"Yeah. But I don't see any way to get there."
"The Wizard will have to go up on that other block." Lyons pointed to a line of buildings beyond the terrorist warehouse.
"Hey, Americans!" Zaki hissed. "Down there, the sidewalk!"
"What?"
They looked down, saw a section of the concrete sidewalk hinge back. Black forms with pistols crept from the hole.
Lyons keyed his hand radio. "Wizard! We got four ragheads coming up out of the ground. They're moving in on the CIA boys. Where are you?"
"Coming up out of the ground?" Gadgets asked, incredulous.
"They've got a tunnel under the street," Lyons told him. "They're going to take the men in the car…"
"Which car? Which street?"
"Below us. It's the car on the south corner of the hideout."
As Lyons spoke, Blancanales slipped out his silenced Beretta and folded down the left-hand grip. He leaned over the edge, bracing the 9mm autopistol against the wall. He sighted on the shadows three stories beneath them. "Can't get… can't get a line on them. They're under an awning…"
Tempered glass shattered. A man cried out. The dull smashes of other car windows breaking echoed in the early-morning darkness.
"Too late," Blancanales sighed.
"It's over, Wizard. Silenced pistols."
Blancanales jerked his autopistol up again, sighted straight down. "One's alive! They're taking one of the…"
Two of the black-clothed forms dragged an American to the trapdoor. But the terrorists crouched too close to the struggling American.
At the awkward angle from the roof, Blancanales could not fire without hitting the Agency man. Then the gunmen disappeared down the hole with the prisoner.
Lyons knew what the American faced: merciless torture and mutilation. He keyed the transmit again. "Wizard, they took a man alive."
A breathless voice answered. "I'm on the corner, looking at them. Two of them. They're ransacking the car. And that trapdoor's still open. What do you say we get our associate back?"
His hands and ankles bound, the American rolled into a ball on the concrete, trying to protect his face and stomach from the kicks and rifle butts of the attackers. One terrorist slammed a boot into the prisoner's back again and again, finally finding a kidney. The American arched back in agony.
As kicks thudded into the prisoner's gut, one warrior slammed the butt plate of his Soviet AK into the prisoner's face, smashing the nose.
Omar stopped his warriors. "He cannot die before we question him."
The American groaned. Blood bubbled from his broken face. The knot of Arabs gathered around the semiconscious prisoner. They laughed, jeered. Omar stooped and tried to grasp the American's short hair but couldn't. He grabbed the man's ear, instead, jerking his head from the concrete.
"Do you feel pain?" Omar asked in English. "Do you suffer? Wait. Soon you will know all the pain of the world. You will beg for death. Then I will give you more pain."
The elegant Egyptian stood. "Take him to the truck. We leave immediately!"
The taxis rolled to a silent stop. Lyons and Blancanales stepped out and sprinted for the corner. The two warriors searched the shadows of the street for Gadgets, saw him nowhere. Blancanales clicked his hand radio three times.
"Too late, dudes," Gadgets's voice answered. "Had to do it myself."
They looked around the corner, saw Gadgets and Mohammed weave through trucks parked on the sidewalk. Motioning their taxis to follow, Lyons and Blancanales continued to the open trapdoor.
Water trickled in the darkness below the pavement. The stink of sewage and old, old stones drifted up.
Gadgets pointed to the corpse of a gunman sprawled in the gutter. "Look at his legs. Only his shoes are wet."
Lyons glanced up at his partners. "We go in?"
Gadgets nodded.
"No other way," Blancanales agreed.
They went to their taxis. Taking off their sports coats, they slipped on Kevlar-and-steel battle armor. Gadgets and Blancanales filled the front pouches with magazines for their Uzis. Grenades went in the side pockets. Lyons dropped a few grenades in his front pouches, slung a bandolier of Atchisson mags over his armor. All three men wore their silenced autopistols on web belts.
Mohammed ran up. He now wore battle armor and a bandolier heavy with Uzi mags. He offered Lyons a flashlight.
"I got one," Lyons told him.
"Ain't got one like this. This is one of theirs. Look at the glass."
The lens had been tinted blue. "All right. Smart move."
"Just 'cause I talk like an American, don't mean I is stupid."
Snapping back the actuator of his Atchisson, Lyons chambered a 12-gauge round of high-velocity double-ought and number two steel shot and flicked on the safety. He walked to the trapdoor, the weight of his armor and weapons and ammunition making every step a conscious effort.
Gadgets slung two Armburst rocket launchers over his back.
"Rockets?" Lyons asked, looking back.
"Why not?" Gadgets shrugged. "Suppose we can't find our way out… ?"
The aluminum ladder swayed as Lyons descended into the Cairo underworld.
13
Every breath brought pain. Jake Newton flinched against an imagined kick, passed out again as a wave of pain crashed over his consciousness. He floated for a moment in peace, without fear, far away from his body. But he returned.
Forcing himself to consider the pain, he remained motionless, his eyes closed, his breathing slow. He listened. Voices spoke in Arabic. He heard the clank of metal, the sound of footsteps on concrete.
He eased an eye open. Specks of light gleamed through fabric. He lay in the back of a canvas-covered truck. It was not moving. Looking around him, he saw his blood puddling on the wood slats. His hands were tied in front of him. His slacks were filthy and bloody.
Pain ripped through his ribs and back as he tried the knots around his wrists. Then he strained to separate his ankles and felt the ropes binding his feet together.
They had taken him hostage. He remembered sitting in the car, watching the roof line of the warehouse through an infrared scope. Then the car windows burst inward. He never saw the terrorists who beat him. He only remembered the shock of steel smashing down on his skull again and again.
The kicking and beating on the concrete remained only a confusion of pain.
When would the questions begin? Would he survive the interrogation? Considering what the terrorists had already done to him, he could not expect to live through it.
The truck swayed on its springs. Jake lay utterly motionless as boots walked the truckbed. A heavy box dropped. The boots scuffed, hesitated. A boot toe smashed into the back of his head. Despite himself, he gasped.
Laughter rang out. The boots stomped away. He heard the boots drop to the concrete.
Jake waited to the count of one hundred before opening his eyes again. He turned slightly to look behind him. He saw the crates stacked there. But none of the terrorists.
Uprights of stamped sheet metal held up the truck's canvas canopy. Watching the tailgate, Jake reached to the nearest upright and dragged the knots binding his wrists over the sharp edge.
Blue light sparkled on flowing filth. The tinted flashlight in his left hand, his right gripping the Colt, Lyons followed the narrow walkway through the ancient sewer. Behind him, Gadgets held his silenced Beretta ready. Blancanales and Mohammed followed a few steps behind.
Things scurried in the darkness around them. Small stones fell from the crumbling walls. Ahead of them, they saw only total darkness.