It had.

But the security cases had done their job, protecting the most valuable treasure of all: their lives. The shrapnel had cut through the room, but shielded behind the bulletproof gla.s.s, they had survived.

It had been her idea.

Afterward, with the concussion still echoing in her head, Kat had rolled out of her case and found the jeweled sword on the floor. It proved a more circ.u.mspect weapon than her pistol. She had not wanted a blast to alert the other gunmen.

Still, her hand shook. Her body remembered the last knife fight she had been in...and the aftermath. She tightened her grip on the sword's hilt, drawing strength from the hard steel.

Behind her, Monsignor Verona stumbled to his feet. He glanced to his limbs as if surprised to find them still attached.

Kat returned to the door. Except for their dead comrade, none of the other gunmen seemed to be paying attention. They were ma.s.sed by the entrance.

"We should move." Kat motioned them out. Sticking to the wall, she led them away from the front exits, away from the guards. She reached the corner where the nave crossed with the transept. Kat waved them around the corner of the intersection.

Once out of the direct view of the gunmen, the monsignor pointed down the length of the transept. "That way," he whispered.

There was another set of doors back there. Another exit. Unguarded.

With the fifteenth-century sword clutched in her fist, Kat hurried them forward. They had survived.

But what about the others?

3:38 A A.M.

RACHEL FIRED her gun down the throat of the spiral staircase, counting down the rounds in the second clip. Nine bullets. They had more ammunition, but no time to load another magazine. Commander Pierce was too busy. her gun down the throat of the spiral staircase, counting down the rounds in the second clip. Nine bullets. They had more ammunition, but no time to load another magazine. Commander Pierce was too busy.

With no other recourse, she shot blindly, sporadically, keeping the attackers at bay. Spouts of flame continued to hara.s.s her, licking forth like the tongue of a dragon.

The stalemate could not last much longer.

"Gray!" she yelled, skipping the formalities of rank.

"Another second," he answered from around the far side of the bell.

As the flames faltered from the stairwell, Rachel aimed and squeezed the trigger. She had to hold them off. The bullet struck the stone wall and ricocheted down the staircase.

Then her pistol's slide locked open.

Out of bullets.

She backed away and circled the bell to the far side.

Gray had his pack off and had tied a rope around one of the window bars. He had the other end wrapped around his waist and the slack over one arm. He had used a hand jack in a tool kit to pry apart two of the window's bars, just wide enough to climb through.

"Hold the slack," he said.

She took the nylon rope, about five meters in length. Behind her, a fresh billow of flame jettisoned from the stairwell. The others were testing again, moving forward.

Gray grabbed his pack and squeezed between the bars. Once out on the stone parapet, he donned the backpack and turned back to her. "The rope."

She pa.s.sed it to him. "Be careful."

"A little late for that."

He stared down between his toes. Not a wise thing to do, Rachel thought. The hundred-meter drop would weaken anyone's knees...and strength of leg was most important now.

Gray faced forward from the ledge of the cathedral's south spire.

Four meters away, over a fatal drop, stood the north spire, a twin to this one. Off limits to the public, there were no bars across the far window. But there was also no hope of jumping from window to window, not from a standing position. Instead, Gray planned to dive straight out and grab whatever handhold he could on the decorated facade of the opposite tower.

The risk was great, but they had no other recourse.

They had to jump ship.

Gray bent his knees. Rachel held her breath, one hand fisted at the hollow of her neck.

Without a second's hesitation, Gray simply leaned out and leapt, arching the length of his body, flinging away the coil of slack rope. He flew across the gap and struck just below the window ledge. He lunged out with both arms and grabbed ahold of the sill, miraculously catching it. But the impact bounced him back. His arms could not hold him. He began to fall.

"Your left foot!" she yelled to him.

He heard her. His left toe scrambled against the stone surface and found the demon-faced gargoyle on the lower tier. He planted his foot atop its head.

With his plummet stopped, he regained a handful of ledge above and found another toehold for his right leg, clinging like a fly to a wall. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, then climbed and manhandled himself through the window.

Rachel risked a glance behind her, ducking to peer under the bell. The flames had stopped. She knew the others understood the significance of her sudden cease-fire.

Rachel could wait no longer. She shimmied through the bars. The ledge was slick with pigeon guano, the winds gusting and treacherous.

Across the gap, Gray had secured his end of the rope, forming a bridge. "Hurry! I have you."

She met his eyes across the gap and found firm a.s.surance.

"I have you," he repeated.

Swallowing, she reached out. Don't look down, she thought, and grabbed the rope. Hand over hand. That's all she needed to do.

She leaned out, both fists white-knuckled to the rope, toes still on the ledge. She heard the bell ring behind her. Startled, she glanced over a shoulder and watched a dumbbell-shaped silver cylinder bounce across the stone deck.

She didn't know what it was-but it certainly wasn't good.

Needing no other encouragement, Rachel swung out on the rope and quickly scrambled across the bridge, legs kicking, hand over hand. Gray caught her around the midriff.

"Bomb," she gasped out, tossing her head back to indicate the far tower.

"What-?"

The blast cut off any further words. Buffeted from behind, Rachel was shoved through the cas.e.m.e.nt and into Gray's chest. They both fell in a tangle to the floor of the bell tower. A wall of blue flame rolled over them through the window, blast-furnace hot.

Gray held her tight, shielding her with his own body.

But the flames quickly dissipated in the gusty winds.

Gray rolled aside as Rachel elbowed up. She stared back toward the south tower. The spire was aflame. Spats of fire licked and roiled from the four windows. The bell clanged within the conflagration.

Gray joined her. He hauled in the rope. The knot on the far side had burned away, severing the bridge. Across the gap, the window bars glowed a fiery red.

"Incendiary device," he said.

The flames rippled in the strong winds, like a candle in the night. A final memorial to those killed, both last night and tonight. Rachel pictured the rakish smile of her uncle. Dead. Grief welled through her...along with something hotter and sharper. She stumbled back, but Gray caught her.

Police sirens wailed across the city, echoing up to them.

"We must go," he said.

She nodded.

"They'll think us dead. Let's keep it that way."

She allowed herself to be led to the stairwell. They hurried down, winding around and around. Sirens grew even louder-but closer, an engine coughed to life, revving gutturally, followed by a second.

Gray checked the window. "They're fleeing."

Rachel stared out. Three stories below, a pair of black vans pulled away, racing across the pedestrian square.

"C'mon," Gray said. "I have a bad feeling about this."

He hurried down, skipping steps. Rachel rushed after him, trusting his instinct.

They hit the foyer at a dead run. One of the doors to the nave had been left ajar. Rachel glanced into the church-toward where her uncle had been killed. But something drew her eye, closer, on the floor, draped down the center aisle.

Silver barbells.

A dozen or more. Daisy-chained with red wires.

"Run!" she yelled, turning on a heel.

Together they hit the main doors and flew into the square.

Without a word, they fled toward the only shelter. The panel truck of the German Polizei sat on the square. They dove behind it just as the devices exploded.

It sounded like fireworks going off, one after the other, in succession.

A shatter of gla.s.s accompanied, loud enough to be heard above the popping explosions. Rachel glanced up. The giant Bavarian stained-gla.s.s window above the main door, dating from the Middle Ages, blew out in a brilliant cascade of fire and jeweled gla.s.s.

She tucked tight to the truck as the shower of gla.s.s pelted the square all around them in a rain of death.

Something hit the far side of the truck with a resounding crash. Rachel bent and stared past the wheels. On the far side, one of the ma.s.sive wooden doors of the cathedral lay on the street, aflame.

Then a new noise intruded. Surprised voices. m.u.f.fled. Coming from inside inside the truck. Rachel glanced to Gray. He suddenly had a knife in hand, making it appear as if by magic. the truck. Rachel glanced to Gray. He suddenly had a knife in hand, making it appear as if by magic.

They circled around the back of the van.

Before they could touch the handle, the door popped open.

Rachel stared in disbelief as Gray's stocky team member stumbled out. He was followed by his female partner, bearing a longsword in hand. And lastly by a familiar, welcome figure.

"Uncle Vigor!" Rachel clasped him in a bear hug.

He returned her embrace. "Why is it," he asked, "that everyone seems determined to blow me up?"

4:45 A A.M.

AN HOUR later, Gray paced the hotel room, still edgy, nerves stretched thin. They had taken up the room here using false identification, determining it was best to get off the streets as soon as possible. Hotel Cristall on Ursulaplatz was located less than half a mile from the cathedral, a small boutique establishment with an oddly Scandinavian decor of primary colors. later, Gray paced the hotel room, still edgy, nerves stretched thin. They had taken up the room here using false identification, determining it was best to get off the streets as soon as possible. Hotel Cristall on Ursulaplatz was located less than half a mile from the cathedral, a small boutique establishment with an oddly Scandinavian decor of primary colors.

They had gone to ground here to regroup, establish a plan of action.

But first they needed more intel.

A key scuffled in the door lock. Gray placed a palm on his pistol. He wasn't taking any chances. But it was only Monsignor Verona returning from a scouting expedition.

Vigor pushed into the room. His expression had gone very grim.

"What?"

"The boy's dead," the monsignor said.

The others gathered closer.

Vigor explained, "Jason Pendleton. The boy who survived from the ma.s.sacre. It's just been reported on the BBC. He was killed in his hospital room. Cause of death is still unknown, but foul play is highly suspected. Especially coinciding with the firebombing of the cathedral."

Rachel shook her head sadly.

Earlier, Gray had been relieved to find everyone alive, only bruised and shaken. He had failed to consider the survivor of the first ma.s.sacre. But it made a certain horrible sense. The cathedral attack had obviously been a whitewash operation, to erase any residual trail. And of course, that would include silencing the only witness.

"Did you learn anything else?" Gray asked.

He had sent the monsignor down to the lounge after they had checked into the hotel, to investigate the state of affairs at the cathedral. The monsignor was best suited. He spoke the language fluently, and his clerical collar would place him above suspicion.

Even now, Klaxons and sirens wailed across the city. Out the window, they had a view of Cathedral Hill. A bevy of fire engines and other emergency vehicles gathered there, flashing their blues and reds. Smoke clouded the night sky. The streets were crowded with spectators and news vans.

"I learned nothing more than we already know," Vigor said. "The fire is still raging inside the church. It hasn't spread. I saw an interview with one of the priests from the rectory. No one was harmed. But they're reporting concern about the whereabouts of myself and my niece."

"Good," Gray said, earning a glance from Rachel. "As I said before, they think we were eliminated for the moment. We should maintain that ruse for as long as possible. As long as they don't know we're alive, they'll be less likely to be looking over their shoulders."

"And less likely to be gunning for us," Monk said. "I especially like that part."

Kat was working on a laptop wired to a digital camera. "The photos are uploading now," she said.