James Rollins - The 6th Extinction

“But all that’s highly disputed,” Jason added. “The landmass shown here is most likely not even Antarctica.”

“What do you mean?” Monk asked. “The map’s a fake?”

“No,” Gray said. “The map is authentic, but the Turk admits in a series of notes in the margins that he compiled his map from more ancient charts. So the appearance of this Antarctic coastline is likely just a combination of mapmaking confusion and coincidence.”

Monk scratched his chin. “Then what’s it doing in a folder among Dr. Hess’s files?”

Gray had no answer, but Jason apparently did.

The kid spoke while typing. “This map and several others in the folder are all tagged as coming from a Professor Alex Harrington.”

Gray leaned closer.

Jason flashed through various windows rapidly. “I just Googled him. Says here he’s a paleobiologist attached to the British Antarctic Survey.”

“Paleobiologist?” Monk asked.

“It’s a discipline that combines archaeology with evolutionary biology.” With his fingers still tapping, Jason added, “And it looks like the professor exchanged a slew of e-mails and phone calls with Dr. Hess, going back almost two decades. They shared a common interest in unusual ecosystems.”

Jason glanced up at Gray with one eyebrow high.

Gray understood . If anyone knows intimate details about Hess’s research, it might be this guy .

“Good work,” Gray said. “But we should run this past Raffee upstairs. Maybe the director knows something more about this relationship with the Brits. Can you print this file up?”

Jason scowled, reached down, and yanked a flash drive from a port. “Already copied everything here. It would take hours to print all of this. When you reach the director’s office, all you have to do is find the USB port on his computer and—”

“I know how to use a flash drive. I’m not a dinosaur.”

“Sorry. You’re like twelve years older than me. In digital times, that’s at least the Pleistocene era.” He hid a grin behind his Starbucks cup as he tried to suck down the last dregs of coffee.

Monk clapped Jason on the shoulder. “I now get what Kat sees in this kid.”

Gray pocketed the drive and headed toward the door. “Keep searching those files,” he ordered. “See if you can dig up anything else while I talk to Director Raffee.”

Gray strode down a short basement hallway, entered the security elevator, and inserted his black Sigma card, emblazoned with a silver Greek letter ∑, the mathematical symbol meaning the “sum of all,” which was Sigma Force’s credo for combining the best of body and mind to deal with global threats. The card also served as a skeleton key for most locked doors in D.C.

He tapped the button for the seventh floor. As the car rose smoothly upward, Gray pulled out his phone, looking to see if there was any message from Kenny about their father. It was Gray’s first chance to check in the past hour, as the subterranean data center had no cell reception. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw no messages.

At least it should be a quiet night.

As the elevator opened, Gray hurried through the dark, deserted corridors. It was a maze up here, made tighter by the stacks of boxes standing outside doors. Scaffolding and paint cans also blocked the way. DARPA was still transitioning from its old headquarters a few blocks away to this one in Founders Square. Some divisions were still in the former building; others had either moved out or were in the process of settling in. He imagined the chaos during the day, but at this late hour, everything was hushed and calm.

Turning a corner, he spotted a cracked open doorway aglow with lamplight. It seemed Raffee had earned a corner office. Gray hurried toward it — when a harsh shout stopped him.

He faded against one wall.

The voice, muffled by distance, hadn’t sounded like the director. Gray’s hand reached to his service weapon, a SIG Sauer P226, from the shoulder holster under his jacket. As his fingers tightened on the grip, a distinct pop, pop, pop echoed to him.

The door to Raffee’s office swung open, casting light far down the corridor. Gray slunk lower, sheltering behind a parked Xerox copier in the hallway. He peeked out enough to see four men — dressed in black camo and carrying pistols equipped with silencers — file out and sweep toward his position. Gray glanced behind him. The nearest door was yards away.

Too far .

He calculated quickly. His pistol held a dozen .357 rounds. He would have to make each shot count, especially if the combatants were equipped with body armor. His only advantage at the moment was the element of surprise.

He steeled himself to act, centering his breath.

The last man through the door barked into a radio. “The others are downstairs. Sublevel three. Take the stairs, we’ll use the elevator.”

He pictured Monk and Jason, ensconced in the small room, unaware of the firestorm headed their way.

Gray waited until the first two men passed his hiding spot. Focused on their goal, they failed to see him crouched behind the Xerox machine.

He fired twice, both head shots — then pivoted and rolled low into the open. He aimed back toward Raffee’s office and the other two men. He shot the closest in the knee, dropping him — but even in pain and caught off guard, the man fired his pistol as he fell.

The round whistled past Gray’s ear.

Damn…

These were plainly hardened professionals, likely former military. As the other’s shoulder hit the floor, Gray blasted him point-blank in his face, not taking any further chances.

The final gunman retreated behind a piece of scaffolding, peppering rounds down the hall. Gray stayed flat on the ground, using the body in front of him as a shield. Shots pounded into the man’s teammate or ricocheted off the linoleum.

Gray had to act before his target fled back into Raffee’s office. From the way the man cast a glance in that direction, it was clearly his intent: to get to safety and call up reinforcements.

Can’t let that happen .

Gray popped up and strafed at his adversary’s position. Rounds pinged off the scaffolding or buried into the far wall behind his target. The man kept hidden as Gray kept pulling the trigger, his arm straight out, stepping over the body on the ground.

Finally he reached his twelfth shot — and his slide locked.

Out of bullets .

His adversary rose back into view, aiming his smoking weapon, a triumphant sneer fixed on his face.

Gray dropped his SIG Sauer. As the other’s eyes twitched to follow its fall, Gray used the distraction to swing up his other arm, revealing the pistol he had hidden behind his thigh, a weapon he had confiscated from the dead man on the floor. He pulled the trigger twice — but once would have been enough.

A clean shot through the eye dropped the final combatant to the floor.

Gray rushed forward and burst into Raffee’s office. He didn’t hold out much hope that the director was still alive, but he had to check. He found the man in his chair, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up. A bloom of crimson stained the center of his white shirt and a clean round hole pierced his forehead.

Biting back his fury at the callous execution, he grabbed the phone atop the desk, but he immediately saw the cord had been cut. He took a breath, considered searching for another phone; even if he found one, he wasn’t familiar enough with the system to know how to reach the subbasement extension. And with no cell reception down below, the phone in his pocket was useless.

He had no way of warning Monk and Jason.

“Maybe those debunkers are wrong about that Piri Reis map,” Jason said, straightening his hunched shoulders from the monitor. He took a deep breath, hiding his nervousness about broaching such a conclusion on his own. He knew about the past exploits of Commander Pierce and his partner and felt out of their league.