The Lost Throne (45 page)

Her screams echoed through the night as Payne and Jones scrambled into position.

“Shut up!” Payne ordered as he slipped off his pack.

He helped her understand his orders by clamping his hand over her mouth and pulling her back into the trees. Then he forced her to crouch near the ground.

“Stay here,” he whispered. “Do you understand me? Stay
here
!”

She nodded her head.

“I’ll be back,” he said as he ran up the hillside, searching for more Spartans.

Jones had started his search a moment before, occasionally clicking his flashlight on to hunt for footprints. As far as he could tell, only two men had been lying in wait. And they were now dead. Payne came to the same conclusion a few minutes later.

They reconvened near the bodies, hoping to learn more about their enemy. They stared at the armor with amazement. The helmets, shields, greaves, and swords. Both Payne and Jones were experts on the history of war. At the military academies, they had studied ancient warfare and particularly loved reading about the Spartans. Still, in their wildest dreams, they had never imagined they would come across hoplites on the battlefield.

It didn’t make any sense—even in an archaic place like Mount Athos.

“What do you think?” Payne asked as he picked up a sword.

Jones laughed. “What do I think? I think Jarkko dropped us off in Ancient Greece. I don’t know what he paid for his yacht, but it was worth every penny.”

“D.J., I’m serious.”

“I am, too. If we hurry, maybe we can help them build the Parthenon.”

Payne grinned and turned his attention to Allison. She was standing next to him, staring at the blade he held in his hands, even though she had been told to stay behind. “Are you okay?”

She nodded but said nothing. Prior to her trip to Russia, she had never seen anyone killed before. Now everywhere she turned, she was surrounded by death.

It would take a while for things to sink in.

“Come on,” Payne said as he tossed the sword to the ground. “We have to get moving. It’s just a matter of time before the guards investigate the gunshots.”

D
ial heard the gunfire from his position on the mountain. It had come in disciplined bursts. Two shots, a long pause, and then a rapid cluster. Whoever was firing was a seasoned pro.

And they were shooting at something on the southeastern side of Mount Athos.

“Son of a bitch,” Dial growled, realizing that his search party was on the southwestern side of the mountain—the same side where the dead monks had been found. “Who’s over there?”

“Let me find out,” Petros said as he turned up his radio and started asking questions in Greek. A few minutes passed before he had an answer. “It is not the guards.”

“Shit!” Dial blurted. “That means one of two things. Either the Spartans are carrying guns, or there’s another party on the mountain. And if I had to guess, I’d go with number two.”

“Why is that?” Andropoulos asked.

“Because if the Spartans have guns, who are they firing at? I mean, we’re over here.”

“That is true.”

“It also means there might be more Spartans over
there
. Because that other party is firing at someone, and it’s certainly not us.”

Dial paused, rubbing his chin in thought. As he did, Petros and Andropoulos stared at him, waiting for his next set of instructions. None of the guards had as much experience in hostile situations as Dial. For the time being, everyone was willing to follow his lead.

“Petros, we’re at a serious disadvantage here. Multiple groups of armed men are climbing your mountain and we don’t know why. We don’t know where they’re headed, and we’re clueless about their numbers. The only thing we know for sure is that they’re willing to kill.”

“What should we do?”

“Honestly? We shouldn’t do anything. We should recall the guards and wait for reinforcements.”

“We should
wait
? They killed two monks, and we should
wait
?”

Dial nodded. “Here’s the problem. In combat, elevated positions have an advantage. We’re several minutes behind them in our climb. That means there’s no way we can overtake them without going through them. If we had superior firepower or twice as many men, I’d be tempted to take those odds. But as it stands, our pursuit would be suicide.”

Petros asked, “What if I could change the odds? What if we could get in front of them?”

“How? Do you have a helicopter I don’t know about?”

He shook his head. “No, but I have an idea that just might work.”

D
riving as fast as he could, Petros explained his plan to Dial and Andropoulos. “There is an old goat path up the western side of the mountain. It starts near Agíou Pávlou and crosses toward the southern face. If we hurry, we might be able to beat the soldiers to that point.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” Dial demanded. “We could have set up shop on the mountain and pinned the Spartans in.”

Their cart hit a dip in the road. They all bounced roughly in their seats as Petros struggled to maintain control. He temporarily eased off the accelerator until he had righted things.

“It is not that simple. The path is too narrow for this cart to fit.”

“Then how would we get up there?”

“Motorcycles.”

Dial stared at him in disbelief. “The monks have
motorcycles
?”

“Last year,” Petros said, “two men came to Athos on a trip across Greece. They brought their motorcycles over on the ferry and parked them outside our walls. The men were supposed to stay for three days. Once inside, they fell in love with the monastic life. One of the abbots gave them permission to stay longer, and they haven’t left since.”

“And their bikes?”

“We moved them into storage.”

“But there’s two of them, right?”

“Yes, only two.”

“But there’s
three
of us.”

Petros nodded. “Someone will have to ride double.”

“I am very experienced,” Andropoulos said from the backseat. “I have owned a motorcycle for many years, so I can drive one up the path.”

“What about you?” Petros asked Dial as their bumpy ride continued.

Dial groaned in frustration. He hadn’t driven a bike in decades. And even then, he had never taken one off pavement. Throw in the darkness factor, and Dial realized he had no choice.

He would have to rely on Andropoulos.

P
ayne stared at a photocopy of the treasure map that they had made in Limnos, and then glanced at the rock face above him. It was fifteen feet high and angled back toward them. There was no way they could climb it without the proper equipment.

“What now?” Jones asked as he shined his light on the ridge.

“We have to go around it.”

“Which way?”

“If we go east,” Payne said, “we’re moving closer to the largest monastery on the peninsula. There’s no telling how many guards will be over there.”

“What about west?”

“There are several monasteries and sketes, but they’re a lot farther away.”

“What do you think, Allison?”

She blinked, surprised that they were asking her opinion. “Let’s go west.”

Payne nodded his approval. “You heard the lady. West it is.”

P
etros accelerated on the dual-sport bike, which was street legal but had off-road capability, and rocketed up the goat trail. Andropoulos and Dial were next, only they took things much slower. Their headlight lit the way as they crept past the weeds and trees that lined the narrow path.

“Are you all right?” Andropoulos shouted over his shoulder.

Dial ignored the question. “Can’t this thing go any faster?”

“It can go
much
faster.”

“Then quit talking and start driving.”

Andropoulos grinned. “Yes, sir!”

In a flash, their speed tripled, and Dial found himself holding on for dear life. The young cop proved his skill by accelerating and turning like an expert. Despite the extra weight, they found themselves catching up to Petros less than a minute later.

They rode like this for nearly 3 miles, cutting across the western face while gradually climbing higher. Dial did calculations in his head and tried to figure out how high they had to go in order to guarantee that they would be ahead of the Spartans. Unfortunately, it was an equation he couldn’t solve without knowing all the variables.

When did the Spartans arrive on the peninsula? How fast were they moving? Were they headed straight up the mountain, or did they start to angle toward the east or west?

Actually, Dial wasn’t even sure when the Spartans would stop marching. Maybe they were heading to a cave that was only a thousand feet from the shore. If that was so, they might have overshot the Spartans by several hundred feet.

A few seconds later, Dial found out that wasn’t the case.

T
he two Spartans heard the roar of the engines long before they saw the headlights approach. They quickly repositioned themselves along the footpath, preparing for a sneak attack. One crouched behind a boulder to the south of the trail. The other remained standing, hidden by a thick grove of trees. On the battlefield, Spartans would never relinquish their shields—it was considered the ultimate sin, because it left other soldiers in the phalanx unprotected. But here, where mobility was more important than defense, it was the right thing to do.

Both Spartans clutched their swords with two hands, ready to strike.

P
etros led the charge over the crest of the hill. He was fifty feet ahead of Dial and Andropoulos, barely within range of their headlight, when the Spartan in the trees launched his assault.

As Petros sped through the night, the Spartan stepped forward and swung his weapon with all his strength. Years of discipline and training went into that swing, and it showed when his blade made contact. One moment Petros’s head was attached to his neck; the next it was spinning through the air as the rest of his body shot forward on the motorcycle. Somehow the bike stayed upright for several feet before it tilted off the path and crashed into a tree, tossing the headless corpse into the air like a scarecrow in a dust storm.

Dial saw none of this from his position on the back of the second bike. But Andropoulos saw it all. The sword, the head, and the Spartan who blocked their path. Not wanting to suffer the same fate as Petros, the young Greek went into a controlled slide—hitting the brake and shifting his weight in order to minimize the impact of his fall. His front wheel went sideways, and so did he. Dial fell first, tumbling off the back of the bike and skidding to a painful stop on the upslope of the mountain. Andropoulos was dragged twenty feet farther, tumbling along the rock-strewn turf until his momentum slowly died.

When everything stopped moving, Dial and Andropoulos were left sprawling on the side of the road. Both of them were conscious, but badly bruised and scraped. Somehow their motorcycle had twisted around on the ground, so its headlight was now pointed back at them. The bright beam of light allowed them to see, but what they saw was frightening.

Two Spartans were coming in for the kill.

Dial reached down for his gun, his fingers fumbling with the strap on his holster. Seconds passed before he heard the quiet snap that allowed him to yank his weapon free. But by then it was too late; the Spartan was upon him.

He kicked the gun out of Dial’s hand and laughed as he did. He was going to enjoy this. His sword was already slathered in blood, fresh from his recent kill. Now he could add some more.

Two victims in less than a minute. His ancestors would be proud. The Spartan lifted the sword above his head, ready to drive it through Dial’s chest.

And all Dial could do was watch.

A
s the blade started forward, Dial heard the two most beautiful sounds of his entire life. A gunshot rang out from the tree line, followed by a soft gasp from the Spartan’s mouth.

His cocky laughter from a moment before had been replaced by his dying breath.

Blood gushed from the hole in the warrior’s neck as he slumped to the ground. As he did, he tried to use his last ounce of strength to kill one more opponent. With wide eyes, Dial watched the sword on its downward flight as it headed straight for his face. But before it made contact, multiple shots burst from the night, knocking the Spartan off-balance. His blade struck the ground with so much force that it remained upright a lot longer than he did.

The sword stood at attention like a flag planted on foreign soil.

Dial turned his head and stared at it. He gulped as he did.

Four inches to the left, and he would have been dead.

“Are you all right?” called a voice from the trees.

“Yes,” Dial said, his heart pounding in his chest. “I’m fine.”

“Show me your hands.”

“What?”

“Show me your fucking hands!”

“Okay.” From his prone position, Dial lifted his arms slowly. “I’m unarmed.”

“Are you alone?”

“No. I was riding with my partner.”

“Your partner?”

“I’m a cop. . . . Is my partner all right?”

The shooter in the trees crept closer, trying to see the face of the cop he had just saved. “Your partner is fine. What are you doing here?”

“I’m working on a case.”

“What kind of case?”

“A homicide. . . . The men with swords killed several monks.”

Silence filled the air for several seconds. Dial glanced toward the tree line, from where the shooter had last spoken, but saw nothing. A moment later, Dial heard footsteps behind him.

Somehow the shooter had traveled twenty feet without making a sound.

“Damn,” Dial said to himself. “What are you doing back there?”

“I’m picking up your gun.”

“Oh.”

Dial listened closely, worried that the man was going to put a bullet in the back of his head. Some criminals got a special thrill from that, using a cop’s weapon against him. Then again, if he had wanted Dial to die, why had he just saved his life?

“Can you sit up?” asked the shooter.