key.'
Wallace's eyes grew wide. 'If you're right, then the key...'
'It's in Saint Malachy's tomb.'
Kowalski groaned and picked at a fingernail with a piece of straw. 'Of course it is. But I'm telling you flat out, I'm not going in there.'
Before they could discuss it further, the trailer jerked to a stop. Gray was surprised to see that they'd already reached the harbor.
Lyle hopped down and waved them out. 'You can hole up in the old harbor house. Get yourselves out of the rain, right enough. I'll fetch my da.'
As Gray hurried down the path toward the stone house, he stared out to sea. The waters rolled with frothing whitecaps. Closer at hand, the ferry rocked and teetered in its slip, even sheltered within the harbor's breakwater. It was going to be a hellish ride back over to the mainland.
But for now, the windows of the harbor house glowed and flickered with the promise of a crackling fire. They all piled through the door, shutting out the storm behind them. The room was paneled in raw pine, with heavy exposed beams. The floor creaked underfoot. The place smelled of wood smoke and pipe tobacco. Candles lit a few tables. But it was the fire that drew them all deeper inside. They gladly shed their coats over a few chairs.
Gray stood with his back to the fire, appreciating the heat from his heels to the top of his head. The warmth and the cheery dance of flames went a long way to beat back the hopelessness that had begun to settle over them.
But now they had a course of action.
A place to look next.
The door slammed open as the wind ripped the knob from Owen Bryce's fingers. He caught it again and forced it closed. Drenched, he stomped and shook off the worst of the rainwater.
'It's parky weather out, that's for sure,' the boatman said with a crooked grin at his understatement. 'And I'm afraid I have some good news and some bad.'
Such a preamble never boded well.
Gray stepped away from the fire.
'The bad news is that we won't be able to make the crossing today. The storm has blown the seas into a treacherous state. If'n you didn't know, the Welsh name for the island is Ynys Enlli, which means 'island of bad currents.' And that's on a sunny day.'
'So what's the good news?' Kowalski asked.
'I've checked and I can get you rooms here for the night at half off. Good for the entire week.'
Gray felt his stomach sink. 'How soon do you expect we can make it off the island?'
He shrugged. 'Hard to say. Electricity and phones are down all over the island. We have to get the all-clear from the harbormaster in Aberdaron before we can even think of throwing off our ties here.'
'Your best estimate?'
'We had some tourists here last year that got stranded for seventeen days due to storms.'
Gray waited for the answer to his question. He looked sternly at the man.
Owen finally relented, running a hand over the top of his head. 'I'm sure we can get you back to Aberdaron in two days. Three days tops.'
Off to the side, Rachel sank into one of the chairs.
She didn't have that many days.
Chapter 24
October 13, 1:35 P.M.
Svalbard, Norway
Monk lay flat across the roof of the Sno-Cat as it trundled through the snowstorm. Painter shared his perch. They were both tethered to the roof rack like luggage. The harder gusts of wind continually fought to rip them from the roof. Snow frosted them like icing on a cake.
Each man had an assault rifle snugged to his shoulder, and the Norwegian soldier had supplied them both with one additional piece of gear, essential for cold-weather fighting.
Monk adjusted the infrared goggles on his face. They darkened the view ahead. Not that it mattered-the blizzard's whiteout conditions had lowered visibility to mere yards. But the scopes built into the eyepieces captured any ambient heat signatures and brought them into focus. Below their perch, the hot engine of their Sno-Cat glowed a soft orange.
Out in the storm, their targets came into view. Seven or eight snowmobiles crisscrossed up from the lower mountain slopes, glowing a soft amber through the scopes. The vehicles were just now cresting into the upper valley where Monk had spent much of his time spying on the Svalbard seed vault.
It was here that Monk and the others would make their stand, using every resource available to them.
Monk patted a hand on the rocket-propelled grenade launcher next to him. Before setting out, they had scoured the avalanche's path for additional weapons and found the launcher. Along with a wooden box of ammunition.
Below, the senator and the CEO shared the cab with the Norwegian soldier, manning rifles. One pointed out the passenger side, the other out the rear.
They were armed to the teeth, but their enemy outnumbered them at least ten to one.
As the advance team of the assault party rode into the valley on snowmobiles, the Norwegian driver lunged their vehicle to the side. He was doing his best to keep a snowbank between the Cat and the smaller, faster snow machines.
Through the goggles, Monk watched a pair of snowmobiles, double mounted by mercenary soldiers, skim past far to the right. The enemy failed to spot the Cat half-hidden behind the snowbank, suggesting that the enemy either didn't have infrared or were too focused on the seed vault ahead.
Monk and Painter let them pass without firing.
The smaller vehicles were not their primary target.
More snowmobiles shot past with a whining rip of their engines, deafening the riders to the low rumble of the Sno-Cat. Ahead, a massive vehicle loomed into view. Its heat signature was nearly blinding. It rose up out of the lower slopes and dropped heavily into the upper valley.
It was a Hagglund troop carrier.
The main body of the assault force remained inside that vehicle. It had to be taken out. Their Sno-Cat was no match for the swifter snowmobiles, but against this behemoth, the Sno-Cat would be the nimbler one. If they could take out the Hagglund, it would demoralize the enemy. Perhaps enough to encourage them to give up the assault and turn back.
Either way, Monk and the others couldn't let the assault force reach the seed vault. According to Painter, there were over forty people still alive in there.
As the Hagglund lumbered along the valley floor, Painter exchanged his rifle for the grenade launcher. They would have only one chance. Once they fired, they would draw the full wrath of the force toward them.
Monk slapped his palm twice on the roof of the Sno-Cat.
Obeying the signal, the driver slowed to a stop.
Painter swung the weapon up and aimed. Monk pulled his goggles off. The fiery flash of the launcher might blind him. Without the goggles, he could see nothing. The blizzard swirled and spun, erasing the world. It was like being trapped in a snow globe that someone had tossed into a paint shaker.
No wonder the enemy hadn't spotted them.
'Fire in the hole,' Painter said and pulled the trigger.
The launcher belched out smoke and flames, and the grenade rocketed through the curtain of snow.
Monk shoved his goggles back in place. He got them seated in time to see the hot passage of the grenade slam into the treads of the Hagglund. A bloom of fiery orange marked the impact. Hit broadside, the troop carrier tipped up on one tread.
Monk willed it to topple over.
It didn't. It crashed back down on its treads. The Hagglund tried to move, but with one set of tracks ruined, it foundered in the snow, turning in place. Doors popped open, and smaller heat signatures abandoned the vehicle,
