The light did not relinquish its hold until Cohen’s entire body had burned so fiercely that the gold frontlet and breastplate had melted into his blackened bones. Only then did the blinding glow subside and let the hideous remains slide onto the rock.
The fetid stench of burnt hair and flesh had Charlotte gagging as she scrambled away on hands and knees, blood trailing beneath her in splotches. The room seemed to be spinning as she struggled for air. How deep had Cohen cut her?
When she lifted her eyes and tried to get to her feet, her spotty vision captured one of the blue-suited gunmen in triplicate. He was pinned down behind one of the huge marble columns supporting the cupola. He swung his machine gun at her, his face snarling with hate. In that instant, she knew that her luck had run out.
She hoped that Cohen had been right—that God did have a plan for everything, that her life had meant something or had some divine destiny. Perhaps, as Donovan had suggested, in death there’d be another realm where the spirit would defy the flesh and roam free . . .
Knowing she’d cheated death one too many times, Charlotte Hennesey shut her eyes in peaceful surrender, just before she heard the gun let loose its fury.
90
******
After taking down one of the gunmen, Enoch rounded the ambulatory. That’s when seven robed men came charging across the rock, screaming like banshees. As far as he could tell, they weren’t armed. But he needed to get below the shrine immediately, which meant there was no time to negotiate. The best he could do was show some civility by shooting them low.
Enoch made three sweeps with the Galil, strafing the marauders below the knees, dropping six of them onto the rock. The seventh man managed to hobble even closer and gripped the railing to vault himself over it. A nasty shot to the groin put an end to those ambitions, and the man crumpled back onto the rock, screaming in agony.
Enoch went directly for the steps descending beneath an elaborate marble arch ornamented with gold Arabic text—the access way to the cave below the rock called the Well of Souls. He knew it to be a mystical realm where, according to legend, the voices of the dead could be heard. Running purely on adrenaline, he needed to remind himself not to be foolish and turn
Ducking low, he peeked at the bottom of the steps. What little of the space below he could make out was brightly lit. There didn’t seem to be any shadows moving across the ornate Persian rugs covering the ground. It was also evident that there was nothing that would provide cover. If another gunman were hunkered down at the bottom of the stairs, he’d be a fish in a bowl. And this time, no Kevlar vest, either. Down there, at close range, head shots would be easy.
But if Cohen had secreted a bomb into the building, the cave would be the most logical place to position it: right where a strong explosion could be amplified enough to take down Islam’s sacred rock, right along with the foundation supporting the shrine’s walls.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed forward, weapon at the ready on his shoulder, trying his best to keep his muscles loose and his trigger finger flexible.
The marble treads were like ice against his bare feet. He crouched low and dashed down the steps. Two thirds of the way to the bottom, he jumped and immediately did a tuck and roll when his feet connected with the ground. Heroism aside, he knew he stood a better chance moving abruptly and unevenly. Better than getting his legs shot out from under him.
One controlled tumble and Enoch rolled up into a well-executed crouch. He immediately depressed the Galil’s trigger and emptied a third of the clip in a wide sweep.
The biggest danger was the wild ricochets. One deflected round managed to graze his left shoulder.
The cave was empty. No hidden gunmen.
No bomb either.
Heart pounding, Enoch exhaled and pulled himself together.
That’s when he noticed the stark white angular casing of a newly installed security camera mounted high up the cave wall just beneath the stairs. And if he didn’t know any better, he’d swear that its lens winked in the light to tighten in on him.
“Crap.”
91
******
“Rumor has it you’re the next messiah,” a deep voice said.
Amazed that she was still alive, Charlotte eased her eyes open.
There was a broad-shouldered guy with a goatee standing over her,
smiling.
“Amit Mizrachi,” he said, introducing himself. He slung his machine
gun over his shoulder and maneuvered to help her to her feet. Dazed, Charlotte glanced over at the column, where, just beyond the
railing, Cohen’s last gunman was facedown and spread-eagle, soaked with
blood.
“Your throat all right?” He tried to see where the blood was coming
from but couldn’t make out anything.
Probing it with her fingers, she found that the four-inch gash that had
been there just seconds ago had already smoothed over. “Yeah. It . . . it
