Another mortar round crashed into the compound, causing the ground to heave. One of the doors into the building was blasted open. At least three of the pirates were knocked from the balcony, crashing stunned on the floor below, while others clung to the railing to avoid a similar fate. Kismet felt the debris from the nearby explosion harmlessly pelting him.
The tiger ignored the external attack altogether, gripping Jin's throat in its mouth and throwing the pirate across the floor. It was on him again in a second, swiping its claws across his face.
Scrambling away, Kismet utilized the grappling hook once more, hurling it onto the balcony high above. The line wrapped around a railing, the hook setting securely when he drew in the slack, and he quickly set about scrambling up the wall.
His arms screamed in agony. All of the exertions of the night seemed to return in a single burst of pain. Gritting his teeth, he planted his feet against one of the support pillars and tried again. Somehow, with his biceps quivering on the verge of total fatigue, he reached the level of the balcony floor. Swinging his body like a pendulum, he got one of his legs up, then the other, and managed to roll his torso onto the edge. Frantic pirates stumbled blindly over him as they fought with each other in order to escape. Only when he stood up in their midst did they identify him as a foe and turn their destructive attention toward him.
Kismet dodged the thrust of an old-fashioned cutlass, hearing the unmistakable sound of the blade piercing flesh behind him and the groan as a wounded pirate went down. His fist, still clenching the rope, hammered into the sword's wielder, and as the man staggered against the railing, Kismet guided him over. He plucked the heavy blade from the man's grasp as he went, and wrenched it free of the body of the unfortunate soul who had inadvertently been on the receiving end of the misguided thrust. Discarding the rope, he took the sword in his right hand and charged the pirate ranks, scattering them.
Elisabeth stood a head taller than most of the men on the balcony, and Kismet saw her hair flashing only a few feet away. With wild slashes, he mowed a path toward her. When she saw him, a tortured look crossed her beautiful face. “Damn you!”
“Did you get the sapphire, princess?”
Her eyes blazed as she raised her hand toward him, a small pistol locked in her grip.
Kismet lashed out with the cutlass. The tip struck the barrel of the gun and knocked her arm upward as the firing pin struck the shell. The muzzle flashed in his face, but the round impotently struck the ceiling. He quickly moved in closer, snatching the gun away with his left hand.
The wayward Sultana raised a fist, as if to strike him, but he was faster. Stabbing the cutlass into the floorboards, he delivered a roundhouse to her jaw that spun her around. Before she could fall, he snatched her up and threw her over his shoulder. He shoved the gun into the waistband of his tuxedo trousers and then worked the cutlass loose.
“Well this has been fun, Your Highness. But it's time to take you back to your husband.”
If Elisabeth heard him, she did not reply.
Kismet fought his way through several more pirates, and found a staircase leading back down to the ground floor. He crossed the rubble strewn area, mindful of the tiger which continued to feast on its former master, and headed for the ATV quads. It took him only a moment to loosen the tow bar attachment and free one of the small motorized vehicles from its treasure wagon. He started it up and climbed aboard. Elisabeth still had not stirred.
The sounds of the shelling now filled the night. Much of the fortress was in flames, and the wall on the ocean side was breached in three places. On the threshold of the barn-like storehouse, Kismet had an unobstructed view of the assault.
Three helicopters — judging by their silhouettes, Kismet reckoned they were reliable old UH-1 “Hueys,” repurposed after the Vietnam war — beat the air high above the pirate compound. Several thick lines dropped from the hovering aircraft like spider-silk, and human figures began abseiling into the midst of the compound, protected by covering fire from their comrades still aboard. In a matter of seconds, a dozen camouflaged warriors had fast-roped down and were spreading out to engage the confused pirates. Kismet surmised that the commando squad was there in response to his own summons, but the fortress was presently a free-fire zone; the only salvation lay in physically removing himself from the battlefield. He revved the throttle on the ATV and charged into the midst of the skirmish.
The pirates were attempting to muster a response to the overwhelming attack, but their numbers were already severely diminished and their arsenal of poorly maintained rifles and handguns was no match for the concussion grenades and assault rifles wielded by the attacking force. Most of the pirates simply threw down their weapons and fled into the jungle. Reasoning that the refugees would know the best way out of the fortress, Kismet swerved the quad in their direction, plunging into the darkness beyond.
The explosions did little to illuminate the dark woods. The canopy of overgrowth quickly eclipsed any ambient light, forcing Kismet to slow the vehicle to a crawl. He debated using the quad’s headlights, but decided that doing so would merely make him a target. Instead, he switched off the engine and let the noise of the jungle settle over him like a blanket.
“Well,” he sighed. “That didn't go too badly.”
His grin faltered as he became aware of several shapes, nothing more than silhouettes, ringing his position. A flashlight blazed in his face, blinding him momentarily, but also revealing the jungle pattern fatigues worn by the group surrounding him. He raised his hands slowly, painfully aware of the fact that the Sultana of Muara was slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“It’s okay, I’m one of the good guys.”
“Lieutenant?”
The voice was familiar, but even more so was the pronunciation of that single word. Kismet hadn’t held military rank in nearly twenty years, but in all the time he had been an officer, he had only once heard the word pronounced as “Lef-tenant.” He blinked in the direction of the voice — the man holding the light.
“Sergeant Higgins?”
Another shape interposed, stepping into the light. Kismet recognized the man from his publicity photos, but in most of those he was smiling.
“Release my wife,” demanded the Sultan. His hand rested on the grip of a holstered pistol.
Kismet eased the semi-conscious woman from her undignified perch, setting her on the rear fender of the ATV. As he did, her eyes fluttered into focus. She looked first at Kismet, and then turned slowly to face her husband. Kismet expected her to launch into some kind of conciliatory plea, but when the former actress spoke, her tone was anything but contrite.
“What are you doing,” she rasped. “He’s one of them.”
Kismet was still trying to make sense of her declaration when the Sultan drew his sidearm, thrusting it toward him. Kismet was taken aback. “Your highness?”
“I will have your head for this,” raged the Sultan.
Kismet gaped, mouthing a reply. Judging by the Sultan's fierce expression, trying to explain the facts would do little to help the situation. He decided to try a different approach.
Although the Sultan’s gun was less than a hand’s breadth from his face, Kismet launched into motion. He wrapped an arm around the Malay prince's neck, and plucked the gun from his unprepared grasp. By the time the soldiers could react, Kismet had the muzzle of the weapon buried in the Sultan's ear. “Lower your guns and move back.”
The commandos did not seem willing to relinquish their control of the situation, and Kismet could sense each man wondering if there was time to make a killing shot before the trigger could be pulled on the royal hostage.