horrified, the blade moved upwards, blood pouring from the gaping wound. Baverstock's clutching fingers plucked ineffectively at the steel, more blood pouring from his hands as flesh was sliced off, and his howls of agony redoubled.
What he was seeing was so inexplicable that for perhaps two seconds Bronson simply stood there gaping. Then he ran towards the stricken man. But he never reached him.
Before Bronson had taken more than a couple of steps, the knife angled sharply upwards. Baverstock's howls were suddenly cut short and he tumbled limply to the ground. He twitched once, then lay still. Directly behind him, the unpleasantly familiar figure of Yacoub was revealed, a long-bladed knife, still dripping blood, clutched in his right hand. And looming out of the darkness behind him were his two men, each pointing a pistol straight at Bronson.
'Unfinished business,' Yacoub said shortly, kneeling to clean the blood off the blade on Baverstock's trousers. The knife vanished inside his jacket, and he shifted the pistol to his right hand. 'I thought we'd killed him in the water tunnel. Get back over there,' he said, gesturing to Bronson.
'Stay behind me, Angela,' Bronson said, as he stopped next to her and turned to face Yacoub.
'Very noble,' Yacoub chuckled. 'You'll take a bullet for her? That won't be a problem. I've got plenty.'
'You said you'd let us go,' Bronson said. 'Isn't it enough that you've got the Silver Scroll?'
'That was before you found those stones. I heard what that man Baverstock said about them. If those two slabs of rock really are the original Mosaic Covenant, they could change the whole course of the conflict here in Israel. My comrades in Gaza will know how to make the best use of them.'
'They should be in a museum,' Angela said, her voice angry. 'You shouldn't be playing politics with relics as old and as important as these.'
Yacoub gestured irritably with his automatic pistol.
'Everything in this country is to do with politics, whether you like it or not. Old or new, it doesn't matter. Any weapon we can use, we will use. And now you can see why you're both expendable. Nobody must ever know that those stone tablets were found here in Israel. But I will be merciful. You'll both die quickly.'
He lifted his pistol and pointed it at Bronson.
But before he could pull the trigger, there was a muffled bang from somewhere close by, and a faintly luminous object shot up into the sky. In seconds it ignited, burning with the brilliant white-hot light of magnesium, and the darkness was instantly turned into light.
For a moment, Yacoub and his two gunmen stood rigid, as if turned to stone, staring upwards.
And then, in the pitiless white light cast by the descending flare, and like spectral creatures arising from the very earth, half a dozen black-clad shapes, their faces blackened with camouflage paint, appeared less than twenty yards away, emerging from behind the low stone walls that lay to one side of the altar. Each was carrying a Galil SAR compact assault rifle.
Yacoub yelled something in Arabic, and his two men dived for what cover they could find, then opened fire on their attackers. The momentary silence was shattered by a volley of shots as his two gunmen traded fire with the armed men, the booming of their nine-millimetre semiautomatic pistols a discordant counterpoint to the flat cracks of the 5.56-millimetre rounds fired from the Galils.
The moment the flare ignited, Bronson acted. He grabbed Angela by the arm and pulled her around to the side of the ancient stone altar. They ducked down, the solid stones acting as an effective shield against any bullets that came their way.
'Keep down,' Bronson hissed, as a round cracked into one of the blocks of stone directly above their heads, sending a cascade of splinters and dust over them.
He risked a quick glance around the side of the altar.
Yacoub's two men were pinned down behind another of the low stone walls that were the dominant feature of that part of the old fort. They were snapping off shots at their attackers, but they were outnumbered and outgunned, and Bronson knew there was only ever going to be one outcome to this encounter.
Even as he watched, one of the black-clad figures moved to outflank them, darting around the outside of the old ruined temple, taking advantage of every scrap of cover he could find. Within twenty seconds, he had reached a position where he could see both of Yacoub's gunmen clearly, and took careful aim with his Galil.
But he didn't fire. Instead, he called out something in Arabic.
Yacoub's men started at the sound of his voice, and both swung their pistols to point at him. It was their last mistake.
His Galil cracked, the volley of half a dozen shots taking less than a second to fire, and the two Moroccans tumbled backwards. They crashed to the rocky ground and lay still.
The figure ran forward, crouched down to check both the bodies, then stood up and looked around.
'Yacoub!' Angela said suddenly. 'Where the hell's Yacoub?'
'I don't know. I didn't see where he went.' Bronson looked cautiously over the circular stone altar to the area where the dark-clad men had appeared, then looked to his sides. But he saw no sign of the tall Moroccan.
Then a pistol shot rang out a few feet directly behind Bronson.
The man holding the Galil twenty feet away clutched at his chest and fell backwards, the assault rifle falling from his hands. Almost immediately, a tall dark shape materialized beside him and seized his weapon, just as the flare guttered briefly and then went out, plunging the hilltop into sudden darkness.
Bronson stood up, and pulled Angela to her feet. 'That was Yacoub,' he muttered, 'and now he's got an assault rifle. We've got to get out of here.'
But as he stood, there came a noise like thunder, then a thudding sound and a tremendous wind, and the blackness of the night was suddenly banished by a brilliant bluewhite beam of light from directly above.
Bronson and Angela turned to run, but instead they found themselves staring into Yacoub's face, his milkywhite eye and twisted mouth startlingly clear in the brilliant light from the Nightsun lamp on the helicopter hovering above.
'Stand still,' Yacoub snarled, jamming the barrel of his pistol into Bronson's stomach. 'You two are my ticket out of here.' He gestured with the barrel of the Galil towards the area next to the circular altar. 'Put your hands in the air and get over there. Both of you.'
'Stay on my left, Angela,' Bronson whispered as he turned to obey, 'and walk a little in front.'
Obediently, Angela moved forward, naked terror etched into her features.
'Quickly,' Yacoub snapped, jabbing Bronson hard in the back, the barrel of his pistol pressed against his spine.
And that was just what Bronson had wanted, and why he'd told Angela to move in front of him.
He moved forward a couple of steps, took a deep breath, then swung his left arm, his fingers straightened into a blade, down and back as hard as he could. The side of his hand smashed into Yacoub's left forearm, the force of the blow driving the Moroccan's hand – and the pistol he was holding – to one side, away from Angela.
Then it was just a matter of speed. Bronson span round, his left arm continuing to force Yacoub's pistol off aim, and drove his clenched right fist straight into the Moroccan's face. Yacoub staggered backwards, desperately trying to bring his pistol to bear.
Bronson hadn't finished. He took a half-step closer to Yacoub and punched upwards with his left hand as hard as he could. The heel of his hand smashed into the base of Yacoub's nose, splintering the fragile nasal bones and driving them deep into the Moroccan's brain. It was a killing blow. Yacoub fell backwards, his limbs twitching and his body going into spasms as his brain began to die.
Bronson grabbed the pistol that the Moroccan had dropped as he fell, took aim and fired two shots directly into his chest. The twitching ceased. Yacoub gave a final convulsive shudder, then lay absolutely still.
For a few seconds, Angela and Bronson stared down at the body of the man who'd caused them so much grief.
Then they turned round. Three of the black-clad figures were standing about ten feet away, their Galils aimed straight at them. One of them gestured at Bronson. He looked down at the pistol he was still holding, and tossed the weapon away. Both he and Angela raised their hands in the air in surrender. Bronson didn't know who these men were, though he could make an educated guess, but they were clearly no friends of Yacoub, so it was at least possible they were on the same side. And with three assault rifles pointing at them, there was no choice anyway.
One of the figures issued an order in a language Bronson thought sounded like Hebrew, and another man
