Lost City

"This will do," Austin said, tying the banda

The gunfire again stopped. Emil's sharp-edged laughter echoed throughout the tu

"What is that rag, Austin?" he said. "I'm no bull to be taunted by your antics."

"I didn't have a white flag," Austin shouted down.

"A white flag? Don't tell me you and your friend are prepared to come to terms with your fate?"

Austin cocked his ear, listening. He thought he heard a distant whispering, like the surf along the shore. But his ears were still ringing from the gunfire and he couldn't be sure.

"You misunderstood, Fauchard. I'm not ready to surrender."

"Then why are you waving that ridiculous piece of cloth?"

"I wanted to say good-bye before the freight train comes through."

"Have you gone mad, Austin?"

The whispering had become a low rumble.

Emil gave the order to start firing again.

Bullets whined and splattered around their heads in a nonstop crescendo. The concentrated gunfire was punching through the walls. In another few minutes, the booth would beAno more protection than the slice of Swiss cheese that it was starting to resemble.

Then the firing stopped abruptly.

The gunmen had felt the vibration. With the guns silent, they, too, had picked up the rumble of distant thunder.

Austin got to his feet and stepped out onto the catwalk. Emil had a puzzled look on his face. He looked up, saw Austin staring down at him and knew he had been bested.

"You've won for now, Austin," he yelled up, shaking his fist in defiance, "but you haven't heard the last from the Fauchards."

Austin gri

Emil shouted one last oath, and then he turned and he and his gang of thugs ran for their lives. Sebastian lurched after the others.

It was too late.

Seconds later, the wave hit Fauchard and his men with an explosion of blue water that swept them away like a giant broom. Heads bobbed for an instant in the cold foam, arms flailed ineffectually. Sebastian's face was pale against the dark water. Then he was gone along with Emil and his men.

Unlike their previous experience, when Austin and Zavala stayed high and dry inside the undamaged watertight booth, this time the cascading water flowed in through the broken windows, flooded the control room and tried to pull Austin and Zavala from their anchor. They hung on with every ounce of strength.

Just when their lungs were ready to burst, the main force of the wave spent itself and the water began to subside.

They stood on shaky legs and peered through the jagged-edged framework, which was all that was left of the window.

Zavala looked down on the river flowing under their feet, amazement on his dark features. "How did you know that high tide was coming?"

"I opened and closed a few sluice gates in another part of the system and diverted water this way."

Zavala gri

"My guess is that they're feeling a bit flushed by now," Austin said. Miraculously, the control monitor was in a secure housing and had escaped damage. Austin punched in some keyboard commands. The water level dropped until the rushing river became a narrow stream. Both men were shivering in their wet clothes by then. They had to get out of the tu

They plodded through the tu

they had no alternative. Just when they were about to give up all hope, they saw an object ahead.

Zavala yelled with joy. "Fifi!"

The Citroen had been picked up by the wave and deposited sideways in the tu

Zavala fiddled around in the hood and told Austin to try it again.

This time the motor started.

Zavala got in and said, "Loose battery cable."

It took a half hour of driving through the tu

"What next?" Zavala said.

Austin didn't even have to think about it. "Chateau Fauchard."

WHEN SKYE WAS a girl her father had taken her to the Cathedrale de Notre Dame and she had seen her first gargoyle. The grotesque face leering down from the ramparts looked like a monster from her worst nightmares. She had calmed down after her father explained that gargoyles were nothing more than rain spouts Skye had wondered why such talented sculptors could not have fashioned things of beauty, but she had put aside her childhood fears. Now, as she blinked her eyes open, the gargoyle of her restless dreams was back. Even worse, it was talking to her.

"Welcome back, mademoiselle," said the cruel mouth only inches away. "We have missed you."

The face belonged to Marcel, the bullet-headed man in charge of the private army at Chateau Fauchard. He spoke again.

"I'll be back in fifteen minutes," he said. "Do not keep me waiting."

She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea swept through her body. When she looked again, he was gone.

Skye glanced around and saw that she was in the chamber where she'd changed into the cat costume for the Fauchard masquerade ball. She recalled walking up to her apartment building. She dug deeper into her recollection and remembered the lost American couple, the bee sting on her backside and the slide into oblivion.

Dear God, she had been fydnapped.

She sat up in the bed and swung her legs over the side. There was a brassy taste in her mouth, probably the remnant of the chemical that had been injected into her veins to render her unconscious. She took a deep breath and stood up. The room began to swirl around her. She staggered into the bathroom and vomited into the sink.

Skye gazed at her reflection, hardly recognizing the face in the mirror. Her face was ghostly pale, her hair lank and straggly. She felt better after she had rinsed her mouth and splashed cold water on her face. She brushed her hair back with her fingers and patted the wrinkles out of her clothes as best she could.

She was ready a few minutes later when Marcel opened the door without knocking and beckoned for her to follow. They walked down the long carpeted corridors, eventually passing through the gauntlet of faces lining the walls of the portrait gallery. She looked for the painting of Jules Fauchard, but it was gone, leaving only blank wall in its place. Then they were standing outside Madame Fauchard's office.

Marcel gave Skye an odd smile, and then he knocked gently and opened the door. He pushed Skye inside. Skye saw that she was not alone. A blond woman with her back to Skye sat at Madame Fauchard's desk, staring out the window. She swiveled around in the chair at the click of the door shutting and stared at Skye.

The woman was in her forties, with creamy skin set off by probing gray eyes. She parted her red, almost voluptuous lips. "Good afternoon, mademoiselle. We've awaited your return. You left in such a spectacular fashion."