The Doomsday Key: A Sigma Force Novel

by James Rollins

  Monk noted a couple of brown stalks poking out of the blood. He lowered his camera for a closer look. They were not stalks. With a cold chill, he realized they were human fingers.

  He reached and pinched one of the fingers with his prosthetic hand. He pulled the finger up, dragging a hand out of the muck. As he raised it higher, he saw it was attached to a forearm. Mushrooms grew out of the flesh.

  Gritting his teeth, he slowly lowered the limb back into the tank. He didn’t need to see any more. Entire bodies lay buried in the blood, fertilizer for the mushrooms.

  He also noted the dark brown skin of the arm, an uncommon sight in snow-white Norway. Monk recalled the farm site in Africa, the one destroyed in a night of bloodshed and fire.

  Had more than corn been harvested from there?

  Monk found himself breathing harder. He moved quickly to the end of the row. Here the mushrooms had matured into thick stems topped by ribbed pods. They looked fleshy and fibrous.

  With his prosthesis, Monk nudged one of the pods. As he touched it, the bulb contracted in a single squeeze. From its top, a dense powdery smoke puffed outward and spread quickly through the air.

  Fungal spores.

  Monk danced back, thankful for the respirators. He did not want to breathe in those spores.

  As if signaled by the first pod, others began to erupt. Monk retreated, chased by swirling clouds of spores.

  “We have to get out of here!” Monk yelled across the room, his words muffled by the respirator.

  Creed had just collected a sample of the mushroom and tied it into his loose latex glove. He glanced at Monk, not understanding. But his eyes widened as more of the puffballs exploded into the air.

  They had to get back out into the hall.

  Suddenly, overhead vents opened in the ceiling, perhaps triggered by a biological sensor. Foam jetted out of the ceiling in a massive flush. It spread over the floor and piled up quickly. Monk ran under one of the vents and almost got knocked down by the force of it. He slipped and slid.

  By the time he reached Creed, the foam was waist deep.

  “Go!” Monk hollered and pointed toward the door.

  Together they slammed through the first door and into the anteroom. It was also full of foam, all the way to the ceiling. They had to paw their way through it blind.

  Monk hit the hallway door first.

  He shoved the handle and shouldered into the door. It refused to budge. He shoved again and again, but he knew the truth.

  They were locked inside.

  12:08 A.M.

  As smoke choked the lobby, Painter vaulted over the low wall. Fires still burned on the floor. Blood made the marble slippery. He had his pistol out and skidded straight into the masked gunman who had barreled through the front door. Focused on the bar, the assailant failed to see Painter in time. Painter fired point-blank into his chest.

  The impact spun the attacker away, blood flying.

  One down.

  People screamed and fled out into the street or hid behind furniture. Painter sprinted straight across the open lobby.

  Ahead, at the entrance to the Limelight Bar, the senator’s bodyguard appeared in a shooter’s stance, arms out, cradling his service weapon. He had taken cover behind a potted plant. It wasn’t enough shelter. The other two gunmen already had their sights fixed on the entrance.

  Fern leaves shredded under a barrage of machine-gun fire. The man was knocked flat on his back. Painter never slowed. He leaped to a chair outside the bar and flew headlong into the space. He landed on one of the leather sofas and shoulder-rolled to his feet.

  He had only seconds.

  A cascade of gunfire tore into the room. It arced across the wall behind the bar, shattering bottles and mirrors.

  Painter took in the room with one glance.

  The senator was not in sight.

  The bodyguard would not have left him in the open. There was only one door leading out of this place. The restroom at the back. Painter ran for it and slammed through the door. A bullet burned past his ear. The shot had come from inside the bathroom.

  Senator Gorman stood with his back to a row of sinks, a pistol in his hand, pointed at Painter.

  Painter raised his arms. “Senator Gorman!” he called out firmly. “I’m General Metcalf’s man!”

  “The DoD investigator?” Gorman lowered his pistol, his face collapsing with relief.

  Painter rushed forward. “We have to get out of here.”

  “What about Samuels?” The senator glanced back at the door.

  Painter guessed that was the bodyguard. “Dead, sir.” He motioned the senator toward the stained-glass window at the back of the restroom.

  “It’s barred shut. I looked.”

  Painter shoved the window sash open. An ornate set of iron bars did block the way. He punched his palm into them, and the grate popped free and swung open on its hinges. During his earlier canvass of the meeting place, he had removed the bolts.

  Never hurt to secure a back door.

  “Out!” Painter commanded and offered the senator a knee to climb up.

  Gorman took the help and hauled himself into the window.

  As Painter pushed the senator, he heard a thunk behind him. A glance revealed a black arrowhead sticking out of the restroom’s plank door.

  Oh, crap…

  Painter sent the senator sailing out the window and followed on the man’s heels. Literally—he took an Italian loafer to the left eye. But it was small damage, considering the explosion that followed.

  Flames and smoke blasted out the open window.

  The heat rolled over them.

  Painter shoved off the senator. As the blast of flames died, Painter dashed to the window, tugged the lower sash down, and swung the iron bars back in place.

  Let them wonder how they’d escaped a locked room.

  The confusion might buy them an extra few minutes as their pursuers continued to search the hotel.

  Painter returned to Gorman’s side. “I have a car stashed two blocks away.”

  They hurried off together.

  Gorman puffed at his side, cradling a jammed shoulder. After a block, he stared over at Painter and asked an existential question. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Just your everyday civil servant,” Painter muttered while concentrating on another task. He resecured the throat mike to his neck and activated it. “Monk, how are you doing over there?”

  Monk heard a few frazzled words in his ear, but after knocking loose his respirator, he fought a mouthful of foam. He shoved against the door, hoping it would miraculously open. It must have locked down once the foam had been triggered.

  Maybe there was another way out.

  Before he could move, hot water blasted from above. The foam immediately melted from the top down. The sheer volume of it collapsed in on itself. It took less than thirty seconds.

  Monk glanced over at Creed. He stood there like a skinny wet dog waiting to shake. The man’s eyes were bright with shock.

  “Biohazard foam,” Monk explained. “Used as a knockdown agent for airborne pathogens. We should be okay.”

  Proving that, the lock clicked open at Monk’s elbow. It must have been timed to the sterilization cycle. He twisted the handle and exited into the hall.

  As he stepped free, voices echoed down the hall. He had a clear view to the elevator lobby. The door stood half open as someone argued in Norwegian out in the lobby. Monk recognized the uniformed arm of a security guard.

  The automated safety protocol had summoned security.

  Monk froze. He couldn’t retreat back into the mushroom lab. That would surely be the first place they’d check. He had only one other option. Stepping into plain view, he hurried across the hall and placed his palm on the reader beside the other door. He held his breath as it scanned, watching the far door, praying that no one turned around.

  Finally, the lock freed. With a silent sigh of thanks, he shoved the door open. He and Creed rushed insi
de.

  Monk kept the door cracked open enough to watch the hallway.

  A team of security guards, four in total, were led by a technician in a lab coat. The man looked like he had just woken up. Apparently access here required a certain level of clearance.

  Monk allowed the door to slip closed, though he remained crouched where he could listen. The other lab door opened and closed. Men remained out in the hall. Monk heard them talking in low voices. He didn’t know how many. At least three, he guessed.

  Now what?

  “Make some room,” Creed said behind him.

  Monk turned. His partner had shed his parka and donned his lab coat. He’d also dried his hair and finger-combed it roughly in place. Creed stepped into the anteroom. While Monk had been manning the door, his partner had gone into the larger room with the glass-walled apiaries.

  “What are you doing?” Monk asked, eyeing him up and down.

  Creed moved aside. Beyond the closed inner door, a stir of movement drew Monk’s eye. In the outer room, a thin cloud of bees swirled and gathered.

  “What did you do?” Monk asked.

  Creed lifted an arm. In his hand, he held a meshed drawer. “I stole the queen.” Creed pointed to the left. “And I broke the hive seal.”

  Monk frowned. From one of the apiaries, a thick column of bees boiled out where the drawer used to be.

  “But why?” Monk asked.

  Beyond the door, the bees gathered into a growing swarm.

  “They’re definitely Africanized,” Creed said as he eyeballed his captured queen. “Very aggressive.”

  “That’s great, but again—why?”

  “To get us out of here.” Creed pointed to the anteroom’s inner door. “Open it when I say now. But keep behind the door.”

  Monk began to understand. He switched places with Creed and moved to the anteroom’s inner door. Creed took his post by the hallway door and watched the gathering swarm of bees.

  The cloud now hugged against the anteroom’s glass door and walls, drawn by their queen’s trail. Buzzing grew so loud it made Monk’s skin crawl.

  Creed continued to wait. He placed the drawer with the queen on the floor. In the other room the swarm grew so thick that it blocked the light.

  “Be ready,” Creed said as he straightened back up.

  Monk grabbed the handle of his door.

  With a final swipe through his hair, Creed faced the door and pulled it open. Monk was blocked from view, but he heard the startled outbursts of the security guards out in the hallway.

  Creed put on an air of irritation and snapped at them in Norwegian.

  As the guards struggled to decide if the new technician was a threat or not, Creed kicked the drawer across the floor toward the guards.

  “Now!” he yelled.

  Monk yanked his door open and crowded behind it.

  The swarm immediately swept into the anteroom like an angry fist.

  Creed dropped back and dragged his door fully open. With the way clear to their queen, the hive shot into the hall in a thick cloud. Panicked, one of the guards fired a wild shot.

  A mistake.

  Monk knew enough about Africanized bees to know they were sensitive to loud noises.

  Screams followed, which only made matters worse.

  Creed lunged over and grabbed the sleeve of Monk’s jacket. Time to go. Monk followed Creed out the door. There was no need for stealth. Four guards writhed in the center of the swarm, covered thickly in a stinging mass. The bees filled mouths and crawled up noses.

  Monk and Creed sprinted down the hall.

  A few ambitious bees gave chase. Monk got stung several times, but the swarm remained close to their queen. With his long legs, Creed reached the door to the elevator lobby first. He pounded through. Monk slammed the door closed behind him.

  Creed called the elevator, and the doors glided apart immediately. The cage was still on this level. They hurried inside. With no time to reach the servers, Monk abandoned their primary mission and pressed the lobby button. It was time to get out of here. Creed didn’t argue.

  Monk stared over at him as the elevator climbed.

  “You did good, Doogie.”

  “Really?” He scowled sourly. “I’m still Doogie?”

  Monk shrugged as they exited the elevator and hurried across the front foyer. He didn’t want the kid’s success to go to his head. As they headed back out into the night, a voice suddenly whispered in his ear, angry and urgent.

  “Monk, report in.” It was Painter.

  Monk thumbed his throat mike. “Sir, we’re heading out now.”

  A heavy sigh of relief followed. “And the mission?”

  “We ran into a little trouble with bees.”

  “Bees?”

  “I’ll explain later. Should we rendezvous back at the hotel?”

  “No. I’m headed your way now. I’ve got company with me.”

  Company?

  “There’s been a change in plans,” Painter said. “Things have gotten a little too hot here in Oslo. So we’re pulling up stakes and moving somewhere a little colder.”

  Still soaking wet from the foamy shower, Monk felt the ice-cold night cut down to his bones. Colder than this?

  As Monk headed across the corporate campus, he pictured Gray nestled in a warm cabin, a fire blazing in a camp stove.

  Lucky bastard.

  16

  October 13, 12:22 A.M.

  Lake District, England

  As the forest burned, Gray clutched the lead rope of his stallion. He and the others had quickly saddled the ponies. They didn’t have a moment to spare.

  After the initial firestorm, the flames had died down to hellish glows all around them. A pall of thick smoke covered the valley, dimming the stars. A single blaze marked a section of the woods that had caught fire. Likely an old deadfall, dry and ready to burn. The rest of the snowy forest had resisted the flames so far.

  But they were far from safe.

  “Mount up!” he called to the others.

  They had to move now. Every second counted as a more insidious danger closed around them. Peat fires traveled underground, spreading outward in smoldering channels and deeper fiery pits. Though the woods were dark, they hid a raging conflagration below.

  Wallace had estimated that the entire valley would be consumed in less than an hour. No rescue could reach them in time. Gray had used his satellite phone to contact Painter, to briefly explain their situation and pass on their GPS coordinates, but even the director had agreed that air support could not be mobilized in time to reach them.

  They were on their own.

  As Gray climbed into the saddle, one of the massive stones in the ring toppled over as the peat beneath it burned and gave way. As it struck, a spate of flames erupted from the dark soil. Other stones had already fallen, some vanished completely into fiery pits.

  This was no natural peat fire.

  Someone had torched the place, plainly meaning to destroy the excavation site—and anyone here.

  Rachel walked her pony next to Gray, keeping a firm grip on her reins. Her mount’s eyes rolled white, on the edge of panic. Rachel looked no less scared.

  They all knew the danger.

  As the fires had erupted, one of the ponies had broken out of the paddock. Wild and tossing its head, it had fled into the forest. Moments later, they heard a crash, a fresh blaze of flames erupted, and a horrible screaming followed.

  Gray glanced over at the toppled stone as it slowly sank into the fiery mire, reminding him of the danger beneath their feet. Any misstep and they’d end up like the panicked pony.

  Seichan hurried over to Gray’s stallion’s side. It was her mount that had fled and died. Gray leaned down, grabbed her forearm, and hauled her up into the saddle behind him.

  “Let’s go!” He pointed toward the darkest section of the forest, where there were no glows at the moment. They had to break through the ring of fire and get up into the hills.

  G
ray led the way with Wallace at his side.

  Ahead of them trotted the terrier, Rufus.

  “He’ll find us a safe route,” the professor said, his face ashen. “Peat burns most ripe. His nose may pick up what we can’t see.”

  Gray hoped he was right, but the entire valley reeked of burning peat. It was a slim chance the dog could nose out the subtle seep of smoke from the subterranean fires. But what other course did they have?

  And maybe the dog did sense something. As they headed out, the terrier’s path switchbacked through the woods, with sudden stops and turns.

  Gray kept their pace to a slow trot, balancing speed and caution. The dog bounded through the snow and across an icy stream. It seemed impossible that on a night so cold, with the ground mantled in snow and ice, there could be a hellish inferno below.

  But they were reminded of just that danger as a red deer leaped past their trail, frightened by the fires. It flew sure-footedly through the trees, then bounded into a snow-filled gully. The ground gave way beneath it. Its hindquarters dropped into a fiery pit, casting up a swirl of flames and burning ash. Its neck stretched in a silent posture of agony, then its body went limp and fell the rest of the way out of sight. Smoke roiled upward. A wash of heat chased back the chill of the night.

  It was a sobering lesson.

  “Christ on a spit,” Kowalski mumbled atop his pony.

  Seichan’s arms tightened around Gray’s waist.

  As they continued through the smoky woods, new blazes grew throughout the forest as the spreading inferno lit dead trees into torches. They gave one such tree a wide berth. It was an old oak, brittle and lightning-struck. The flames danced through its white branches, a warning of the danger flowing under its roots.

  Even Rufus began to slow. He would stop often, his head swiveling, nose in the air, whining, plainly less sure. But he kept them moving, sometimes having to backtrack, dancing straight through the legs of their skittish mounts.

  Finally, though, he came to a complete standstill. It was at an old dry riverbed, a shallow declivity that wound across the way ahead. There didn’t appear to be any threat, but the dog sidled back and forth across the nearest bank. He made one tentative move down into the channel, then thought better of it and retreated. Something was spooking him. He returned to the head of their stalled line of ponies. His low whine turned into a fearful whimper.