The Bone Labyrinth (31 page)

His opponent never flinched from the barrage. The gunman lay on his belly, hiding behind the doorframe, his assault rifle chugging rounds into the chapel. Gray felt something burn across his bicep as he hit the marble floor and slid sideways into the body of the first assailant he had shot.

Gray lay on his back, using the dead man’s mass as a shield, and fired over the form.

The situation was plainly untenable—which proved true with his next breath.

A familiar sharp retort echoed from the doorway. A grenade shot past his nose, hit the altar, and ricocheted straight toward him. Anticipating such an assault this time, Gray flung the dead body over him, caught the skittering grenade with the dead man’s chest, and smothered it with the body.

Gray huddled on top, curling his limbs in tight to keep the dead man’s body armor between him and the grenade. From a corner of an eye, he saw his assailant fling himself away from the doorway, hiding from the blast to come.

The explosion tossed Gray high. He flew upward amid a cloud of blood and smoke. Then he crashed back down. But rather than hitting the floor, he fell through it as the concussive force of the grenade had shattered the thick marble slab that covered the hidden stairs.

He struck those dark steps hard.

Deaf and dazed, his ears aching, Gray clawed back to his knees, then his feet. He teetered atop the debris and lifted his head through the hole. Smoke obscured the shadowy interior of the chapel. A rectangle of sunlight glowed through the pall, marking the doorway. A shadow rose into view there.

His opponent.

Safely hidden in the smoke, Gray took his time and lifted his SIG Sauer. He had managed to keep the pistol still clutched in his right hand. He did his best to steady his aim and emptied the last of his rounds at that shadow.

With grim satisfaction, he watched the dark form slump to the ground.

Good enough
.

Gray’s legs gave out and he fell sideways, sprawling across the top of the dark stairs. His vision blurred, but then a bright light grew from below, revealing two watery shapes.

Hands clutched his shoulders.

“Gray?”

It was Lena.

He forced his breath out, his lips forming a name.

“Sei . . . chan . . .”

1:15
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.
M
.

The next round clipped the wing off an angel statue in the garden.

Nine . . .

As Seichan hid behind the statue, she kept count of the number of shots fired by the Asian assassin with the umbrella. If the weapon was the same design as the one Seichan had stolen from the dead man in the grotto—a Chinese QSZ-92—the dual-stack magazine held fifteen rounds, which meant her opponent still had plenty of ammunition left.

Seichan had spent the past two minutes in a fierce game of cat and mouse with the deadly woman across the church’s gardens. Loud explosions interrupted their battle, echoing down from the chapel above. Seichan took advantage of those blasts to dive from cover to cover, to draw her opponent to waste more shots.

All the while, she did her best to quell her fears for Gray, to ignore the chatter of automatic fire from up there. She needed her full attention at hand. This assassin was disciplined and well trained, with a heart as cold as her own.

Seichan caught glimpses of the woman as she danced through the gardens and shielded her form with an expert twirl of that infernal umbrella. Her adversary appeared to be no older than twenty, maybe even younger. Her straight black hair was cut in a severe line across her forehead and along the bottom of her ears. Seichan estimated her height was at best five feet, all of it lithe muscle, a frame built for speed, which the woman used to her advantage.

Seichan had tried repeatedly to reach the SIG Sauer that had been knocked out of her grip, but her opponent kept her away from the pistol. Left with only her throwing knives, Seichan had already flung
two
at the woman—the first sliced through the umbrella’s fabric but failed to find a target behind that shield; the second was blocked by an expert twirl of the umbrella’s steel ribs.

Crouching behind the angelic statue, Seichan reached under the torn edge of the nun’s habit and slipped her last blade from an ankle sheath.

Got to make this count
.

She used the blade’s polished steel surface to spy upon her opponent without exposing herself. In the mirrored reflection, she watched the woman drift closer, angling wider for a better shot. Her body was entirely hidden behind the umbrella, her dark eyes occasionally flashing from around its edges, never at the same place twice.

Beyond that threat, Seichan had a clear view to the rear door of the church. It was still partly ajar. Shadows milled inside. People were clearly too frightened to flee out into the open with all the gunfire and explosions. She heard children crying, parents trying to hush them. She imagined calls were already being placed to local law enforcement.

But help would not arrive in time.

Knowing that, Seichan waited until the woman stepped back onto the gravel path, then made her final move. She feinted to the left side of the statue, as if trying again to go for her abandoned pistol, drawing her opponent that way. Then she rebounded back in the opposite direction, spinning under the left wing of the angel.

As she dove out of hiding, she whipped her dagger low. It flew from her fingertips, sailed under the umbrella, and caught the momentarily duped woman in the calf.

Seichan hit the ground, rolled on a shoulder, and slid behind a cement planter. She peeked through the thorns of a rosebush to see her adversary stumble several steps back along the gravel path. Still the woman made no sound, no complaint, and kept her body fully shielded behind the umbrella. Even as she retreated, she fired through her umbrella at Seichan. Though she was shooting blind, two rounds still successfully pelted into the planter.

The woman was damn good.

But I’m better.

As her opponent finally halted and gathered herself to resume her assault, she had come too close to the open door to the church—where Seichan had wanted her to be after spotting an ally inside. With the assassin’s focus fixed on Seichan, the woman had failed to note a dark shadow slip from the doorway behind her.

Seichan smiled with satisfaction.

I’m not the only nun you should’ve been worried about.

Sister Clara descended upon the woman. She swung a heavy brass crucifix in one hand and coldcocked the woman from behind.

The assassin dropped her umbrella. A gust buffeted it and rolled it across the gardens. The woman crashed to her knees, then to her side.

Seichan dashed forward, snatching up her pistol from the ground with one hand. As she reached the assassin’s side, she noted those dark eyes had rolled white. Blood seeped thickly into the gravel. Still, the woman’s chest heaved up and down.

Alive.

But not for long.

Seichan aimed her pistol toward that pale forehead, but Sister Clara stepped between her and her target.

“No,” Clara said.

Seichan stared daggers at the nun, but Clara refused to back down. Seichan read both the resolution and the compassion in the young woman’s face. The nun might be incited to violence to protect the innocents inside, but she plainly drew the line at cold-blooded murder.

Seichan growled her frustration, but she also owed the nun for her help. Plus she recognized that they could possibly get information out of this assassin when she woke up. Given the opportunity, Gray would want to interrogate her.

Seichan glanced up toward the chapel. It was still shrouded in smoke. The gunfire had ceased a minute ago. But what did that mean?

Impatient and worried, Seichan picked up the assassin’s weapon, still hot from the gunplay, and shoved it toward the nun. “Do you know how to use this?”

Clara backed a step. “Yes, but—”

“Either guard her or I shoot her.”

Clara swallowed and took the weapon. Seichan waited until the nun had the pistol pointed at the limp figure of the assassin. Only then did she twist away and sprint up the steep stairs. With every step, the fears she had held in check burned brighter in her chest.

You better be okay, Gray
.

1:18
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Roland climbed out of the secret tunnel and back into the chapel. He reached an arm down and helped Gray out, half pulling his dazed form free of the dark well. The man’s clothes were shredded, his skin bled from a hundred cuts. A scalp wound ran with a heavy flow of crimson down one side of his face.

But you saved our lives.

Gray crawled to the altar and settled on his backside. He sucked on the water bottle Lena had handed him below. She stood guard by the door now.

“There’s a nun coming,” she said, sounding worried. “With a gun.”

Roland felt his heart quicken.

Gray rolled to his knees and yanked out his pistol.

Lena turned to them, her voice brighter now with relief. “It’s Seichan.”

Gray fell back to his rear and mumbled, “Thank God.”

A moment later, the woman’s shadowy form wafted through the smoke and fell into the chapel like a dark falcon. She seemed to take everything in with a glance, her gaze settling on the blasted hole in the floor.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” she said.

“And apparently you have a new vocation,” Gray rasped out, eyeing the shreds of a nun’s habit. “Gotta say, the outfit sort of works for me.”

Roland frowned at the improper exchange, but he also recognized it as a coping mechanism. He read the concern between them, the shine of love that ran deeper than mere professional partners.

“Enough sitting around,” Seichan said. She crossed to Gray and brusquely offered a hand to help him up. “Time to get off this mountaintop before anyone else shows up.”

He smiled through the blood and let her haul him to his feet. “Thanks, dear.”

“Someone’s got to keep pulling your ass out of the fire.”

“You’re a little late for that.” Gray hobbled toward the door but glanced back to the secret stairs. His expression looked confused. “That first grenade, the one that fell through the trapdoor before it closed—what happened?”

Lena answered. “It dropped straight past us and rolled down those steep stairs.”

“It exploded in the cavern below,” Roland said. “My head’s still ringing from that blast.”

“But at least we still have our heads,” Lena added.

“What about Kircher’s Madonna and the skeleton?”

“We checked . . . before you came crashing back down to us.” Roland shook his head. “The grenade must have exploded at the feet of the Madonna. We found the bronze statue toppled on its side, crushed and charred.”

Lena sighed heavily. “The bones fared worse. Blasted to dust and burnt slivers. Still, we have what we collected earlier. Hopefully we can—”

A single gunshot cut her off, cracking loudly across the summit.

Roland swung toward the door, but Seichan burst past him, shoving Lena deeper inside the chapel.

Seichan pointed her pistol toward the stairs—then cursed brightly.

Roland shifted to a window, which offered a view down to the church courtyard. The dark form of a nun lay sprawled on the garden path. He caught a glimpse of a smaller shape vaulting over the fence and vanishing away.

“What’s wrong?” Lena asked.

Without any explanation, Seichan simply lunged out of the chapel and fled down the Holy Ladder toward the church.

Gray limped forward and headed after her. “Stay here,” he ordered them.

Left alone, Roland eyed Lena.

She bit her lip, then shook her head. “Screw that.”

While those might not be the words he would’ve chosen, he agreed with her sentiment. He had his fill with hiding in the shadows, waiting helplessly. Resolved, he and Lena headed out of the smoky chapel and into the sunlight. They ran together down the stairs.

Still, Seichan reached the courtyard well ahead of any of them. She dropped to a knee beside the sprawled body. It was Sister Clara. Seichan kept her weapon raised in one hand while checking the nun with her other hand.

Roland and Lena reached the courtyard only steps behind Gray, who wobbled on his feet from the exertion.

“What happened?” Gray asked, hurrying forward.

Seichan turned to them. Her face was a storm of emotions, most of them dark and angry. “That bitch used my own dagger,” she explained, clearly distraught. “Must’ve pulled it out of her leg and stabbed Sister Clara. I didn’t think to take it before going to check on you.”

Roland imagined Seichan’s concern for her partner had contributed to that lapse. He kneeled next to Sister Clara. He was relieved to see the young nun was still alive, but she was gravely wounded, her face a mask of pain. Blood soaked through her habit, rising around the steel hilt of a blade sticking out of her stomach.

“Tried to shoot her . . .” Clara wheezed, clutching Roland’s sleeve. “Too fast.”

“It’s okay,” he consoled her.

Clara’s eyes implored him. “Forgive me, Father.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my child.” Roland looked up at the others, unsure what to do.

Sirens sounded in the distance, rising up from the valley below. A pair of nuns pushed out of the rear door of the church. One carried a red plastic first-aid kit.

“We have to clear out of here,” Seichan warned, standing up.

Lena looked reluctant. “But Sister Clara . . .”

Roland gripped the nun’s fingers, also refusing to leave her side.

“I don’t think anything vital was hit,” Seichan said. “She should live until help arrives.”

Her words were callous, but Roland also heard the pain and guilt in her voice.

Fingers tightened on his hand. Sister Clara stared up at him, then to the others.

“Go,” she whispered weakly but with clear resolve. “Whatever those
potwory
were after, stop them.”

“I promise,” Roland said.