The Doomsday Key
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Painter turned to Kat. She was on the phone. He met her eyes.
"Italian military is responding," Kat said. "They're ten minutes out. Local police have the area locked down."
Painter stared back at the screen. They had lost sight of the motorcycles as the pair shot into the Coliseum. But seconds later they reappeared, racing across the center of the arena. The detail was poor, little more than a vague representation. But as they watched, one bike suddenly spun and skidded to a stop. Seconds later the other braked and stopped. Movement blurred around the spots, then all seemed to go dead still.
The resolution was not fine enough to tell if there were any bodies on the ramp.
Monk leaned over the technician's shoulder. "Sir..." He pointed and drew Painter's attention back to the screen. "I think I see something again. On the bridge."
The technician nodded. "Looks like two figures. Maybe three."
His finger traced the barest flicker of pixels on the screen. They flowed toward the downed motorcycles. Even with such low resolution, Painter recognized the stalking pattern of true hunters.
He mumbled to the screen, half plea, half prayer. "Get the hell out of there, Gray..."
8:36 A.M.
Rome, Italy
Rachel leaned on Gray's shoulder. Each step sent a jolt of pain up her right leg. She had wrenched her knee tumbling into the subterranean region of the Coliseum. As she hopped alongside him, she searched around the space.
With the sun still low, deep shadows covered them. She had learned from Uncle Vigor that these lower levels were called the hypogeum, which simply meant "underground." It was here that all manner of beasts had been housed-lions, elephants, tigers, giraffes-along with slaves and gladiators. Crude elevators raised and lowered cages or elaborate set pieces.
But all that was left of the spectacle were the crumbling ruins of walls, blind cubbies, and tiny cells. Lacking any roofs, the upper level was left exposed to the sun and rain. Grass and weeds covered the floor, while thick moss matted the walls. Due to the fragile nature of the ancient structures and the danger of sudden collapses, the level was out of bounds for tourists-but not for archaeologists. Uncle Vigor had once sneaked Rachel down here when she was a teenager.
If I could just get my bearings...
Gray suddenly stopped. Furtive movement sounded behind them: the scuff of stone, the heavy rush of breath. They ducked back into one of the cells. Two figures appeared.
Rachel felt Gray sag with relief. "Seichan..."
The woman hissed at him and lifted a finger to her lips. Kowalski trailed her. Blood covered half his face, running thickly from a jagged cut above his eye. He also lifted a hand to warn them to be quiet.
Rachel then heard it, too.
The tramp of boots on the boardwalk overhead.
The gunmen had not fled as Rachel had hoped. They still hunted their prey.
Seichan pointed up, then shoved her arm out. Her pantomime was clear. If they stayed directly under the boardwalk, they'd be less likely to be spotted. But that meant moving as silently as possible.
Gray nodded and began to head toward the far side of the hypogeum. Rachel tightened her grip and stopped him. He stared back at her questioningly. She knew the layout of these levels. If they followed the boardwalk, they'd just hit a solid wall. Only a few ways still led out of the hypogeum.
She pointed along their path, made a chopping motion on her arm, and shook her head. It was military sign language for dead end. Turning, she pointed toward an exit few people knew about. Her uncle had shown it to her long ago. But to reach that spot, they'd have to abandon the shelter of the boardwalk and head out into the exposed maze.
Gray studied her with his face tight, his eyes hard pieces of blue ice.
Are you sure?
Rachel nodded. His fingers tightened on her shoulder, thanking her, reassuring her. For just a flash, she wanted those arms around her, holding her just as tightly. But he let go and crouched with Kowalski. They whispered too low to hear.
Seichan drew next to her. She also kept her attention on the two Americans. Rachel didn't doubt the woman could read their lips. Rachel glanced sidelong at her. A purplish bruise was forming on Seichan's cheek. Rachel also noted how much weight she'd lost since they'd first met years ago. Her face was more gaunt, hollow and haunted around the eyes. It left her looking like something carved out of stone, hard and unyielding. Still, there remained a cold fire in her dark green gaze.
Gray slid back and drew them all into a crouch under the boardwalk. He glanced up, listening as one of the hunters passed overhead. The gunmen were watching both halves of the hypogeum. Any flicker of movement, and both would be on them. From their high vantage, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
As the assassin moved past, Gray whispered, "We'll need a distraction. Kowalski's got one round left in his pistol. It's not much but-"
The cautious tromp of boots suddenly changed cadence. The slow step turned into a heavy-footed run. Boots pounded toward their position.
Gray's whispering must have been heard.
Kowalski lifted his pistol, ready to shoot, but Seichan placed a cautioning hand on his shoulder.
The pounding passed their position and continued down the boardwalk, heading toward the far side. They were running off. Something had spooked them.
"The police..." Gray guessed aloud.
"'Bout time," Kowalski said.
Seichan did not share their relief. Her expression soured. She was on several terrorist watch lists, including Interpol's.
Before they could make any decision, a new noise intruded. It came suddenly. The thump-thump of a helicopter. Gray stepped out from under the boardwalk and stared up. Rachel joined him.
A wasp-bodied black helicopter swept over the rim of the coliseum.
"That's not the polizia," Rachel said.