear to God?" he said.

"You know I don't like those kinds of oaths, Conrad. But, yes, I swear before God." She then threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. "Conrad, go."

He hesitated, then gave her a pistol and swipe card. "In case you change your mind," he said and shut the door, leaving her alone with the globe and the faces of thirteen dead white men.

Serena stared at the faces of the thirteen marble Houdon busts. The founding fathers of the Alignment in America. They were so lifelike that she half-expected them to speak to her in the shadowy chamber.

And then one of them did.

It was the second to her right, a face oddly strange and familiar.

When she leaned forward to study the face, she suddenly recognized it.

She gasped. "Oh, my God."

Remembering the names from the Newburgh Charter that she had memorized, she now knew why Cardinal Tucci wanted the globe at the Vatican.

Dear Lord, my promise to Conrad.

She paced before the globe and her jury of the deceased, praying to God for some answer. The shot that Conrad had given her was clearly kicking in, and she was feeling stronger, more alert. So alert that it frightened her.

The Americans already had the celestial globe that the Masons had buried beneath the Library of Congress. If Conrad succeeded in stopping Seavers, as she prayed he would, then the Americans would have both globes. But if he failed, she now realized that the Alignment would control not only America but also the Church.

With a heavy heart she knew what she had to do.

Conrad, forgive me.

Conrad ran through a maze of corridors until he reached a door without a biometric keypad that would require the finger from Max Seavers. That suggested he was reaching the outer, less secure perimeter. He only needed to use one of the Marine's swipe cards to unlock it. He cracked the door open and sighed at what he saw: another dark corridor. When he was sure it was clear, he made his way out.

This corridor was different, and he immediately sensed it was some kind of neutral bridge between the Alignment's secret bunker and the larger world. At the end of it was a pinprick of light and a dull roar. He edged cautiously toward the door that emerged in the light when suddenly it was flung open. A Metro engineer stepped in and froze when he saw Conrad.

"Shit, you military people always scare me," the engineer said, "skulking around down here like shadows."

"And because of us you get to celebrate Independence Day," Conrad said and kept walking, without looking back.

Conrad emerged from a utility door onto a lower platform of the L'Enfant Plaza Metro Station. With no less than three Metro lines intersecting here, it now made complete sense why the Alignment chose the bunker below as their place to meet. But he was spotted across the platform by a D.C. police officer instantly, whose hand went to his mouth as he radioed in.

Conrad ran up the escalators to a food court tunnel, where four more policemen were coming toward him.

The underground food court connected him to the Loew's L'Enfant Plaza Hotel, and when he cut across the lobby he emerged into the bright light of day and blinked.

There must have been several thousand motorcycles and leather-clad bikers revving their engines in front of him. Their black leather jackets said Rolling Thunder, and the backs of their bikes boasted American flags.

Conrad caught up to the rear of the group and scanned the nearest tattooed and bearded bikers prepping their machines. He found an old-timer in his sixties with a handlebar mustache and beer gut wearing a black "Ancient Riddles" T-shirt. He was wiping the chrome fork of his BMW chopper.

Conrad stole a helmet on the ground and brazenly walked up to the man. "Hey, partner, my bike's busted and I could use a lift," he said as he offered his hand. "I'm Conrad Yeats."

The rider rose to his surprisingly tall six-foot-four-inch height and looked down at him. "Anything for the Griffter's kid. My name's Marty. Hop on."

Conrad jumped on the chopper as Marty hit the accelerator and they rode off to join the others in the parade.

THROUGH THE SIGHT of her sniper rifle atop the National Archives, Sergeant Wanda Randolph watched the tail end of the Independence Day parade march down Constitution Avenue. She scanned the crowds for any sign of Conrad Yeats. America's most wanted criminal was presumably still on the loose after yesterday's Presidential Prayer Breakfast.

More than 22 government agencies, including the U.S. Capitol Police, U.S. Park Police, and Washington Metropolitan Police Department, were coordinating security: There were jets overhead, chemical sensors in the subways, Coast Guard boats on the Potomac, and more than 6,000 cops and troops on the streets.

Members of the 49th Virginia Infantry Regiment Civil War reenactment group now marched below to the cheers of onlookers, from babies to grandparents. It had been a morning of high school and military bands, and the Civil War types prompted as many smiles as the group that usually followed them.

Wanda could hear them now-the roar of thousands of Harley Davidsons revving down Constitution, their riders in jeans and leather jackets. Rolling Thunder was a motorcycling group that supported veterans. Today they had come out in full force, headlights blazing and American flags extending from the back of their bikes.

Her eyes followed them down Pennsylvania as they turned onto Constitution, one oddball biker in sunglasses after another. Several times she had to look away from the glare of the sun bouncing off the medals on their vests and the chrome on their bikes.

One neon yellow-and-chrome chopper with two riders caught her eye, and she followed it to the turn when another glare off the chrome blinded her for a split second. When she caught up with the chopper again on Constitution, it had only one rider.

What happened? Where'd he go?

She jerked her rifle back to the parade turn at Pennsylvania and Constitution and scoped the crowds. Nothing. And then she saw the small pump station building behind the crowd.

Dang, it was him, she thought. It had to be. Conrad Yeats.

She wanted to believe that Yeats was one of the good guys, but regardless of which hat he wore-white or black-he was about to get himself picked off by her or another sniper unless she could bring him in safely.

"Code red," she yelled into her radio. "Pump station."

She scrambled off the roof and out the National Archives, ran a block to the station and burst inside. Two Metro cops were down, knocked out, and a hatch to the sewer was open. Six FBI agents, plainclothes types from the crowd, swarmed in as she pulled out a map.

"The SEAL will pick him up in the sewer," one of the agents said.

But the SEAL swimming up and down beneath Constitution reported nothing. "He may have gone deeper," crackled the radio, the voice of a SEAL breaking up. "Shit, he's in the Tiber."

Long after the hill beneath the U.S. Capitol had ceased to be called Rome, the river upon which ships ferried marble from the White House to the Capitol retained the name Tiber Creek. And to this day the Tiber still runs beneath Constitution Avenue along the northern edge of the National Mall.