The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,78
once, updating them on what had transpired at the hotel. While the two had managed to grab the Da Vinci map, it seemed Monsignor Roe and the rabbi had been captured, if not killed.
With the same fate hanging over them all, Maria had suggested a refuge, a place where even the enemy would have a hard time reaching them, while offering a way off this damned island.
That’s if we can get there.
“They had better hurry,” Father Bailey said dourly, stricken by the news of his friend. “That’s the last cruise ship still docked.”
Mac stared across the plaza to the port entrance. A gateway blocked access to the massive dock. Two other cruise ships had already departed when the fireworks had started, sailing out to sea under that booming farewell. The last was a smaller liner from the Regent Seven Seas group—though small was a relative term. The ship still towered more than a dozen levels above the sea. Even from here, a band could be heard playing up top, preparing its passengers for the upcoming departure.
Moments ago, the ship’s passenger gangways had been pulled in. The only access point now was a crew gangplank and a lower loading dock where handcarts were still being rolled in, stacked high with crates to resupply the ship.
Mac and the others all kept watch—on the crowds, on the final preparations dockside, even on the sky as fiery blossoms lit the night.
Finally, a rumble of tiny wheels over cobblestones drew Mac’s attention behind him. Gray crossed through the packed plaza, dragging the case, while Seichan’s gaze swept the crowd. The pair hurried over to them.
“Are you ready?” Gray asked, his face both angry and determined.
He got confirmations all around.
“Then let’s go.” He glanced over their group. “Who’s got—”
“I do,” Mac said.
Gray nodded and led them toward the port entrance. It was minimally protected, just a wooden drop gate to stop traffic and a narrow sidewalk guarded by a gatehouse. Once halfway across the crowded plaza, Gray signaled Mac.
Time to get the herd moving.
He lit the fuse on the fistful of firecrackers in his hand. Earlier, he had bought three packages from a little fireworks stand at the edge of the plaza. He had unboxed them and twisted their cords into one big bundle. Once the fuse was sparking, he dropped the load to the pavement and kept going.
After four long strides, a loud popping erupted behind him, the firecrackers snapping and dancing on the cobbles.
Mac cupped his mouth and yelled. “He’s got a gun! Run!”
Father Bailey repeated the same in Italian.
Gray in Spanish.
Maria simply screamed, spinning around, clutching her shoulder.
As the firecrackers continued to blast away, the already tense crowd reacted immediately. They bolted away from the noise, spreading the panic. More cries rose as people were jostled or trampled. The crowd rushed the wooden gates, pouring around it. More fled past the guard station by the sidewalk, cramming their way through, bottlenecking for a moment, then surging across, determined to reach the stretch of open dock to get away from the shooter.
Someone at the barrier tried to quell the crowd with a bullhorn, issuing orders in crisp Italian, full of authority. Not only was he ignored, but it only served to ramp up the panic.
Mac and the others followed the flow, sticking together, elbowing their way forward. Once past the gates, they kept to the stream of people running alongside the docked cruise ship. When they reached the loading area, they slowed. The first wave of the panicked crowd had cleared a path, knocking over handcarts, toppling stacks of boxes, driving the laborers away.
Overhead, the fireworks show reached its crescendo, blasting missile after missile into the air, to a deafening climax. The dock’s planks shook with their reverberations. The sky blazed with fire.
As night turned into day, Gray searched for the right moment—then waved to their group. “Let’s move!”
They quickly pounded up the short wooden gangway and through an open hatch in the ship. A couple of dockworkers spotted them and yelled after them. But the pair were probably too addled by all the chaos to offer much protest.
Bailey called back calmly in Italian, exposing the Roman collar of his priesthood. Whatever he said—or maybe priests just had that much authority here in Italy—the workers didn’t pursue them, likely leaving it to their superiors on the upper decks to sort things out.
Their group hurried away before that sentiment changed. They followed signs, climbed stairs, and eventually ducked through a doorway.