Map Of Bones Part 21

The priest frowned at him. Clearly he understood enough English to find affront at the man's language in a house of G.o.d.

"Scusi," Monk responded. Monk responded.

Gray understood Monk's frustration, doubly so as mission leader. He bit back his own curse. They had moved too slowly, played too cautiously.

His radio buzzed.

Kat came on the line. She must have overheard enough of the conversation. "Is it all clear, Commander?"

"Clear...and too late," he answered back sourly.

Kat and Rachel joined them. Vigor introduced the others.

"So the bones are gone," Rachel said.

The priest nodded. "Monsignor Verona, if you'd like to see the paperwork, we have it in the safe in the sacristy. Maybe that would help."

"We could check it for fingerprints," Rachel said tiredly, the exhaustion finally hitting her. "They may have been careless. Not expecting we'd be on their heels. It might flush out whoever betrayed us in the Vatican. It could be our only new lead."

Gray nodded. "Bag it up. We'll see what we can find here."

Rachel and Monsignor Verona headed across the nave.

Gray turned away and strode over to the sarcophagus.

"Any ideas?" Monk asked.

"We still have the gray powder we collected from the golden reliquary," he said. "We'll regroup in the Vatican, alert everyone of what's happened, and test the powder more thoroughly."

As the sacristy door closed, Gray knelt down by the tiny window again, wondering if praying would help. "We should vacuum out the interior," he said, struggling to remain clinical. "See if we can confirm the presence of the amalgam powder here, too."

He leaned closely, c.o.c.king his head, not sure what he was looking for. But he found it anyway. A mark on the silk-lined roof of the reliquary chamber. A red seal pressed into the white silk. A tiny curled dragon. The ink looked fresh...too fresh.

But it was not ink....

Blood.

A warning left behind by the Dragon Lady.

Gray straightened, suddenly knowing the truth.

7.

ROLLING THE BONES.

JULY 25, 12:38 P P.M.

MILAN, ITALY.

ONCE INSIDE, the priest closed the door to the sacristy. It was the chamber where the clergy and altar boys robed themselves prior to Ma.s.s. the priest closed the door to the sacristy. It was the chamber where the clergy and altar boys robed themselves prior to Ma.s.s.

Rachel heard the lock click behind her.

She half turned and found a pistol leveled at her chest. Held in the hand of the priest. His eyes had gone as cold and hard as polished marble.

"Don't move," he said firmly.

Rachel backed a step. Vigor slowly raised his hands.

To either side were closets hung with clerical garments and vestments, used daily by the priests to say Ma.s.s. A table held a row of silver chalices, haphazardly arranged for the same. A large gilded silver crucifix, mounted on a wrought-iron pole, leaned against one corner, meant to lead a processional.

The door on the opposite end of the sacristy opened.

A familiar bull of a man entered, filling the doorway. It was the man who attacked her in Cologne. He carried a long knife in one hand, the blade wet and b.l.o.o.d.y. He stepped into the room and used a blessed stole hanging in a closet to wipe it clean.

Rachel felt Vigor wince next to her.

The blood. The missing priests. Oh G.o.d...

The tall man no longer wore a monk's garb, but ordinary street clothes, charcoal khakis and a black T-s.h.i.+rt, over which he wore a dark suit jacket. He carried a pistol in a shoulder holster beneath it and wore a radio headset over one ear, the mike at his throat.

"So you both survived Cologne," he said, his eyes traveling up and down Rachel's form, as if sizing up a prized calf at a country fair. "How very fortunate. Now we can become better acquainted."

He tipped his throat mike up and spoke into it. "Clear the church."

Behind her, Rachel heard doors slam open in the nave. Gray and the others would be caught off guard. She waited for a spate of gunfire or the blast of a grenade. But all she heard was the patter of boots on marble. The church remained silent.

The same must have been noted by their captor.

"Report," he ordered into his mike.

Rachel did not hear the reply, but she knew from the darkening of his face that the news was not good.

He shoved forward, pa.s.sing between Vigor and Rachel.

"Watch them," he growled to the fake priest. A second gunman had taken up post by the back exit to the sacristy.

Their captor yanked open the door to the nave. An armed figure strode over to him, accompanied by the Eurasian woman, holding her Sig Sauer pistol at her side.

"No one's here," the man reported.

Rachel spotted other gunmen searching the main nave and side chapels.

"All exits have been guarded."

"Yes, sir."

"At all times."

"Yes, sir."

The giant's eyes settled on the Asian woman.

She shrugged. "They might have found an open window."

With a grumble, he cast a final search around the basilica, then swung around with a sweep of his suit jacket. "Keep searching. Send three men to canva.s.s the outside. They can't have gotten far."

As the giant turned, Rachel made her move.

Reaching behind her, she s.n.a.t.c.hed the ceremonial pole with the silver crucifix and rammed its b.u.t.t end square into the man's solar plexus. He grunted and fell back into the priest. She yanked the pole back, under her elbow, and slammed the cross end into the gunman's face behind her.

His pistol blasted, but the shot went wild as he fell back out the door.

Rachel followed him, tumbling out the back exit into a narrow hallway, her uncle on her heels. She slammed the door and propped the pole against it, jamming it against the hallway's far wall.

Beside her, Uncle Vigor smashed a heel on the fallen gunman's hand. Bones cracked. He then kicked the man square in the face. His head bounced against the stone floor with a thud, then his form went slack.

Rachel bent down and grabbed his pistol.

Crouched, she searched both ways down the windowless hall. No other men were about. The additional forces must have been placed to ambush Gray and his team. A large crash rattled the door in its frame. The Bull was trying to break through.

She dropped flat to the floor and searched beneath the jam. She watched the play of light and shadow. She aimed for darkness and fired.

The bullet sparked off the marble floor, but she heard a satisfying bellow of surprise. A little hotfoot should slow the Bull.

She rolled to her feet. Uncle Vigor had crossed down the hall a few steps.

"I hear someone groaning," he whispered. "Back here."

"We don't have time."

Ignoring her, Uncle Vigor continued deeper. Rachel followed. Without a frame of reference, one way was no worse than the other. They reached a door cracked open. Rachel heard a moan from inside.

She shouldered in, gun ready.

The room had once been a small dining hall. But now it was a slaughterhouse. One priest lay facedown in a pool of blood on the floor, the back of his head a pulp of brain, bone, and hair. Another black-robed figure lay sprawled on one of the tables, spread-eagled, tied to the bench legs. An older priest. His robes had been stripped to the waist. His chest was a pool of blood. His head was missing both ears. There was also the smell of burned flesh.

Tortured.

To death.

A sobbing moan sounded to the left. On the floor, tied hand and foot, was a young man, stripped to boxer shorts, gagged. He had a black eye and blood dribbled from both nostrils. From his half-naked form, it was plain where the clerical garb for the fake priest had come from.

Vigor came around the table. When the man spotted him, he struggled, eyes wild, frothing around his gag.

Rachel held back.

"It's all right," Vigor soothed.

The man's eyes fixed on Vigor's collar. He stopped struggling, but he was still wracked with sobs. Vigor reached out to free the gag. The man shook and spat it out. Tears flowed down his cheeks.

"Molti...grazie," he said, his voice weak with shock. he said, his voice weak with shock.

Vigor cut the plastic ties with a knife.

As he worked, Rachel locked the door to the dining room and jammed a chair under the k.n.o.b for good measure. There were no windows, only a door leading deeper into the rectory. She kept her gun pointed that way and crossed to a phone on the wall. No dial tone. The phone lines had been cut.

She fished out Gray's cell phone and dialed 112, the universal EU emergency number. Once connected, she identified herself as a Carabinieri lieutenant, though she didn't give her name, and called for an immediate medical, police, and military response.

With the alarm raised, she pocketed her phone.

Outgunned, it was all she could do.

For herself...and for the others.

12:45 P P.M.

FOOTSTEPS APPROACHED Gray's hiding place. He held perfectly still, not breathing. The steps stopped nearby. He strained to listen. Gray's hiding place. He held perfectly still, not breathing. The steps stopped nearby. He strained to listen.

A man spoke. A familiar voice, angry. It was the leader of the monks. "The Milan authorities have been alerted."

There was no reply, but Gray was certain two people had approached.

"Seichan?" the man asked. "Did you hear me?"

A bored voice answered. It was equally recognizable. The Dragon Lady. But now she had a name. Seichan Seichan.

"They must have gone out a window, Raoul," she said, returning the favor and naming the leader. "Sigma is slippery. I warned you as much. We've secured the remaining bones. We should be gone before Sigma returns with reinforcements. The police may already be on the way."

"But that b.i.t.c.h..."

"You can settle matters with her later."

The footsteps departed. It sounded like the heavier of the two was limping. Still, the Dragon Lady's words remained with Gray.

You can settle matters with her later.

Did that mean Rachel had escaped?

Gray was surprised at the depth of his relief.

A door slammed on the far side of the church. As the sound echoed away, Gray strained his ears. He heard no more footsteps, no tread of boots, no voices.