Black Order by James Rollins Page A

the ladder. She had found a kerchief, soaked it, and had it wrapped around the lower half of her face like a bandit, a fitting disguise in her case.
    She held up his soggy wool sweater. She had soaked herself, too, seeming to shrink in size like a wet puppy. Gray realized she was younger than the seventeen he had guessed earlier. She could be no more than fifteen. Her eyes were red-rimmed with panic—but also shone with hope, placing some blind faith in him.
    Gray hated when people did that…because it always worked.
    Gray tied the arms of his sweater around his neck and let the rest drape over his back. He tugged up a flap of sodden wool to cover his mouth and nose, offering some insulation from the ash-thickened air.
    With water soaking through the back of his shirt, Gray knelt up again, ready to attack the stubborn planks. He sensed the presence of Fiona below. And the responsibility.
    Gray searched the space between the drop ceiling and the rafters for any other means of escape. All around, piping and wiring crisscrossed in a haphazard pattern, plainly added piecemeal after the two-story home had been sectioned into a lower shop and upper apartment. The newer renovations appeared shoddy, the difference between Old World craftsmanship and modern slipshod construction.
    As he searched, Gray spotted a break in the uniform run of planks and rafters. A boxed-off section, three feet square, framed by thicker bracing. Gray recognized it immediately. He’d been right earlier. The bracing marked the opening where a long-demolished interior staircase had once passed through to the floor above.
    But how securely had it been sealed up?
    Only one way to find out.
    Gray rose up on his heels, stood atop the bookcase, and followed it like a balance beam in the direction of the framed opening. It was only a few yards—but it led deeper into the shop, toward the fire.
    “Where are you going?” Fiona demanded from atop the ladder.
    Gray didn’t have the breath to explain. The smoke choked thicker with every step. The heat grew to an open-furnace intensity. He finally reached the section of bookshelf below the sealed stairwell.
    Glancing down, Gray saw that the bookcase’s lower shelves already smoldered. He’d reached the firestorm’s leading edge.
    No time to waste.
    Bracing himself, he slammed his crowbar up.
    The tip plunged easily through the thinner wood planking. It was no more than pressed fiberboard and vinyl tiles. Shoddy, as he’d hoped. Thank God for the lack of modern work ethic.
    Gray hauled on his crowbar, cranking like a machine as the air burned and the heat blistered. Soon he had created an opening wide enough to climb through.
    Gray tossed the crowbar through the opening. It clattered above.
    He turned to Fiona and waved her to him.
    “Can you get on top of the bookshelves and—?”
    “I saw how you got over there.” She scrambled up onto the bookcase.
    A pop drew Gray’s attention below. The bookcase shuddered under him.
    Uh-oh…
    His weight and the burning lower tiers were rapidly weakening his perch. He reached to the hole and half pulled himself up, shifting his weight off the shelf.
    “Hurry,” he urged the girl.
    With her arms held out for balance, Fiona edged along the top of the bookcase. About a yard away.
    “Hurry,” he repeated.
    “I heard you the first—”
    With a resounding crack, the section of bookcase under Gray collapsed. He gripped the edges of the hole tighter as the case toppled away, crashing into the fire. A fresh wash of heat, ash, and flames swept high.
    Fiona screamed as her section shook, but held.
    Hanging by his arms, Gray called to her. “Leap over to me. Grab around my shoulders.”
    Fiona needed no further encouragement as her case wobbled. She jumped and struck him hard, arms latching around his neck, legs clinging around his waist. He was almost knocked from his perch. He swung in place.
    “Can you use my body to climb up through the hole?” he asked with a