Map of Bones by James Rollins Page B

sitting.
    She wouldn’t be so lucky a second time.
    As their speed slowed, Rachel hit the controls to her convertible roof. The windows began to lower and the cloth roof folded back. Wind whistled inside.
    She prayed the momentary distraction would buy her the time she needed. Bunching her legs under her, she leaped off the center console and used the lip of the passenger door to hurdle herself through the half-open roof. The white sedan was still crammed against the passenger side. She landed atop its roof and rolled into a half crouch.
    By now, their speed had slowed to less than thirty kilometers per hour.
    Bullets blasted from below.
    She threw herself off the roof and flew toward a line of cars parked at the edge of the road. She struck the long roof of a Jaguar and slid belly-first off its edge and landed in a teeth-jarring tumble on the far side.
    Dazed, she lay still. The bulk of parked cars shielded her from the open road. Half a block away, unable to brake fast enough, the BMWs suddenly roared and, with a squeal of tires, sped off.
    In the distance, Rachel heard the wha-wha of police sirens.
    Rolling onto her back, she searched her belt for her cell phone. The holster was empty. She had been making a call when the attackers swiped into her.
    Oh God…
    She struggled up. She had no fear that the assassins would return. Already multiple cars were stopping, blocked by her Mini Cooper stalled in the road.
    Rachel had a larger concern. Unlike the first time, she had caught a glimpse of the black BMW’s license plate.
    SCV 03681.
    She didn’t need a registration search to know where the car had originated. The special plates were only issued by one agency.
    SCV stood for Stato della Città del Vaticano .
    Vatican City.
    Rachel struggled up, head aching. She tasted blood from a split lip. It didn’t matter. If she was attacked by someone with connections to the Vatican…
    She gained her feet with her heart pounding. A driving fear fueled her strength. Another target was surely in danger.
    “Uncle Vigor…”
    11:03 A . M .
TAKOMA PARK, MARYLAND
    G RAY! I S that you?”
    Grayson Pierce hitched his bike over one shoulder and climbed the steps of the porch of his parents’ home, a bungalow with a wooden porch and a wide overhanging gable.
    He called through the open screen door. “Yeah, Mom!”
    He leaned the bike against the porch railing, earning a protest from his ribs. He had phoned the house from the Metro station, giving his mother fair warning of his arrival. He kept a Trek mountain bike locked up at the local station here for times like this.
    “I have lunch almost ready.”
    “What? You’re cooking?” He swung open the screen door with a pained cry of its spring hinges. It snapped closed behind him. “Will wonders never cease?”
    “Don’t give me any of your lip, young man. I’m fully capable of making sandwiches. Ham and cheese.”
    He crossed through the living room with its oak Craftsman furniture, a tasteful mix of modern and antique. He did not fail to note the fine coating of dust. His mother had never been much of a homemaker, spending most of her time teaching, first at a Jesuit high school back in Texas and now as an associate dean of biological sciences at George Washington University. His parents had moved out here three years ago, into the quiet historical district of Takoma Park, with its quaint Victorian homes and older shingle cottages. Gray had an apartment a couple of miles away, on Piney Branch Road. He had wanted to be close to his parents, to help out where he could.
    Especially now.
    “Where’s Dad?” he asked as he entered the kitchen, seeing his father was not present.
    His mother closed the refrigerator door, a gallon of milk in hand. “Out in the garage. Working on another birdhouse.”
    “Not another one?”
    She frowned at him. “He likes it. Keeps him out of trouble. His therapist says it’s good for him to have a hobby.” She crossed with two plates of