The Midnight Watch

by James Rollins

  Unable to get clear fast enough, he took the round square to the chest. The impact knocked the air from his lungs and exploded his rib cage with fiery pain. He dropped to his back—­and returned fire from under the table on that side. The cannon boomed deafeningly in his hand. The plaster exploded behind the man’s legs as the shot went wide. Still, Kowalski took advantage of the moment to roll behind a steel medical cart. The man fired after him, rounds pelting the side of the cart, keeping Kowalski pinned down.

  He patted his chest, expecting to find blood, but instead he felt the dented steel plate in his front pocket. It was the nameplate he had unhooked from Elizabeth’s office door earlier. He had forgotten he had stolen it, absently slipping it inside his jacket. It had saved his life—­at least for the moment.

  Sirens sounded in the distance, racing closer.

  Must be the reinforcements sent by Director Crowe.

  Kowalski gripped his pistol and risked peering past the edge of his shelter.

  The small figure by the computer—­a young woman—­also recognized the approaching threat and called to her partner while pointing to the window.

  “Kwan, zǒu!”

  The man grimaced, clearly being ordered to leave.

  With the portable drive in hand, she headed over to her partner’s side, ready to make their escape. She had her own pistol out and fixed toward Kowalski’s position, as if daring him to show himself.

  But Kowalski wasn’t the only one irritated by the intruders.

  Farther to his left, a tall, shadowy cage door swung open with a creak of heavy steel hinges—­and a massive beast stalked into the lab. It seemed Jason’s release of all the building’s electronic locks had included the tiger’s cage. A snarling hiss flowed from the cat’s throat, and its fur bristled in stripes of black and rust. Paws the size of dinner plates padded across the floor in slow, determined steps, drawn by the figures standing in the moonlight.

  The woman backed fearfully from the sight. She tried to pocket the bulky drive, but it slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. Clearly panicked, she gripped her pistol with both hands.

  Her partner also kept his weapon upon the beast. “Bù, Shu Wei,” he whispered to the woman, warning her not to shoot or risk antagonizing the tiger, who was still plainly confused by the noise and commotion.

  Instead, he scooped his free arm around the small woman’s waist, lifting and drawing her to his side as easily as if she’d been a doll, then the pair fell backward through the open window. The tiger stalked over, drawn by the motion. It sniffed at the breeze, then stretched its neck to a jaw-­cracking yawn.

  Kowalski used the distraction to back slowly out of hiding—­but his knee banged against the corner of the metal cart. The tiger whipped around at the sudden noise, dropping into a hissing crouch. Kowalski dove for the only refuge at hand. He flung himself headlong through the open door of the cage and yanked the gate shut behind him.

  The tiger pounced after its prey, slamming into the front of the cage.

  Kowalski kept his hands clamped to the bars, holding the door closed.

  The tiger rolled to its feet, stalking a bit back and forth, ruffling its fur as if shaking off water. Large brown eyes stared at Kowalski, while hot breath panted through the bars.

  “That’s a good kitty, Anton,” Kowalski said softly, hoping it was true.

  A large huff escaped the beast’s throat, as if it recognized its name. The tiger stalked back and forth twice more, then settled to the floor, slumping against the bars. After several tense moments, a low rumbling purr flowed from its bulk.

  Kowalski swallowed hard—­then, knowing he would never have a better chance, he risked reaching through the bars and running his fingers through the warm ruff of the great beast. The purring deepened, proving Sara was right.

  You are a pussycat.

  As if Anton sensed this thought, the timbre of his purr rattled into a deep, warning grumble. Kowalski retracted his hand.

  Okay, maybe not.

  THREE HOURS LATER, Kowalski was back in the motor pool. Painter had debriefed him, and medical had cleared him. Though his rib cage still ached with every breath, he hadn’t even broken a rib.

  With a smoldering cigar clamped between his molars, Kowalski stared down at the bent length of steel, dimpled in the center from the 9mm round. He had wanted to dismiss his survival as dumb luck, like something out of a movie, but he knew a part of him had slipped the nameplate inside his jacket on purpose.

  Placing it over my heart.

  The only luck here was that the Chinese assassin had been such a crack shot.

  If he had struck a few inches in any other direction. . .

  He ran his fingers over the silver letters, knowing in this moment that their love had saved him this night.

  Thanks, Elizabeth . . .

  He contemplated repairing the plate, returning it to its pristine condition. Maybe even sending it to her in Egypt with some note, some last attempt at reconciliation. Instead, he exhaled a stream of smoke, recognizing the futility of such an act and accepting the reality of the situation—­maybe truly for the first time.

  And that was okay.

  With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the nameplate into a trash bin, knowing that was where it belonged.

  He turned and crossed over to the Jeep. He ran his palm along the front quarter panel, feeling the dimpling of bullet rounds here, too.

  He smiled around his cigar.

  You, my beautiful girl . . . you I can fix.

  PAINTER CROWE STOOD inside the communication nest of Sigma command, while Jason Carter once again worked at one of the stations. It had been a long night, with still more meetings scheduled at daybreak. There remained countless unanswered questions, mysteries that would need further investigation in the days ahead.

  While Sigma had recovered the drive abandoned by the pair of Chinese spies at the lab—­thus safeguarding most of Dr. Sara Gutierrez’s research—­Jason’s forensic analysis of the cyber attack offered no concrete answers as to who was actually behind all of this. The Chinese government had already gone into full plausible-­deniability mode, and Painter doubted any attempt to identify the three bodies recovered from the Mall’s excavation site would trace back to Beijing. The other assailants, along with the two spies at the zoo, had vanished into the wind.

  But even more disconcerting was the fact that the goal behind all of this remained a complete enigma.

  Jason spoke up from his station. “I give up. I can’t find any significance to this symbol. Maybe Captain Bryant will be able to use her contacts in the intelligence agencies to offer some further insight once she gets here.”

  Painter joined Jason, staring at the set of Chinese characters glowing on the screen. The symbols had been found etched on the recovered drive’s housing.

  “All I can tell you is that this translates from Mandarin as ‘The Ark,’ ” Jason said. “But beyond that, I have no clue to its significance.”

  Painter placed a palm on his shoulder. “That’ll have to do for now. Why don’t you head home and get some well-­deserved rest?”

  Jason nodded, but he did not look happy.

  Neither am I.

  Once Painter had the place to himself, he brought up a video file on another screen. It was footage from one of the countless security cams that monitored the nation’s capital. In this case, it covered the National Mall.

  He watched a small Jeep shoot up the side of a mountain of dirt, coming to an abrupt halt near the top. The pair of pursuing motorcycles shot past the stalled vehicle and went sailing high—­before descending in a deadly plunge into a dark pit.

  Painter rubbed his chin, appreciating the quick wits and skill involved in pulling off that takedown. He sensed that there remained unplumbed depths to that driver. He even allowed himself to consider an impossible p
roposition.

  Maybe it’s high time I gave Kowalski his own mission.

  What’s True, What’s Not

  At the end of my full-­length novels, I love to spell out what’s real and what’s fiction. I thought I’d briefly do the same here.

  SMITHSONIAN’S CONSERVATION BIOLOGY INSTITUTE. This research station’s main facility encompasses 3,200 acres in Fort Royal, Virginia, but it also has a campus at the Rock Creek Research Labs at the National Zoo. One of the programs mentioned here—­the “Ancient DNA” project—­is an ongoing endeavor. The researchers seek to study changing patterns of genetic variation over time by analyzing DNA collected from museum specimens and archaeological artifacts. Where this might lead—­as well as the implication for our species—­is fascinating. And it leaves lots of room for further exploration on an even grander scale.

  NATIONAL MALL TURF AND SOIL RESTORATION. This is indeed an active project to restore the thirteen acres of heavily trafficked lawns. Since the current phase of this project has ripped up the acres that lie between the Smithsonian Castle and the National Museum of Natural History, I thought what better chance for an off-­road chase scene, especially with the site’s towering piles of dirt and deep excavations, including the digging of a 250,000-­gallon cistern to collect storm water.

  CHINESE HACKERS. IT seems like seldom a week goes by that we don’t hear of a new cyber attack by Chinese agents, whether it’s the infiltration of the Office of Personnel Management or the theft of fighter jet schematics. But these incursions are not only to steal intellectual property; they’re also to compromise systems. Chinese cyber forces—­which do number into the hundreds of thousands—­have damaged systems aboard commercial ships and even an airline used by the U.S. And they have grown bolder of late, even sending operatives onto U.S. shores in an attempt to nab Chinese defectors, as reported by the president recently. As to the next level of attack, I believe it’s coming—­soon.

  So that ends this tale—­but as you might imagine, it’s only the beginning of a much larger story, an epic adventure like no other, one that will reveal a real-­life archaeological mystery tied to Neil Armstrong, one that masks a monumental secret about the moon itself . . . all that, and also the introduction of a new character, unlike any seen in print before.

  So where will the creative genius of author James Rollins take us next?

  Drawing on—­and stretching far beyond—­the questions raised in The Midnight Watch, THE BONE LABYRINTH will reveal hidden truths of incredible significance that threaten national security today and will make you look at the world and our place in the universe with new eyes.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at the greatest Sigma Force novel to date—­a story that will leave you forever changed.

  Coming in December 2015 from William Morrow

  Epigraphs

  Intelligence is an accident of evolution, and not necessarily an advantage.

  —­ISAAC ASIMOV

  The measure of intelligence is the ability to change.

  —­ALBERT EINSTEIN

  Prologue

  Autumn, 38,000 B.C.

  Southern Alps

  “RUN, CHILD!”

  Fires lit the woods behind them. For the past day, the flames had chased K’ruk and his daughter higher into the snowy mountains. But it was not the choking smoke or searing heat that K’ruk feared most. He searched behind him, seeking to catch a glimpse of the hunters, those who had set the forest afire in pursuit of the pair, but he saw no sign of the enemy.

  Still, he heard the howling of wolves in the distance, great beasts that bowed to the will of those hunters. The pack sounded closer now, only a valley away.

  He glanced worriedly toward the sun as it sat near the horizon. The ruddy glow in the sky reminded him of the promise of warmth that lay in that direction, of their home caves tunneled under green hills and black rock, where water still flowed and the deer and bison roamed thickly in the woods of the lower slopes.

  He imagined those home fires blazing bright, spitted meat dripping fat into the sizzling flames, the clan gathering together before settling in for the night. He longed for that old life, but he knew that path was no longer open to him—­or especially for his daughter.

  A sharp cry of pain drew his attention forward. Onka had slipped on a moss-­slick rock and fallen hard. She was normally surefooted, but they had been in flight for three long days.

  He hurried to her and pulled her up, her young face shining with fear and sweat. He stopped long enough to cup her cheek. In her small features, he saw whispers of her mother, a clan healer who had died shortly after Onka was born. He curled a finger in his daughter’s fiery hair.

  So like your mother’s. . .

  But he also saw more in Onka’s features, those aspects that branded her as different. Her nose was thinner than any of K’ruk’s clan, even for a girl of only nine winters. Her brow was also straighter, less heavy. He stared into her blue eyes, as bright as a summer sky. That shine and those features marked her as a blended spirit, someone who walked halfway between K’ruk’s ­people and those who had come recently from the south with their thinner limbs and quicker tongues.

  Such special children were said to be omens, proving by their births how the two tribes—­new and old—­could live together in peace. Perhaps not in the same caves, but they could at least share the same hunting grounds. And as the two tribes grew closer, more were born like Onka. These children were revered. They looked at the world with different eyes, becoming great shamans, healers, or hunters.

  Then two days ago, a clansman from a neighboring valley had arrived. He had been wounded unto death, but he still had enough breath to warn of a mighty enemy, a blight spreading across the mountains. This mysterious clan came in large numbers, hunting for such special ones as Onka. No tribes were allowed to harbor such children. Those that did were slaughtered.

  Upon hearing of this, K’ruk knew he could not jeopardize his clan, nor would he allow Onka to be taken. So he had fled with his daughter, but someone must have alerted the enemy about their flight.

  About Onka.

  I will not let them have you.

  He took her hand and set a harder pace, but before long, Onka was stumbling more than walking, limping on her injured ankle. He picked her up as they crested a ridge and stared down into the forest below. A creek cut along the bottom, promising a place to drink.

  “We can rest there,” he said, pointing. “But only for a short—­”

  A branch snapped off to the left. Dropping into a wary crouch, he lowered Onka and raised his stone-­tipped spear. A slender shape appeared from behind a deadfall, cloaked and booted in reindeer leather. Their gazes met. Even without a word spoken, K’ruk knew this other was like Onka, one born of mixed spirits. But from his clothing and from the way he tied his shaggy hair with a leather cord, it was clear he was not of K’ruk’s clan but from those slender-­limbed tribes who came later to these mountains.

  Another howl rose behind them, sounding even closer.

  The stranger cocked his ear, listening; then a hand rose and beckoned. Words were spoken, but K’ruk did not understand them. Finally, the stranger simply waved his arm, pointed toward the creek, and set off down the wooded slope.

  K’ruk considered whether to follow, but another baying of the enemy’s wolves set him off after the stranger. He fled, carrying Onka to keep up with the man’s agile passage. Reaching the creek, they discovered others waiting for them there, a group of ten or twelve, some younger than Onka, others hunchbacked elders. They bore markings from several clans.

  Still, the group shared one common feature.

  They were all of mixed spirits.

  The stranger came forward and dropped to a knee before Onka. A finger touched her brow and ran along her cheekbone, plainly recognizing Onka as one of a similar kind.

  His daughter in turn reache
d and touched a marking on the stranger’s forehead: a pebbling of scars in a strange pointed shape.

  Onka’s fingertip ran over those bumps as if finding hidden meaning there. The other grinned, seeming to sense the child’s understanding.

  The stranger straightened and laid a palm upon his own chest. “Teron,” he said.

  K’ruk knew this must be his name, but the stranger spoke rapidly after that, waving to one of the elders who leaned heavily upon a thick gnarled staff.

  The old man came forward and spoke in K’ruk’s ­people’s tongue. “Teron says the girl may join us. We are heading through a high pass that Teron knows, one that is yet free of ice, but only for another few days. If we can make it ahead of the enemy, we can break the hunters from our trail.”

  “Until those snows thaw again,” K’ruk added worriedly.

  “That won’t be for many moons. We will have vanished by then, our trail long cold.”

  A fresh howling of wolves in the distance reminded them that the trail was far from cold at the moment.

  The elder recognized this, too. “We must go now before they fall upon us.”

  “And you will take my daughter?” He pushed Onka toward Teron.

  Teron reached and gripped K’ruk by the shoulder, squeezing a promise with his strong fingers.

  “She is welcome,” the elder assured him. “We will protect her. But on this long trek, we could use your strong back and sharp spear.”

  K’ruk took a step away and gripped the shaft of his weapon more firmly. “The enemy comes too swiftly. I will use my last breaths to turn them from your trail or hold them off long enough for you and the others to reach the pass.”

  Onka’s gaze met his, already teary-­eyed with understanding. “Papa . . .”

  His chest ached as he spoke. “This is your clan now, Onka. They will see you to better lands, where you will be safe and where you will grow into the strong woman I know you can be.”