James Rollins - Map of Bones

The boot pressed harder, squeezing off his words.

“But you have eliminated a bit of a problem for me,” he continued. “Taking that bitch out of the picture. But now we have some work to do…the two of us.”

RACHEL CLAWED back to the surface of the water, hitting her head again on the side of the boat. She choked on a mouthful of water and broke through to open air. She coughed and gagged repeatedly, reflexively, unable to stop. Her limbs floundered.

A gate suddenly dropped and she saw a naked middle-aged man standing there, bare-assed to the world. “Tudo bem, Menina?”

Portuguese. Asking if she was okay.

She shook her head, still coughing.

He bent down and offered an arm. Taking it, she allowed herself to be hauled up and stood shakily. Where was Monk?

She watched the hydrofoil banking away, heading out toward deeper waters. The reason soon became apparent. A pair of Egyptian police cruisers sped out from the far pier, revving up, gaining speed, finally responding. The chaos in the harbor must have delayed them, but better late than never.

Relief flooded through her.

Rachel turned to find the man’s wife or companion, equally naked.

Except for the gun.

MONK SURFED around the stern of the houseboat, searching for Rachel. Further out in the harbor, a police cruiser wailed across the waters. Lights flashed an angry red and white. The hydrofoil raced away, picking up speed, lifting to the full extent of its skids.

Escaping.

There was no way for the police to catch it. The hydrofoil headed out…to international waters or to some other hidden berth.

Monk turned his full attention to his search for Rachel. He feared to find her floating facedown, drowned in the polluted water. He edged around the stern, staying close to the boat.

He spotted motion on the rear deck of the houseboat.

Rachel…she had her back to him, but looked unsteady. The naked middle-aged man supported her with one arm.

He slowed. “Rachel…are you o—”

She glanced back, eyes panicked. The man raised his other arm. He held a snub-nosed automatic rifle, pointed at Monk’s face.

“Oh…I guess not,” Monk muttered.

GRAY’S NECK was about to break.

Raoul knelt atop him, one knee square on the middle of his back, the other on the back of his neck. One hand twisted into Gray’s hair, yanking his head back. The man’s other hand held the speargun straight-armed toward Vigor’s left eye.

The monsignor was on his knees, flanked by two divers with additional guns. A third looked on, scowling with a knife balanced in his hand. All eyes were narrowed with raw hatred. Gray’s trick had slain five of their men, comrades-in-arms.

Moans still echoed from the bloody tunnel, but there would be no rescue for them. Only revenge.

Raoul leaned closer. “Enough games. What did you learn in—”

A zinging thwack cut off his words.

The speargun clattered from Raoul’s grip. A roaring howl erupted from him as he fell off Gray.

Released, Gray rolled across the floor, snatched up the abandoned speargun, and shot one of the men holding Vigor.

The shaft pierced through the diver’s neck, knocking him back.

The other man straightened, turning his weapon on Gray, but before he could fire, a spear flashed through the air from the pool and spitted the man through the belly.

His weapon fired reflexively, but the shot went wild as he tumbled backward.

Vigor slapped the one unfired speargun toward Gray, then flung himself low.

Gray grabbed it and swung it toward Raoul.

The giant ran for the nearby tunnel, the one that led to Alexander’s tomb. Raoul clutched a hand to his other wrist, his palm pierced through by a length of steel spear.

Kat’s shot had been precise, disarming and disabling.

The last of the Court’s men, the one with the dagger, was the first into the tunnel and led the way. Raoul followed.

Gray gained his feet, took aim at Raoul’s back, and fired.

The spear flew down the tunnel. Raoul would not reach the first turn in time. The shaft struck the large man in the back and clanged.

The spear clattered harmlessly to the stone floor.

Gray cursed his luck. He had hit the incendiary grenade still slung over Raoul’s shoulder. Saved by his own damn bomb.

The giant vanished around the first turn of the passage.

“We have to go,” Kat said. “I killed the two guards outside, slipping in on one of their own sleds, caught them by surprise. But I don’t know how many more are out there.”

Gray eyed the tunnel, hesitating.

Vigor was already in the water. “Rachel…?”

“I sent her off with Monk on another sled. They should be at shore by now.”

Vigor hugged Kat quickly, his eyes bright with tears of relief. He pulled down his mask.

“Commander?”

Gray considered going after Raoul, but a cornered dog was the most dangerous. He didn’t know if Raoul had a dry-wrapped pistol or some other weapon stashed, but the bastard definitely had a bomb. Raoul could lob it here on a short fuse and take them all out.

He turned away.

They had what they needed.

One hand patted the thigh pouch and the hidden gold key.

It was time to go.

Gray pulled on his mask and joined the others. On the stone floor, the man he’d shot through the throat was already dead. The other moaned, pierced fully through the belly. Blood pooled under him. Shot through the kidney. Or maybe his aorta had been nicked. He’d be dead in minutes.

Gray felt no pity. He remembered the atrocities in Cologne and Milan. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

RAOUL YANKED the spear from his hand. Steel ground on bone. Fire lanced through his arm to his chest, emptying his breath in an angry hiss. Blood poured. He pulled his glove off and tied the neoprene around his palm, stanching and putting pressure on the wound.

No broken bones.

Dr. Alberto Menardi had the medical background to patch him up.

Raoul stared across the room, illuminated by his flashlight on the floor. What the hell was this place?

The glass pyramid, the water, the starry dome…

The last surviving man, Kurt, returned from the passageway. He had gone to reconnoiter the entry pool. “They left,” he reported. “Bernard and Pelz are dead.”

Raoul finished his first aid and considered the next step. They would have to evacuate quickly. The Americans could send the Egyptian police straight here. The original plan had been to lure the local authorities away with the hydrofoil, leaving Raoul and his team to do a full investigation down here in secret, then make their escape in the clunky, nondescript houseboat.

Now matters had changed.

Cursing, Raoul bent to his pack on the ground. It held a digital camera. He would get a visual record, get it to Alberto, and hunt down the Americans.

It wasn’t over yet.

As Raoul dug out his camera, his foot nudged the sling holding the incendiary grenade. A fold of sealcloth fell away. He ignored it until he noted a slight red glow on the neighboring wall.

Fuck…

Dropping to a knee, he snatched the bomb and rolled it digital face forward.

00:33.

He spotted the deep ding in the casing near the timer. Where the American bastard had struck it with the speargun.

00:32.

The impact must have shorted something, activated the timer.

Raoul tapped the abort code. Nothing.

He shoved up, the sudden motion making his hand ache.

“Go,” he ordered Kurt.

The man’s eyes were fixed on the bomb. But he glanced up, nodded, and ran for the tunnel.

Raoul retrieved his digital camera, took several rapid flash pictures, sealed the camera in a pocket, then strode away.