The Bone Labyrinth by James Rollins Page A

she saw. “I think it’s a labyrinth,” he corrected her. “Such mazes have been carved and painted since man first started to produce art.”
    “But what does it mean?”
    “I don’t know. But look at the initials along the bottom.”
    At his shoulder, she read them aloud. “A.K . . . and S.J.”
    He let some of his own reverence show in his voice. “Athanasius Kircher . . . the Society of Jesus.”
    His hands trembled as he realized he was holding a book that once belonged to the Jesuit father whose history was the center of his life’s work. Unable to resist, he gently used a finger to pull back the cover. Something fell free and struck the cavern floor with a metallic clang.
    Lena bent down and retrieved it. “It’s a key.”
    She held it up to the light. It was as long as his palm, with an intricate head showing a cherub surmounted by an arch of skulls.

    He could not help but picture the skull and bones stolen from the grave in the other cavern. What did this all mean?
    He turned to the book for answers, but the pages between the leather covers had not fared the passage of time as well. Over the centuries, moisture must have seeped through the layers of waxed cloth, turning the paper to a wad of pulp. The impression of the key still remained, but whatever had once been written here had been obliterated long ago by time and dampness.
    “We must go!” Gerard ordered them, his tone brooking no argument.
    Lena dawdled long enough to search within the cubby, probing with her fingertips. “I can feel broken pieces of calcite, like something was once embedded here but was broken free and taken.”
    Roland looked to the rows of totems, equally glued in place by the seeping of calcite over the millennia. “Kircher must have taken whatever lay in this place of prominence, leaving this book behind, perhaps as some clue to what he found, to where he took it.”
    He looked down at the sorry state of the old journal.
    “Maybe something could be recovered,” Lena offered. “If we can get the book into the hands of an expert restorer . . .”
    He doubted anything could be salvaged, but he nodded and waved toward the exit. “Before that can happen, we need to escape these damnable tunnels.”
    They rejoined Gerard. Roland immediately understood the Frenchman’s demand to get moving. Out here in the main cavern, the thunderous rumble of rushing water echoed much louder now.
    Lena glanced at him, the fear raw in her face.
    They were out of time.
    4:48 P . M .
    The gunfire echoed from the bar ahead.
    A clog of people burst through the doorway at the end of the hall and rushed toward Gray and Seichan. Gray grabbed Dag and shoved him back toward the hotel lobby.
    “Go call the police.”
    As the stampede swept past them, Gray flattened against the wall. He slipped a black SIG Sauer from a shoulder holster under his wet jacket. Against the opposite wall, Seichan drew forth a long tactical dagger in one hand and held her own pistol in the other. Once the way was clear, the two set off toward the bar, keeping low and to either side of the hallway.
    Before they could reach the door, footsteps pounded up behind Gray. Dag had returned, huffing, his eyes wide on the weapon in Gray’s hand.
    Gray shoved the kid hard against the wall. Seichan scowled, dropping to a knee, keeping a bead on the bar’s door. The gunfire had ended inside, but yelling still rang out, sounding like demands shouted in Croatian. It appeared the assailants—whoever they were—had hostages in there.
    What the hell is going on?
    Dag had the answer. “I heard from the others,” he gasped out, still wide-eyed with terror. “Bunch of razbojnici . . . bandits burst into the pub. Demanded that Fredrik show himself. They fire at the roof. Shoot one man in the leg.”
    Gray glanced at Dag, then to Seichan. So the gunmen must be after the same mountaineer. This attack must be connected to the assault in the mountains . Was someone cleaning house