Ryder didn't hesitate. He understood the sacrifice.
As the last explosions ripped along the rim of the island, Monk stared up. The netting swamped down toward him. He glanced back. Across the lagoon, the canopy fell like a fiery shroud over the Mistress of the Seas, starting it the stern and working toward the bow.
In seconds the cruise ship was swamped under it, caught like a dolphin in a tuna net. And the collapse continued, sweeping toward Monk. He had no hope of reaching any beach. The closest lay five hundred yards away.
In the other direction, he watched the Sea Dart escape into the air, pulling up, lifting off the lake, and racing toward the opening in the caldera wall.
They would make it.
This thought helped settle his heart as the net fell atop him, heavy with cabling and sodden rope. It dragged him down, down, down . ..
Monk struggled for a way through it, to reach the surface again. But his broken leg confounded him. And the net had folded a bit on itself. He could find no way through.
He stared up at the lights of the cruise ship.
With only one regret... a broken promise .. .
He'd sworn to Kat that he would return from this mission, and he had kissed Penelope with the same silent promise.
I'm sorry. . .
He reached one arm up, praying for some rescue.
His hand found a hole in the tangled net. He used the stump of his other arm to force it wider. He kicked both legs, ignoring the pain from his right calf. He struggled to worm through the opening.
Then something snagged his broken leg, latching to his ankle, and tugged hard. Bone ground against bone. Agony lanced from leg to spine. Monk gasped out his last breath and stared down.
Lights in the water streaked up toward him.
Arms climbed his body, wrapped around his waist, over his chest. A rubbery limb clamped across his face, across the same lips that had once made a promise, once kissed a child.
Lights flashed around him as Monk was dragged down, down, down . . . Still, he searched up one last time.
As the glow of the cruise ship faded and darkness closed over him, he sent his heart out to the two women who gave his life any meaning. Kat.
Penelope. I love you, love you, love you . ..
6:05 A.M.
Lisa sat in the backseat of the Sea Dart, bent over her knees, sobbing.
Susan sat next to her, resting a hand on her back.
No one spoke.
Ryder fought the winds as he flew the Sea Dart across the open water. The island of Pusat faded behind them.
The storm blew them like a leaf in a gale. There was no use fighting it. They simply fled with the wind, skimming north.
They had no radio. A stray round had punched through the unit.
"The sun's rising," Susan mumbled, staring out the window, ignoring the navigation map on her lap.
Her words broke some barrier.
Ryder spoke from the pilot's seat. "Maybe he made it to shore."
Lisa sat back. She knew Monk had not. Still, she wiped her eyes. Monk had sacrificed himself so they might escape. So that those left behind aboard the Mistress of the Seas had some chance of rescue, that the world had some hope of a cure.
Still, Lisa only felt numb and dead.
"The sun .. ." Susan said.
Ryder banked east, skirting around another island peak. Off near the horizon, there was some sign of an end to the night's storm. The black clouds split enough to allow sunlight to stream toward them. The first edge of the day's sun peeked above the horizon.
Through the windshield, light flooded the cabin with brilliance.
Lisa stared toward it, seeking some absolution, to bask in the brightness, to let it inside her, to chase away the darkness there, too.
And it seemed to work—until Susan let out a terrifying scream.
Lisa jumped and turned. Susan sat bolt upright in her seat, staring wide-eyed toward the sun. But something in her eyes shone even brighter.
Raw fear.
"Susan?"
The woman continued to stare. Her mouth moved, breathless. Lisa had to read her lips. "They must not go there."
"Who? Where?"
Susan didn't answer. Without looking down, she took a finger and placed it on the navigation map in her lap.
Lisa read the name under her finger.
"Angkor."
16
Bayon
July 7, 6:35 a.m. Angkor Thorn, Cambodia
Gray marched with the others toward the massive gates of the walled temple complex of Angkor Thom. The morning sun, low on the horizon, cast long shadows across the south causeway. Cicadas buzzed, along with the morning chorus of frogs.
Except for a handful of tourists and a pair of saffron-robed monks, they had the bridge to themselves at this early hour. The causeway stretched a full football field in length, framed along the edges by rows of statues: fifty-four gods on one side and fifty-four demons on the other. They overlooked a moat, mostly dry now, where once crocodiles swam, protecting the great city and the royal palace inside. The deep moat, bordered by earthen embankments, now languished in emerald expanses of algae-covered pools and swaths of grass and weeds.
As they marched, Vigor reached out to one of the bridge's demon statues and placed a palm upon its head. "Concrete," he said. "The original heads were mostly stolen, though some remain in Cambodian museums."
"Let's hope what we're looking for wasn't stolen," Seichan said dourly, plainly still upset after the conversation in the van with Nasser.
Gray kept his distance from her. He wasn't sure which of the two Guild agents was the more dangerous.
Nasser's team of forty men spread ahead of them and behind, an escort in khaki and black berets. Nasser kept a yard behind them, continually searching around warily. Some of the tourists showed interest in their large group, but mostly their party was ignored. The ruins ahead held everyone's attention.
At the end of the causeway, thirty-foot-tall walls of laterite stone blocks enclosed the four square miles of the ancient city. Their goal—the Bayon— lay within the enclosure. Dense forest still enveloped the city ruins. Giant palm trees shaded the walls, shrouding the massive eighty-foot-tall gate. Four giant faces had been carved into the stone tower, facing each cardinal direction.
Gray studied the faces, painted in lichen, worn by cracks. Despite the corruption of age, there remained a certain peacefulness in their expressions: broad foreheads shadowed downcast eyes, while thick lips curved gently, as enigmatic as any Mona Lisa.
"The Smile of Angkor," Vigor said, noting his attention. "The face is that of Lokesvara, the bodhisattva of compassion."
Gray stared a breath longer, praying for that compassion to spread to Nasser. Gray checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes until the next hour mark, when Nasser would order another of his mother's fingers chopped off.