The Last Oracle by James Rollins Page A

jolt. It could drop a mountain gorilla.
    “HOMELAND SECURITY! HALT OR WE’LL FIRE AGAIN!”
    “Now they warn us,” Kowalski said and lifted his arms above his head.
    Half hidden behind his partner’s bulk, Gray twisted around and swiped his black Sigma identification card through the key-lock. A small green light flicked into existence alongside the lock.
    Thank God.
    “HANDS ON YOUR HEADS. GET ON YOUR KNEES!”
    Gray shoved the handle, and the door cracked open. It was dark beyond. Reaching behind him, he grabbed Elizabeth’s elbow. She flinched, then saw the half-open door. She, in turn, reached out and grabbed the back of Kowalski’s belt. He had his hands on his head and had been bending down to kneel.
    He glanced back to them.
    Gray shouldered the door open and pulled Elizabeth with him. Yanked off balance, Kowalski stumbled to one knee—then pushed off the floor and dove after them through the doorway.
    Gray heard another blast of a shotgun.
    Kowalski knocked into them and sent them sprawling across the dark stairs beyond the threshold. His other leg kicked the door shut—and kept kicking. “—oddamnmotherfu—!” he wailed between clenched teeth.
    Gray spotted the sparking projectile impaled through the shoe of the man’s spasming leg. Elizabeth did, too. She climbed over him, pinned his ankle, and crushed the Taser shell under her shoe heel.

    Kowalski’s leg continued to twitch for another breath, then stopped.
    His cursing did not.
    Gray stood and held out an arm to help him up. “You’re lucky it hit your shoe. The leather blunted the barbs from penetrating deeply.”
    “Lucky!” Kowalski bent and rubbed the stabs through the polished leather. “Assholes ruined my new Chukkas!”
    Muffled shouts approached the doorway.
    “C’mon,” Gray urged and headed up.
    Kowalski continued to gripe as they ran up the stairs. “Crowe’s buying me a new pair!”
    Gray ignored him as he raced up the stairs.
    Kowalski’s tirade continued. “Just leave the monkey skull down there. Let ’em have the goddamn thing.”
    “No!” rang from both Elizabeth and Gray.
    Gray heard the anger in the woman’s voice. It matched his own. Her father had died to keep the skull from his pursuers. Died in Gray’s arms. He wasn’t about to give it up.
    They hit the upper stairwell door. It was locked, too. Pounding echoed on the door below. It wouldn’t take long for someone to secure a pass-key.
    “Over here,” Elizabeth said and pointed to the darkened card reader.
    Gray swiped his security I.D. and heard the lock release. He glanced behind him as he pushed the door open. Surely word was already spreading. Whoever was hunting them would know they were fleeing into the Museum of American History.
    Gray led them out into a lighted hall. It was almost a match to the basement of the natural history museum, except here there were stacks of boxes in the hallway, crowding the way. Gray tested his own radio, but he still had no signal, buried too deeply under the museum.
    “This way,” he said and aimed for a stairway that led up.
    They almost bowled over an electrician in a work uniform, weighted down with a roll of conduit over his shoulder and a heavy belt of tools.
    “Why don’t you watch where you’re go—!”
    Something he saw in Gray’s expression silenced him. He backed out of the way and flattened against the wall. They hurried past him and upward.The farther they climbed, the more chaos they encountered: clusters of workmen, stripped walls, tangles of exposed ductwork. Reaching the next landing, they had to dodge around piles of Sheetrock and flats of stacked marble tiles. The growl of motors and whine of saws echoed from the doorway ahead. The air smelled of fresh paint and tasted of sawdust.
    Gray recalled that the Museum of American History had been undergoing a massive renovation, updating its forty-year-old infrastructure, all to better showcase its three million historical treasures, from Abraham