The Burial Hour (Lincoln Rhyme 13)

"Entry?"

That answered the question.

She'd learned enough. "First, we secure the site, make it safe from hostiles. It doesn't help the victim, even if he's seconds away from dying, if we die too. Okay?"

"Si."

"When it's clear, we try to save him, CPR, open airways if we can, apply pressure to stop bleeding, though I don't think blood loss is going to be a problem. After that we secure the crime scene to preserve evidence."

"All right...Ah, no!"

"What?"

"I forgot the booties. For our shoes. You are supposed to--"

"We don't wear those now. They're too slippery. Here."

She dug into her pocket and handed him rubber bands. "On the ball of your feet."

"You carry those with you?"

They both donned the elastic.

"Gloves?" he asked. "Latex gloves."

Sachs smiled. "No. Not in tactical situations."

The door, she was surprised to see, was barred with the cheapest of locks and a hasp that was affixed to the wooden door and frame with small screws.

She dug into her pocket and the switchblade was in her hand. Ercole's eyes went wide. Sachs smiled to herself as the thought occurred that the weapon was Italian--a Frank Beltrame stiletto, a four-inch blade, staghorn handle. She flicked it open and in one deft move pulled the bracket away from the wood, then tucked the knife away.

Holding her finger to her lips, she studied Ercole's nervous, sweaty face. Some of the consternation was from the harrowing drive; the source of the remainder was clear. He was willing, but he was not battle-tested. "Stay behind me," she whispered.

"Yes, yes." Which came out more as a breath than words.

She pulled a halogen flashlight from her pocket, a tiny but powerful thousand-lumen model. A Fenix PD35.

Ercole squinted, surely thinking: Rubber bands, flashlight, flick-blade knife? These Americans certainly came prepared.

A nod toward the door.

His Adam's apple bobbed.

She pushed inside, raising the light and the gun.

There was a startling crash; the door had struck a table, spilling a large bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water.

"He's here!" Ercole whispered.

"Not necessarily. But assume he is. He may have set up the table to warn him somebody breached. We have to go fast."

The entryway atmosphere was pungent, the walls covered with graffiti. It resembled a cave in some wilderness, rather than a man-made structure. A stairway led down two flights. They went slowly. The halogen would give them away but it was their only source of illumination. A fall down these steep stones could be fatal.

"Listen," she said, pausing at the bottom. She believed she'd heard a moan or grunt. But then nothing.

They found themselves in an old brick tunnel about eight feet wide. The aqueduct, a square-bottomed trough about two feet across, ran through the middle. It was largely dry, though old iron pipes overhead--the ceiling was six feet above them--dripped water.

Ercole pointed to their left. "The reservoir would be there, if the map is correct."