had seen him or Maysoon close enough to be able to identify them. Provided the trunks were gone, Conrad felt there was a strong chance that the Turks would think whoever had attacked them had brought along enough horses to carry them off.
As long as he got rid of the trunks.
Which he did, using his scimitar to pry the lids off the two that weren’t broken, then lugging all three of them up in pieces, to a different cave. Once he’d done that, he used some dried bushes to sweep away his tracks from both caves.
They could finally make a move.
“Will you remember how to get us back here?” he asked her.
Maysoon surveyed the valley, taking note of any landmarks that would help her identify it again. Her eyes settled on the distant mound that was her father’s grave. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t forget this place. Not soon enough.”
He helped her onto his horse, then climbed up behind her.
“Which way?” he asked.
They needed to find food, shelter, and horses, camels, or mules, any kind of transport that would allow them to recover the trove and complete their intended journey. A journey that, given the deaths of Hector and Miguel, now seemed questionable.
She nodded ahead and said, “North. There are Christian communities there, small villages and monasteries built into cliffs. They’ll take us in.”
Conrad gave her a doubtful look.
“They don’t need to know what you just hid in those caves,” she told him.
He shrugged. She was right.
He spurred his mount forward.
They trotted away, leaving behind her father’s grave, leaving behind the trove that so many had died for, uncertain about what to do with it from here on.
Chapter 42
Reilly advanced cautiously across the canyon, hugging the shadows. He’d spotted the dusty Cherokee parked in a small clearing by the side of the road, sitting slightly apart from a handful of other cars. A rusting sign in three languages had told him it was a staging point for hikers setting off to explore the Zelve canyons and had set his Spidey-sense tingling.
His eyes strained as they monitored the surreal landscape around him. There was too much for them to take in—unusual shapes casting unusual shadows, shapes his eyes weren’t accustomed to, the entire target area riddled with ominous dark openings that felt like a thousand eyes tracking his every move. He felt like he’d been sucked into a Dali painting or teleported into an episode of
He navigated his way through a cluster of fairy chimneys and reached a field of massive rock cones that nestled at the base of a tall cliff. Small windows peeked out of every one of them, vestiges of a long-gone community that had lived within. The cliff banked to the right, disappearing out of view behind a thicket of almond trees. The whole valley was eerily quiet now, adding to the sense of unease that Reilly felt with each new step through the ghost town.
He was about to clear the last of the rock cones when he glimpsed movement beyond the trees. He quickly ducked out of view into the doorway of the nearest house. He craned his head out carefully while reaching into his pack for his weapon—and they appeared. The man he didn’t know, followed by Tess, then his quarry.
Walking his way.
Unaware of his presence.
Without taking his eyes off the approaching figures, Reilly muffled the gun between his thigh and the rock face and chambered a round, then brought the weapon up. If they were making their way back to the Jeep, they would go past him. Which would give him an opportunity to finish it—for good.
He watched as they rounded the cones, disappearing momentarily behind one of them before reappearing in a gap between two others. He crept carefully from one cone to another, keeping Tess and the others in view, inching closer, his gun ready in a tight, two-fisted grip, until he was about thirty yards from them and had a bead on the Iranian’s back.
He debated pulling the trigger right there. Thirty yards, unobstructed view—he wouldn’t have too much trouble dropping the bastard there and then. He straightened his arms and took aim, tracking his target with the sight on the automatic’s barrel. His chest constricted as he tightened his finger around the trigger. One pull was all it would take. One pull and the motherfucker would be gone.
And none of the questions would be answered.
Not who he really was. Who he was working for. What else he had done. What else he was planning.
The answers would die with him.
Reilly ground his teeth, hard. Wanting to pull that trigger. Wanting it bad. But unable to follow through. And in that moment of indecision, in those fleeting few seconds, the opportunity vanished. The angle of the path meant that the Iranian was now positioned directly between Reilly and Tess, and a bullet from Reilly’s gun risked going through him and hitting Tess. He had to find a clear shot again and thought of going for a thigh shot to at least cripple him—
Then he decided he wanted him alive and sprang out from his cover.
“Tess, move away,” he yelled, his heart kicking at his rib cage. He was stepping sideways to find a clear angle at the Iranian and keep him off balance while waving Tess to one side before jabbing a finger straight at the Iranian. “You, get your hands up where I can see them. Do it.”
They all spun around in surprise. Reilly flicked a quick glance at Tess and registered the relief flooding her face, but he couldn’t afford any more than that and yanked his eyes back onto his target.
The Iranian had spread his arms out slightly, low, level with his waist. He had his gaze locked on Reilly and was inching sideways too, clearly thinking the same thing as Reilly and trying to keep Tess in a vulnerable place for a through-shot.
Reilly struck out an open palm at him. “Stop right there and get your hands all the way up. Do it,” he growled. “Tess, get the hell away from him—”
And in that instant, everything went wrong.
The Iranian lunged at Tess, too fast and too close to her for Reilly to risk taking a shot, grabbing her and flinging her in front of him to shield himself. He had his right arm tightly clasped around her neck, then he moved his left hand out, just enough to give Reilly a clear view of it. He was holding a phone in it.
“She’s wearing a bomb,” he shouted back. His right hand went down her front and yanked her shirt up to reveal the canvas belt around her waist. “I’ll blow her guts all over this fucking canyon if you don’t drop your weapon right now.”
Blood flushed into Reilly’s temples. “You’ll take yourself out too if you do that,” he blurted, the realization that he was playing a losing hand flaring through him.
The Iranian grinned. “You think a good Muslim like me would have a problem dying for his cause?” His face tightened. “Put the fucking gun down or she dies,” he barked.
Reilly felt his feet riveted to the ground, his arm muscles taut to their tearing point. He had no choice. He sucked in a deep, slow breath and rotated the gun sideways and up, on display to the Iranian, his other palm open in a calming gesture.
“Put the safety on and throw it away,” the Iranian ordered, his hand signaling to Reilly to toss it to his right. “Far.”
Without taking his eyes off the bomber, Reilly flicked the safety on. Then he chucked the gun aside and watched it land about ten yards from him, thudding flat against the hard soil, his insides pulverized by the realization that he’d messed up and would probably soon be stone dead.
