The Eye of God by James Rollins

fence, Seichan secretly motioned to Gray and Kowalski.
    The stairwell door creaked open behind her, accompanied by the pounding of boots coming toward her.
    The proprietor’s eyes grew huge. He tried to push the gate back down. Before he could, Seichan skirted under it and elbowed him back with one arm and yanked the fence higher with the other.
    Gray ran up and skidded on his knees under the gate.
    Kowalski barrel-rolled after him, slamming into a stand of oranges.
    Gray pointed his rifle at the man.
    “Lock it,” Seichan ordered, straightening her back and shedding her act like a snakeskin.
    The storeowner obeyed in a rush, resecuring his gate.
    “Tell him we mean him no harm,” Gray said.
    Seichan translated, but from the cold look in her eyes and her stony countenance, he did not seem soothed. She questioned him briefly, then turned to Gray.
    “The warehouse exit is back this way,” she said and led them in that direction.
    Moving deeper into the market, they passed along a long counter supporting boxes of locally grown fruits and vegetables. On the other side, rows of watery tanks held live fish, turtles, frogs, and shellfish.
    Upon reaching the far side, she found a concrete ramp headed up, ending at a large roll-up door used by delivery trucks. A smaller service entrance beckoned to the left.
    Glad to be rid of them, the proprietor keyed the side door open and angrily waved them out into the night.
    Gray led the way with his rifle.
    Seichan followed, pushing into a narrow service alley.
    Sirens echoed from all directions as emergency vehicles closed in on the Lisboa, but the press of the festival’s crowds around Nam Van Lake and its surrounding streets continued to stymie a fast response.
    In fact, out here, most of the drunken revelers seemed unaware of the neighboring turf war. Fireworks rang out from the crowd around the lake, exploding over the waters, reflecting among the thousands of candlelit lanterns floating on the lake. Closer at hand, the neighboring Wynn casino danced with flumes of water, rising from an acre-sized fountain, the jets set to the tunes of the Beatles.
    “What now?” Kowalski asked, having to yell somewhat.
    “We need a fast way out of here,” Gray said, heading down the alley toward the crowds around the lake. “But it’ll be hard to hail a cab, and it’s not like we can blend into the crowd.”
    “I can,” Seichan said.
    She closed her ripped blouse by crossing one side over the other like a sarong and tucking the ends into her jeans to hold everything in place.
    “You stay here,” she ordered. “Stick to the shadows until I return.”
    2:28 A . M .
    Gray kept to the mouth of the alley, his eyes never leaving the festival crowd. Kowalski hung back deeper in the alley, making sure no one snuck up behind them.
    A moment ago, he had traded weapons with Kowalski. The big man’s long duster made it easier to hide the length of the AK-47 rifle. Gray kept the pistol at his thigh, turning his body to keep it out of direct sight.
    Sirens grew louder and louder.
    To his right, the grounds around the neighboring lake were still packed with revelers, but to his left, the throngs on the streets were already beginning to stream away, heading to bed or into one of the many casinos or bars.
    As he stared down the street, the flow of pedestrians began to scatter, like startled pigeons.
    The sharper timbre of a two-stroke engine cut through the cacophony of music and voices. A motorcycle burst into view, carrying a familiar rider. Seichan artlessly plowed through the straggling crowd, trusting them to jump out of her way.
    As the people cleared, Gray saw it wasn’t a cycle but more of a rickshaw. The front end was a motorbike, the back end a small-wheeled buggy. Such vehicles were called trishaws . He had seen them whizzing about the streets on their way here. In Macau, a city with one of the densest populations, trishaws were much more practical than cars.
    But maybe not when one was