The Doomsday Key
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Seichan added her own bleak viewpoint from the back of the trailer. "But he sought them out too late. Someone knew of his plan."
Gray nodded. "If we're going to discover where the Doomsday key was hidden, we're going to need an expert on Saint Malachy."
"But Verona is still in a coma," Wallace said.
"It doesn't matter. We have someone who knows just as much." He turned to Rachel.
"Me?"
"You're going to have to help us from here."
"How?"
"Because I know where the key is hidden."
Wallace looked hard at him. "What?...Where?"
"Malachy's Bible was left in that sarcophagus for a reason. More than just to sanctify a relic. It was left behind as a symbol, a bread crumb to lead to the key's new resting place. Prior to the coming of the Romans, the key and the grave of this ancient royal were always kept together. They were bound together. And in the sarcophagus, we discovered Malachy's Bible binding a relic of this ancient person, binding it to him."
"So what are you saying?" Wallace pressed him.
"I think Saint Malachy has taken the place of this ancient. That he's become the proverbial keeper of the key."
Wallace's eyes grew wide. "If you're right, then the key..."
"It's in Saint Malachy's tomb."
Kowalski groaned and picked at a fingernail with a piece of straw. "Of course it is. But I'm telling you flat out, I'm not going in there."
Before they could discuss it further, the trailer jerked to a stop. Gray was surprised to see that they'd already reached the harbor.
Lyle hopped down and waved them out. "You can hole up in the old harbor house. Get yourselves out of the rain, right enough. I'll fetch my da."
As Gray hurried down the path toward the stone house, he stared out to sea. The waters rolled with frothing whitecaps. Closer at hand, the ferry rocked and teetered in its slip, even sheltered within the harbor's breakwater. It was going to be a hellish ride back over to the mainland.
But for now, the windows of the harbor house glowed and flickered with the promise of a crackling fire. They all piled through the door, shutting out the storm behind them. The room was paneled in raw pine, with heavy exposed beams. The floor creaked underfoot. The place smelled of wood smoke and pipe tobacco. Candles lit a few tables. But it was the fire that drew them all deeper inside. They gladly shed their coats over a few chairs.
Gray stood with his back to the fire, appreciating the heat from his heels to the top of his head. The warmth and the cheery dance of flames went a long way to beat back the hopelessness that had begun to settle over them.
But now they had a course of action.
A place to look next.
The door slammed open as the wind ripped the knob from Owen Bryce's fingers. He caught it again and forced it closed. Drenched, he stomped and shook off the worst of the rainwater.
"It's parky weather out, that's for sure," the boatman said with a crooked grin at his understatement. "And I'm afraid I have some good news and some bad."
Such a preamble never boded well.
Gray stepped away from the fire.
"The bad news is that we won't be able to make the crossing today. The storm has blown the seas into a treacherous state. If'n you didn't know, the Welsh name for the island is Ynys Enlli, which means 'island of bad currents.' And that's on a sunny day."
"So what's the good news?" Kowalski asked.
"I've checked and I can get you rooms here for the night at half off. Good for the entire week."
Gray felt his stomach sink. "How soon do you expect we can make it off the island?"
He shrugged. "Hard to say. Electricity and phones are down all over the island. We have to get the all-clear from the harbormaster in Aberdaron before we can even think of throwing off our ties here."
"Your best estimate?"
"We had some tourists here last year that got stranded for seventeen days due to storms."
Gray waited for the answer to his question. He looked sternly at the man.
Owen finally relented, running a hand over the top of his head. "I'm sure we can get you back to Aberdaron in two days. Three days tops."
Off to the side, Rachel sank into one of the chairs.
She didn't have that many days.
Chapter 24
October 13, 1:35 P.M.
Svalbard, Norway
Monk lay flat across the roof of the Sno-Cat as it trundled through the snowstorm. Painter shared his perch. They were both tethered to the roof rack like luggage. The harder gusts of wind continually fought to rip them from the roof. Snow frosted them like icing on a cake.
Each man had an assault rifle snugged to his shoulder, and the Norwegian soldier had supplied them both with one additional piece of gear, essential for cold-weather fighting.
Monk adjusted the infrared goggles on his face. They darkened the view ahead. Not that it mattered-the blizzard's whiteout conditions had lowered visibility to mere yards. But the scopes built into the eyepieces captured any ambient heat signatures and brought them into focus. Below their perch, the hot engine of their Sno-Cat glowed a soft orange.
Out in the storm, their targets came into view. Seven or eight snowmobiles crisscrossed up from the lower mountain slopes, glowing a soft amber through the scopes. The vehicles were just now cresting into the upper valley where Monk had spent much of his time spying on the Svalbard seed vault.
It was here that Monk and the others would make their stand, using every resource available to them.
Monk patted a hand on the rocket-propelled grenade launcher next to him. Before setting out, they had scoured the avalanche's path for additional weapons and found the launcher. Along with a wooden box of ammunition.