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Footsteps resounded behind him. He glanced back and saw Max, his face bright red and his clothing and hair scorched, closing in on him. He wound his way through the forest of statues that filled the exhibit to the vault.

An Anubis warrior guarded the vault. He clutched a khopesh, a curved sword with a distinctive, question mark shape. Alex snatched it, turned, and swung it at Max. The blade trimmed a lock of hair from the big thug’s brow. Max leaped backward and fell, toppling a display of scarabs. The artifacts crashed to the floor and spilled in every direction.

Alex clambered up onto the stone vault. He switched the map to his right hand and used his hook to rip the grate off the ventilation shaft. It was just wide enough for his narrow shoulders to fit inside.

“He’s getting away!” Artie shouted.

Alex had a trick up his sleeve. He had made special modifications to the hook he wore. He twisted his hook until it clicked, aimed it down the shaft, and fired. The hook, attached to a fine cable, flew down the shaft until it caught. Alex pressed a button and the cable began to reel in, pulling him along.

He was halfway into the shaft when he heard footsteps behind him. He still clutched the map in his right hand. He felt a tug, heard the sound of ripping paper. And then he was free, sliding along the ventilation shaft. Behind him, Max cursed and shook his fist. He held a section of the map in his hand.

Alex grimaced. He had just lost part of the map, but at least Kane’s goons were too big to follow him down the shaft.

“Now all I need to do is find a way out of here.”

5 On the Run

Trinity was stuck. She had successfully stalled Magda Fischer, but John Kane was already on his way in. No telling what would happen if he and his goons found Alex searching the exhibit. But how could she extract herself from a conversation she had so assertively initiated?

“You are not like any fashion reporter I have ever met.” Magda’s gaze took in Trinity’s conservative dress.

“I’m not actually a fashion reporter, but that’s the sort of thing my editor expects me to write about.”

“He sounds like every director I have ever met.” Magda laughed brightly. “Is there anything more interesting you’d like to discuss?”

“What is your interest in the Orion Crowley exhibit?”

The light in Magda’s eyes dimmed, her smile froze in place. Trinity was treading on dangerous territory.

“Research for my next role,” Magda said. “The film is set in Egypt.”

“Is there anything specific you hope to gain from your visit to the museum? As an actor, I mean.” Trinity hastily tacked on the last.

Fischer paused, tilted her head, and looked to the sky. Finally, she smiled. “Direction,” was her cryptic reply. “Now, if you will excuse me, my friend is waiting.”

“Of course.” Trinity turned away, stole a glance toward the museum entrance, hoping to see Alex come walking out the door. But it was another friend who came hurrying out.

“Constance?” Their eyes met and Constance hurried over to her.

“We need to make tracks.” Constance took her by the elbow and tried to steer her in the direction of the street. “John Kane and his goons have started a commotion.”

“We can’t go. Alex is still in there.”

“I told him to hurry.” Constance closed her eyes, touched her fingertips to her forehead. “But there is nothing we can do for him. This is a disaster.”

“You’re with the Bureau. Show them your credentials, find Alex, and pretend to take him into custody.” Trinity took half a dozen steps in the direction of the museum before she realized Constance wasn’t following her. “What is the matter?”

“I do not exactly have permission to be here.” Constance’s cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink.

“Does Kane know that?”

No sooner had she spoken than John Kane appeared in the doorway, flanked by two wide, thick-necked men. The men were red-faced and had what looked like scorch marks on their suits. Kane pointed at the two women, said something, and his goons made a beeline for them.

“You’re right,” Trinity said. “There’s nothing we can do for Alex at the moment. Follow me.” She led the way to a shiny DeSoto CF Convertible.

“Alex’s car,” Constance said. “I don’t suppose you have the key?”

“I slipped it out of his pocket when he wasn’t paying attention. I wanted to make sure he didn’t chicken out and leave me behind.” She slipped behind the wheel and began fiddling with levers and switches.

“Do you see the irony?” Constance asked as she climbed in on the passenger side.

“Of course I do. Stop distracting me. The steps have to be taken in a certain sequence.”

“You had better hurry,” Constance said, looking back nervously. “Kane’s brunos are almost on us.”

“I’m just trying to remember the third step.”

“You’ve never driven this thing?”

“Not yet.” Trinity pressed a button, turned the key, and the engine roared to life just as Kane’s goons reached the DeSoto. Trinity hit the gas. With a squeal of burning rubber, they shot off down the street. One of the goons stopped. His partner took a flying leap and tumbled head over heels into the back seat of the convertible.

“I’m with the Burea. I order you to exit this vehicle.” Constance flashed her credentials at him.

“Do really think that’s going to work?” Trinity asked.

“It was worth a try.” From somewhere inside her dress, Constance produced a stiletto knife.

The big man grinned. “That’s a fine knife. But old Artie’s got a bigger one.”

Trinity glanced back to see Kane’s toady brandishing a knuckle knife, better known as the Mark 1 Trench Knife. It was a weapon from the Great War, designed for close fighting. Trinity hated that she knew even that much about the weapon. She had been spending too much time in the company of Brock Stone and his friends of late. But that was a problem for another day. Right now, she had Archie to deal with.

“Brace yourself,” she said to Constance.

“What are you doing?”

“You don’t want to know.”

The DeSoto was equipped with a powerful 8-cylinder engine, another bit of trivia she had absorbed since rekindling her relationship with Stone. Trinity tried to keep one eye on Artie and the other on the street as she hit the gas. Up ahead, a stopped tour bus blocked their lane. A steady flow of traffic clogged the oncoming lane, and the sidewalks were lousy with tourists and government workers. This was going to take some tricky maneuvering.

“Trinity, there’s nowhere to go!” Constance screamed.

Behind her, Artie climbed to his feet and raised his knife.

“You’re right.” Trinity gave the wheel a quick jerk to the left and then back. Artie wobbled, almost fell.

Trinity slammed on the brakes. The DeSoto screeched to a halt. Trinity slammed into the steering wheel, let out a pained grunt. Constance yelped as she was hurled into the front floorboard.

Artie wasn’t so fortunate.

The bull-necked man went Oxfords-over-Bowler as the DeSoto’s momentum sent him flying. With a reverberant thud, he struck the back of the bus in an inverted spread eagle. He seemed to hang there, suspended in midair for a split-second, before falling to the street.

Trinity took a moment to catch her breath. Beside her, Constance climbed back into the seat and smoothed her dress.

“Is he dead?” Constance asked.

Remarkably, the big man stirred. He sat up, gave a confused shake of his head.

“That’s impossible,” Constance said.

“Obviously not.” Trinity cranked the wheel, hit the gas, and made a U-turn in front of an oncoming taxi. The driver hit the horn and made a very ungentlemanly gesture.