The Doomsday Key and The Last Oracle with Bonus Excerpts

by James Rollins

  “On it.”

  Rosauro dashed across the lobby in two running strides, then slid low to the door like a baseball player stealing home. She smoothly slipped a Sig Sauer semiautomatic from an ankle holster. Staying on her knees, she reached up, yanked the handle, and used her shoulder to nudge the door open, just wide enough to cover with her pistol and observe the stairs.

  Gray heard it immediately. Boots pounded up the tile stairs. Many boots.

  “Seven to ten,” Rosauro assessed.

  They were too late.

  “Hold them back,” Gray ordered and rolled over to the elevator.

  Noting his destination, Elizabeth reached for one of the call buttons, but Gray blocked her before she could press it. According to the lighted display above the doors, the cage was still waiting at the lobby level. It was surely under watch.

  Gray scooted over to one of the restaurant’s service stations and found a carving knife and an armful of folded tablecloths. He returned to the elevator and slipped the knife between the doors. He levered the blade enough to get his fingers and the tip of a boot through the gap. With a single heave, he shoved the doors open.

  As he did so, the crack of a pistol blasted—followed by a cry of surprise and pain from the stairwell. A short spat of gunplay followed. But Rosauro had the higher ground. Gray didn’t know how long that advantage would hold out. If they rushed her post, she’d be swamped.

  They had to move fast.

  Beyond the open doors, the elevator shaft was pitch dark. Two oily cables dangled. There was also a metal service ladder to one side.

  They’d never have time to climb.

  Gray passed the tablecloths to Masterson and Elizabeth. He showed them how to bundle them between their hands. “It’s only a short step,” he assured them and pointed to the cables. “Hang tight and brake with your shoes. Try not to make too much noise when you get to the cage below. Wait for us there.”

  He got a worried nod from Elizabeth and a roll of the eyes from Masterson. But the gunfire discouraged any dissent. Elizabeth pressed forward first. She reached out with her wrapped hands and leaped to the cables. With a small cry, she slid down the shaft.

  Once she disappeared into the gloom, Masterson followed, securing his cane under his pant belt, like a sword in a scabbard. He was tall and long-limbed enough to reach the cables by stretching his arms out.

  Down he went.

  “Go!” Rosauro called to him. She did not turn but fired two quick shots. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  “The elevator latch—”

  “Go, Pierce!”

  Gray knew better than to argue with a woman…especially one with a gun. He bundled his hands, leaped, and mounted the cable. He slid down with a shout back to Rosauro.

  Before he even finished his yell, she appeared at the lip overhead, limned against the brightness. She swung to the service ladder, yanked the inside latch, and closed the elevator doors. Darkness swallowed Gray as he slid down the cable. He felt the line shake as Rosauro joined him.

  Gray’s eyes quickly grew accustomed to the gloom. Weak light filtered through each level’s doors. As he slid past the floors, counting them down, he made out the shadowy elevator car below. Two figures huddled together at one corner.

  A tiny flicker of flame ignited below.

  Elizabeth’s cigarette lighter.

  Gray braked his descent and landed lightly atop the elevator.

  A moment later, Rosauro dropped next to him.

  Gray found the service hatch. He removed his own weapon and opened the hatch enough to peek through. The cage was empty below, the doors closed. He motioned the others to remain on top.

  Gripping the edge of the hatchway with one hand, Gray swung down and dropped into a crouch, his weapon up. He reached for the button that opened the doors. He heard shouts and panic coming from the lobby. The gunfire had stirred the sleepy hotel into a beehive.

  Just as well.

  The chaos could serve them.

  Gray hit the button, and the doors parted. He darted out as soon as there was enough space and ducked to the left, where a waist-high planter supported a dwarf palm tree.

  The lobby churned and milled with people. Management yelled in both Hindi and English.

  Steps away, Gray immediately picked out two people who looked too calm, wearing jackets despite the heat. Hands in pockets. He noted earpieces in place.

  They spotted him, too.

  But his sudden and unexpected appearance caught them off guard. Despite the crowd, Gray had no choice but to react quickly. A prolonged firefight would only threaten more lives.

  With his weapon already raised through the palm leaves, he squeezed the trigger and dropped the first man with a headshot. Pivoting on his toe, he squeezed twice more in rapid succession, knowing his aim was not as fixed. The first shot struck the man’s shoulder, spinning him back. The second went wide and buried itself into the plaster wall.

  The gunman fired through the pocket of his jacket, but Gray dropped to the floor as plaster blasted behind him. Lying on his shoulder, arms extended, he fired again, a few inches from the floor. The assailant’s ankle exploded, and he toppled face forward and hit the marble floor hard with his chin, shattering bone. He didn’t move again.

  Gray turned to the elevator in time to see the cage doors slip closed.

  The bystanders in the lobby, stunned for a breath, emptied in all directions with screams and shouts.

  Gray stabbed the button.

  Nothing.

  He glanced up to the lighted display. The elevator had been called.

  It was headed up.

  Up toward the gunmen in the rooftop restaurant.

  Crouching atop the elevator, Elizabeth heard the lift pulleys engage. With a lurch, the car began to rise. The elevator had been called.

  “Mierda…,” Rosauro swore next to her.

  Elizabeth stared up to the dark shaft. “What are we going to do?” she asked. She still held her lighter, flickering with a tiny flame. She felt helpless, and she hated how her hands shook.

  “You’re going to stay here,” Rosauro said and leaned forward and blew out the flame. “In the dark. Not a word. Not a sound.”

  The woman sat on the lip of the hatch, then dropped down into the elevator.

  “Close the door,” she called quietly up to them. “But keep it unlocked. Just in case.”

  In case of what?

  Still, Elizabeth obeyed. She swung the hatch almost closed, holding it ajar with her pinky. Her last sight of Rosauro was as the woman readied her weapon.

  Biting back a curse as the elevator lifted away, Gray ran for the stairs. He knocked a few people aside and leaped over a couple huddled low on the stairs, covering their heads. He mounted the stairs three at a time, racing around and around, pausing only long enough to make sure the car hadn’t stopped. If he could get above it and hit the call button, then he could stop the elevator before it reached the roof.

  He missed it on the second level and sprinted.

  Shouts called from above, deep-throated and brusque. It sounded like the assault team was headed back down. Gray burst onto the third floor to check the elevator and ran smack into a wall—or rather, the human equivalent of it.

  Kowalski stood at the elevator bay, finger on the button.

  “Gray!” he said, rubbing his stomach. “Ow, what the hell, man?”

  The elevator chimed open.

  Rosauro leaped out, her pistol pressed into Kowalski’s face.

  “Hey!” He bumped back a step.

  “You called the elevator?” Gray asked.

  “Yeah, I was going up to the restaurant, find out what all the commotion was.”

  Gray didn’t know which was Kowalski’s greatest asset: his thickheadedness or his laziness.

  “Everybody out!” Gray yelled.

  Rosauro was already in motion, helping Elizabeth and Masterson down through the hatch. Gray led them back to the stairs. Kowalski brought up their
rear.

  Rosauro moved alongside him as they fled down the stairs. “I heard them speaking English. No British accents. American.”

  Gray nodded.

  Mercenaries from the look of the pair in the lobby.

  Still, he pictured the man he’d spotted outside the Museum of American History. With the name badge from the Defense Intelligence Agency. Mapplethorpe. Someone knew they’d be here.

  They reached the deserted lobby. Gray urged everyone toward the open door—but before they could reach it, a figure stepped into view. He shouldered a snub-nosed M4 carbine assault rifle. Additionally, strapped to his back, he bore a long-barreled M24, fitted with a sniper’s scope.

  It was the gunman from the neighboring rooftop.

  The barrel of his weapon pointed at Masterson’s nose.

  The sniper didn’t intend to miss this shot.

  Then the gunman’s head snapped backward. He dropped to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut. Then fell face forward with a clatter. At the base of his skull, the shiny steel handle of a throwing dagger protruded.

  Beyond the body, Luca stood outside by the dancing fountain. The Gypsy had another dagger ready in his hand. Gray kicked away the loose rifle, which Kowalski retrieved. Luca rushed up to them and yanked out his knife.

  “Thanks,” Gray said.

  “I was outside smoking when the gunfire began,” the man explained and waved to the courtyard. “Tracked its source across the street. Went over there. I was going up when he came down, so I hid and followed him back here.”

  Gray clapped the man gratefully on the shoulder. He’d saved all their lives. Gray pointed to the door. “Everybody out. We need to get out of this city. Fast.”

  They hurried out to the street.

  “Fast might be a problem,” Kowalski said. He stood with one hand on his hip, half hiding the snubbed assault rifle under his suit jacket.

  Gray stared up and down the street and along the neighboring service alley. Every direction was packed with taxis, rickshaws, wagons, trucks, and cars.

  All stopped dead. Not moving.

  A chorus of horns and music blared, along with singing and chanting. A festival was in full swing down the street. The commotion had helped to mask the chaos at the hotel, but not completely.

  Distantly, Gray heard a siren wailing. City police. Responding to the gunfire. He also heard shouts echo out of the lobby. The assault team headed down.

  Rosauro turned to him. “What do we—?”

  A scream of motorcycle engines cut her off. Gray turned. To the left a few blocks back, three black bikes zigzagged through the logjam. Too fast, too intent. They barreled through people, knocking them aside. They sped straight toward the hotel. Each bike bore an additional rider with a rifle. More commandos.

  Gray pulled everyone into the service alley, out of direct view. He turned to Masterson and snatched the white hat from his head. “Your coat, too,” he ordered as he crammed the hat on his own head.

  “What do you intend, sir?” Masterson asked as he climbed out of his white jacket.

  “That sniper targeted you first, Dr. Masterson. You’re the primary target.”

  “Pierce…,” Rosauro said warningly.

  Gray hiked into the loose jacket. “I’m going to lead those bikes away,” he explained and pointed to the crowded street. He aimed his other arm down the narrow alley. “You take the others that way. We’ll regroup at the fort we saw coming into town.”

  Rosauro paused to digest his plan, then quickly nodded.

  “I’m coming with you,” Kowalski said. He stepped from beside Elizabeth and raised his weapon. “You’ll need backup.”

  Rosauro nodded. “He’s better with you than me. I’ll have enough on my hands protecting the civilians.”

  Gray didn’t have time to argue. He could use a little muscle and firepower. “Go!” he said.

  “Mr. Pierce!”

  Gray turned back. Masterson tossed his cane at him. He caught it, completing his ensemble.

  “Just don’t lose it! That’s an eighteenth-century ivory handle!”

  Gray hurried out into the streets with Kowalski in tow. He ran in a feigned stumble, waving his cane, shouting with a British accent. “Someone help! They’re bloody trying to kill me!”

  He headed down the street toward the festival, running among the stalled cars and idling wagons. Behind them, the motorcycles choked and bobbled as they reached the hotel—then whined back up into a full scream.

  Coming after them.

  Kowalski followed. “They’ve taken the bait.”

  6:33 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  A knock on the door startled Painter. He had been close to dozing off, seated in his chair, elbows on the desktop, a pile of notes and test results from Lisa and Malcolm beneath his face. Earlier, he had ordered Kat to take a nap in one of the medical center’s spare beds. Up all night himself, he should’ve taken that same advice.

  He pressed the lock release under his desk, and the door swung open. He’d been expecting Lisa or Malcolm. Painter sat straighter in surprise and gained his feet.

  A tall, wide-shouldered man entered, dressed in a blue suit. His red hair had gone mostly a whitish gray, combed neatly back.

  “Sean?”

  Sean McKnight was the director of DARPA and Painter’s immediate superior. He’d also been the man to recruit Painter into Sigma over a decade ago, when Sean had sat in Painter’s chair. McKnight had been the visionary first director of Sigma, taking Archibald Polk’s concept and turning it into reality. But more important, Sean was a good friend.

  The man waved Painter back into his seat.

  “Don’t get up for me, son,” he said. “I’m not about to take that chair again.”

  Painter smiled. On his first day as director, Sean had sent Painter a crate of antacids. He had thought it was a good gag gift—but a couple of years later, Painter had gone through half the crate.

  “Something tells me, Sean, your job isn’t any lighter.”

  “Not today it’s not.” Sean sank into a chair across the desk from him. “I’ve been checking into that man Commander Pierce saw outside the museum. Mapplethorpe. John Mapplethorpe.”

  “So it wasn’t a false I.D. he’d spotted?”

  “On the contrary. Mapplethorpe is a division chief for the Defense Intelligence Agency. His oversight is the Russian Federation and its splinter states.”

  Painter recalled Malcolm’s initial assessment about where Polk had been fatally exposed to radiation. Chernobyl. What was Mapplethorpe’s role in all of this?

  “The man has powerful allies among intelligence agencies,” Sean continued. “Known for his ruthlessness and manipulation. But he’s also known as someone who can get results. A valuable commodity in Washington.”

  “So how is he involved in all of this?”

  “I’ve read your update. You know all about the declassified Project Stargate. How it was discontinued in the middle 1990s.”

  “But it wasn’t,” Painter said. “In its final years, it vanished into the Defense Intelligence Agency.”

  “That’s correct. It became Mapplethorpe’s project. He was approached in 1996 by a pair of Russian scientists—who were running the Soviet Union’s version of Stargate. They were strapped for funds and sought our aid. We agreed to help—for our mutual benefit in this new world of borderless enemies. So a small cabal of Jasons was assigned to work jointly with the Russians. That’s when the whole project went deeply classified. Vanished. Only a handful of people were even aware of its continuing existence.”

  “Until Archibald came stumbling to our doorstep,” Painter said.

  “We believe he sought to expose them. To bring out evidence.”

  “Of the atrocities being committed in the name of science.”

  “In the name of national security,” Sean corrected. “Keep that in mind. That’s the oil that greases the wheels in Washington. Do not underestimate Mapplethorpe. He knows how to
play this game. And he believes himself a true patriot. He’s also gone a long way to establish himself as such in the intelligence communities. Here and abroad.”

  Painter shook his head.

  Sean continued, “Mapplethorpe has got every intelligence agency in the country looking for that skull you acquired. Every combination of initials imaginable. CIA, FBI, NSA, NRO, ONI…I wager he’s even employed the network of retired spies with the AARP.”

  Sean tried to smile at his own joke, but it came out tired. “I can’t keep a lid on this much longer. Archibald was shot right on your doorstep. His ties to the Jasons, to Sigma, will not go unnoticed for long. And after last year’s government oversight on our operations, there are many classified trails that lead here.”

  “So what are you saying?” Painter asked.

  “I think it’s time that the skull made a reappearance. The wolves are circling closer. I can broker the skull through another intelligence agency, so it doesn’t leave a trail back to Sigma.” He met and held Painter’s gaze.

  “But that’ll buy you only a half a day grace period with the girl. If Gray and his team don’t have answers before then, we may be forced to give her up.”

  “I won’t do that, Sean.”

  “You may have no choice.”

  Painter stood. “Then you meet her first. You look at her, what was done to her. And you tell me how I can hand that girl over to Mapplethorpe.”

  Painter saw his mentor balk. It was easier to condemn the faceless. Still, Sean nodded and stood. He never shied from the difficult. It was why Painter respected the man so much.

  “Let’s go say hello,” Sean said.

  They exited together and descended the two levels to where the child was being kept.

  As they reached the lower floor, Painter spotted Kat and Lisa at the end of the hall near the door to the girl’s room. Kat seemed frantic. Painter knew the woman had been upset after seeing the child draw a picture of her husband, Monk, but Kat had eventually calmed down. She had admitted opening her wallet to show the girl pictures of her own daughter, Penelope, as a baby, hoping to establish a bond with the child. She’d had a picture of Monk among the photos.