The 6th Extinction (Sigma Force 10)

He fired twice, both head shots—then pivoted and rolled low into the open. He aimed back toward Raffee’s office and the other two men. He shot the closest in the knee, dropping him—but even in pain and caught off guard, the man fired his pistol as he fell.

The round whistled past Gray’s ear.

Damn . . .

These were plainly hardened professionals, likely former military. As the other’s shoulder hit the floor, Gray blasted him point-blank in his face, not taking any further chances.

The final gunman retreated behind a piece of scaffolding, peppering rounds down the hall. Gray stayed flat on the ground, using the body in front of him as a shield. Shots pounded into the man’s teammate or ricocheted off the linoleum.

Gray had to act before his target fled back into Raffee’s office. From the way the man cast a glance in that direction, it was clearly his intent: to get to safety and call up reinforcements.

Can’t let that happen.

Gray popped up and strafed at his adversary’s position. Rounds pinged off the scaffolding or buried into the far wall behind his target. The man kept hidden as Gray kept pulling the trigger, his arm straight out, stepping over the body on the ground.

Finally he reached his twelfth shot—and his slide locked.

Out of bullets.

His adversary rose back into view, aiming his smoking weapon, a triumphant sneer fixed on his face.

Gray dropped his SIG Sauer. As the other’s eyes twitched to follow its fall, Gray used the distraction to swing up his other arm, revealing the pistol he had hidden behind his thigh, a weapon he had confiscated from the dead man on the floor. He pulled the trigger twice—but once would have been enough.

A clean shot through the eye dropped the final combatant to the floor.

Gray rushed forward and burst into Raffee’s office. He didn’t hold out much hope that the director was still alive, but he had to check. He found the man in his chair, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up. A bloom of crimson stained the center of his white shirt and a clean round hole pierced his forehead.

Biting back his fury at the callous execution, he grabbed the phone atop the desk, but he immediately saw the cord had been cut. He took a breath, considered searching for another phone; even if he found one, he wasn’t familiar enough with the system to know how to reach the subbasement extension. And with no cell reception down below, the phone in his pocket was useless.

He had no way of warning Monk and Jason.

4:04 A.M.

“Maybe those debunkers are wrong about that Piri Reis map,” Jason said, straightening his hunched shoulders from the monitor. He took a deep breath, hiding his nervousness about broaching such a conclusion on his own. He knew about the past exploits of Commander Pierce and his partner and felt out of their league.

I’m only a glorified tech geek.

Still, his gut told him that what he’d found might be important.

“What do you mean?” Monk asked, letting out a jaw-popping yawn. He sat with his boots up on the neighboring desk.

“You’d better check this out.”

Monk grumbled under his breath—something about kids always waking him up. He shifted his feet to the ground and slid his chair next to Jason. “What did you find?”

“I’ve been looking through the other historical maps included in the folder from the British Antarctic Survey and reading through Professor Harrington’s notes on them.”

“The paleobiologist.”

“That’s right.” Jason cleared his throat, swallowing hard. “Here’s another pair of maps of Antarctica, both dating about twenty years after the Piri Reis map was drawn in 1513. One by a fellow named Oronteus Finaeus and the other by Gerardus Mercator.”

“Notice again that they both show Antarctica without ice,” Jason said. “Harrington also notes that the maps reveal mountain ranges, peaks that are currently buried deep under glaciers and should not have been visible back in the sixteenth century. Likewise, the maps include fine details about the continent, like charting Alexander Island and the Weddell Sea.”

Monk scrunched his brow. “And both of these maps were drawn centuries before the continent was ever officially discovered.”

Jason nodded. “And many millennia after Antarctica’s coastlines were ever free of ice. There’s also this map from 1739 by a French cartographer named Buache.”

“See how this chart shows Antarctica being depicted as two landmasses, separated by a river or sea. That’s true. While the continent appears to be one continuous landmass, strip away the ice and it’s actually a mountainous archipelago broken up into two main sections: Lesser Antarctica and Greater Antarctica. This detail wasn’t known until seismic mapping was done by the U.S. Air Force in 1968.”

“And this map was from the eighteenth century?”

“That’s right.” He couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice.

“But what does any of this have to do with Dr. Hess’s research in California?”

The question deflated his enthusiasm. “I don’t know, but there’s a lot more from Professor Harrington in this folder, some files dating back to World War II. Much of it highly redacted. I’ll need time to go through it all.”

“Sounds like you’re going to need a keg of coffee when we get back to Sigma command.”

Jason resigned himself to this fact. “I suppose when it comes to mysteries surrounding Antarctica, it’s better me than anyone else.”

Monk stared harder at him. “What do you mean?”

“Kat . . . I mean Captain Bryant . . . never told you?”

“There’s lots of things my wife doesn’t tell me. Most of it for my own good.” Monk pointed a finger at him. “So spill it, kid.”

Jason stared at the man’s raised hand, noting the slight unnatural sheen to its surface. It was a prosthetic, eerily lifelike, showing fine hairs on the back and knuckles. Jason knew the story of how Monk had lost the hand and respected the man all the more for it. Afterward, DARPA had replaced it with this marvel of bioengineering, incorporating advanced mechanics and actuators, allowing sensory feedback and surgically precise movements. Jason had also heard that Monk would detach the hand and control it remotely via contact points on the titanium cuff surgically attached to the stump of his wrist.

Jason would love to see such a performance someday.

“If you’re done staring . . .” Monk warned, a slight growl in his voice.

“Sorry.”