Page 72 of Alex Cross Must Die

Holmes saw a fleeting motion behind a massive headstone. A gunshot blasted the face off a statue two feet from his head.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare?” asked Holmes, nodding at Poe’s gun.

“Where’s yours?” asked Poe.

“You don’t remember?” said Holmes. “It’s back at the house. Marple disarmed me.”

Poe stared ahead into the darkness. “Can’t blame her.”

He took off at a run, weaving between the marble markers and statues. Holmes followed. As they crossed a small meditation park, Holmes spotted the two shapes again, moving in front of a small mausoleum. Within seconds, the door was open. The figures slipped inside.

“That’s it!” Holmes called out. “They’re cornered.”

It was a twenty-yard sprint to the mausoleum steps. Holmes and Poe pressed themselves against the vine-covered walls on either side of the door, which was hanging ajar. Poe raised his Glock and nudged the door open with his foot. He inched into the entryway, pistol first.

Holmes slipped in after him. The air inside was damp and musty. There were no sounds. Poe nodded. Holmes clicked on his flashlight and swept it around the small chamber. The walls and floor were made of thick stone. Metal-grilled vents near the roofline allowed slivers of ambient city light to pass through.

Toward the rear of the chamber, a massive marble crypt rested on a granite platform. Poe walked slowly around to the back, staying low. Holmes followed. The flashlight beam cut through the shadows. The space behind the crypt was empty.

Holmes paced the length of the back wall, pressing on stones, looking for an exit. He looked back at Poe and shook his head. The only way out was the way they came in. But that was impossible. Unless they’d been chasing spirits.

Holmes leaned back against the crypt. He could feel the cool stone through his clothes. Poe walked toward him—and stumbled. Holmes beamed his light at Poe’s feet. The rectangular floor stones were neatly set. Except one.

Holmes felt a fresh pump of adrenaline. He squatted down next to the rogue stone, slightly loose and out of line with the others. He dug his fingers into the gap up to his second knuckle and leaned back for leverage. The stone started to shift, then tip. Holmes slidaround to the narrow end of the stone and muscled it up until it was resting upright.

Underneath was a rusted metal frame outlining a rectangular opening, about eighteen inches wide. Holmes dropped flat onto the dank stone floor and shined his light into the space beneath.

“Don’t tell me,” said Poe, breathing hard.

“These two love tunnels,” said Holmes.

He swung his feet over the opening, then lowered himself into the hole. It was a short drop to the solid dirt floor. He turned off his flashlight and felt Poe drop in next to him.

The space was dark and deathly silent.

A tomb beneath a tomb.

CHAPTER 80

HOLMES STARED AHEADinto the gloom and waited for his eyes to adjust. His nostrils filled with the smell of loam and clay. And then—again—a whisper of aftershave.

They passed under a grate that let in fragments of light, enough to see that the passage widened just ahead. Holmes could make out an indentation in the wall a few yards up. Poe spun and aimed his gun into the opening, then waved Holmes forward.

Holmes beamed the flashlight in the direction of the gun barrel.

They were staring into a small underground room with a crude wood floor. A half dozen unlit kerosene lamps sat on a card table. Two metal folding chairs were tucked underneath. A row of rusted storage bins lined one side of the room. An ancient chemical toilet was nestled in the opposite corner. The odor was caustic—formaldehyde and bleach. Holmes stepped across the threshold and got a quick waft of sweat and sandalwood. He blinked—and took a stunning blow to his right temple.

Holmes dropped onto the tunnel floor, sparks flashing in the periphery of his vision. Something wet and warm oozed down over his right eye. Through the blur, he could make out a pair ofexpensive dress shoes in front of him. Then he felt something cold and hard against his head.

“Get up.” A man’s voice. Low and calm. He felt a rough hand grip under his right armpit, lifting him to his feet and dragging him back into the room. Holmes tried to control his breathing and fought to stay conscious.

He heard the squeak of metal. He blinked and looked up. He could make out the lower half of a second man’s body as he slammed one of the folding chairs down in the middle of the room. Then he saw Poe being pushed onto the seat. His left cheek was bruised. The man behind the chair put a gun to Poe’s head.

Poe’s gun.

Holmes felt his vision fade in and out. He saw Poe make a slow half turn and look up at the man behind him, the one with the well-groomed stubble. “Richard. Am I right?” said Poe. His speech was slightly slurred and his face looked contorted with pain.

“Shut the fuck up,” the man replied.

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