Gray grabbed his pack and squeezed between the bars. Once out on the stone parapet, he donned the backpack and turned back to her. “The rope.”
She passed it to him. “Be careful.”
“A little late for that.”
He stared down between his toes. Not a wise thing to do, Rachel thought. The hundred-meter drop would weaken anyone’s knees…and strength of leg was most important now.
Gray faced forward from the ledge of the cathedral’s south spire.
Four meters away, over a fatal drop, stood the north spire, a twin to this one. Off limits to the public, there were no bars across the far window. But there was also no hope of jumping from window to window, not from a standing position. Instead, Gray planned to dive straight out and grab whatever handhold he could on the decorated façade of the opposite tower.
The risk was great, but they had no other recourse.
They had to jump ship.
Gray bent his knees. Rachel held her breath, one hand fisted at the hollow of her neck.
Without a second’s hesitation, Gray simply leaned out and leapt, arching the length of his body, flinging away the coil of slack rope. He flew across the gap and struck just below the window ledge. He lunged out with both arms and grabbed ahold of the sill, miraculously catching it. But the impact bounced him back. His arms could not hold him. He began to fall.
“Your left foot!” she yelled to him.
He heard her. His left toe scrambled against the stone surface and found the demon-faced gargoyle on the lower tier. He planted his foot atop its head.
With his plummet stopped, he regained a handful of ledge above and found another toehold for his right leg, clinging like a fly to a wall. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, then climbed and manhandled himself through the window.
Rachel risked a glance behind her, ducking to peer under the bell. The flames had stopped. She knew the others understood the significance of her sudden cease-fire.
Rachel could wait no longer. She shimmied through the bars. The ledge was slick with pigeon guano, the winds gusting and treacherous.
Across the gap, Gray had secured his end of the rope, forming a bridge. “Hurry! I have you.”
She met his eyes across the gap and found firm assurance.
“I have you,” he repeated.
Swallowing, she reached out. Don’t look down, she thought, and grabbed the rope. Hand over hand. That’s all she needed to do.
She leaned out, both fists white-knuckled to the rope, toes still on the ledge. She heard the bell ring behind her. Startled, she glanced over a shoulder and watched a dumbbell-shaped silver cylinder bounce across the stone deck.
She didn’t know what it was—but it certainly wasn’t good.
Needing no other encouragement, Rachel swung out on the rope and quickly scrambled across the bridge, legs kicking, hand over hand. Gray caught her around the midriff.
“Bomb,” she gasped out, tossing her head back to indicate the far tower.
“What—?”
The blast cut off any further words. Buffeted from behind, Rachel was shoved through the casement and into Gray’s chest. They both fell in a tangle to the floor of the bell tower. A wall of blue flame rolled over them through the window, blast-furnace hot.
Gray held her tight, shielding her with his own body.
But the flames quickly dissipated in the gusty winds.
Gray rolled aside as Rachel elbowed up. She stared back toward the south tower. The spire was aflame. Spats of fire licked and roiled from the four windows. The bell clanged within the conflagration.
Gray joined her. He hauled in the rope. The knot on the far side had burned away, severing the bridge. Across the gap, the window bars glowed a fiery red.
“Incendiary device,” he said.
The flames rippled in the strong winds, like a candle in the night. A final memorial to those killed, both last night and tonight. Rachel pictured the rakish smile of her uncle. Dead. Grief welled through her…along with something hotter and sharper. She stumbled back, but Gray caught her.
Police sirens wailed across the city, echoing up to them.
“We must go,” he said.
She nodded.
“They’ll think us dead. Let’s keep it that way.”
She allowed herself to be led to the stairwell. They hurried down, winding around and around. Sirens grew even louder—but closer, an engine coughed to life, revving gutturally, followed by a second.
Gray checked the window. “They’re fleeing.”
Rachel stared out. Three stories below, a pair of black vans pulled away, racing across the pedestrian square.
“C’mon,” Gray said. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
He hurried down, skipping steps. Rachel rushed after him, trusting his instinct.
They hit the foyer at a dead run. One of the doors to the nave had been left ajar. Rachel glanced into the church—toward where her uncle had been killed. But something drew her eye, closer, on the floor, draped down the center aisle.
Silver barbells.
A dozen or more. Daisy-chained with red wires.
“Run!” she yelled, turning on a heel.
Together they hit the main doors and flew into the square.
Without a word, they fled toward the only shelter. The panel truck of the German Polizei sat on the square. They dove behind it just as the devices exploded.
It sounded like fireworks going off, one after the other, in succession.
A shatter of glass accompanied, loud enough to be heard above the popping explosions. Rachel glanced up. The giant Bavarian stained-glass window above the main door, dating from the Middle Ages, blew out in a brilliant cascade of fire and jeweled glass.
She tucked tight to the truck as the shower of glass pelted the square all around them in a rain of death.
Something hit the far side of the truck with a resounding crash. Rachel bent and stared past the wheels. On the far side, one of the massive wooden doors of the cathedral lay on the street, aflame.
Then a new noise intruded. Surprised voices. Muffled. Coming from inside the truck. Rachel glanced to Gray. He suddenly had a knife in hand, making it appear as if by magic.
They circled around the back of the van.
Before they could touch the handle, the door popped open.
Rachel stared in disbelief as Gray’s stocky team member stumbled out. He was followed by his female partner, bearing a longsword in hand. And lastly by a familiar, welcome figure.
“Uncle Vigor!” Rachel clasped him in a bear hug.
He returned her embrace. “Why is it,” he asked, “that everyone seems determined to blow me up?”
4:45 A.M.
AN HOUR later, Gray paced the hotel room, still edgy, nerves stretched thin. They had taken up the room here using false identification, determining it was best to get off the streets as soon as possible. Hotel Cristall on Ursulaplatz was located less than half a mile from the cathedral, a small boutique establishment with an oddly Scandinavian décor of primary colors.