From the doorway, Kara appeared, carrying a girl in her arms. Others followed. Barak helped an old woman, followed by two others, supporting each other. Clay and Danny held children’s hands, one on each side. Not a whimper from the lot of them. Not even Clay.
“Follow me,” Painter said, and set off.
He kept his rifle shouldered but held a pistol in one hand.
As he rounded the corner of their shelter, a barrage of gunfire sounded from the ruins. Through the gloom, a floodlight flared. The second helicopter.
“Oh, God…” Kara said behind him, knowing what the gunfire meant.
Safia and Omaha had been found.
11:12 A.M.
R UN!” OMAHA screamed as they ran across the floor of the sinkhole, but his words never reached his own ears. The rattle of guns was deafening. He pushed Safia ahead of him. They raced, blinded by the swirling sand, chased by a twin line of bullets chewing across the ground.
Directly ahead rose the western cliff of the sinkhole, shadowed from above by the citadel’s ruins. The wall was lightly scalloped, coved in. If they could get under the lip of rock, out of direct line of fire, they’d have some shelter.
Safia ran an arm’s length ahead of him, slightly encumbered by her sling, loping, the stiff winds tangling her cloak about her feet. Sand blinded. They hadn’t even had time to pull their goggles in place.
Moments ago, they had decided that the helicopter was the lesser of two evils. The powder keg building in the trilith chamber meant certain death. So they took their chances on the run.
The chatter of guns grew louder as the helicopter swept behind them.
The only reason they had survived this long was the sandstorm. The pilot fought to keep his craft trimmed in the winds. It buffeted and fluttered, a hummingbird in a gale, throwing off the pilot’s aim.
They fled for shelter, running blind.
Omaha waited for bullets to shred into him. With his last breath, he would push Safia to safety, if need be.
It wasn’t necessary.
The bullets suddenly stopped, as if the craft had run out of ammunition. The sudden silence drew Omaha’s attention over his shoulder, his ears still ringing. The helicopter’s floodlight angled away. The copter swept back.
With his attention turned, he stumbled over a rock, went down hard.
“Omaha…!”
Safia came back to help. He waved her off. “Get to shelter!”
Omaha hobbled after her, his ankle flaring with pain, twisted, sprained, hopefully not broken. He cursed his stupidity.
The helicopter retreated to the other side of the sinkhole. It had them dead to rights. They shouldn’t have made it. Why had it pulled back?
What the hell was going on?
11:13 A.M.
E AGLE ONE, don’t hit the goddamn target!” Cassandra screamed into the radio. She banged a fist on the armrest of her seat in the M4 armored tractor. On her laptop, she stared at the blue glowing ring of the curator’s transceiver. It had blinked into existence a moment ago.
The gunfire had flushed Safia out into the open.
Eagle One answered, the pilot’s voice choppy. “I’ve broke off. There are two of them. I can’t tell which one is the target.” Cassandra had radioed just in time. She pictured the pilot cutting down the woman. The curator was her best chance to quickly root out the secrets here and abscond with the prize. And the asinine pilot had almost mowed her down.
“Leave them both,” she said. “Guard the hole they came out of.”
Whatever cavern the curator had disappeared into had to be important.
Cassandra leaned close to her laptop, watching the blue glow. Safia was still in the giant sinkhole. There was nowhere she could go that Cassandra could not find her. Even if the woman vanished into another cave, Cassandra would know where to find the entrance.
She turned to the tractor’s driver, John Kane. “Take us in.”
With the engine still running, he shoved the gearshift. The tractor jerked, then trundled up the dune that hid them from the town of Shisur. Cassandra sat back, one hand on the laptop, holding it steady.
As they reached the dune’s summit, the nose of the tractor rocked high, then fell down the far slope. The valley of Shisur lay ahead. But nothing could be seen beyond a few yards of the vehicle’s xenon headlights. The storm swallowed the rest away.
All except a scatter of glows, marking the town. Vehicles on the move. A firefight between her forces and some unknown party still continued.
Distantly, echoes of sporadic gunfire reached her.
The captain of her forward forces had radioed in his assessment: They all appear to be women.
It made no sense. Still, Cassandra remembered the woman she had chased through the back alleys of Muscat. The one who had vanished in front of her. Was there a connection?
Cassandra shook her head. It no longer mattered. This was the endgame, and she would not tolerate anyone thwarting her.
As she watched the show of lights in the darkness, she lifted her radio and spoke to the leader of her artillery. “Forward battery, are you in position?” “Yes, sir. Ready to light the candles on your order.”
Cassandra checked her laptop. The blue ring of the transceiver persisted in the sinkhole. Nothing else mattered. Whatever they sought lay among the ruins, with the curator.
Raising her gaze, Cassandra stared at the shimmer of wavering lights where the town of Shisur lay. She lifted her radio, called the forward troops, and ordered a pullback. She then switched back to the artillery captain.
“Level the town.”
11:15 A.M.
A S PAINTER led the others out of the village and through the gates of the ruins, he heard the first whistle. It pierced through the storm’s roar.
He swung as the first shell struck the town. A fireball burst skyward, lighting the storm, illuminating a patch of the village briefly. The boom reverberated in his gut. Gasps rose around him. More whistles filled the air.
Rockets and mortars.
He never suspected Cassandra had such firepower at hand.
Painter fumbled for his radio. “Coral! Go dark!”
Whatever advantage of surprise they had gained by the sudden burst of vehicles from their hiding places had ended. It was time to evacuate.
Out in the town, the lights of the vehicles were all extinguished. Under the cover of darkness, the women were to retreat to the ruins. More rockets struck, blooming in wild spirals of fire, whipped by the winds.
“Coral!” he yelled into the radio.
No answer.
Barak grabbed his arm. “They know the rendezvous.”
Painter swung around. More concussions pounded his gut.