by being cooped up in the hotel. The confinement also heightened her anxiety. When she was moving, it had been easier to distract herself from her fears about Joe.
Now she had too much time to think, to dwell on it.
Where is he? Is he even alive?
Her fingers tightened on the wrought-iron balcony rail.
Gray had ordered them not to leave the premises, while he got to traipse around the island with Seichan and Monsignor Roe. He had called forty minutes ago to report that they were on their way back after surveying the ruins of a necropolis on the western side of the island, trying to glean information about the conquering horde that had swept through the Mediterranean in ancient times.
The Sea People.
Imagining those seafaring tribes, she closed her eyes and took deep breaths of the salt air—but with it came a strong hint of diesel. She opened her eyes and scowled at the three behemoths docked at Cagliari’s cruise port three hundred yards down the street. The massive ships clashed with the city’s tangle of narrow cobblestone avenues and quaint shops and wine bars. Three stories below, the main drag was abuzz with tourists, packed even tighter down by the entrance to the city’s two giant docks. As sunset approached, passengers were returning to their ships after invading the tiny town.
Seems Sardinia is still being plagued by Sea People.
She began to turn away—when the staccato pops of gunfire drove her down to her knees, ducking her head. She gasped, her heart in her throat.
They found us.
Then she heard laughter rising from below.
Past the open slider, Mac noted her panic from inside the room. He came out onto the balcony and helped her up with his one good arm. “Just firecrackers,” he assured her.
She had already figured out that much. She returned to the balcony rail with Mac, hiding her flushed face, feeling stupid.
“I heard from the hotel staff that there’ll be fireworks tonight,” Mac said. “They’ll be shooting them over the water. Probably as entertainment for the departing cruise ships.”
“No,” Father Bailey said, joining them. “That’s not why.”
The priest stretched a kink out of his back from his daylong study of the Da Vinci map. He had finally given up and repackaged the box into a hard-sided roller bag that they’d purchased dockside in Italy. The treasure was guarded over by Major Bossard, who maintained a post by the door, armed with a pair of SIG P320 pistols, one held in his hand, the other holstered under his jacket.
Maria waved out to sea. “Okay, then why are fireworks scheduled for this evening?”
“Because tonight is the Festival of San Giovanni,” Bailey explained, “honoring the feast day of John the Baptist. It’s celebrated across Europe in various fashions.”
Maria looked askance at the priest. “Which means fireworks here? Doesn’t feel exactly pious and religious.”
“Ah, the tradition in Sardinia has its roots in more pagan celebrations. June twenty-fourth was considered by the ancients to be the summer solstice, a particularly magical time, when the sun and moon unite, represented by fire and water.”
Maria looked out to sea. “Thus, the fireworks over the bay.”
“And beach bonfires,” Bailey added. “It’s traditional here to make a wish and jump over the flames to make them come true.”
“I’ll settle for birthday cake and candles,” Mac said.
As the sun set, more people gathered below. They lined the streets, spilling out onto the cobblestones. More were packed under the awnings of seaside cafés, including directly below where rowdy songs echoed up, along with laughter and drunken shouts. Across the bay, a handful of bonfires were ignited, the flames bright in the growing darkness. To either side, other hotel guests followed their group’s example and emerged onto their own balconies for the night’s viewing.
Mac searched the crowds below. “If Gray and the others don’t get here soon, they’ll miss the fireworks.”
A loud boom made Maria jump—but it wasn’t the beginning of the festivities. She twisted around as the room’s door swung open on its own, the knob and lock blasted away. A trio of fist-size black objects were tossed inside and bounced across the floor. Bossard was already in motion, rolling from his chair to the side, but it proved too late.
The first grenade blast tossed him high against a nearby wall.
Mac tackled Maria to the side as the other two grenades bounced toward the open balcony. They blew, but rather than bursting into shredding shrapnel, the pair exploded with thick clouds of black acrid smoke.
Father Bailey dove low into the