Black Order (Sigma Force 3)

With one eye squinted in suspicion, Fiona took his hand.

"Deal," she said.

It was a small patch on Gray's mistakes of the past day, but it was a start. She had to be removed from harm's way, and she should be safe once on board the plane. She could stay aboard, under guard, while he and Monk investigated further.

Fiona pushed his notebook back toward him with all the doodled symbols. "Just so you know…we need to go to Paderborn in Central Germany. I'll give you the specific address once we're there."

Gray took her concession as a tiny measure of trust. "Good enough."

She nodded.

The deal clinched.

"Now if only you could get this gormless music to stop," she added with a tired moan.

As if on cue, the incessant chant died. The constant low machinery hum and clacking of the cars over tracks also ceased. In the sudden quiet, footsteps sounded outside the narrow door.

Gray gained his feet. "Stay behind me," he hissed.

Fiona gathered up the Bible and tucked it into her purse. Gray grabbed a length of rebar he had found earlier.

The door opened and a bright light shone in their eyes.

The man barked sharply, startled. He spoke in Danish. "What are you two doing in here?"

Gray straightened and lowered the bar. He had almost speared the man in the maintenance uniform.

"Ride is closed," the man said, stepping aside. "Get out of here before I call security."

Gray obeyed. The man scowled at him as he passed. He knew how it must look. An older man with a teenaged girl holed up in a cubby of an amusement park.

"You all right, miss?" the worker asked. He must have noticed her puffy eyes, ripped clothes.

"We're fine." She hooked her arm into Gray's and sashayed her hips a bit. "He paid extra for this ride."

The man frowned in distaste. "Back door is over there." He pointed to a neon exit sign. "Don't let me catch you in here again. It's dangerous to be traipsing around back here."

Not as dangerous as outside. Gray led them to the door and pushed through. He checked his watch. It was only a bit after eleven. The park wouldn't close for another hour. Maybe they needed to try for an exit now.

As they cleared the corner of the ride's building, it looked like this section of the park was deserted. No wonder the ride had closed up early.

Gray heard music and merriment coming from the direction of the park's lake.

"Everyone's gathering for the electrical parade," Fiona said. "It closes up the park, along with fireworks."

Gray prayed tonight's fireworks didn't end up with people bleeding and screaming. He searched the immediate park grounds. Lanterns lit up the night. Tulips filled beds to overflowing. The concrete paths and aprons here were sparsely populated. They were too exposed.

Gray spotted a pair of park security guards, a man and a woman, striding a bit too purposefully in their direction. Had the maintenance worker gone ahead and alerted security after all?

"Time to get lost again," Gray said and tugged Fiona in the opposite direction of the approaching guards. He headed toward where the crowds gathered. They walked quickly, staying in shadows under trees. Just two visitors anxious to watch the parade.

They cleared the garden paths and entered the central plaza with its wide lake, aglow from all the lights and lanterns of the encircling pavilions and palaces. Across the way, a cheer arose as the first of the parade floats drifted into the plaza. It stood three stories, depicting a mermaid on a rock, emblazoned with emerald and azure blue lights. An arm waved in welcome. Other floats swept behind it, aglow with animated puppets, five meters tall. Flutes piped merrily, drums sounded.

"The Hans Christian Andersen parade," Fiona said. "Celebrating the writer's two hundredth anniversary. He's the patron saint of the city."

Gray marched with her toward the crowd lining the parade route around the center lake. Reflected in the still waters, a giant fiery bloom burst in the sky, accompanied by a sonorous whump. Fanciful cascades of sparkling streamers whistled and spiraled out across the night sky.

Nearing the edge of the surging parade crowd, Gray kept a constant vigil around him. He searched for any pale figure in black. But this was Copenhagen. Every fifth person was blond. And black, it seemed, was the new black this season in Denmark.

Gray's heart thumped in beat to the drums. A short volley of fireworks pummeled his chest and eardrums with their concussions. But they finally reached the crowds.

Directly overhead, another flaming flower, drizzling with fire, crackled and burst.

Fiona stumbled.

Gray caught her, his ears ringing.

As the explosion echoed away, Fiona stared up at him, shocked. She lifted a hand from her side. She held it out toward him as he pulled her into the crowd.

Her palm was covered in blood.

4:02 a.m. HIMALAYAS

Painter woke into darkness, the fire cold. How long had he been asleep? Without windows, it was timeless. But he sensed not much time had passed.

Something had roused him.

He pushed up on an elbow.

On the other side of the bed, Lisa was also awake, glancing toward the door. "Did you feel—?"

The room shuddered with a violent shake. A distant boom reached them, felt in the gut.

Painter threw back the blankets. "Trouble."

He pointed to the pile of fresh clothes supplied by their hosts. They quickly dressed: long underwear, heavy worn jeans, and bulky sweaters.

Across the room, Lisa lit the bedside candles. She shoved her feet into a pair of sturdy leather boots meant more for men. They waited in silence for a span of time…maybe twenty minutes, listening to the commotion slowly die down.

Both sank back to the bed.

"What do you think happened?" Lisa whispered.

Barked shouts echoed.

"Don't know…but I think we're about to find out."

Boots pounded down the stone passage beyond the thick oak door. Painter stood, craning an ear.

"Coming this way," he said.

Confirming this, a hard knock rattled the door. Holding up an arm, Painter held Lisa back, but he also took a step back himself. A heavy scrape sounded next, releasing the iron bar that sealed them inside.

The door was tugged open. Four men streamed into the room, rifles pointing at them. A fifth entered. He looked a lot like the assassin named Gunther. A giant bull of a man, thick necked, a stubble field for hair, silver or light gray. He wore baggy brown pants tucked into midthigh black boots and a matching brown shirt.

Except for the missing black armband and swastika, he looked the part of a Nazi storm trooper.