DECEMBER 3, 8:07 P.M.
JEBAL EITTEEN
PAINTER CHECKED his watch. One more minute.
He lay flat on his belly at the base of a fig tree, sheltered behind an acacia bush. Rain pitter-pattered against the canopy of leaves overhead. He had positioned himself far to the right of the road, carefully picking his way up a nearly sheer cliff face to reach this spot. He had a clear view of the parking lot.
With the night-vision goggles fixed to his face, the guards were easy to spot in the darkness, all in their blue windbreakers, now with hoods pulled up against the rain. Most were posted near the road leading here, but a few others slowly circled wider. It had taken precious minutes to creep into position, moving forward as the guards shifted past.
Painter took slow steady breaths, preparing himself. It was a thirty-yard dash to the nearest SUV. He fixed the plan, visualizing it, refining it. Once things began to roll, he would have no time to think, only react.
He glanced at his watch. Time was up.
He slowly raised himself into a crouched position, staying small, compact. He strained to listen, tuning out the rain. Nothing. He glanced at his watch again. Ten minutes had passed. Where were—
Then he heard it. A song, being sung by a handful of voices, rose from the valley behind him. He glanced over a shoulder. Through his night-vision lenses, the world was cast in shades of green, but sharp shards of brilliance bloomed below. Torches and flashlights. He watched the Bait Kathir begin a slow, steady climb up the road, singing as they proceeded.
Painter swung his attention back to the tomb complex.
The guards had noted the stirring of the tribesmen and had slowly shifted positions to concentrate on the road. Two men fled into the brush flanking the road and continued down the switchback.
With the forces pulled away from the parked SUVs, Painter made his move. He swept from his hiding place, staying low, and raced across the thirty yards to the nearest truck. He held his breath as he ran, avoiding the noisy splash of puddles. No alarm was raised.
Reaching the first SUV, he ducked behind it while pulling open the oiled zipper of his ditty bag. He removed the prewired C4 packages, each wrapped in cellophane, and tucked one into the truck’s wheel well, near the gas tank.
Painter silently thanked Cassandra for the gift of the explosives. It was only fitting that he return what was hers.
Staying low, he hurried forward to the next SUV and planted the second package. He left the third truck untouched, only checked to make sure the keys had been left in the ignition. Such a precaution was a common practice in an ops situation. When the shit hit the fan, you didn’t want to have to hunt down the driver with the keys.
Satisfied, he checked the lot. The guards remained focused on the approaching band of camels and men.
Swinging around, he darted toward the low wall that enclosed the tomb complex. He kept the line of SUVs between him and the guards. Behind, he heard shouts rising from below…in Arabic…jovial arguing. The singing had ceased. A pair of camels bleated forlornly, accompanied by the jingle of harness bells. The bedouin were halfway up the hill.
He had to hurry.
Painter vaulted the low wall. It was only four feet high. He had chosen an isolated spot, behind the mosque. He landed with more of a thud than he intended, but the rain covered the noise with a grumble of thunder.
He paused. Light flowed down either side of the mosque, coming from the courtyard in front of the building. It shone blindingly bright through his night-vision goggles. He heard mumbled voices, but the rain drummed away any distinction. He had no clue how many were out there.
Crouching to keep his silhouette below the wall, he fled along the back of the mosque, keeping to the shadows. He came to a back door, checked the knob. Locked. He could force the door, but it would make too much noise. He continued on, looking for a window or another way inside. He would be too exposed if he attempted to reach the central courtyard directly from either side of the building. There was no shelter and too much light. He needed a way through the mosque, a way to get closer. To abduct Safia from under Cassandra’s nose, he would need to be close to the action.
He reached the far corner of the mosque. Still no windows. Who built a place with no windows in back? He stood in a small weedy vegetable garden. Two date palms guarded over it.
Painter stared up. One of the palms grew close to the mosque’s wall, shadowing the roof’s edge. The mosque’s roof was flat. If he could scale the palm…reach the roof…
He stared at the clumps of dates hanging beneath the fronds.
It would not be an easy climb, but he’d have to risk it.
With a deep breath, he jumped as high as he could, straddling his arms around the trunk, hitching his feet up on it. The bark offered no purchase. He promptly slid down, landing on his backside in the mud.
As he began to push back up, he spotted two things, both hidden behind a hedgerow flanking the back wall: an aluminum ladder…and a pale hand.
Painter tensed.
The hand did not move.
He crawled forward, parting the bushes. A ladder leaned against the back wall, along with a pair of clipping shears. Of course, there had to be a way to reach those hanging dates. He should have known to search for a ladder.
He moved to the figure stretched out on the ground.
It was an older Arab man, in a dishdasha robe embroidered with gold thread. He was most likely a member of the tomb’s staff, a caretaker of some sort. He lay in the dirt, unmoving. Painter pressed fingers to the man’s throat. He was still warm. A slow pulse beat under Painter’s fingers. Alive. Unconscious.
Painter straightened. Had Cassandra darted the man, as she had done to Clay? But why drag him back here and hide him? It made no sense, but he had no time to ponder the mystery.
He hauled out the ladder, checked to make sure he was still hidden from the guards, and propped it against the back wall of the mosque. The ladder reached just shy of the roofline.
Good enough.
He quickly scaled the rungs. As he climbed, he glanced over his shoulder. He saw that the guards had moved to block the road completely. Downslope, he spotted the lights and torches of the Bait Kathir clan as they clustered a short way down. They had stopped and begun to make camp. He heard occasional snatches of loud voices, all in Arabic, as the men kept up the pretext of nomadic travelers bunking down for the night.
Reaching the top of the ladder, Painter grabbed the edge of the roof and hauled himself up, hooking a leg over the lip and rolling out of sight.
Staying low, he hurried across the roof, aiming for the minaret near the front. Just a few feet above the roofline, an open balcony encircled the tower, where the call to prayer would be sung for the local worshipers. It was easy to grab the railing and vault over the balustrade.
Painter crouched and edged around the balcony. He had a bird’s-eye view of the courtyard. It was too bright for his night-vision gear, so he pushed the goggles up and studied the layout.
Across the way, the small set of ruins blazed with light.
A flashlight lay abandoned near the entrance to the neighboring tomb. Its shine illuminated a metal pole planted in the ground. It appeared to be surmounted by some sculpture, a bust by the looks of it.
Voices rose from below…coming from the squat tomb. Its door to the courtyard lay open. Lights glowed from inside.
He heard a familiar voice. “Show us on the map.”
It was Cassandra. Painter’s gut clenched, fiery and determined.
Then Safia answered her. “It makes no sense. It could be anywhere.”
Painter crouched lower. Thank God she was still alive. A surge of relief and renewed concern swept through him. How many people were with her? He spent a few minutes studying the shadows across the frosted windows. It was hard to say, but it didn’t appear that more than four were in the room. He watched the courtyard for additional guards. It remained quiet. Everyone seemed to be in the one building, out of the rain.
If he moved quickly…
As he began to swing away, a figure stepped out of the tomb doorway, a tall muscular man dressed in black. Painter froze, afraid of being spotted.
The man tucked the brim of a ball cap farther over his eyes and shoved into the rain. He crossed and knelt beside the pole.
Painter spied as the man reached to the bottom of the pole and ran his fingers slowly up its length. What the hell was he doing? Reaching the top of the shaft, the man stood and hurried back to the tomb, shaking out his ball cap.
“Sixty-nine,” he said as he disappeared inside.
“Are you sure?” Cassandra again.
“Yes, I’m bloody damned sure.”
Painter dared wait no longer. He ducked through the archway to reach the tower stairs that spiraled down into the mosque. He flipped his night-vision goggles in place and inspected the dark staircase.
It seemed quiet.
He pulled free his pistol and thumbed off the safety.
Wary of guards, he proceeded with one shoulder near the wall, gun pointed forward. He continued down the short spiral, sweeping the mosque’s prayer room as he descended. Highlighted in green, the room was empty, prayer mats stacked in back. He stepped out and moved toward the entryway in front.
The outer doors were open. He pushed the goggles back up and sidled to the entrance. He crouched to one side. A covered porch spread along the front. Directly ahead, three steps led down to the courtyard. To either side, a short stucco wall framed the porch, topped by arched openings.
Painter waited and checked the immediate area.
The courtyard remained empty. Voices murmured across the way.
If he dashed across to the tomb, hid outside the doorway…
Painter calculated in his head, unblinking. For this to work, speed was essential. He straightened, pistol held steady.
A slight noise froze him in place. It came from behind.
An electric thrill of terror lanced through him.
He wasn’t alone.
He swept around in a crouch, pistol pointing into the depths of the mosque. Out of the gloom, a pair of dark shadows stalked toward him, eyes glowing in the reflected light of the courtyard. Feral and hungry.
Leopards.
As silent as the night, the two cats closed in on him.
8:18 P.M.
SHOW ME on the map,” Cassandra said.
The curator knelt on the floor of the tomb. She had spread out the same map as before. A straight blue line led from the first tomb on the coast to this one in the mountains. Now a second line, this one in red, branched away, heading northeast, crossing out of the mountains and into a great blank expanse of the desert, the Rub‘ al-Khali, the vast Empty Quarter of Arabia.
Safia shook her head, running a finger along the line out into the sands. “It makes no sense. It could be anywhere.”
Cassandra stared down at the map for several breaths. They were looking for a lost city in the desert. It had to be somewhere along that line, but where? The line crossed through the center of the vast expanse. It could be anywhere.
“We’re still missing something,” Safia said, leaning back on her heels. She rubbed her temples.
Kane’s radio buzzed, interrupting them. He spoke into his throat mike. “How many?” A long pause. “Okay, just keep a bloody close eye on them. Keep them away. Let me know if anything changes.”
Cassandra eyed him as he finished.
He shrugged. “Those sand rats we saw on the side of the road have returned. They’re setting up camp where we spotted them earlier.”
Cassandra noted the concern in Safia’s face. The woman feared for her countrymen’s safety. Good. “Order your men to shoot anyone who gets close.”
Safia tensed at her words.
Cassandra pointed to the map. “The sooner we solve this mystery, the sooner we’re out of here.” That should light a fire under the curator.
Safia stared sullenly at the map. “There must be some distance marker built into the artifact. Something we missed. A way to determine how far down this red line we must travel.”
Safia closed her eyes, rocking a bit. Then she suddenly stopped.
“What?” Cassandra asked.
“The spear,” she said, glancing to the door. “I noticed striations along its shaft, marks scored into it. I thought them merely decoration. But back in the ancient past, measurements were often recorded as notches on a stick.”
“So you think the number of marks could signify a distance?”
Safia nodded and began to stand. “I have to count them.”
Cassandra distrusted the woman. It would be easy to lie and lead them astray. She needed accuracy. “Kane, go out and count the number of marks.”
He grimaced but obeyed, slapping on his sodden ball cap.
After he left, Cassandra crouched by the map. “This has to be the final location. First the coast, then the mountain, now the desert.”
Safia shrugged. “You’re probably right. The number three is significant to ancient faiths. Whether it’s the trinity of the Christian God—the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit—or the ancient celestial trinity: the moon, the sun, and the morning star.”
Kane appeared in the doorway, shaking rain from his cap. “Sixty-nine.”
“Are you sure?”
He scowled at her. “Yes, I’m bloody damned sure.”
“Sixty-nine,” Safia said. “That has to be right.”
“Why?” Cassandra asked, turning her attention back to the curator as she bent over the map.
“Six and nine,” Safia explained to the map. “Multiples of three. Just like we were talking about. Sequential, too. A very magical number.”
“And here I always thought ‘sixty-nine’ meant something else,” Kane said.
Seemingly deaf to the man, Safia continued to work, measuring with a protractor and tapping a calculator. Cassandra watched over her.
“This is sixty-nine miles along the red line.” Safia circled the spot. “It ends up here in the desert.”
Cassandra knelt down, took the protractor, and rechecked her measurements. She stared at the red circle, noting the longitude and latitude in her head. “So this may be the location of the lost city?”
Safia nodded. She continued to stare at the map. “As best I can tell.”
Cassandra’s brow crinkled, sensing the woman was keeping something from her. She could almost see the woman calculating something in her head.
She grabbed Safia’s wrist. “What are you holding back—”
A shot rang out nearby, clipping away any further words.
It could be a misfire. It could be one of the bedouin shooting off his rifle. But Cassandra knew better. She swung around. “Painter…”
8:32 P.M.
PAINTER’S FIRST shot went wild as he fell backward out the mosque’s doorway and onto the porch. A corner of a wall blasted away in a shower of plaster. Inside, the leopards parted, vanishing into the shadows of the mosque.
Painter flung himself to the side, sheltering behind the half wall of the porch. Stupid. He shouldn’t have shot. He had reacted out of instinct, self-preservation. That wasn’t like him. But some terror beyond the leopards had gripped him, as if something had jangled the deepest root of his brain.
And now he had given away the element of surprise.
“Painter!” The shout came from the direction of the tomb.
It was Cassandra.
Painter dared not move. Leopards prowled on the inside, Cassandra on the outside. The lady or the tiger? In this case, both meant death.
“I know you came for the woman!” Cassandra shouted into the rain. A rumble of thunder punctuated her words.
Painter remained quiet. Cassandra couldn’t know for sure in which direction his gunshot had come from. Sound traveled oddly among these mountainous hills. He imagined her hiding in the tomb, calling out from the doorway. She dared not move into the open. She knew he was armed, but she didn’t know where he was.
How could he use that to his advantage?
“If you don’t show yourself—arms up, hands empty—in the next ten seconds, I’m going to shoot the prisoner.”
He had to think quickly. To reveal himself now would only mean his death, along with Safia’s.
“I knew you’d come, Crowe! Did you really think that I’d believe you were heading to the border of Yemen?”
Painter flinched. He had sent out the e-mail only hours ago, planted with false information, delivered through a secure server to his boss. It had been a test balloon. As he feared, word had reached Cassandra intact. A sense of despair settled over him. That could only mean one thing. The betrayal of Sigma started at the very top.
Sean McKnight…his own boss…
Was that why Sean had paired him with Cassandra to begin with?
It seemed impossible.
Painter closed his eyes and took a deep breath, sensing his isolation.
He was now alone out here, cut off. He had no one to contact, no one to trust. Oddly, this thought only helped energize him. He felt a giddy sense of freedom. He had to rely on himself and his immediate resources.
That would have to be enough.
Painter reached into his ditty bag and palmed the radio transmitter.
Thunder growled, throatier, guttural. Rain fell harder.
“Five seconds, Crowe.”
All the time in the world…
He stabbed the transmitter’s button and rolled toward the stairs.
8:34 P.M.
FROM SEVENTY yards away, Omaha jolted as the twin explosions rocketed the two SUVs into the air, as bright as lightning strikes. The dark night went brilliant. The concussion squeezed his ears, thundered in his rib cage.
It was Painter’s signal. He had secured Safia.
A moment ago, Omaha had heard a single gunshot, terrifying him. Now flames and debris rained down across the parking lot. Men lay sprawled in the dirt. Two were on fire, bathed in burning gasoline.
It was time to move.
“Now!” Omaha shouted, but his yell sounded tinny in his own ears.
Still, rifle fire spat out of the forest to either side of Omaha. Additionally, a few flashes of muzzle fire sparked from a high shoulder that overlooked the parking lot, coming from a pair of Bait Kathir snipers.
Up at the tomb, two guards had been picking themselves off the ground. They suddenly jerked, bodies thrown backward. Shot.
Other guards sought cover, reacting with well-honed skill. These were no amateurs. They retreated over the compound walls, seeking fast cover.
Omaha lifted his binoculars.
Atop the hill’s plateau, the two burning SUVs lit the parking lot. The third vehicle had been shoved a few feet by the concussion. Pools of flaming gasoline dotted the dirt and hood, steaming in the rain. Painter was supposed to use the vehicle as an escape vehicle. He should’ve been there by now.
Where was he? What was he waiting for?
An ululating cry rose to Omaha’s right. Bells jangled. A dozen camels scattered uphill. Amid them ran more of the Bait Kathir. Cover fire rained from out of the tree line.
A few shots now answered. A camel bellowed, dropping to one knee, skidding in the dirt. An explosion ripped into the hillside off to Omaha’s left. A flash of fire and torn tree limbs, smoking leaves, and dirt flumed upward.
A grenade.
And then a new sound.
It came from the deep gorge to the right.
Shit…
Five small helicopters rose into view, as swift as gnats and as tiny. One-man vehicles. Just blades, engine, and pilot. They looked like flying sleds. Spotlights swept the grounds, peppering the area with automatic gunfire.
Camels and men fled in all directions.
Omaha clenched a fist. The bitch had been expecting them. She’d had a backup force lying in wait, an ambush. How had she known?
Coral and Barak appeared at Omaha’s elbow. “Painter’s going to need help,” Coral hissed. “He can’t reach the escape vehicle now. It’s too exposed.”
Omaha glanced up to the lot, now a bloodbath of bodies and camels. From the forest, shots fired up at the helicopters, driving them higher. But they continued a zigzagging pattern over the compound, guarding it tightly.
The entire plan had fallen to shit.
But Safia was up there. Omaha was not leaving her again.
Coral freed her pistol. “I’m going in.”
Omaha grabbed her arm. Her muscles were cords of steel. He held tight, brooking no argument. “This time, we’re all going in.”
8:35 P.M.
KARA STARED down at the Kalashnikov rifle on her lap. Fingers twitching uncontrollably on the stock, she found it hard to concentrate. Her eyes felt too large for her head, threatening a migraine, while nausea lapped at her belly.
She dreamed of a little orange pill.
To her side, Clay fought to get the engine started. He cranked it again, but it failed to turn over. Danny sat in the backseat with the lone pistol.
The explosion had lit up the northern hills like a rising sun. It was Painter’s signal. Across the intervening two valleys, echoing spatters of gunfire sounded like fireworks.
“Piece of shit!” Clay swore, and struck his hand on the steering wheel.
“You’ve flooded it,” Danny said sourly from the back.
Kara stared out the passenger window. A ruddy glow persisted to the north. It had started. If all went well, the others would be racing downhill in one of the kidnappers’ SUVs. The remainder of the party would scatter into the hills. The Bait Kathir knew many paths through the forested mountains.
But something felt wrong.
Maybe it was just the edgy frazzle in Kara’s head. It grew more acute with each breath. Pain lanced behind her eyes. Even the light of the dashboard stabbed painfully bright.
“You’re going to wear the battery down,” Danny warned as Clay engaged the engine again. “Let it rest. Five minutes at least.”
A buzzing filled Kara’s skull, as if her body were an antenna, tuning in on static. She had to move. She could no longer sit still. She pulled open the latch and half fell out the door, bobbling her rifle.
“What are you doing?” Clay called to her, frightened.
She didn’t answer. She stepped into the road. The van had been pulled under the branches of a tamarind tree. She crossed out into the open and wandered a short distance up the road, out of sight of the van.
Gunfire continued to echo.
Kara ignored it, her attention focused closer at hand.
An old woman stood in the roadway, facing Kara, as if waiting for her. She was dressed in a long desert cloak, her face hidden behind a black veil. In her bony fingers, she carried a staff of gnarled wood, worn smooth and shiny.
Kara’s head throbbed. Then the static in her head finally tuned to a proper station. Pain and nausea drained from her. She felt momentarily weightless, unburdened.
The woman merely stared.
Numbness filled the empty spaces inside her. She didn’t fight it. The rifle dropped from Kara’s limp fingers.
“She will need you,” the woman finally said, turning away.
Kara followed after the stranger, moving as if in a dream.
Back by the tamarind tree, she heard the van’s engine crank and fail.
Kara continued walking, leaving the road behind and heading down into the forested valley. Kara did not resist, even if she had been able to.
She knew who needed her.
8:36 P.M.
SAFIA HAD been forced to her knees, hands on top of her head. Cassandra crouched behind her, a pistol pressed at the base of her skull, another pointed toward the entrance. They both faced the doorway, poised tensely on the far side of the chamber. The grave mound stood between them and the exit.
With the explosion, Cassandra had extinguished the lights and sent Kane out a back window. To circle around. To hunt down Painter.
Safia clenched her fingers together. Could it be true? Could Painter still be alive, be somewhere out there? If that was so, had the others survived? Tears welled. No matter what, she was not alone. Painter had to be out there.
Gunfire still rattled from beyond the compound.
Fires cast the night in crimson and shadow.
She heard the beat of helicopters, spatters of automatic fire.
“Just let us go,” Safia pleaded. “You have Ubar’s location.”
Cassandra remained silent in the dark, her full attention on the door and windows. Safia didn’t know if she had even heard her plea.
From beyond the door, a shuffling sound reached them.
Someone was coming. Painter or Kane?
Across the doorway, a large shadow passed, lit momentarily by the lone flashlight still out in the courtyard.
A camel.
It was a surreal sight as it sauntered past, soaked by the rain. In its wake, a woman stood framed in the doorway, naked. She seemed to shimmer in the crimson glow of the nearby fires.
“You!” Cassandra gasped.
In one hand, the stranger carried the silver case containing the iron heart. It had been resting just outside the door.
“No you don’t, bitch!” Cassandra fired her pistol, two rounds, deafeningly close to Safia’s left ear.
Crying out from the painful sound of the blast, Safia fell forward onto one of the prayer rugs. She rolled a step away, toward the grave mound.
Cassandra followed, still firing at the door.
Safia craned up, her head ringing. The doorway was empty again. She glanced sidelong to Cassandra, who’d assumed a shooter’s stance, both pistols pointed toward the open door.
Safia saw her chance. She grabbed the edge of the prayer rug, which she now shared with Cassandra. In a swift motion, she lunged up, dragging the rug with her.
Caught by surprise, Cassandra toppled, her feet going out from under her.
A pistol fired.
Plaster shattered from the ceiling.
As Cassandra fell backward, Safia dove over the grave mound and rolled toward the door. At the entrance, she leaped headlong over the threshold.
Another blast.
In midair, Safia felt a kick in her shoulder, shoving her around. She hit the ground and skidded in the mud. Her shoulder burned. Shot. Panicked, reacting on pure instinct, she rolled to the side, away from the doorway.
Rain washed over her.
She scrambled around the corner, pushing through a hedgerow to enter the narrow alley between the tomb and the ruins of the prayer room.
As she reached cover, a hand from behind reached out of the darkness and clamped over her mouth hard, bruising her lips.
8:39 P.M.
PAINTER HELD tight to Safia, clinging to her. “Stay quiet,” he whispered in her ear, leaning against the wall of the ruins.
She quaked in his grip.
He had been hiding here for the past few minutes, watching the courtyard, attempting to ascertain some way to draw Cassandra out. But his ex-partner seemed entrenched, patient, letting her team do the work for her while she guarded the prize. Spotlights from the hovering helicopters crisscrossed the yard, keeping him pinned down. Again Cassandra had outwitted him, hiding an aerial force, probably sent here in advance.
All seemed hopeless.
Then a moment ago, he had watched a camel stroll by through the rain, seemingly unconcerned by the gunfire, moving with steady determination to pass his hiding place and disappear in front of the tomb. Next, a spatter of shots and Safia came tumbling out.
“We have to reach the back wall of the complex,” he whispered, motioning down the alleyway. There was too much gunfire coming from out front. They’d have to take their chances on the steep slopes out back, try to reach cover. He released his grip on her, but she still clung to him.
“Keep behind me,” he urged.
Twisting around, Painter led the way in a low crouch, heading back toward the rear of the complex. The shadows lay thicker there. He kept a keen watch through his night-vision glasses, wary and tense. Pistol pointed forward. Nothing moved. The world was defined in shades of green. If they could reach the far wall that encircled the complex…
Taking another step, he saw the alleyway bloom with light, blindingly bright through the goggles, burning the back of his eye sockets. He tore away the scopes.
“Don’t move.”
Painter froze. A man lay flat atop the wall of the ruins. He held a flashlight in one hand, a pistol in the other, both aimed at Painter.
“Don’t even twitch,” the man warned.
“Kane,” Safia moaned behind him.
Painter cursed silently. The man had been lying in wait atop the wall, spying from on high, waiting until they had moved into his line of sight.
“Drop your weapon.”
Painter had no choice. If he refused, he’d be shot where he stood. He let the pistol fall from his fingers.
A new voice called sharply from behind him, coming from the entrance to the alleyway. Cassandra. “Just shoot him.”
8:40 P.M.
OMAHA CROUCHED beside Coral as she finished checking the body on the ground. Barak covered them with his rifle. They were hidden at the edge of the parking lot, awaiting a chance to make a run across the open space.
Clutching his Desert Eagle, Omaha fought to keep his heart from hammering out of his chest. He seemed incapable of getting enough oxygen. A minute ago, he had heard pistol blasts from within the complex.
Safia…
Ahead, the parking lot was still lit by flaming pools of gasoline. A pair of helicopters swept by overhead, searchlights crisscrossing in a deadly pattern. Both sides had settled into a standoff. Only occasional spates of gunfire shattered the stillness.
“Let’s go,” Coral said, standing up, still shadowed by the limbs of the wild fig tree. Her eyes were on the skies. She watched a second pair of helicopters swoop overhead. “Be ready to run.”
Omaha frowned—then saw the grenade resting in her palm, taken from the dead guard at her feet.
She pulled the pin and stepped out into the open, her full attention on the skies. She pulled her arm back, leaning like a pitcher onto one leg. She held that stance for a breath.
“What are you doing?” Omaha asked.
“Physics,” she answered. “Vector analysis, timing, angle of ascent.” She threw the grenade with a wicked fling of her entire body.
Omaha immediately lost sight of it in the darkness.
“Run!” Coral dove ahead, following the momentum of her toss.
Before Omaha could even move, the grenade exploded overhead in a brilliant flash, lighting up the underbelly of the one-man craft. Its spotlight swung wildly as the concussion hit it. Shrapnel ripped into the belly. A piece must have struck its fuel tank. The copter blew up in a fiery bloom.
“Run!” Coral called again, urging Omaha to move.
Barak was already on Coral’s heels.
Omaha ran. Debris rained down off to the right. A piece of rotor impacted the ground with a thunking twang. Then the flaming bulk smashed into the tree line, casting up backwash of fire and black smoke.
He continued his flight across the lot. The other helicopters had swung away, scattering like a flock of startled crows.
Ahead, Coral reached the lone SUV. She flew into the driver’s seat. Barak hauled open the back door, leaving the front passenger seat to Omaha.
As his fingers closed on the door, the truck’s engine roared to life. Omaha had barely gotten the door open when Coral shifted into gear and hit the accelerator. Omaha’s arm was wrenched. He had to run and leap inside.
Coral had no time for stragglers.
He fell into the seat as a rifle blast exploded.
Omaha ducked, but the shot was not from the enemy.
From the backseat, Barak had shot out the truck’s moonroof. He used an elbow to crack away the shattered safety glass, then shoved his body up through the opening along with his rifle. He immediately began firing as Coral fought the steering wheel, spinning tires in the mud.
The truck slipped as she made a sharp turn toward the open gate in the compound wall. Wheels mired. The SUV struggled to move.
Another helicopter hove into view, blades angled steeply. Automatic fire flashed from its nose, chattering and digging a trough toward their mud-bogged vehicle. It would slice them in half.
Coral grabbed the stick, shoved the SUV into reverse, and jammed the accelerator. The SUV found traction again, barreled backward as the guillotine of bullets sliced just inches in front of the bumper.
A second helicopter dove toward them.
Barak opened fire skyward. The copter’s searchlight shattered away. But it kept coming.
Still going in reverse, Coral spun the wheel. The car fishtailed in the mud. “Omaha, your left!”
While Barak was busy with the helicopter, one of the guards had decided to take advantage of his inattention. The man rose with his rifle on his shoulder. Omaha leaned back in his seat. The SUV swung to face the man. No choice, Omaha fired his Desert Eagle through the windshield. He squeezed two more shots. The safety glass held, but fractured into spiderwebs.
The guard ducked away.
The SUV caught traction in the fresh mud and sped across the lot, still in reverse. Craned around, Coral expertly maneuvered the vehicle, aiming for the gate to the compound, going in ass backward, pursued by the helicopters.
“Hold on!”
8:44 P.M.
PINNED IN the alley, Safia stood between Painter and Cassandra. Ahead, Kane pointed his gun. Everyone had frozen for half a breath as the helicopter exploded behind them.
“Shoot him,” Cassandra repeated, staying focused.
“No!” Safia attempted to step around Painter, to shield him. Every movement flamed her shoulder. Blood ran down her arm. “Kill him and I won’t help you! You’ll never discover the secret at Ubar!”
Painter held her back, protecting her from Kane.
Cassandra pushed through the hedge. “Kane, you have your order.”
Safia glanced between the two armed assailants. She spotted a shift of shadows behind the man. Something rose from a crouch, sharing the crest of the wall. Eyes shone a feral red.
Painter tensed beside her.
With a growled roar, the leopard pounced on Kane. His pistol fired. Safia felt the shot whistle past her ear and strike the dirt with a thud. Man and cat tumbled off the wall, into the prayer room beyond.
Painter ducked, grabbed Safia’s arm, and swung her behind him as he turned to face Cassandra. He had a second pistol in his free hand.
He fired.
Cassandra leaped backward, crashing through the bushes. The bullet missed, clipping the corner of the tomb. She ducked to the side.
Next door, screams arose—bloody and sharp. It was impossible to discern man from beast.
Bullets ricocheted off the sandstone walls as Cassandra returned fire, staying low around the corner, shooting through the bushes. Painter pushed Safia against the tomb’s wall, out of direct line of fire…at least for the moment.
“Make for the outer wall,” he urged, and shoved her down the alley.
“What about you?”
“She’ll follow us. The slope’s too exposed.” He intended to hold Cassandra at bay.
“But you—”
“Goddamnit, go!” He pushed her harder.
Safia stumbled down the alley. The sooner she reached safety, the sooner Painter could make his own escape. So she justified it in her head. But a part of her knew she was simply running for her own life. With each step, her shoulder throbbed, protesting her cowardly flight. Still, she kept going.
The exchange of gunfire continued.
In the neighboring ruins of the prayer room, all had gone deathly quiet, the fate of Kane unknown. More gunfire erupted from the parking lot. A helicopter flashed low overhead, whipping up the rain with its rotor wash.
Reaching the end of the alleyway, Safia lunged across the wet gardens toward the far wall. It was only four feet high, but with her wounded shoulder, she feared she’d never make it over. Blood soaked through the shirt.
From beneath a baobab tree, a camel appeared on the far side of the wall. It moved to meet her. It seemed to be the same camel that had sauntered past the tomb’s door earlier. In fact, it had the same companion: the naked woman.
Only now she rode atop the camel.
Safia didn’t know whether to trust the stranger or not, but if Cassandra shot at her, then the woman had to be on her side. The enemy of my enemy…
The stranger offered her arm as Safia reached the wall—then spoke. It wasn’t Arabic or English. Yet Safia understood it—not because she had studied the language, which she had, but because it seemed to translate through her skull on its own.
“Welcome, sister,” the stranger said in Aramaic, the dead language of this land. “Be at peace.”
Safia reached for the woman’s hand. Fingers gripped hers, hard and strong. She felt herself pulled up effortlessly. Pain lanced out, shooting down her wounded arm. A cry escaped her. Blackness closed her vision to a pinpoint.
“Peace,” the woman repeated softly.
Safia felt the word wash over her, through her, taking pain and the world with it. She slumped and slipped away.
8:47 P.M.
PAINTER PULLED the screen off the window beside his head. It was a flimsy affair. With his back pressed against the tomb’s wall, he fired his pistol twice, keeping Cassandra at bay.
He used his palm to slide open the window. Thankfully it was unlocked. He glanced down the alleyway and watched Safia vanish around the corner.
Dropping to a knee, Painter fired another shot, ejected his clip, grabbed another from his belt, and slammed it home.
Cassandra fired again. The slug struck the wall by his leg.
Where was another goddamn leopard when you needed one?
Painter returned a shot, then holstered his weapon. Without a second glance, he leaped up, boosted himself through the window, and fell in an undignified tumble into the tomb.
Inside, he rolled to his feet. His eyes discerned a central shrouded mound. He kept to the wall and circled the gravesite, his pistol back in his hand, aimed at the door. Crossing past the back window, he felt a wet breeze through it.
So that was how that bastard got the jump on me.
Painter glanced through the window, noting movement outside.
Beyond the wall, a camel turned away, heading down the far slope. A naked woman sat astride it, seemingly guiding it with her knees. In her arms, she cradled another woman. Limp, unmoving.
“Safia…”
The camel and its riders descended out of sight. A pair of leopards bounded from the dark gardens to the wall, then away, following the camel.
Before he could decide to pursue or not, Painter heard a scuff by the door. He dropped and turned. A shadow lay draped across the entry.
“This isn’t over, Crowe!” Cassandra called in to him.
Painter kept his pistol trained.
A new roar reached his ears. A truck. Barreling his way.
Shots fired. He recognized the retort of a Kalashnikov. Someone from his own group. Cassandra’s shadow vanished, sweeping out of sight, retreating.
Painter hurried to the door, keeping his weapon ready. He spotted a discarded map on the floor. He reached down and crumpled it in a fist.
Out in the courtyard, one of the Mitsubishi trucks bounced through the gardens, digging ragged furrows. A figure protruded through the moonroof. A muzzle, pointed skyward, flashed. Barak.
Painter checked the rest of the yard. It appeared empty. Cassandra had retreated into hiding, outgunned for the brief moment. He stepped out of the tomb and waved the crumpled map.
Spotting him, the driver of the Mitsubishi swung sharply. Its back bumper aimed for him. He fell back inside to avoid getting hit. The SUV skidded to a stop, scraping paint off its side panels. Its backseat door landed abreast of the tomb.
He spotted Coral in the driver’s seat.
“Get in!” Barak called.
Painter glanced back to the tomb’s back window. Safia…
Whoever had taken her, they had at least been heading away, out of immediate harm. That would have to do for now.
Turning back, he popped the handle, dove inside, and slammed the door. “Go!” he called to the front.
Coral jostled the SUV into forward gear, and the truck sped away.
A pair of helicopters gave chase. Barak shot at them from his topside vantage. The SUV raced toward the open gate. Coral leaned forward to peer through the cracked windshield.
They swept out of the complex, bounced over a muddy rut, momentarily airborne, then jammed back down. Wheels spun, caught, and the SUV sped toward the road and the cover of the heavy forest.
From the front, Omaha stared back at him, eyes lost. “Where’s Safia?”
“Gone.” Painter shook his head, unblinking. “She’s gone.”