The Eye of God (39 page)

Good,
Duncan thought.

Maybe if they could kill their leader, the rest would break ranks and flee.

Monk had his thumb on the detonator, his eyes fixed to the screen, waiting until the first few men had trotted their horses into the gap between the rocks and the cliff’s edge.

Now,
Duncan silently urged.

As if Monk had heard him, he pressed the detonator.

Nothing happened.

Or at least not much.

A blasting cap popped like a firecracker, flashing out in the darkness. The noise startled the nearest horse, sending it cantering forward, bumping and jostling the next in line. Other horses shied entirely away from the rockslide, keeping on this side.

“Cap must have fallen out of the first charge,” Monk mumbled. “That’s what I get for working in the damned dark.”

He twisted the detonator to the next charge and pressed the button again. This time a major explosion rocked the plateau. Ice and snow showered over them, shaken loose from the cliffs above.

Monk didn’t stop. In quick fashion, he blew the third and fourth charges in fast succession. Duncan’s ears rang from the explosions. Horses reared and whinnied. Riders fell out of their saddles.

“Go!” Monk ordered.

The three of them burst out of hiding, guns blazing.

As he fired, Duncan prayed Jada and Khaidu were safe.

6:39
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From the far side of the lake, Jada had watched three riders barrel into view around the rocks, the first wearing a formidable wolf mask. She had heard the retort, like a gunshot, a second before.

Then a series of loud fiery blasts had her cringing, covering her face with an arm. Boulders shattered amid a roll of smoke and rock dust. More came tumbling down to close off the lake from the other side. Smaller rocks continued to rain down, splashing into the water or bouncing over the granite shelf.

Jada held her breath, hoping the explosions had dispatched the three riders—but out of the smoke, a trio of horses thundered back into view, the beasts in full panic.

Taking advantage, Jada fired. She squeezed her trigger over and over again. She had never shot a pistol before, or any gun for that matter. So she opted for quantity versus quality.

Still, she hit one horse. It reared, the rider clinging tightly. That was a mistake. As the panicked mount turned on a back hoof, it leaped blindly, tumbling over the cliff’s edge, taking the rider, too. The man’s scream of terror as he fell pierced through the echoing blasts of her pistol.

Jada kept firing wildly.

Another lucky round caught a second man in the throat as he tried to bring his bow up. He fell out of his saddle, landing facedown in the water, splashing feebly.

The third rider, unharmed, came charging for her, a curved sword raised high. His wolf mask hid his face, making him appear a merciless force of nature.

Jada squeezed the trigger again, but it wouldn’t budge—the slide had locked back. Duncan had told her what that meant.

Out of bullets.

The rider swooped down upon her, his sword flashing in the moonlight.

Then an arrow zipped past her head, its feathers brushing her ear.

It flew and struck the horse in the neck.

The beast crashed, throwing the rider over its head toward Jada. She fled back on her knees, staring to the side as Khaidu struggled to notch another arrow to her bowstring, but the single pull had sapped the last of the young girl’s strength. Her fingers shook, pained sweat shining on her face, then the bow tumbled from her weak grasp.

The rider climbed to his feet. Behind him, his horse had fallen to its side, the stone slick with arterial blood, struck through the carotid.

Khaidu stared toward the beast with pity; plainly the horse hadn’t been her intended target. That was the man who picked up his sword and stalked toward them now. He had a palm resting on a holstered pistol.

Khaidu turned to her, the girl’s expression no less pitying. “Run . . .”

Jada took the advice, leaped to her feet, and dove into the neighboring lake.

Cruel laughter followed her down into the depths.

They both knew the truth.

Where could she go?

6:43
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Duncan ran through the chaos of horseflesh and men. When the rock pile blew, a rough head count put eight men still on this side, armed with swords and rifles. Duncan, along with Monk and Sanjar, had dispatched half in the opening moments of their ambush.

Now it was a more dangerous game.

One of the combatants had dismounted near the edge of the plateau and set up a sniper’s position, flat to the ground, taking potshots at them, keeping them on the defensive. Out in the open with little shelter, it would have been like shooting fish in a barrel—but with the mix of eight horses and the sniper’s fellow men out here, Duncan and the others had some cover.

If only that damned cover would quit moving or trying to kill you . . .

Monk slammed into Duncan, dancing from a round that ricocheted at his toes. They both ducked behind a horse for a few breaths. Duncan kept hold of its lead to keep their stallion between them and the sniper.

Sanjar joined them a second later.

Monk gasped. “Dunk, go take out that shooter.”

No argument here . . . that guy was really pissing him off.

“Sanjar and I’ll try to make it over the wall,” Monk said and pointed.

Moments ago, they had all heard the shooting on the far side, coming from the lake. A few of the enemy must have gotten through before the charges blew. Someone had to go help Jada and Khaidu.

Duncan understood. For that to happen, the sniper had to be taken out. Monk and Sanjar would never be able to scale that rubble and drop to the other side with the shooter having a clear shot at them.

“I got it,” Duncan said, “but I’m going to have to borrow this horse . . . and this guy’s helmet.”

He tugged the headgear from a body underfoot and slammed it atop his head. Once ready, he hooked a boot in a stirrup, got a nod from Monk, then leaped into the saddle. Grabbing the reins, he turned his steed toward the sniper and goaded the beast into a full gallop, the leather armor flapping with each strike of a hoof.

Duncan kept low to his mount’s neck, hoping the shooter only saw the horse and the helmet. The sniper fired—but he aimed into the chaos behind Duncan, likely spotting Monk and Sanjar striking for the wall.

Duncan centered on the muzzle flashes in the dark. He urged the horse faster in that direction, knowing he’d only have this one chance. Hooves pounded the granite; sweat flecked the stallion’s neck.

Then he reached the sniper.

He caught a look on the man’s face as the sniper realized the ruse too late. The horse tried to shy away at the last moment, but Duncan held him firm by the reins. Eight hundred pounds of Mongolian stallion trampled over the sniper’s sprawled body, stamping bone and crushing flesh.

Then Duncan was past him, flying down the slope toward the forest’s edge. It took several yards to slow and wheel the horse around and head back up. He slid from the saddle—not to check on the sniper, who was clearly dead, but to go for the man’s gun, to turn the tables on the enemy.

Unfortunately, an unlucky hoof had struck the rifle, breaking the stock and bending the barrel. He lifted the weapon up anyway and looked through the night-vision scope for his friends.

A bobbling search across the killing floor revealed Monk standing over a limp form near the wall, his pistol smoking. Sanjar slit another man’s throat, dropping his body. Then a horse moved, and Duncan spotted a final attacker, coming from behind them.

“MONK!” he yelled.

The whinnying and clattering of horses drowned his warning.

He could only watch as the man ran his sword through Sanjar’s back, while raising a rifle with his other hand toward Monk. Duncan recognized the attacker, even with his face in ruins.

Arslan.

Duncan was already on his feet running, knowing he’d be too late.

6:47
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Victory must be savored.

Batukhan stood over the young Mongol woman, no more than a girl, her stomach soaked in blood. She had some skill with the bow, dropping his horse with a single arrow. He now had his sword pressed between her small breasts, pushing enough to pierce cloth and skin and touch its point against the bone of her sternum.

Pain etched her features, but she still stared stonily at him.

Tough, hardy stock.

A flicker of pride for his people flared through him, not that he wouldn’t relish this kill. He remembered his favorite quote from Genghis Khan:
It is not sufficient that I succeed—all others must fail.

He would grant this one a quick death.

The American would be slower.

He held his pistol in his other hand, pointed back toward the lake. He would stalk the defenseless woman at his leisure. There was nowhere for her to run, no weapon with which to defend herself.

Smiling behind his mask, he leaned forward, ready to plunge his sword to sweet satisfaction—then a loud splash erupted behind him.

A glance behind revealed a dark figure rising out of the lake, a Nubian goddess, rushing toward him, swinging a deadly length of steel in one hand toward his head.

6:49
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Jada swung the crowbar at the beast’s head, ready to cleave it clean off the man’s shoulders.

After diving into the lake, she remembered Duncan abandoning the tool below after cracking open the satellite’s bulk. She might not be good with a pistol—but from years of racing triathlons, she had stamina and knew how to swim. While crossing the lake, she had taken a few breaths by surfacing on her back, bringing just her lips and nose up enough to get air. Once in position, she dove deep and used the moonlight through the clear water to find and seize her weapon.

Then she swam back, gliding through the shallows, trusting the reflection of starlight on the midnight lake to hide her.

She waited until the man was turned fully away to leap forth and attack. But alerted at the last minute, he shifted enough to take the blow to the crown of his helmet.

Steel rang against steel.

The shock ran up her arm to her shoulder, numbing her fingers enough to lose the crowbar. It clanked against the stone.

Still, the resounding strike dented the man’s helmet and staggered him back. He dropped the sword, weaving on his legs—but unfortunately he kept hold of his pistol.

He raised it to point at her chest and swept his damaged helmet off with his other hand. He cursed at her in his native language, his face as much a mask as before, but now one of fury and vengeance.

He shoved the pistol at her—then winced in shock, dropping heavily and suddenly to his knees.

Behind him, Khaidu held his abandoned sword, bloody after slashing him across the back of the legs, where he had little armor, hamstringing and crippling him.

Jada kicked out with a waterlogged boot and struck the gun from his stunned fingers. The weapon flew and splashed into the water. She then retrieved the crowbar from the ground, and with an uppercut swing, cracked him in the chin. His head flew back—then the rest of his body followed.

He crashed to the stone, knocked cold, bleeding from his legs.

Jada hurried to Khaidu’s side and helped her to her feet.

They weren’t out of danger yet.

6:52
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As panic slowed time, Duncan ran through molasses. He staggered toward the tableau of Sanjar pierced clean through, of Monk turning too slowly, of Arslan aiming his rifle at his partner’s back.

Underfoot, the rock ran slick with the blood of men and horses. Large panicked bodies shoved around him.

Never make it.

Sanjar slumped to his knees—then glanced up and yelled, “HERU!”

Arslan flinched from that name, dropping back and ducking, raising his rifle in defense against the falcon.

A bird that wasn’t there.

Monk used the shock to swing around, shifting his pistol up.

But Sanjar surged to his feet, dagger in hand, and slammed it to the hilt into Arslan’s neck. The falconer had used the phantom of his own bird to terrorize his cousin, knowing Arslan would react with panic and alarm after his recent mauling.

Sanjar dragged Arslan down, twisting his knife as he did so. Blood poured thickly from Arslan’s mouth and nose, drowning him in racking quakes. As the man finally slumped, his eyes glassy, Sanjar shoved him away—then fell onto his back himself.

A shining dark pool quickly formed under him.

Duncan finally reached the others and slid on his knees to Sanjar’s side. But someone beat him first to the young man.

A shadow of wings swept down, and a sleek form alighted onto his master’s chest. The falcon fluttered and rustled, bending his head down, brushing Sanjar’s chin and cheek.

Hands rose to cradle the bird. Fingers freed the leather jesses from around Heru’s talons. He then brought the falcon to his lips, whispering something into the ruff of feathers.

Done saying good-bye, Sanjar let his head drop back, a shadow of a smile on his lips as he gazed up at the open starry sky. For several breaths, he lay there—then his hands went slack, slipping away, freeing his companion.

Heru leaped forth and sailed high into that same sky.

Sanjar stared upward, but he was already gone, too.

7:10
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Fear stoked them all to move faster.

Jada had changed into dry clothes and hurriedly secured her pack to her horse, patting the gyroscopic casing inside. So much blood had been lost to secure this piece of the wreckage. She refused to let those sacrifices be in vain.