He wiped the blade on the sheet, resheathed the knife, and together they exited the back of the tent.
Booker came to the edge of the superstructure. There was about eight feet of open deck between him and the machine gunner. He had twenty seconds. He crept forward, lifting his feet no more than a fraction of an inch from the Astroturfed deck. Book came to within a foot of the guard and he still hadn’t felt his presence. He kept leaning against the rail and watching the celebration on shore. Sykes was grateful he’d never see the Arab’s eyes.
He moved no slower or faster in those final seconds, simply took another practiced step and prepared to reach around the guard’s head with one hand while the knife in the other was poised to open his throat.
A casual voice called from the open door to the cabin. The guard turned to answer. He saw Booker no more than a foot away. With reflexes honed through decades of training, Booker lashed out even before the guard realized what he was seeing. Sykes drove the blade into the Arab’s neck and ripped outward, tearing through muscle and blood vessels so nearly half his throat was slashed open. Blood fountained from the ragged wound, splashing across the deck and into the water.
The man inside called again. Booker let the body fall and tried to swivel the Russian-made fifty-caliber so it pointed at the cabin door, but the gimbal only moved through thirty degrees.
Another guard appeared at the doorway. Booker threw his knife in a desperation toss because the weapon wasn’t balanced for throwing. The butt end hit the bridge of the man’s nose, breaking the delicate bones. As he reeled back roaring in pain, Booker kicked at the machine gun and grunted when it swung freely. To get the proper angle he had to jump over the rail and hang off the side of the boat. His finger found the trigger as a third guard appeared at the door. Booker was ahead of schedule by eleven seconds but there was no help for that now. He pulled the trigger and the big gun came alive in his hands, empty brass casings arcing into the night. The heavy slugs blew the guard back through the doorway, ripped the door off its hinges, and shredded the cheap wood superstructure.
Unable to see where the other gunman was inside the houseboat, Booker let go of the railing and dangled by his grip on the machine gun. Even with the superior firepower, he knew he was too exposed to counterfire from inside the boat or an astute sniper on shore. He cross-drew the Beretta pistol Ahmad had given him and aimed at the fifty-caliber’s ratcheting bolt. Before he pulled the trigger a pair of guns opened up from inside the cabin. There had been more men than Booker had seen. With bullets whizzing by, Book fired five rapid shots. The machine gun fell silent as the bolt jammed in the ruined receiver. The plan had been to use the weapon to cover Ahmad’s assault but he had to settle for denying Poli’s men from using it themselves. He took a deep breath as he dropped off the boat and began swimming away from the craft a good five feet under the surface so he would create no wake.
As soon as he heard the machine gun out on the houseboat bellowing its deadly tattoo, Mercer started running boldly across the camp. He wasn’t dressed exactly like the Arab fighters but he hoped the kaffiyeh would give him anonymity. The men had instantly ended their reverie and reached for their weapons, their gaze directed at the dark houseboat.
Mercer was halfway to the sheltered hole they’d dug down to the tunnel when Ibriham Ahmad’s Janissaries engaged. Two of them appeared on the hill above the encampment as if defying the Qaida terrorists. They took down several of the confused men before anyone even saw they were there.
In seconds thirty AK-47s roared as one and the crest of the hill disappeared in a hail of gunfire and kicked up dirt. Mercer could only trust Ahmad’s men as they caught the Arab fighters in a withering crossfire. The ground exploded at his feet as bullets flew in every direction. He had another thirty yards to go when the officers began to organize their men behind natural cover positions. Their return fire became more disciplined and Mercer could only detect three of Ahmad’s men still in the fight. So far no one had paid him any attention but there were two men guarding the excavation who hadn’t left their posts. They stiffened as Mercer came closer.
He tried to shield his face but the wary men started to raise their weapons. Mercer kept on running, gesturing wildly and shouting gibberish. His ruse worked to a point. Neither man fired, but neither did they lower their assault rifles. Mercer was five feet away from them when he staggered. As he pretended to trip he swung the barrel of his HK just enough to put a round through one of the guards’ chests. The other man reacted a fraction slow and Mercer rammed into him with all his strength.
The two of them crashed to the ground just at the edge of the pit, with their guns sandwiched between them. Their faces were inches apart. Mercer could see the mad fanaticism in the other man’s eyes, like the glassy stare of a fever patient. The terrorist shouted something about Allah and fired his AK.
The heat as the gun discharged seared the flesh of Mercer’s stomach and the blood that pooled between them was as viscous as oil. The guard’s mouth split into a filthy smile but then his expression changed. Mercer nimbly pushed himself off the terrorist. His clothing was sodden with blood but apart from the burned skin he was unharmed. The guard looked down the length of his body and saw the barrel of his assault rifle pointing up into his own chest. In seconds the murderous light faded from his eyes. In an attempt to kill them both he’d only managed to commit suicide.
“You can’t be a martyr if you don’t kill your enemy,” Mercer said and heaved himself over the precipice into the tunnel.
He’d been prepared to hit the water because he’d seen Poli bring dive equipment, but he nearly impaled himself on the scuba gear dangling from the rope. The sound of the raging gun battle was muted by the stonework. Even when he heard a grenade explode, it was little more than the sound of distant thunder.
With no light to guide him, Mercer started up the long tunnel, keeping the HK over his head. After twenty feet he couldn’t hear the fighting at all, which meant Poli and Salibi didn’t know about the assault, preserving his element of surprise.
He’d gone fifty yards when he tripped over a set of steps hidden under the water. As he climbed, he became aware of light ahead, a ghost’s glow as feeble as a guttering candle. His hands unconsciously tightened on his rifle.
He left the water completely at the top of the stairs and saw that the tunnel turned ninety degrees. Mercer approached cautiously, peering around the corner with his cheek almost touching the floor.
This had to have been as much wire as Poli had brought, because the powerful flood lamp sat in the middle of a vast chamber. The ceiling lofted thirty feet over Mercer’s head, supported by tight ranks of sandstone columns fashioned in the shape of palm trees. It was typical Ancient Egyptian architecture. They knew they didn’t need that many supports for the ceiling, but the design was to depict a dense and bountiful forest. The sides of the room were hidden in shadow but the parts close enough for Mercer to see were covered in hieroglyphs.
Straining to hear anything, Mercer almost laughed aloud when he thought the immense space was as silent as a tomb.
He slid into the chamber, keeping close to the walls. He had passed twenty columns when he spotted something glinting in the darkness. Mercer forgot himself for a moment as he stared at the object. It was a marble statue of a man holding a short sword in his right hand. In the other was a ball of rope that had been sliced in two. Mercer realized this was Alexander the Great after he had cut the impossible to untie Gordian Knot, fulfilling the prophecy that he would one day rule Asia.