up the bulk of the bridge. Built as an arched span of girders between the masonry pylons, the Sydney Harbour Bridge was the main connection linking north Sydney and the business district. Eight lanes of street traffic and two rail lines made it one of the busiest stretches of road in the city. If he got to the vehicle deck, the gunman would have multiple options for his getaway.
Morgan’s target headed for the set of stairs used by the BridgeClimb tourists as they descended from the main arch. Because the last tour group had come down hours ago, at least she didn’t have to contend with bystanders getting in her way.
The Russian climbed the stairs leading up to the vehicle deck two at a time. The steps were so steep that it was nearly a ladder, with switchback platforms every five yards.
Morgan reached the stairs, holstered her pistol, and began climbing after him. She could see that her quarry had made the mistake of trying to climb without holstering his weapon, so he was hampered enough for her to be able to make up the distance.
She was just one platform below him when he turned to fire. He got off two shots that caromed off metal before the slide locked back, indicating he was out of ammo.
She had him.
He hurled the pistol at her, catching her in the shoulder, but she ignored the blast of pain.
As he reached the vehicle deck, which still bustled with cars and trucks, she lunged for his feet. He kicked, barely missing her hand, and kept going.
On the next platform, she could take the shot that would disable him. Then it would be an easy task to haul him in.
At the vehicle deck, the stairs were wrapped with a ten-foot-high steel mesh cage to keep the BridgeClimb hikers from exiting onto the sidewalk. Instead of continuing up, the Russian grabbed the top of the cage, intending to vault over it and onto the sidewalk. If he did that, he might get into a car before Morgan could stop him.
She leaped up, but she didn’t try to latch onto him. She pushed the exposed soles of his feet, toppling him over the side of the cage before he was ready.
He somersaulted over the edge, tumbling off the sidewalk and onto train tracks.
Morgan climbed up, drew her pistol, and aimed down at him, covering any possible escape.
With her free hand, she dialed her police contact to tell him that she had the subject ready for apprehension near the south pylon.
The Russian, seeing that he was caught, stood and put his hands over his head.
Her contact answered, but before she could make her report, the squeal of metal brakes interrupted her.
The Russian must have realized what was coming a split second before it happened. His mouth made a silent O just as a train roared through the pylon and smashed into him.
Grant wondered where in the hell this idiot thought he could go.
They were running up the arched spine of the bridge, and Grant wasn’t afraid to admit he was starting to get winded. The guy he was chasing was wiry, with more of a runner’s body, so Grant could do no better than keep pace behind him.
For some reason, the man had forsaken the chance to go over the metal cage they’d passed and onto the bridge deck. He just kept climbing until he was padding up the inclined walkway, only a thin steel railing on either side between him and a long and lethal drop to the road deck below.
Up ahead Grant saw what the guy was heading for. The bridge had four maintenance cranes that jutted from small sheds. The sheds housed the equipment to lower the maintenance platform that dangled over the side like a window washer’s scaffold. The shed also encased the motor used to move the crane up and down the arch’s span. Each housing was pierced by a small tunnel over the walkway to let the tourist climbers pass through.
If the Russian could get to the closest of the cranes, he’d use the platform to lower himself to a walkway below and climb down one of the ladders to the vehicle deck. Given that there was only one scaffold, Grant would have no way to follow.
He wasn’t going to let that happen no matter what Morgan said.
He’d have one chance, when the man was getting onto the scaffold suspended from the crane’s wires. After that the man could train his full attention on shooting Grant, who would have to lean awkwardly over the side to have any kind of shot.
When the man got to the crane, he turned and fired some covering shots, and Grant went prone. The man was at the very limit of Grant’s range, and the odd geometry of the arch made the shot even tougher.
But this was Grant’s best opportunity. The gunman began climbing onto the hanging platform.
Grant fired. It hit. Right leg.
The man reflexively grabbed his thigh, releasing his grip on the platform. His left foot, which was already planted on the platform, sent it swinging away from the bridge. He tried to regain his balance, but his feet were too far apart to recover. He scrabbled to grab hold of anything he could and came away clutching nothing but air.
With a terrified scream, the man plunged through the space between the bridge and platform. The sound didn’t stop until he smacked into the road below.
Grant got to his feet and leaned over the railing. Blood pooled around the head of the corpse. No way this one was going to talk.
Grant frowned at the mess. “Huh,” he said. “I really thought that would work.”
THIRTY-FIVE
It was when Tyler got to the astronaut drawing that Jess knew something was wrong.
As Fay explained to them, the astronaut figure depicted on the Nazca plain was one of the primary reasons that ancient alien theorists thought that spacemen had helped the Nazca people draw the lines. It was a simple humanoid with one armed raised and the other at its side. Although it had two legs, the head was round with the eyes being its only distinguishing features. Because the nose and mouth were missing, some thought it looked more like an alien creature than a human.
It seemed a stretch to Jess. To her it resembled a slightly more complicated stick figure. So what if the designers forgot to put the mouth on.
The astronaut drawing on the ceiling wasn’t the issue. There was a second one at the end of the story drawn on the walls. It was identical to the ceiling figure, except this one was drawn with a large round object in its raised right hand.
Tyler had taken out a small electronic device and was circling the room, waving it over the walls until he reached the astronaut drawing. He stopped, and a strange look crossed his face. He took the Leatherman from his belt and unfolded the knife. Fay yelped when she saw him dig into the lower hand of the astronaut with the blade.
“You’ll damage it!” Fay yelled.
“Sorry, Fay,” Tyler said, and pried at the etching until a stone divot fell from the wall.
When Jess’s flashlight passed across the resulting hole, a multi-hued glint reflected the light. It was about a tenth the diameter of the object in the raised hand, but this wasn’t drawn on. It was embedded in the wall.
Tyler checked his device’s display, and even in the dim light she could see his expression of alarm. He shouted toward the entrance.
“Polk, I’m going to need the case from the truck!” When he got an affirmative, he turned to Fay and Jess. “Let’s step to the other side of the chamber.
“Why?” Jess said. “What is that device?”
“It’s a radiation meter.”
Instead of retreating, Fay moved closer to the dime-sized object. “That’s radioactive?”
“Please, Fay, step back.”
“How dangerous is it?”
