To ensure this deception, even his ammunition matched the rebels’.
Including his pistol.
With weapon ready, he edged by a row of open oak barrels. Grain, rye, flour, even dried apples. He stepped carefully, wary of any ambush. The monks might be damaged of mind, but even the mad could display cunning when cornered.
Ahead, the passageway jagged to the left. He hugged the right wall. He stopped to listen, ears pricked for any scuffle of heel. He flipped up his night-vision goggles.
Pitch dark.
He lowered the scopes over his eyes, and the passageway stretched ahead, limned in green. He would see any lurkers well before they saw him. There was no escape. They would have to get past him to reach the only safe way out.
He slid around the corner.
A low bale of hay sat crooked across the passage, as if knocked aside in a hurry. He searched the stretch of cellar ahead. More barrels. The roof was raftered with hanging bunches of drying branches.
No movement. No sound.
He reached a leg over the blocking bale and stepped to the far side.
Under his boot heel, a brittle juniper branch cracked.
His eyes flicked down. The entire floor was covered with a spread of branches.
Trap.
“Now!”
He glanced up as the world ahead burst into a strobing brilliance. Amplified by the goggles’ sensitivity, the exploding supernovas seared the back of his skull, blinding him.
Camera flashes.
He fired instinctively.
The explosions were deafening in the tight cellar.
They must have lain in wait in the dark, listening until he stepped on the crackling branch, giving away his proximity, then ambushed him. He backed a step, half tripping on the bale of hay.
Falling back, his next shot fired high.
A mistake.
Taking advantage, someone barreled into him. Low. Hitting him in the legs and knocking him over the bale. His back slammed into the stone floor. Something stabbed into the meat of his thigh. He kneed up, earning a grunt from the attacker atop him.
“Go!” the attacker yelled, pinning down his pistol arm. “Get clear!”
His attacker spoke English. Not a monk.
A second figure leaped past their bodies, appearing shadowy as his vision began to return. He heard the steps retreating toward the barn trapdoor.
“Scheiße,” he swore.
He heaved his body around, flinging the man from him like a ragdoll. The Sonnekönige were not like other men. His attacker struck the wall, rebounded, and tried to leap after the other escapee. But vision returned rapidly, illuminated by the retreating light. Furious, he grabbed his attacker’s ankle and dragged him back.
The man kicked with his other foot, catching him in the elbow.
Growling, he dug his thumb into a tender nerve behind the Achilles tendon. The man cried out. He knew how painful that pinch could be. Like having your ankle broken. He drew the man up by his leg.
As he straightened, the world turned in a heady spin. All the strength suddenly sputtered out of him as if he were a popped balloon. His upper thigh burned. Where he’d been stabbed. He stared down. Not stabbed. A syringe still protruded from his thigh, jammed to the hilt.
Drugged.
His attacker twisted and broke his weakening grip, rolling and scrambling away.
He could not let the man escape.
He lifted his pistol—as heavy as an anvil now—and fired after him. The shot ricocheted off the floor. Weakening rapidly, he fired a second shot—but the man was already out of sight.
He heard his attacker fleeing.
Limbs heavy, he sank to his knees. His heart pounded in his chest. A heart twice the average size. But normal for a Sonnekönig.
He took several deep breaths as his metabolism adjusted.
The Sonnekönige were not like other men.
He slowly pushed to his feet.
He had a duty to finish.
It was why he had been born.
To serve.
Painter slammed the trapdoor closed.
“Help me with this,” he said, limping to the side. Pain prickled up his leg. He pointed to a stack of crates. “Stack them on the trapdoor.”
He dragged off the topmost crate. Too heavy to carry, it crashed to the floor with a clang of rattling metal. He dragged it toward the door. He didn’t know what was inside the crates, only that they were heavy, damn heavy.
He manhandled the box atop the trapdoor.
Lisa struggled with a second. He joined her, grabbing a third.
Together they hauled the load to the door.
“One more,” Painter said.
Lisa stared at the pile of crates on the door. “No one’s getting through that.”
“One more,” Painter insisted, panting and grimacing. “Trust me.”
They dragged the last one together. It took both of them to lift it atop the others already piled on the trapdoor.
“The drugs will keep him out cold for hours,” Lisa said.
A single gunshot answered her. A rifle round pierced through the loaded trapdoor and drilled into one of the barn rafters.
“I think I’m going to want a second opinion,” Painter said, pulling her away.
“Did you get all of the midazolam…the sedative into him?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Then how—?”
“I don’t know. And right now, don’t care.”
Painter led her toward the open barn door. After searching for any other gunmen, they fled outside. To the left, the world was a fiery, smoky ruin. Flaming embers swirled into a lowering sky.
Clouds the color of granite obscured the summit overhead.
“Taski was right,” Lisa mumbled, pulling up the hood of her parka.
“Who?”
“A Sherpa guide. He warned that another storm front would strike today.”
Painter followed the flames twisting toward the clouds. Heavy white snowflakes began to sift downward, mixing with a black rain of glowing ash. Fire and ice. It was a fitting memorial to the dozen monks who had shared this monastery.
As Painter remembered the gentle men who made their home here, a dark anger stoked inside him. Who would slaughter the monks with such mercilessness?
He had no answer to the who, but he did know the why.
The illness here.
Something had gone wrong—and now someone sought to cover it up.
An explosion cut off any further contemplation. Flame and smoke belched out the barn door. One of the crate lids sailed out into the yard.
Painter grabbed Lisa’s arm.
“Did he just blow himself up?” Lisa asked, staring aghast toward the barn.
“No. Just the trapdoor. C’mon. The fires will only hold him off so long.”
Painter led the way across the ice-crusted ground, avoiding the frozen carcasses of the goats and sheep. They picked their way out the pen gate.
Snow grew heavier. A mixed blessing. Painter wore only a thick woolen robe and fur-lined boots. Not much insulation against a blizzard. But the fresh snowfall would help hide their path and shave visibility.
He led the way toward a path that ran along a sheer cliff face and trailed down to the lower village, the village he had visited a few days ago.
“Look!” Lisa said.
Below, a column of smoke churned into the sky, a smaller version of the one at their back.
“The village…” Painter tightened a fist.
So it wasn’t just the monastery that was being eradicated. The scatter of huts below had been firebombed, too. The attackers were leaving no witnesses.
Painter pulled back from the cliff-side trail. It was too exposed.
The path would surely be watched, and others might still be below.
He retreated back toward the fiery ruins of the monastery.
“Where are we going to go?” Lisa asked.
Painter pointed beyond the flames. “No-man’s-l
and.”
“But isn’t that where—?”
“Where the lights were last seen,” he confirmed. “But the broken land is also a place to lose ourselves. To find shelter. To hole up and weather out the storm. We’ll wait for others to come investigate the fire and smoke.”
Painter stared at the thick black column. It should be visible for miles. A smoke signal, like his Native American ancestors once used. But was there anyone to see it? His gaze shifted higher, to the clouds. He tried to pierce the cover to the open skies beyond. He prayed someone recognized the danger.
Until then…
He had only one choice.
“Let’s go.”
1:25 A.M.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Monk crossed the dark Capitol Plaza with Kat at his side. They marched in brisk stride together, not so much in simpatico as irritation.
“I’d prefer we wait,” Kat said. “It’s too early. Anything might happen.”
Monk could smell the hint of jasmine from her. They had showered hurriedly together after the call from Logan Gregory, caressing each other in the steam, entwined as they rinsed, a final intimacy. But afterward, as they separately toweled and dressed, practicality began to intrude with every tug of a zipper and securing of a button. Reality set in, cooling their passion as much as the night’s chill.
Monk glanced at her now.
Kat wore navy blue slacks, a white blouse, and a windbreaker emblazoned with the U.S. Navy symbol. Professional as always, as spit-and-polished as her black leather pumps. While Monk, in turn, wore black Reeboks, dark jeans, and an oatmeal-colored turtleneck sweater, topped by a Chicago Cubs baseball cap.
“Until I know for sure,” Kat continued, “I’d prefer we keep silent about the pregnancy.”
“What do you mean by until I know for sure? Until you know for sure you want the baby? Until you’re sure about us?”
They had argued all the way from Kat’s apartment at the edge of Logan Circle, a former Victorian bed-and-breakfast that had been converted into condos, within walking distance of the Capitol. This night, the short walk seemed interminable.
“Monk…”
He stopped. He reached a hand out to her, then lowered it. Still, she stopped, too.
He stared her square in the eye. “Tell me, Kat.”
“I want to make sure the pregnancy…I don’t know…sticks. Until I’m further along before telling anyone.” Her eyes glistened in the moonlight, near tears.
“Baby, that’s why we should let everyone know.” He stepped closer. He placed a hand on her belly. “To protect what’s growing here.”
She turned away, his hand now resting on the small of her back. “And then maybe you were right. My career…maybe this isn’t the right time.”
Monk sighed. “If all kids were born only at the right time, the world would be a much emptier place.”
“Monk, you’re not being fair. It’s not your career.”
“Like hell it’s not. You don’t think a kid isn’t going to alter my life, my choices from here? It changes everything.”
“Exactly. That’s what scares me the most.” She leaned into his palm. He wrapped her in his arms.
“We’ll get through this together,” he whispered. “I promise.”
“I’d still rather keep quiet…at least for a few more days. I haven’t even been to a doctor yet. Maybe the pregnancy test is wrong.”
“How many tests did you take?”
She leaned against him.
“Well?”
“Five,” she whispered.
“Five?” He failed to keep the amusement from his voice.
She half punched him in the ribs. It hurt. “Don’t make fun of me.” He heard the smile in her voice.
He wrapped his arms tighter around her. “Fine. It’ll be our secret for now.”
She turned in his arms and kissed him, not deeply, not passionately, just in thanks. They separated, but their fingers remained entwined as they continued across the mall.
Ahead, brightly lit, was their destination: the Smithsonian Castle. Its red sandstone battlements, towers, and spires shone in the dark, an anachronistic landmark to the orderly city surrounding it. While the main building housed the Smithsonian Institution’s information center, the old abandoned bomb shelter below had been converted into Sigma’s central command, burying DARPA’s covert force of military scientists in the heart of the Smithsonian’s score of museums and research sites.
Kat’s fingers slipped from his as they neared the castle grounds.
Monk studied her, a worry nagging him still.
Despite their agreement, he sensed the core of insecurity persisted behind her manner. Was it more than just the baby?
Until I know for sure.
Sure of what?
The worry nagged Monk all the way down to the subterranean offices of Sigma command. But once below, the debriefing with Logan Gregory, Sigma’s interim director, added a whole new batch of worries.
“Storm cover is still blanketing the region, with electrical storms surging across the entire Bay of Bengal,” Logan explained, seated behind an orderly desk. A bank of LCD computer screens lined one wall. Data scrolled across two of them. One showed a live feed from a weather satellite over Asia.
Monk passed Kat a photo of one of the satellite passes.
“Hopefully we’ll hear some further word before sunrise,” Logan continued. “Ang Gelu left at dawn in Nepal to helicopter some medical staff up to the monastery. They were attempting the flight during the break between storms. It’s still early. Only noon there now. So hopefully we’ll have some further intel soon.”
Monk shared a glance with Kat. They had been briefed on the director’s investigation. Painter Crowe had been out of communication for three days. From the haggard look of Logan Gregory, the man had been awake the entire time. He wore his usual blue suit, but it was slightly rumpled at elbow and knee, practically disheveled for the second in command of Sigma. His straw blond hair and tanned physique always gave him a youthful air, but this night, signs of his forty-plus years wore through: puffy eyes, a wan pallor, and a pair of wrinkles between his eyes as deep as the Grand Canyon.
“What about Gray?” Kat asked.
Logan straightened a file with a firm tap on the desk, as if this settled the prior matter. Ever efficient, he shifted a second folder to the forefront and opened it. “There was an attempt on Commander Pierce’s life an hour ago.”
“What?” Monk leaned forward, a bit suddenly. “Then what’s with all the weather reports?”
“Calm down. He’s secure and awaiting backup.” Logan gave the bullet points of events in Copenhagen, including Gray’s survival. “Monk, I’ve arranged for you to join Commander Pierce. There’s a jet waiting in Dulles, scheduled for wheels up in ninety-two minutes.”
Monk had to give the man credit. He didn’t even check his watch.
“Captain Bryant,” Logan continued, turning to Kat. “In the interim, I’d like to keep you here while we monitor situations in Nepal. I have calls into our embassy in Kathmandu. I can use your experience with intelligences, domestic and foreign.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Monk was suddenly glad Kat had risen through the ranks in the intelligence branch. She would be Logan’s right-hand man during this crisis. He’d rather have her here, bunkered safely below the Smithsonian Castle, than out in the field. It would be one less thing to worry about.
He found Kat staring at him. There was an angry set to her eyes, as if she could read his mind. He kept his face fixed and immobile.
Logan stood up. “Then I’ll let you both get situated.” He held open the door to his office, effectively dismissing them.
No sooner had the door closed behind them than Kat grabbed his arm, above the elbow, hard. “You’re heading over to Denmark?”
“Yeah, so?”
“What about…?” She tugged him into the women’s lavatory. It was empty at this late hour. “What about th
e baby?”
“I don’t understand. What does—?”
“What if something happens to you?”
He blinked at her. “Nothing will happen.”
She lifted his other arm, exposing his prosthetic hand. “You’re not indestructible.”
He lowered his arm, half hiding his hand behind him. His face heated up. “It’s a babysitting operation. I’ll support Gray as he finishes his work there. I mean, even Rachel’s coming to town. Most likely I’ll be their bloody chaperone. Then we’ll be on the first flight back here.”
“If it’s so damn unimportant, let someone else go. I can tell Logan that I need your help here.”
“Like he’ll believe that.”
“Monk…”
“I’m going, Kat. You’re the one who wants to keep quiet about the pregnancy. I want to shout it out to the world. Either way, we have our duties. You have yours. I have mine. And trust me, I won’t be reckless.” He placed a hand on her belly. “I’ll be protecting my ass for all three of us.”
She covered his hand with her own and sighed. “Well, it is a pretty nice ass.”
He smiled at her. She grinned back, but he also saw the exhaustion and worry in her eyes. He only had one answer for that.
He leaned in, lips touching, and whispered between them. “I promise.”
“Promise what?” she asked, pulling back slightly.
“Everything,” he answered and kissed her deeply.
He meant it.
“You can tell Gray,” she said when they finally broke their embrace. “As long as you swear him to secrecy.”
“Really?” His eyes brightened, then narrowed in suspicion. “Why?”
She stepped around him toward the mirror, but not before swatting his backside. “I want him watching your ass, too.”
“All right. But I don’t think he swings that way.”
She shook her head and checked her face in the mirror. “What am I going to do with you?”
He stepped behind her and encircled her waist. “Well, according to Mr. Gregory, I do have ninety-two minutes.”
12:15 P.M.
HIMALAYAS
Lisa scrambled after Painter.
With the skill of a mountain goat, he led the way down a steep pitch, boulder-strewn and treacherous with frozen shale. Snow fell thickly over them, a shifting, billowing cloud that lowered visibility to a few feet, creating a strange, gray twilight. But at least they were out of the worst of the icy gusts. The deep notch they had worked down ran counter to the wind’s direction.