Shit! He still wore his miner’s helmet, with its light providing a perfect target. One sweep of a hand sent it spinning into dusky shadows and drawing yet more fire.
He ducked, spinning farther into the nightlike shade provided by what was left of the mausoleum’s roof. Now he was standing in darkness, looking up at a patch of sunlit sky. Reaching to his belt, he removed the flashlight he had jammed into it, turned it on and tossed it toward the circle of light playing off the room’s flooded floor.
It had barely splashed before a man’s head and shoulders appeared at the rim of the hole above. A ragged flame of muzzle flash jetted in the direction of the flashlight.
The Chinese rifle was too short to steady comfortably against his shoulder and squeeze the trigger at the same time. One hand on the forward grip, the other on the trigger, Lang pointed and held on tightly as the gun bucked in his hands, its blast deafening in the confines of the burial chamber.
For a second, he could only hear the ringing of his ears. There was no sign of the man at whom he had fired.
How could he have missed with such a clear target?
His question was answered a split second later as a figure leaned over the edge of the opening as though to shout something to those below. It slowly tumbled through the hole. The bright light from above showed another white robe, this one punctuated with a series of red splotches.
As his hearing slowly returned, Lang became aware of two sounds. Someone, one of Rossi’s crew from above, was shouting something as he tossed a rope ladder into the opening. The other was the vibrating wail of approaching sirens.
Even the Alexandria police had a limit as to how much they could ignore.
Ansley Park
Gurt was slightly more than an arm length away from the street person when he stopped. “Ms. Fuchs? I need to speak with you.”
The use of her name, one she had never changed, was uncommon among her contemporary friends and associates. She had found it easier to respond to Mrs. or Ms. Reilly than explain, the reason she had not corrected Randy as they left the house… what, less than an hour ago?
“Who are you?” she demanded.
He gave a smile that wasn’t a lot warmer than the ice on the ground. “A friend, a friend who’s here to help you.”
Gurt took a step back, conscious of the man behind her. “Why do you think I need help?”
The man’s smile didn’t move. “Because there are some very bad people who want to hurt you and your family. If you’ll just come quietly along with me…” He pointed to a black Chevrolet Suburban that hadn’t been there a second before but was now slowly cruising down the street. “We can take you to a safe place.”
Gurt indicated the house with a jut of her chin. “My house is safe.”
The tramp peered over her shoulder, obviously gauging if his partner, the man in the overcoat, was going to be any help. “Ms. Fuchs, I have orders to move you to safety. Your preference is not, repeat, not, a factor. You have quite a reputation for being able to defend yourself and my superiors feared you could be difficult. That’s why this street-bum getup, so I could at least get close enough to speak with you, try to reason without getting an arm broken.”
Gurt sidestepped onto a neighbor’s lawn. “Tell your ‘superiors’ they were right.”
The man was becoming exasperated. “Look, lady, I don’t want any trouble…”
“Then go away and take the man behind me with you.”
“No one is going to hurt you.”
The voice came from behind.
Gurt turned to look at the man in the overcoat. “Tell that to the man in the pond in the park down there.”
Overcoat’s face became blank. “What man?”
Gurt took a heavy breath. “The man your housekeeping department is going to have to remove before someone finds the body.”
Overcoat gave a chuckle that had about as much warmth as his partner’s smile. “Oh, that man! There’s no body, although there might be if he doesn’t recover from the tranquilizer dart in time to get out of the water before he freezes. Now, are you coming with us?”
He made a grab for Manfred, who yelped in fright.
Whether it was the sound, the motion or both, the child’s reaction caused another.
With a snarl, Grumps dove into Overcoat, sinking his teeth into the man’s ankle. With a shriek of pain, he hobbled backward, dog still attached, as he tried to pry Grumps loose.
Gurt no longer had to think, just act.
With a shove, she sent the tramp’s grocery cart slamming into his midsection, doubling him over with a whoosh of expelled air. Clinching her hands together above her head, she used the combined strength of both arms to bring them down on the back of his head. A few inches lower would have snapped his spine like a rotted stick of wood, but that was not her intent. Instead, she was content to smash his face into the rails of the grocery cart. She thought she heard the cartilage that was his nose snap, but she had no time to be certain.
Turning to where Overcoat was trying to both shake his leg free of the growling Grumps and land a kick with the other, she gave the grossly unbalanced man a shove that sent him sprawling on the icy ground. She took a step back and landed a kick of her own that, if it missed his crotch, was close enough for him to roll into a protective fetal ball.
Reaching down, she removed the Glock from his shoulder holster before stepping over to where the other man was still on the sidewalk groaning, hands to a face that was a bloody mask. She took his weapon, too.
“Grumps! Enough!”
An observer of the Marquess of Queensberry rules, Grumps let go with a parting bark.
“Grumps bit the bad man,” Manfred chortled gleefully.
For the moment, Gurt ignored him. “Gentlemen,” she called sweetly. “Gentlemen! I’ll have your attention before anyone gets seriously hurt.”
With eyes brimming equally with pain and hatred, they stared at her as she slowly unlocked the clip of each gun and thumbed the bullets onto the ground. Stooping, she retrieved each and dumped them into the pocket of her coat. “Please tell whoever sent you I am quite capable of taking care of myself. Any questions about that?”
She was not surprised there were none.
“Is good, then.” She tossed each man his empty pistol. “Our business is finished, yes?”
Again, no answer.
And the Chevy Suburban was gone.
Cemetery of Terra Santa
The last of those who had been trapped in the burial chamber were climbing the rope ladder out of it as Rossi put a friendly arm around Lang’s shoulders. “Once again, Mr. Couch, Dr. Roth, you have saved my life.”
Lang saw no reason to point out that in both instances it had been he, not the archaeologist, who had been the target of an assassination attempt. “Glad to be of service.”
“Do you suppose I shall ever learn who you really are?”
This time it was Lang who shrugged. “Does it matter?”
A parade of police cars squalled to a stop in the adjacent street, their sirens muttering to silence, lights flashing.
Rossi took a glance at the new arrivals. “I would guess you do not want to be involved with the authorities?”
“You would be right.”
“Then merge with the rest of the crew.” He seemed to hesitate a moment before reaching into a pocket and handing Lang the small plastic bag in which he had earlier placed the object tentatively identified as a button. “I guess the police will detain us with questions for the remainder of the day. I do not want to risk losing this before we can relate it to the dig. Could you deliver this to the museum for safekeeping?”
“Sure.”
Without examining it, Lang shoved the baggie into his pocket as he headed for the tent that served as headquarters and to the still-jabbering, milling crew.
