The Doomsday Key: A Sigma Force Novel

by James Rollins

  The image on the screen swelled and swept down upon the plaza. Details grew less distinct. But two black cars clearly raced around the periphery of the stone amphitheater. Ahead, a pair of motorcycles sped down walkways and across grassy lawns. One of the bikes shot off the top of a stairway, landed on its back tire, and sped away.

  “Yeah,” Monk said with appreciation. “That’s got to be Gray.”

  The two cars were rapidly closing the distance.

  “There!” Kat said and pointed at the screen.

  A third car, coming from the opposite direction, aimed straight for the two bikes. A small explosion erupted near one of the motorcycles, sending a trash can and a section of brick wall high into the air.

  “Grenade,” Painter muttered.

  What was going on?

  Pinned on three sides, the two bikes turned and fled along the only path open to them.

  Kat’s voice turned incredulous. “They aren’t … they can’t think …”

  Monk leaned closer. “Oh, yeah, that’s definitely Gray.”

  9

  October 11, 8:23 A.M.

  Rome, Italy

  Gray leaned hard over the handlebars. Rachel hugged tight to him. He aimed straight for the massive stone structure. It rose fifteen stories at its highest point, climbing in towering levels of immense arches and colossal columns. At the lowest level, each archway entrance was sealed by a tall steel gate, but directly ahead was the main entrance, where tourists normally lined up.

  Gray shot straight toward it.

  The Coliseum was not yet open to the public at this early hour, but the gates were open, and the crowds had already begun to gather in anticipation. The gunfire and blasts had chased most of them clear. Still, clutches of people took refuge wherever they could. A pair of men dressed as gladiators had even climbed one of the plaza’s trees.

  The presence of tourists and bystanders also kept the armed police who guarded the site wary and cautious, discouraging them from shooting out of hand. The guards had cleared the entrance site.

  With the way conveniently open, Gray shot toward the main gate.

  A single guard stepped into view, ready to defend the site. He leveled his weapon and yelled a warning at them. Rachel screamed back at him. She waved her arm, holding her carabinieri credentials high.

  The man hesitated, his face clouded by confusion.

  It was enough.

  Gray shot past him as he leaped to the side. Seichan followed. They blasted into the outer passageway that circled the central arena. Lined by archways and held up by columns, the enclosed shadowy space was cavernous. The roar of the cycles echoed off the walls, growing into a deafening crescendo.

  A chatter of gunfire drew his attention to the left. One of the Lamborghinis kept pace out in the sunlit plaza. A gunman fired an assault rifle out the passenger window. But the stone walls and steel gates shielded them. Sparks spat off the steel.

  A loud splintering crash sounded behind them.

  Gray glanced over his shoulder. A second Lamborghini rammed through the gateway and gave chase inside the space. It was unfortunately vast enough to accommodate the small sports car.

  A fiery explosion drew Gray’s attention back around. One of the steel gates, bent and smoking, blasted into the passageway ahead. The third Lamborghini shot through the wreckage and skidded to a stop, blocking the way.

  A dark figure leaned out the window, leveling his smoking weapon straight at them.

  “Go right!” Rachel yelled and pointed to a nearby stone ramp.

  Obeying, he made a hard turn, leaning out with his knee. The bike skidded, tilted precariously, too precariously. He burned his kneecap across the stone as the bike began to fall. Gritting his teeth, he willed the bike back up.

  In the end, the angle saved his life. A loud boom deafened, and a spiraling contrail of smoke shot past the tilted bike, missing Gray by inches. He felt the burn of its passage across his cheek.

  The grenade rocketed away and slammed straight into the windshield of the other Lamborghini. A flaming blast blew out its windows and flipped the car over on its side.

  As searing heat washed outward, Gray gunned for the ramp. Seichan and Kowalski had already skirted around one of the massive support columns and converged toward them. The two bikes reached the ramp together and shot down a short shadowy passageway and back into sunlight.

  At the end of the ramp, the full extent of the stadium opened. It climbed in four massive levels, covering six acres. Though the amphitheater had been damaged over the centuries by vandals, fires, earthquakes, and war, it still held an ageless grandeur, a testament to time and history. Directly ahead stretched the arena itself, where great battles had been fought and death was a sport. Long ago, the original wooden floor had rotted away and exposed the underground maze of stone passages and cells that once housed animals, slaves, and gladiators.

  A modern elevated boardwalk now crossed over the open pit and ended at a flat stage on the far side. Gray took advantage of it. Without slowing, he led the way across it, speeding straight down the center of the narrow boardwalk. The roar of the pair of cycles echoed across the space, dredging up the ghosts of ancient spectators as they clapped and bellowed for blood.

  And the ghosts would not be disappointed today.

  A fresh barrage of gunfire erupted behind them. In his rearview mirror, Gray spotted a pair of gunmen taking up positions at the end of the boardwalk. They had combat assault rifles at their shoulders. After the first wild hail of bullets, Seichan was forced to drop her motorcycle, her rear tire blown. The bike skidded on its side. Seichan and Kowalski rolled across the planks, tangled together.

  Kowalski tried to get up on his knees, but Seichan tackled him before he took a bullet to the head. Together, they tumbled off the boardwalk and vanished into the pit below.

  It was the only option.

  Exposed and out in the open, Gray and Rachel would never make it to the far side. Once the assassins secured their positions and steadied their aim, their prey would be picked off. Gray braked to a hard stop. He knew he had less than a second. He twisted, grabbed Rachel around the waist, and rolled her off the bike to the boardwalk.

  Bullets chewed across the planks straight at them.

  Gray held tight and continued to roll. He took them over the edge of the boardwalk and down into the darkness of the pit.

  2:35 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Painter leaned in closer to the monitor. “Can you zoom in any tighter?”

  The satellite technician shook his head and sat back. “This is the best resolution I can manage from this satellite. I can run the current data through a high-res filter, but compiling it will take hours.”

  Painter turned to Kat. She was on the phone. He met her eyes.

  “Italian military is responding,” Kat said. “They’re ten minutes out. Local police have the area locked down.”

  Painter stared back at the screen. They had lost sight of the motorcycles as the pair shot into the Coliseum. But seconds later they reappeared, racing across the center of the arena. The detail was poor, little more than a vague representation. But as they watched, one bike suddenly spun and skidded to a stop. Seconds later the other braked and stopped. Movement blurred around the spots, then all seemed to go dead still.

  The resolution was not fine enough to tell if there were any bodies on the ramp.

  Monk leaned over the technician’s shoulder. “Sir…” He pointed and drew Painter’s attention back to the screen. “I think I see something again. On the bridge.”

  The technician nodded. “Looks like two figures. Maybe three.”

  His finger traced the barest flicker of pixels on the screen. They flowed toward the downed motorcycles. Even with such low resolution, Painter recognized the stalking pattern of true hunters.

  He mumbled to the screen, half plea, half prayer. “Get the hell out of there, Gray…”

  8:36 A.M.

  Rome, Italy

&
nbsp; Rachel leaned on Gray’s shoulder. Each step sent a jolt of pain up her right leg. She had wrenched her knee tumbling into the subterranean region of the Coliseum. As she hopped alongside him, she searched around the space.

  With the sun still low, deep shadows covered them. She had learned from Uncle Vigor that these lower levels were called the hypogeum, which simply meant “underground.” It was here that all manner of beasts had been housed—lions, elephants, tigers, giraffes—along with slaves and gladiators. Crude elevators raised and lowered cages or elaborate set pieces.

  But all that was left of the spectacle were the crumbling ruins of walls, blind cubbies, and tiny cells. Lacking any roofs, the upper level was left exposed to the sun and rain. Grass and weeds covered the floor, while thick moss matted the walls. Due to the fragile nature of the ancient structures and the danger of sudden collapses, the level was out of bounds for tourists—but not for archaeologists. Uncle Vigor had once sneaked Rachel down here when she was a teenager.

  If I could just get my bearings…

  Gray suddenly stopped. Furtive movement sounded behind them: the scuff of stone, the heavy rush of breath. They ducked back into one of the cells. Two figures appeared.

  Rachel felt Gray sag with relief. “Seichan…”

  The woman hissed at him and lifted a finger to her lips. Kowalski trailed her. Blood covered half his face, running thickly from a jagged cut above his eye. He also lifted a hand to warn them to be quiet.

  Rachel then heard it, too.

  The tramp of boots on the boardwalk overhead.

  The gunmen had not fled as Rachel had hoped. They still hunted their prey.

  Seichan pointed up, then shoved her arm out. Her pantomime was clear. If they stayed directly under the boardwalk, they’d be less likely to be spotted. But that meant moving as silently as possible.

  Gray nodded and began to head toward the far side of the hypogeum. Rachel tightened her grip and stopped him. He stared back at her questioningly. She knew the layout of these levels. If they followed the boardwalk, they’d just hit a solid wall. Only a few ways still led out of the hypogeum.

  She pointed along their path, made a chopping motion on her arm, and shook her head. It was military sign language for dead end. Turning, she pointed toward an exit few people knew about. Her uncle had shown it to her long ago. But to reach that spot, they’d have to abandon the shelter of the boardwalk and head out into the exposed maze.

  Gray studied her with his face tight, his eyes hard pieces of blue ice.

  Are you sure?

  Rachel nodded. His fingers tightened on her shoulder, thanking her, reassuring her. For just a flash, she wanted those arms around her, holding her just as tightly. But he let go and crouched with Kowalski. They whispered too low to hear.

  Seichan drew next to her. She also kept her attention on the two Americans. Rachel didn’t doubt the woman could read their lips. Rachel glanced sidelong at her. A purplish bruise was forming on Seichan’s cheek. Rachel also noted how much weight she’d lost since they’d first met years ago. Her face was more gaunt, hollow and haunted around the eyes. It left her looking like something carved out of stone, hard and unyielding. Still, there remained a cold fire in her dark green gaze.

  Gray slid back and drew them all into a crouch under the boardwalk. He glanced up, listening as one of the hunters passed overhead. The gunmen were watching both halves of the hypogeum. Any flicker of movement, and both would be on them. From their high vantage, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

  As the assassin moved past, Gray whispered, “We’ll need a distraction. Kowalski’s got one round left in his pistol. It’s not much but—”

  The cautious tromp of boots suddenly changed cadence. The slow step turned into a heavy-footed run. Boots pounded toward their position.

  Gray’s whispering must have been heard.

  Kowalski lifted his pistol, ready to shoot, but Seichan placed a cautioning hand on his shoulder.

  The pounding passed their position and continued down the boardwalk, heading toward the far side. They were running off. Something had spooked them.

  “The police…” Gray guessed aloud.

  “‘Bout time,” Kowalski said.

  Seichan did not share their relief. Her expression soured. She was on several terrorist watch lists, including Interpol’s.

  Before they could make any decision, a new noise intruded. It came suddenly. The thump-thump of a helicopter. Gray stepped out from under the boardwalk and stared up. Rachel joined him.

  A wasp-bodied black helicopter swept over the rim of the coliseum.

  “That’s not the polizia,” Rachel said.

  In fact, there were no markings on the craft.

  As it banked over the stadium, a side door cranked open in the helicopter.

  Gray grabbed Rachel’s shoulder. “Run!”

  It was clear now why the gunmen had fled. Not from the police, but from a new level of assault. Why shoot fish in a barrel when depth charges worked so much better?

  “This way!” Rachel yelled.

  She ran, ignoring the protest from her knee, adrenaline burning away pain. She headed along a curving wall lined by stone cells. The others followed.

  “What’s going on?” Kowalski bellowed.

  Rachel took the first right passage, then the next left. She ended up at a dead end. “Back!”

  They scrambled around. Rachel kept hold of Gray’s shoulder, limping. While she knew where the exit was located, she did not have this rat maze memorized. Backpedaling, she found the correct turn this time. Ahead, a straight passage ended at a narrow archway. That was it! The arch marked a staircase down to a lower level of the hypogeum.

  She had started toward it when Gray grabbed her from behind and shouldered her back into one of the side cells. The others piled in, too. Gray covered her as a thunderous whump sounded that shook the walls and stones underfoot. A moment later, a wash of flames billowed past overhead, rolling smoke and reeking of poisonous chemicals.

  Gray shoved her back out of the shelter. She stumbled, deaf, eyes watering. Overhead, the helicopter swept past, swirling smoke and flames. A black steel barrel was rolled to the lip of the open hatch.

  Oh, no…

  Panicked, knowing what was coming, Rachel sprinted down the passageway, gasping in pain as she hurdled rocks and sections of tumbled wall. The arched opening gaped ten yards away. Focused on her goal, her heel landed on a moss-encrusted stone. Her foot slipped, and her leg twisted. She stumbled—but never hit the ground.

  Gray scooped her around the waist and carried her the last few steps. They dove together through the archway. Bodies shoved into them from behind. They fell as a group, tripping, tumbling down the flight of stone steps.

  They landed in a pile at the bottom as the world exploded above them.

  The blast, striking near the opening, immediately deafened them. Pressure slammed Rachel’s ears and felt like it cracked her skull. Rocks tumbled and bounced. Flames gusted down the throat of the stairwell, washing across the roof overhead. Her skin burned. Her lungs could draw no air.

  Then in a rush, the pressure popped. The flames were sucked away, back out of the tunnel. Cool air drafted up from the lower levels and washed over them.

  Hands shoved and dragged. They crawled away from the stairs down into the murky lower passages. After a few yards, they all slowly gained their feet. Rachel used the walls to haul herself up. She panted, felt like vomiting, fought the rising gorge. She took great gulps of cool air.

  “Keep going,” Gray urged.

  Rachel leaned on the wall as they stumbled away. They had to keep moving. The concussions and fires could drop the upper level on top of them. They had to get clear.

  “Can you find that exit?”

  She coughed. “I think… maybe…”

  Gray grabbed her elbow. “Rachel.”

  She nodded, regaining her balance, both inside and outside. “Yes. This way.” She pulled out her cell phone
and flipped it open. The meager glow didn’t cast much light, but it was better than nothing.

  Holding on to Gray’s shoulder, she set off. It wasn’t far, but this level was a rabbit warren of cells, passages, and cave-ins. She headed out, lost in the past as much as the present.

  She remembered Uncle Vigor taking her down here, tantalizing her with tales of heroes and monsters, of strange beasts and great pageantry. He had also told her about one of the grandest of shows, a rare event held at the Coliseum. A spectacle called a naumachiae.

  She spoke aloud as she led the others. “Before these underground levels were built, early in the Roman empire, they used to flood this area, creating a great lake in the middle of the Coliseum. Famous sea battles were reenacted here, along with demonstrations of swimming horses and bulls.”

  Kowalski trailed behind them, dusty, bloody, and burned. “Right now, a swim sounds pretty damn good to me.”

  “What did they do with all the water after the show?” Gray asked.

  “You’ll see,” Rachel said.

  Another two turns and they ended up at a wall. An iron grate sealed a narrow, low passageway. Even in the meager light, it plainly led down at a steep angle.

  “They cleared this just last year, confirming what Uncle Vigor already knew.” Rachel unlatched the gate and pulled it open.

  Before she could explain more, a loud rumbling crash echoed across the space. Rock dust wafted in a thick cloud and rolled over them.

  “The bombs are triggering a cave-in,” Rachel said.

  Closer at hand, a marble block fell from the roof a yard away and crashed heavily to the floor. More groans and rumbles followed. Like the first tip of a domino, the entire level was beginning to collapse on top of them.

  “This way,” Rachel said. “Hurry.”

  She ducked into the steep passage and led the way down. Behind her the others followed single file. They hadn’t taken more than a half-dozen steps when the floor shook, accompanied by an ominous rumble of thunder. More dust filled the air, choking and blinding them.

  Rachel hurried onward, covering her mouth with her arm. She felt blindly ahead of her. The steep floor grew even steeper. Rachel used one hand to brace herself and held forth her glowing cell phone in the other.