Текст книги "The Kill Switch"

Автор книги: James Rollins

Соавторы: Grant Blackwood
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

38

March 21, 10:10 P.M.

Groot Karas Mountains, Namibia

With Kane leading the way, Tucker and Christopher made it back to the Cathedral. They had barely spoken after reading De Klerk’s letter. As they turned toward the double-barrel tunnels leading out from the cavern, Kane stopped ahead of them and turned. He gazed down the length of the Cathedral, toward the distant walls of sandbags. His ears were up, his posture rigid.

What had he picked out?

“QUIET SCOUT,” Tucker ordered.

Hunched low and padding softly, Kane took off across the former killing floor of the Cathedral. Tucker and Christopher followed, dodging through the forest of stalagmites. Near the end of the cavern, Kane leaped the sandbag barriers and stopped at the shaft leading out to the crooked corridor.

“HOLD,” Tucker ordered softly.

Kane stopped and waited for him.

Tucker took the lead, crawling through the twisting shaft of the corridor. He reached the end, where it straightened out. The slivers of pale moonlight blazed much brighter ahead. Then he heard it—what had likely caught Kane’s attention.

The faint rumble of a diesel engine.

Tucker picked his way along the last of the corridor. He dropped to his belly at the tumble of rocks. He peeked out one of the shining slivers and saw the canyon outside was lit up brightly from the headlamps of a truck parked in the canyon.

From that direction, a voice shouted in Russian.

Then a bark of laughter closer at hand.

A pair of boots stomped up to his hiding spot. A man, dressed in fatigues, dropped to a knee. Tucker froze, waiting for a shout of alarm, for gunfire.

But the soldier only tied up a loose bootlace, then regained his feet.

Tucker heard other men out there, too, moving about or talking quietly.

How many?

Then a deep baritone shouted harshly, gathering everyone back to the truck. A moment later, the timbre of the engine rose, rocks ground under turning tires, and darkness fell back over the canyon.

He listened, hearing the rumble fade slowly into the distance.

They were leaving.

These were clearly Kharzin’s men. Had they come to check out where the Range Rover had stopped for a few hours? Finding nothing here, were they continuing on to where Tucker had parked the booby-trapped vehicle, drawn by the transmitter?

Tucker placed his forehead against the cool rock and let out the breath he’d been holding. Relieved, he made his way back to Christopher and Kane. The three of them hurried back to the waterfall cavern.

Nothing had changed here.

Bukolov was where they had left him. Anya had rolled to her butt and leaned against a stalagmite, her arms still bound behind her. With her chin resting on her chest, she appeared to be asleep.

“How went the search?” Bukolov asked, standing and stretching.

“We need to talk,” Tucker said.

After ordering Kane to guard Anya, Tucker drew Bukolov to the mouth of one of the shotgun tunnels. He recounted their investigation, ending with his discovery of the charnel pit.

“What?” Bukolov said. “I don’t understand—”

“In that pit—staked to the wall of the shaft like a warning—I believe I found De Klerk’s missing pages.”

“What?” Shock rocked through the doctor.

Tucker passed the papers over. “He wrote this message in both Afrikaans and English. He must have been covering his bases, not knowing who might stumble upon that pit later: his fellow Boers or the British.”

“You read it?”

Tucker nodded. “De Klerk was terse but descriptive. About three weeks after they entered these caves, several men began getting sick. Terrible stomach pains, fever, body aches. De Klerk did his best to treat them, but one by one they began dying. In the final phase of the disease, the victims developed nodules beneath the skin of their lower abdomen and throat. These eventually erupted through the skin, bursting. While the British troops laid siege to the cave, De Klerk found himself overwhelmed by patients. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t find the source of the illness.”

“What then?”

“On day thirty, General Roosa ordered the remainder of the cave entrances sealed shut. He had become convinced everyone was infected—or soon would be—by some kind of plague. He was afraid that if the British breached their defenses they would also become infected, and the plague would spread to the outside world.”

“Not an unusual reaction,” Bukolov said. “Paranoia of pandemics ran rampant during the turn of the century. Scarlet fever, influenza, typhoid. It made normally rational men do crazy things.”

“I think it was more personal than that. According to De Klerk, General Roosa had lost his entire family to smallpox. Including his daughter Wilhelmina. He’d never quite gotten over it. According to De Klerk, the symptoms they saw among the men struck Roosa very close to home. It was too much like the pox that killed his family. In essence, the guy lost it.”

“So everyone died here. Despite what the records show, the British never did overrun this cave?”

“That record was likely falsified by the British colonel waging this siege,” Tucker said. “He came to kill Roosa and his men. And after what happened here, the end result was the same. Everyone dead. So the British colonel took credit and chalked it up as a victory.”

“Craven opportunist,” Bukolov muttered sourly, clearly bothered that history was so unreliable and anecdotal.

Tucker continued the story. “Shortly after Roosa and his Boers entombed themselves, the British left. The dead were dropped into the pit and burned along with their clothing, bedding, and personal belongings. Many committed suicide and were burned as well—including Roosa himself. De Klerk was the last man to go down, but before he lowered himself into the pit and put a gun to his head, he gave his diary to a passing Boer scout who discovered their hiding place. De Klerk took care not to contaminate the outsider. This was the man who returned the journals and diary to De Klerk’s widow.”

“And what about what he pinned to the wall of the pit?” Bukolov lifted the sheaf of papers.

“A warning for anyone who came here. On the last page of his testament, De Klerk lays out his theory of this disease. He thinks it was something the men ingested—small white bulbs that the soldiers thought were some kind of local mushroom. He even includes some beautifully detailed drawings. He wrote the name under them. Die Apokalips Saad.”

Bukolov’s eyes shone in the dark. “LUCA.”

Tucker nodded. “So it sounds like your organism infects more than just plants.”

“Not necessarily. You mentioned the worst of the victims’ symptoms were concentrated to the throat and abdomen. The human gut is full of plant material and plantlike flora. LUCA could thrive in that environment very well, wreaking digestive havoc on the host.”

“Does that mean LUCA poses a danger as a biological weapon, too?”

“Possibly. But only on a small scale. For humans to become infected, they would have to eat it or—like here—be confined in a closed space where airborne spores are concentrated.”

“How sure are you about that, Doc?”

“The science is complicated, but believe me when I say this: as a biological weapon, LUCA is virtually useless on the large scale—especially when a thimbleful of anthrax could wipe out a city. But as an ecological threat, a weaponized version of LUCA is a thermonuclear bomb.”

“Then let’s make sure that never happens.”

“In regards to that, I’ve made some progress.”

10:48 P.M.

When Tucker and Bukolov rejoined the others, Anya was awake. Christopher guarded her with his AR-15 rifle, while Kane kept close watch.

Tucker ignored her and followed Bukolov to his makeshift office set up amid their stack of supplies. From the haphazard scatter of paper, notes, and journal pages, he had been busy.

“It’s here,” Bukolov said and grabbed De Klerk’s old diary from atop one of the boxes.

With the skill of a magician cutting a deck of cards, the doctor opened to the spot where it looked like pages had been cut out. He compared it to the pages Tucker had discovered.

“Looks like a perfect match,” Bukolov said.

Anya stirred, trying to see, to stand. But a deep-throated growl from Kane dropped her back to her butt.

“See. Here’s a crude, early rendition of LUCA in the old diary, a hazy sketch. A first-draft effort. What we had to work from before.” Bukolov fitted a sheet from Tucker’s collection into place. “This page was the diary’s next page. Before it was cut out. The finished masterpiece.”

The page in question depicted a deftly drawn sketch of a mushroomlike stalk with ruffled edges sprouting from a bulb. Colors of each structure were called out in tiny, precise print. Other drawings showed the same plant in various stages of growth.

Bukolov pointed to the earliest of the drawings. “This is LUCA in a dormant stage. A bulblike structure. De Klerk describes it here as a butter-yellow color. His measurements indicate it’s about the size of a golf ball. But don’t let its simplicity fool you. This structure is pure potential. Each cell in the bulb is a blank slate, a vicious chimera, waiting to unleash its fury on the modern world. It reproduces by infection and replication, as invasive as they come, an apex predator of the flora world. But if we could tame it, unlock the keys to its unique primordial genetics, anything could be possible.”

“But first we need to find it,” Tucker said.

Bukolov turned to him, a confused expression on his face. “I already explained where to find it.”

“When?”

“Just a moment ago, when I said, It’s here.”

Tucker had thought the doctor was referring to De Klerk’s diary. “What do you mean, it’s here?”

“Or it should be.” Bukolov stared around the cavern with frustration. “It is supposed to be here. In this cavern. At least according to De Klerk.”

“Why do you think that?”

Bukolov flipped the diary to the page before with the crude drawing of LUCA. “Here he talks about finding the dormant bulbs, but he never says where to find them. He’s a sly one. But see here in the margin of that section.”

Tucker leaned over. He couldn’t read the passage written in Afrikaans, but next to it was a crudely scribbled spiral.

“I always thought it was just an idle doodle,” Bukolov said. “I do it all the time. Especially when I’m concentrating. My mind wanders, then so does my pen.”

“But you think it’s significant now.”

“The drawing looks like water spilling down a bathtub drain.” Bukolov pointed to the torrent of water across the room. “It wasn’t a mindless squiggle. De Klerk was symbolically marking this passage about the discovery of the bulb with its location. As I said, it’s here. Under the bathtub drain.”

Bukolov closed the journal and tossed it aside. “I just have to find it. And now that I don’t have to play babysitter . . .”

With a glare toward Anya, Bukolov picked up an LED lantern and set off across the cavern.

For the moment, Tucker left the doctor to his search. Knowing now that Kharzin’s team was in the neighborhood, he had to prepare for the contingency that Bukolov might fail. His ruse with the booby-trapped Rover would not stop the enemy for long . . . nor did he know how many of the enemy his trick might take out.

He pictured his last glimpse of Felice Nilsson, leaning out the helicopter door, her lower face hidden by a scarf, her blond hair whipping in the wind.

It was too much to hope that she would be caught in that blast.

He had to be ready.

He crossed to the pile of boxes and packs, knelt down, and pulled over the stiff cardboard box holding the blocks of C-4.

“Christopher, can you start measuring out six-foot lengths of detonation cord? I’ll need about fifteen of them.”

Anya stared at them, her face unreadable.

Ignoring her, he calculated the best spots to set his charges to cause the most destruction. If Bukolov couldn’t find the bulbs of LUCA, he intended to make sure no one ever did, especially General Kharzin.

He unfolded the flaps of the box of C-4 and stared inside.

With a sinking drop of his stomach, he glanced again over to Anya. Her expression had changed only very slightly, the tiniest ghost of a smile.

“How?” he asked.

The box before him was packed full of dirt, about the same weight as C-4.

Anya shrugged. “Back at the campsite this morning, after you left. All your C-4 is buried out there.”

Of course, she had known of his contingency plan to blow the cave as a fail-safe and had taken steps to ensure it wouldn’t happen.

But she was wrong about one fact: all your C-4.

He had taken a block of the explosive with him as he hunted for guerrillas and ran into the pack of dogs. Later, he used half of it to rig the Rover. He still had the other half, but it was far too little to do any real damage here.

And now they were running out of time.

If they couldn’t blow the place up, that left only one path open to them: find the source of LUCA before Kharzin’s team returned.

So there was still hope—not great, but something.

Bukolov dashed it a moment later as he returned with more bad news. “I found nothing.”

11:12 P.M.

Fueled by anger and frustration, Tucker tossed the leg of an old broken chair across the cavern floor. It bounced and skittered away, splashing through a standing pool of water. Christopher and Bukolov worked elsewhere in the cavern, spread out, slowly circling the torrent of water falling through the room’s center.

Tucker wasn’t satisfied with Bukolov’s cursory search.

He had them sifting through some of the old Boer detritus and flotsam tossed against the walls by prior flooding.

But it was eating up time and getting them nowhere.

If they had a sample of LUCA, Kane could have quickly sniffed out the dark garden hidden here, but they didn’t. So he left the shepherd guarding Anya.

Christopher and Bukolov finally reached him. They’d made a complete loop of the cavern. He read the lack of success in their defeated expressions.

“Maybe I was wrong about the bathtub drain.” Bukolov stared up at the water cascading through the vortex. “Maybe it was just a doodle.”

Tucker suddenly stiffened next to him. “We’ve been so stupid . . .”

Christopher turned. “What?”

Tucker grabbed Bukolov by the shoulder. “De Klerk was marking the location. It is a drain.”

The doctor looked up again toward the ceiling.

“No.” Tucker pointed to the floor, to where the flood of water flowing down from above either pooled—or drained through fissures in the floor. “That’s the drain depicted by De Klerk. The water must be going somewhere.”

Bukolov’s eyes went wide. “There’s more cavern below us!”

Christopher stared across the cavern. “One problem. If you’re right, how do we get down there?”

Tucker stared across the expanse of the room. “De Klerk has been cagey all along. He wouldn’t have left the entrance open. He would have sealed or covered it somehow.” Tucker circled his arm in the air. “One more time around. We need to find that opening.”

It was accomplished quickly—now that they knew what to look for.

Christopher called him over. “See here!”

Tucker and Bukolov joined him beside a thigh-high boulder not far from the torrent. Excess water sluiced through a four-inch crack under it and vanished away.

“I believe the stone is covering a larger hole,” Christopher said.

“I think you’re right.”

With both Christopher and Tucker putting their shoulders to it, they were able to dislodge and roll the boulder aside.

The hole was small, only two feet wide. All three of them leaned over the opening, shining their lights down into the depths. A cavern opened below, its floor about seven feet below them.

Tucker squinted, noting the protrusions sticking up from the floor.

For a few moments, he thought he was staring at a cluster of stalagmites, but they were too uniform, and the beam of his headlamp glinted off a hint of brass beneath a greenish patina.

“What the hell are those?” Bukolov said.

“Those are artillery shells.”

39

March 21, 11:34 P.M.

Groot Karas Mountains, Namibia

Tucker lowered himself to his belly and hung his head through the opening. He panned his lamp around the space. The spread of upright shells looked like some giant’s bed of nails. Turning, he faced the others.

“There’re at least two dozen shells down there.”

“What type of artillery are they?” Christopher asked.

“Can’t be sure. Judging by the size, I’d guess twelve-pounders. British Royal Horse Artillery units used them in their cannons during the wars.”

“Are they live?” said Bukolov.

“More than likely.”

“Why are they here?” Christopher pressed.

Tucker considered it a moment. “I’m guessing because of the black powder inside them. The Boers were probably using the powder in the shells to reload bullets.”

“The Boers had to be resourceful to survive,” Bukolov commented.

So do we.

Tucker shifted around, swinging his legs toward the hole. Somewhere down below must be De Klerk’s dark garden. “Doc, tell me again what to look for. Anything I should be watching for.”

Bukolov shook his head. “I don’t have the time to give you a crash course in botany. Nor have you read all of De Klerk’s notes. I should go with you. Besides, why should you have all the fun?”

Christopher looked unconvinced. “Doctor Bukolov, perhaps you didn’t hear Mr. Tucker correctly. Those shells are live and likely very unstable by now.”

“I heard him, but how difficult can it be? I must simply avoid bumping into one of those things, correct?”

“That about covers it,” Tucker said. “But it’s tight down there. You’ll have to crawl. It’s going to be hard work.”

“And I’m saving my stamina for what?” Bukolov asked. “I can do this. I have not come all this way to find LUCA only to blow myself up. God will guide my hand.”

“I didn’t know you believed in God.”

“It’s a recent development. Considering everything you’ve put me through.”

“All right, Doc, let’s do this.”

“I’ll need to gather a few things first. Tools, sample dishes, collection bags.”

“Go get them.”

As Bukolov hurried away, Tucker returned his attention to the array of shells down below. He told Christopher, “There’s at least a couple of hundred pounds of black powder down there. It might just solve our explosives problem.”

“Will it be enough to collapse this cavern system?”

“No, but it’ll definitely take out this immediate set of caves.”

Bukolov returned quickly, with everything collected into a brown leather kit with his initials on it. He eyed the hole.

“Gentlemen, I believe I could use some assistance getting down. It’s not a far drop but now is not the time for a misstep.”

Tucker agreed. He went first, using his arms to slowly lower himself, keeping well away from the first row of shells. Once down, he turned and helped ease Bukolov through the opening. Christopher held his arms, while Tucker guided his legs, planting the doctor’s boots on firm footing.

“That should do, gentlemen.” Bukolov ducked low, equipped now with his own headlamp. “Shall we proceed?”

Tucker crouched next to him. From here, there was only about four feet of clearance between the floor and the roof. The chamber extended in a gentle downward slope. The water, streaming down from above, trickled in small rivulets across the floor, carving the soft sandstone into tiny channels, like the scribblings of a mad god. The rows of shells were standing upright in the flatter and drier sections.

“We should follow the water,” Bukolov said, pointing down the slope. “It’s what we’ve been doing since we got here.”

“I’ll go first.”

Dropping low, Tucker set the best course through the field of shells. He followed the trickles, wondering if he’d ever be dry again. The last pass through the deadly gauntlet required him to lie on his right hip and scoot through sideways. An inopportune thrust of an elbow set one tall brass round to rocking on its base. He was afraid even to touch it to stabilize it.

Both men held their breath.

But the shell steadied and went still.

Tucker helped Bukolov past this squeeze.

“I can do it,” the doctor complained. “I may have gray hair, but I’m not an invalid.”

Free of the artillery, they were able to slide next to each other and crawl onward. Slowly a soft light glowed out of the darkness ahead.

“Do you see that?” Bukolov asked. “Or are my eyes tired?”

Tucker shaded his headlamp with his hand. Bukolov followed his example. As the darkness ahead grew blacker, the glow brightened before their eyes.

Definitely something over there.

As Tucker set out again, the roof slowly dropped down on top of them, forcing them to their bellies. They slid alongside each other across the wet, sandy floor. Finally, the slope dumped them into a pool of water about a foot deep. It lay inside a domed chamber about the size of a compact car’s cabin, with enough room to kneel up, but little more.

“Amazing,” Bukolov said, craning his neck to stare around.

The arched roof glowed with a soft silvery azure, like moonlight, but there were no cracks in the roof. The light suffused from a frilly carpet of glowing moss.

“It’s lichen,” Bukolov said.

Okay, lichen . . .

“Some phosphorescent species. And look across the chamber!”

The pond they knelt in was shaped like a crescent moon, its horns hugging a small peninsula of sandstone jutting out into the water from the far wall. Atop the surface, a dense field of buttery-white growths sprouted about six inches tall. From bulbous bases, stalks formed thick flat-topped umbrellas, with fine filaments draping from them. They gave off a slightly sulfurous smell that hung in the still air.

“LUCA,” Bukolov murmured, awed.

As they shifted closer, Tucker felt the cracks in the floor under his knees, sucking at the cloth of his pants, marking drainage angles for this pool. The smell also grew worse.

“It is okay to be breathing this?” Tucker said.

“I believe so.”

Tucker wanted to believe so, too.

“They’re exactly like the sketches from the diary,” Bukolov said.

He had to admit the renderings by De Klerk showed a masterful hand.

The doctor splashed farther to the left. “Come see this! Look at where the field of bulbs and growths meet the wall.”

Tucker leaned to look where he pointed. The bulbs and the edges of the mushrooms that touched the wall were a brownish black, as if burned by the glow of the lichen covering the wall.

“I think the lichen is producing something toxic to the LUCA.” Bukolov swung toward Tucker. “Here might be the secret of the kill switch.”

Tucker felt a surge that was equal parts relief and worry.

Bukolov continued. “It’s what I had hoped to find here. Something had to be holding this organism in check down here. It couldn’t just be the isolation of the environment.”

“Then collect samples of everything and—”

Bukolov knelt back and brushed his fingertips across the roof, causing the glow to darken where he touched. “You don’t understand. We are looking at a microcosm of the ancient world, a pocket of the primordial history. I have so many questions.”

“And we’ll try to answer them later.” Tucker grabbed Bukolov by the elbow and pointed from the collection kit over the man’s shoulder to the field of growth. “Get your samples while you still can.”

A sharp bark echoed to them—followed by a second.

Kane.

“Get to work, Doc,” he ordered. “I’m going to find out what’s going on.”

Hurrying, he slid and crawled his way through the field of artillery shells and back to the waterfall chamber. He hauled himself out of the hole, and Christopher helped him to his feet.

“He just started barking,” Christopher said.

In the pool of light cast by the single LED lamp, it appeared Anya hadn’t moved. She was still tied securely. Kane stood next to her, but he was staring toward the twin shotgun tunnels.

“What is it?” Christopher asked.

“I don’t know. Kane must have heard something.”

Tucker remembered his earlier sighting of the Russian soldiers.

Anya called over to them. “It seems we owe you some thanks, Captain Wayne. We wouldn’t have thought of this method without you. Upon your example in Russia, we decided to add another weapon to our arsenal.”

She was staring at Kane.

Tucker suddenly understood her veiled implication.

Damn it, Anya, you are good.

The thought had never occurred to him. Barring technology, what was the best way to track someone?

Kane glanced back at him, clearly waiting for the order to pursue whatever he had sensed.

Tucker turned to Christopher. “Stay here and be ready to help Bukolov.”

“Is there trouble?”

Isn’t there always?

He pointed to Anya. “She moves . . . you shoot her.”

“Understood.”

Working quickly, Tucker crossed to their gear and prepared for the storm to come. He grabbed two spare magazines for his rifle, along with a red flare, stuffing them all into his thigh pockets. He then slung the AR-15 over his shoulder and picked up the Rover’s plastic gas can.

Once ready, he headed for the tunnels with Kane on his heels.

It was time to test these old Boer defenses.

11:55 P.M.

Reaching the Cathedral, Tucker hurried across the stalagmite maze to the series of sandbag walls at the far end. He hurdled over the first two with Kane flying at his side—then he skidded to a stop at the third wall and dropped to his knees.

Echoing up from the crooked tunnel ahead, he heard a faint barking.

No, not barking—baying.

The enemy had come with hounds.

Kharzin must have sent his main body of troops, along with the dogs, straight to where he had hid the booby-trapped Range Rover. The other Russians—the ones he had spied upon earlier—were likely a smaller expeditionary force sent here to canvass the side trail as a precaution. No wonder they had seemed so lax and casual. But now that Tucker’s trap had been sprung and his ruse discovered, Kharzin had returned here, bringing all his forces to bear.

But what was Tucker facing?

Only one way to find out.

He pointed to the tunnel. “QUIET SCOUT.”

Kane jumped over the sandbags and dove into the shaft. Using his phone, Tucker monitored his partner’s progress. Once Kane reached the straight corridor, Tucker touched his throat mike.

“HOLD. BELLY.”

Kane stopped and lowered himself flat, well hidden by rubble.

Right now the corridor appeared empty with no evidence of trespass. The pile of rocks blocking the way outside looked untouched. So far, the hounds hadn’t found this back door to the cavern system—at least not for the moment. But they would.

Through Kane’s radio, the baying already grew louder.

Hurrying, Tucker began removing sandbags from the middle of the barricade. After creating a sufficient-sized hole, he wedged the gas can into the gap. He then replaced the sandbags, taking care to hide any trace of the can.

All the while, Tucker monitored the phone’s screen, using Kane to extend his vision. Movement drew his full attention back to the screen. In the gray-green glow of Kane’s night-vision camera, the slivers of light at the far end of the corridor began to break wider. More light blazed through as rocks were pulled away.

Shadows shifted out there.

They’d been discovered.

Tucker whispered to Kane, “QUIET RETURN.”

The camera jiggled as the shepherd belly-crawled backward. After retreating for a spell, Kane finally turned and came running back. Moments later, he emerged and hurdled the sandbags.

Good boy.

After rechecking the placement of the gas can, Tucker pulled out a flare and jammed it between a pair of sandbags near the bottom. For now, he kept it unlit.

He turned to his partner. “STAY.”

With a final rub along Kane’s neck, he stepped over the sandbags, planted his rifle to his shoulder, and ducked into the shaft. He crawled until he was at the last corner of the crooked corridor. He kept hidden out of sight, peeking around the bend with his rifle extended. He quickly dowsed his headlamp and flipped the scope to night-vision mode. With his eye to the scope, he waited.

The first Spetsnaz appeared, peeking out from the straight passageway, bathed in the moonlight flowing from the open door behind him.

Tucker laid the crosshairs between the man’s eyes and squeezed the trigger. The blast stung his ears. He didn’t need to see the man crumple to know he was successful.

Tucker ducked away and retreated as the bullets peppered down the shaft, likely fired blindly by the second soldier in line. He knew the enemy dared not lob or fire a grenade into such a confined space, or it risked collapsing the very tunnel they had come to find and ruin any chances of reaching the prize. As far as they knew, this was the only way inside.

Still, he never trusted the enemy to think logically.

Especially with one of their comrades dead.

So he fled on his hands and knees.

If nothing else, the ambush would give the others pause, force them to move slowly, but it wouldn’t last long.

He reached the end of the tunnel, regained his feet, and hopped over the first sandbag wall. Crouching down, he ruffled Kane’s neck and did a quick inspection of the gas can and flare. Satisfied, he headed back over the series of sandbag fences.

As he hopped over the last one, a booming cry echoed from the far side of the Cathedral.

It was Christopher, calling from the mouth of the shotgun tunnels across the way.

“Tucker . . . watch out!”