Gray paid the driver, and they all crossed past a dancing fountain into the hotel lobby, gloriously air-conditioned.
“Kowalski,” Gray said and pointed to the front desk, “you and Luca secure our rooms. We’ll head up.” He nodded to Elizabeth and Rosauro.
Kowalski sighed heavily, but he mumbled something about a cold shower. He hovered a moment near Elizabeth as Gray turned toward the elevator. “Are you okay?” he mumbled to her.
“Me?”
“Back in the taxi. I thought maybe…you looked sort of…” He shrugged.
“Just the heat…maybe nerves,” she mumbled.
“I have just the ticket.” He leaned conspiratorially over to her and parted his suit jacket enough to reveal two cigars in an inner pocket. “Cubans. From the duty-free shop at the airport.”
She smiled at him. She could almost kiss him right now.
Before she could say anything, the elevator chimed behind her. Gray called for her to hurry.
Kowalski straightened and patted his jacket. He winked at her as he turned away. Actually winked. Who still winked? Still, her smile did linger on her lips as she turned to join Gray and Rosauro.
Gray ushered her inside and punched the button for the top floor. “Is there anything else we should know about Dr. Masterson?” he asked her.
“Just don’t mention Manchester United,” she mumbled.
“The soccer team?”
“Trust me, or you’ll never hear a word about my father or his research. Also, don’t push him. Let him get to the point in his own time.”
The elevator doors whisked open upon a strange sight. A large restaurant filled the roof level, sparsely occupied at this hour. Tables were set with linen and fine china. The smell of curry and garlic lingered tantalizingly in the air.
But what was unusual was that the entire restaurant slowly rotated. It spun through a panoramic view of the city, including the Taj Mahal.
At a table by one of the windows, a tall man unfolded from his seat. He lifted an arm, then lowered it, and tapped at his wristwatch.
Elizabeth smiled and crossed toward him, stepping onto the turning platform. It was a bit disconcerting at first, but she led the others forward through the nests of empty tables. A few servers in gold vests nodded a greeting to them.
It had been several years since she had last seen Dr. Masterson. He still wore his characteristic white suit, formal, colonial, with a wide-brimmed Panama hat that rested on a neighboring table. A cane leaned there, too, with a hooked ivory handle carved in the shape of a white crane. His hair, worn long to the shoulder, had also gone white to match, which she was sure did not entirely displease him. His face was craggy, leathery, tanned to a deep bronze that by now probably never faded.
Elizabeth made formal introductions. Dr. Shay Rosauro expressed what an honor it was to meet him, which went a long way to turning his irritated frown into something that bordered on welcoming. Women were a weakness of Hayden’s, especially the attention of someone as long-limbed and lithe as Dr. Rosauro. Elizabeth’s father had once hinted at why the professor had remained at the University of Mumbai, versus Oxford or Cambridge. It seemed to involve a sticky matter concerning an undergraduate student.
Hayden waved them all to their seats, making sure Dr. Rosauro was positioned next to him. By the time they were situated, the restaurant had rotated to a stunning view of the Taj Mahal.
Hayden noted their attention. “The mausoleum to Mumtaz Mahal, wife of the Shh Jhan!” he said with a bluster. “That dear wife of the emperor extracted four promises from the bloke.” He ticked them off with his fingers. “To build a great tomb to her, of course. Second, that he would marry again. Now that’s a wife! Third, that he’d be forever kind to their children. And lastly, that Jahan would visit her tomb each year on the anniversary of her death. Which he did honor, until the day he was buried in the Taj with his dear wife.”
“True love,” Rosauro said, staring out at the beauty of the mausoleum.
“And what’s a love story without a little spilled blood?” Hayden said and patted Rosauro’s hand. He left his palm resting there. “It is alleged that Jahan had the hands of all his artisans chopped off upon completion of the tomb, to ensure that they could never again build a monument with such grace as the Taj Mahal.”
At Hayden’s other side, Gray stirred, plainly anxious to bring the discussion to bear on the reason they’d all traveled halfway around the globe. Elizabeth brushed her toe against Gray’s, warning him.
His eyes met hers.
Don’t push him, she silently communicated.
As she faced around, Hayden’s right ear blew away with a spray of blood—at the exact time a sharp chime rang out like struck crystal.
Gray and Rosauro both moved while Elizabeth was still frozen in place. Rosauro yanked Hayden down to the floor; Gray tackled into Elizabeth. She caught a glimpse of a perfect hole in the pane of glass behind Hayden, radiating cracks.
As she fell, more holes appeared with ringing cracks—then she hit the floor, Gray on top of her.
“Stay down!”
She cringed flat as a barrage of gunfire ripped through the restaurant, coming from some sniper on a neighboring rooftop. Crystal glassware shattered. One of the servers twisted around, as if kicked, and fell flat. Blood poured out onto the tile floor.
Gray urged her to crawl. But Elizabeth was too afraid to move. The sniper couldn’t shoot her if she remained where she was. Gray corrected her of this misconception.
“He’s pinning us down!” he hollered to both Elizabeth and Hayden, who also seemed unwilling to move. “Trying to hold us here!”
Elizabeth understood what that implied. She gained her hands and knees. They had to move. Now.
More gunmen were on their way here.
9
September 6, 1:01 P.M.
Southern Ural Mountains
As the bear charged, the large man shoved Pyotr down the steep riverbank. Arms out, he struck hard and rolled. Branches poked, something scraped his cheek. Pyotr tumbled toward the river, scrabbling amid the wet ferns and slippery beds of pine needles. He didn’t know how to swim. Water terrified him.
Sharper screams cut through the bear’s roar.
His friends.
Konstantin and Kiska.
Pyotr’s knee struck a rock with a pain that shot to his spine. He landed flat on the riverbank’s edge. Water swirled past his nose.
He cringed back from his reflection in the dark waters. His image swam and churned, sunlight glinted and sparked as a strong gust stirred the branches overhanging the river.
Pyotr hung there in that scintillating moment of terror, suspended above the dark, dazzling water.
He’d had no warning of the brown bear until it rose up before them. Its gentle heart had been overshadowed by the hunger that hunted them, its steady beat muffled by the strident siren behind them.
Still, Pyotr’s terror spiked higher.
Not because of the water.
Not because of the bear.
Light and dark swirled under him. Oil on water.
Not the bear.
Not the bear.
He panted in dread.
The bear was not the danger.
Something else…
1:02 P.M.
Monk raised his pack, his only weapon, as the bear pounded down upon him. He had shoved Pyotr toward the water and the other two children into the underbrush on the other side. Marta leaped to a low branch and swung down toward Pyotr.
Monk hollered and swung his pack high in the air.
The bear barreled straight at him. Monk flung the pack hard and leaped to the side. Too late. As he flew, the bear struck his legs like a freight train, flipping Monk sideways. The pack bounced uselessly off its furry shoulders.
Monk hit the trunk of a larch tree broadside and crumpled to its base. With the wind knocked from him, he gasped and fought to his feet, his arms up to protect his face and head.
But the
bear ignored him and charged onward down the deer track.
Monk stumbled back to the path. Forty yards away, the bear bowled into two shadowy shapes lurking there. Two tall wolves, long limbed and snarling. The bear swatted a massive paw and sent one wolf flying, end over end. The other leaped for the bear’s throat but found only yellow teeth and a fierce bellow of rage. The wolf howled, but still fought.
Monk noticed the cap of steel on the back of the wolves’ skulls. Hunters from the underground city. Scouts. There could be more.
Monk quickly gathered Konstantin and Kiska. Marta appeared, with Pyotr riding her back. Monk collected the boy and pointed.
“Run!” he whispered.
They took off together. If there were other hunters on the trail behind them, they would have to get past the bear. It offered some protection.
Monk glanced back as the battle continued amid roars and howls. The bear had reacted with swift and deadly aggression, responding with a blind hostility that bordered on fury. Did the bear have experience with these wolves? Had the soldiers hunted the woods with them? Or was it something more fundamental, a reaction to an affront against nature. Like a lioness swiftly killing off a deformed cub.
Either way, it bought Monk and the children some extra leeway.
But for how long?
2:28 P.M.
Agra, India
Gray herded everyone across the shattered restaurant. Without a clear target, the continual barrage from the sniper had died down to bursts, enough to keep them pinned low.
Moving in a crouch, Gray aimed for the fire exit. The stairwell opened beside the elevator. They dared not use the lift. Whoever arranged this ambush surely had people posted in the lobby, watching the front exit and elevator bay. To call for the lift would only alert any men posted below. They’d be trapped. The only hope was to use the stairs to reach another level of the hotel and hole up in one of the rooms and regroup.
Their route to the stairwell was confounded by the rotation of the floor, but Gray knew the motion had also saved Dr. Masterson’s life. That first bullet had been meant for the back of the professor’s skull. The rotation of the floor must have thrown off the sniper’s aim, turning a fatal shot into a grazing wound.
Gray had to give the old guy some credit. After the initial shock, he seemed hardly fazed. He pressed a cloth napkin against his ear, already soaked with blood. He had somehow managed to grab his white hat and had it perched aslant on his head. Rosauro kept to his side, bearing the man’s ivory-handled cane.
Gray and Elizabeth reached the stationary lobby of the restaurant, followed a step behind by Rosauro and Masterson. “The stairs,” Gray said.
“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 doo
rs 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.
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