Mercer followed, taking the opportunity to change out his magazine for a fresh one even though he’d only fired a half dozen rounds. Before the next bend in the corridor they came across an open door. The room beyond was simply furnished, a bed, a small table and a bureau. A smoky lamp gave the spartan room a funereal cast. A window shutter rattled in its frame. Below the stench of cordite and the growing smell of burning wood from the hallway, Mercer detected a familiar scent. Not a perfume, but something more subtle. He moved to the bed. The blankets were still warm. He drew them to his nose and inhaled. The familiar scent drove a current through his heart.
“Tisa was just here,” he said. “Those men must have been a rear guard to delay us.” He realized bitterly that had he not fired that first unsilenced shot, they might have taken her guards unaware.
“Dwarfs, this is Doc. We just missed the target. We’re still on the fifth floor, west side. Grumpy, cover the main staircase on one — everyone else move west and keep sharp.”
The fire from the spilled lamp was growing as the ancient carpets on the floors began to burn. Flame licked at the walls, burning through the dried timber as if they’d been doused with gasoline. The pitch that had been used to caulk the joints in the wooden ceiling ignited like fuses when the flame touched it. In a few minutes the fire would eat its way into the roof, and once it opened a hole to feed its growing appetite for oxygen, it would burst into a raging inferno. The air was already becoming unbreathable.
Sykes and Mercer slipped on the gas masks they carried. Mercer had to use the flashlight attached to his rifle to cut through the thickening smoke.
More gunfire erupted downstairs.
“Doc, this is Sleep. We just tagged three of them on the fourth, but I think the target has already slipped down to three.”
“Roger that. Bashful, you copy?”
“Affirmative. Hap and I are on our way.”
“Keep them from reaching the ground floor,” Mercer said. “If they escape underground there could be a thousand ways out of the tunnels and we’ll lose them.”
Behind them the fire finished off the ceiling and began attacking the roof supports. The tiles above were extremely heavy and it didn’t take much for the section of roof to start sagging. More wood splintered and a twenty-foot chunk of timber and ceramic tiles crashed to the floor, sending up a shower of sparks and dancing flames. The sudden rush of frigid air tore down the hallways like a hurricane, pushing a wall of fire ahead of it.
Mercer sensed the danger as soon as he heard the roof collapse. He pushed Sykes hard and began to run. The hallway grew painfully bright as the flames raced after them. The heat became unbearable.
Each twist and turn in the corridor slowed the men but not the fire. The walls and carpet were hundreds of years old, tinder dry, and seemed to explode at the slightest brush of flame. They’d be engulfed in seconds.
The stairwell was hidden in a small alcove and Mercer almost missed it as he ran. The sound of the raging fire made it impossible to speak so he tapped Sykes and stopped. He pointed back to the alcove. Sykes didn’t understand, and rather than try to gesture an explanation, Mercer dodged into the fire, ducking low and keeping his weapon ready. He felt along the wall and located the alcove. Sykes bumped into his back. Mercer found the stairs and was about to drop flat to see under the curtain of smoke when the floor lurched. Farther down the corridor a section let go, dropping down to the fourth floor and spreading the fire. Like tipping dominos, more of the floor collapsed, cascading into a growing chasm of flaming debris.
Without knowing what was below the violent swirl of smoke, Mercer threw himself down the stairs, twisting so he used his heavy pack to cushion the blow. The wood steps disintegrated when he impacted and a burst of machine-gun fire raked the spot he’d hit. He fell through the staircase, landing hard but managing to turn onto his belly. A pair of men wearing Western clothes stood a dozen paces away, momentarily confused by what had happened.
Sykes sent a barrage from above, missing completely but drawing their attention. Mercer cleared his weapon of splintered wood and fired. The first gunman dropped, the second remaining on his feet as Mercer pumped more rounds into him. He finally fell.
“Clear,” he shouted and slowly got to his feet.
Sykes had to jump from what little remained of the fifth-floor landing. He hit the ground and rolled. The air here was clearer and both men stripped off the restrictive gas masks.
“Which way?” Sykes asked.
“Looks like they were protecting the hall to the right.”
“Let’s go.”
“Dopey, it’s Doc. We’re on four now. Watch yourself. The fifth is burning and looks like the fire’s spreading.”
“Roger, Doc. It’s already eaten through a few spots.”
“Grumpy, what’s happening on one?”
“Quiet, sir. A couple of old monks came down the main stairs five minutes ago. They didn’t see me and I let them leave the monastery through a side door.”
“Stay there. We’re working our way down. Bash, you seen anything on the second floor?”
“Negative, Doc, but that don’t mean much. There must be fifty staircases here. The target group could have gone through when Hap and I were checking another area.”
“I know,” Doc acknowledged. “Do your best.”
He and Mercer exchanged a worried look and took off at a dead sprint, smoke pouring off their uniforms like vaporous cloaks. Above them the fire raged unchecked.
This floor was much more ornate than the one above. The carpets were thicker, the gilt more plentiful, the rooms better furnished. In one Mercer spied a collection of delicate vases near an open window. They were so thin that he could see the weak orange glow from the upstairs fire through them. He could only guess at their value. Another room was papered in incredible examples of calligraphy and ink and brush paintings.
Tisa’s Order sat on a priceless horde of Chinese art, perhaps the greatest outside government control. The entire structure was a living museum and in an hour or two the centuries-old building, filled with untold treasures, would be nothing but a smoking ruin.
“Doc?” It was Grumpy, whispering so softly that Mercer had to press the speaker deeper into his ear.
“Go, Grump.”
“I’ve got the target. They’re about fifty yards away, crossing the main foyer.”
“How many with her?”
“Twelve to fifteen. Tell Snow his Elvis look-alike has her in a hammerlock.”
Mercer picked up his pace, shedding his heavy pack as he ran. He had enough ammo in the pouches attached to his harness to see this through. Sykes struggled to keep up. He ran blindly down the first staircase he came across. At the landing, a group of monks clustered fearfully near a full-sized statue of Buddha. The reclining figure was covered in gold, and the Enlightened One’s half-closed eyes were fathomless blue cabochon sapphires. It appeared the monks were trying to find a way to save the statue. Mercer was sure they’d debate the rescue until the fire killed them where they stood. He fired a burst from his M-4 into the ceiling above the men and they scattered like pigeons.
Unbelievably, the third floor was more opulent than the fourth. What Mercer didn’t know was that the monastery was laid out so novitiates lived in splendor when they joined the Order, and only as they learned the mysteries and mastered their own desires would they move up the building, shedding luxuries and amenities as they progressed. Only after decades of service would they be allowed to occupy the stark topmost floor. It was the reverse of how the rest of the world worked, where those gaining success could accumulate and enjoy tangible fruits of their labor.