Black Order by James Rollins Read Free Book Online Page B

overpriced boutique neighboring his hotel. The turtleneck was corded merino wool, undyed and plain. And it itched. Still, it warded off the early morning chill. Though dawn was an hour past, the cold sun in a slate-gray sky offered no hope of a warmer day. Scratching at his collar, he headed toward the central train station.
    His hotel was located beside one of the city’s canals. Gaily painted row houses—a mix of shops, hostelries, and private homes—lined both sides of the waterway, reminding Gray of Amsterdam. Along the banks, a motley assortment of watercraft were moored tightly together: faded low-slung sloops, bright excursion boats, stately wooden schooners, gleaming white yachts. Gray passed one with a shake of his head. It looked like a floating wedding cake. Already at this early hour, a few camera-laden visitors wandered about or took up posts along the bridge rails, snapping away.
    Gray crossed the stone span and followed the canal’s bank for a half block, then stopped and leaned against the brick parapet that overlooked the waterway. His reflection in the still water appeared below, startling him a moment. Half-shadowed, his father’s face stared back up at him; coal black hair hung lankily over blue eyes, a crooked cleft divided the chin, the planes of his face were all sharp angles defining a stony Welsh heritage. He was definitely his father’s son. A fact Gray had been dwelling on a bit too much lately, and it was keeping him up at night.
    What else had he inherited from his father?
    A pair of black swans glided past his position, disturbing the waters, trembling apart the reflection. The swans headed for the bridge, their long necks sashaying, eyes searching with a nonchalant air.
    Gray followed their example. Straightening, he feigned interest in taking a photo of the line of boats while actually studying the bridge he had just crossed. He watched for any stragglers, any familiar faces, anyone suspicious. It was one advantage of residing near the canal. The bridges were perfect squeeze points to observe anyone trailing him. By crisscrossing the stone spans, he would force any tail into the open. He watched for a full minute until satisfied, memorizing faces and gaits, then continued on.
    On such a minor assignment as this one, the habit was more paranoid than necessary, but he carried a reminder around his neck of the importance of diligence: a chain from which hung a small silver dragon charm. It had been a gift from an operative playing on the other side of the fence. He carried it as a reminder. To be wary.
    As he set off again, a familiar vibration stirred in his pocket. He retrieved his cell phone and flipped it open. Who was calling him at this early hour?
    “Pierce here,” he answered.
    “Gray. Good, I reached you.”
    The familiar silkiness of the voice warmed through his morning chill. A smile softened his hard features. “Rachel…?” His steps faltered with concern. “Is something wrong?”
    Rachel Verona was the primary reason Gray had asked for this assignment, winging across the Atlantic to Denmark. While the current investigation could have been handled by any low-level research assistant at Sigma, the mission offered a perfect opportunity to reconnect with the beautiful dark-haired lieutenant of the Italian carabinieri. The two had met while working a case last year in Rome. Since then they had fabricated whatever excuse to meet. Still, it had proven difficult. Her position kept her landlocked in Europe, while his position with Sigma Force limited his time away from Washington. It had been almost eight weeks since they’d last been together.
    Much too long.
    Gray pictured their last rendezvous, at a villa in Venice, Rachel’s form silhouetted against the open balcony door, her skin aglow in the light of the setting sun. They’d spent that entire evening in bed. Memories washed through him: the cinnamon-and-chocolate taste of her lips, the rich perfume of her damp hair, the