The Templar Salvation (2010) (29 page)

Zahed nodded thoughtfully. “Then that’s what we need to do. First thing tomorrow.” He paused, then grinned and added, “We’ve got to beat the other treasure hunters to it.”

Sully chuckled. “Not a problem,” he replied, then his face lit up with an idea. “You know what? Let me call my uncle, Abdulkerim. He’s a Byzantinist, he used to be a professor at a university in Ankara. He now works as a tourist guide. You’ll like him. He lives down in Yahyali, which is near the canyons I’m talking about. He knows them better than anyone, and if anyone can help us figure it out, he can.” He pulled out his cell phone, glanced at it briefly, then seemed to remember something. “Damn, I forgot,” he said, holding up his phone with a sheepish look on his face. “There’s no signal up here.”

Zahed’s nerves went as taut as steel cables. He knew where those words would resonate, and glanced across at Simmons.

The eruption in the archaeologist’s eyes was all the confirmation he needed.

Chapter 29

N
o cell phone signal
. The comment set Simmons’s neurons on fire. No cell phone signal.

No detonator.

No bomb.

It was now or never—even more so as he saw his abductor’s right hand dive into his rucksack, where Simmons knew he’d stashed a handgun.

“He’s got a gun,” he yelled as he launched himself at Zahed.

He reached him just as the weapon made its appearance and thrust his left hand out at the hand gripping it while bending his right arm and aiming his elbow at his opponent’s face. His hand clamped down hard on the Iranian’s right wrist and shoved the gun away, flicking it off-target just as a wild round detonated out of it. Its roar exploded in Simmons’s eardrums and reverberated up the cliff behind them, but it didn’t slow down his right elbow, which connected with the shooter’s face a split second later. Zahed’s training came into play and he managed to avoid the worst of the blow by lunging backward, but the archaeologist’s taut forearm still plowed into the Iranian with a sickening crunch that lit up Simmons’s shoulder. The momentum of the collision caused them both to tumble off the boulder, Simmons hanging on to Zahed’s gun hand and fighting him for the weapon, the two of them twisting over each other and sliding backward before hitting the ground.

The Iranian’s head slammed back heavily against the loose rocks that littered the top of the incline, causing him to howl with pain—and loosening his fingers’ lock on the handgun. Simmons, still half-deaf from the gunshot, saw his opening and took it. With both hands now gripped around Zahed’s wrist, he raised it off the ground and pounded it back down, once, twice, again, hammering the back of the Iranian’s hand against the shards of rock, blood spurting out from it, until he saw the man’s grip weaken—and felt an eruption of pain in his right flank where Zahed’s balled fist had just impacted with the force of a pile driver. The blow was staggering. Simmons grunted out loud as he fought to keep control of his hold long enough for one last hit—which he just managed, but in yanking Zahed’s wrist too violently, he inadvertently sent the gun flying off and skittering down the rocky slope behind the Iranian.

Simmons’s heart stopped as he glimpsed it tumble out of reach, his nails now clawing into Zahed’s wrist, pinning it down against the scree, his mind reeling with confusion as to what to do next. He saw Sully’s shocked face looming down on him from higher up and yelled out, “Do something, help me get the g—”

Pain lit up his chest and brought the air in his lungs gushing out as Zahed landed another blow, this time using the heel of his free palm. Simmons jerked back, gasping for breath, his rib cage feeling as if someone had filled it with napalm and torched it. As he toppled back, Zahed rose in tandem, curling upright and lunging at Simmons with a bloodcurdling scream of pure fury. His fingers darted at Simmons’s throat like the fangs of a cobra, tightening around it with brutal strength. Simmons twisted his head left and right, trying to escape the Iranian’s death grip, his arms flailing wildly and landing insignificant, puppet jabs at the shooter. Zahed had Simmons’s head pinned down sideways now, crushing his left eye against the jagged edges of the gravel, squeezing the life out of him. Simmons felt his vision darken as the last vestiges of strength seeped out of him, and in that moment, he figured this was maybe a better way to go than watching his insides drain out of a huge hole in his belly—then something called out to him, something on the ground within reach, a stone, the size of a mango, just sitting there in that sideways angle of vision, offering him salvation. He’d almost lost all feeling in his arms by then, but somehow he managed to swing his arm over to it, coax his fingers to tighten around it, and will his muscles to give him one last swing.

The blow struck Zahed just below his ear, rattling him hard enough to cause his lips to judder out of sync with the rest of his head and send spit and blood spewing to one side. Simmons wheezed, his lungs desperate for air, and he lashed out with both arms, shoving the Iranian off him. Zahed fell back, onto his side, then snorted in a big gulp of air, shaking his head, his eyelids half-shut, his hand coming back from the wound dripping with blood. Then his eyes popped back open and locked on Simmons with a rage so primal, like nothing the archaeologist had ever witnessed before—and he was pushing himself to his feet like he was possessed.

Simmons bolted upright, breathing hard, alarms blaring inside his head and telling him he shouldn’t stick around and chance another mano a mano, not with this guy.

Telling him to get the hell out of there while he could.

He scrambled up the boulders to rejoin Sully, who was still standing there, transfixed, his face glistening with an outburst of sweat, his eyes alight with a combination of horror and confusion. Sully started to mouth, “What are you d—”

But his words dried up as he saw that Simmons wasn’t listening. The archaeologist’s mind was locked on one thought, his eyes scouring the ground frantically, desperate to find it—and then he spotted it, where he’d last seen it. Still in Sully’s hand.

The multitool.

“Give me your knife,” he rasped, and without waiting for an answer, he lunged at the guide and snatched it from him. He looked around, getting his bearings, then sensed movement to his side and turned to see Zahed clambering up the boulders to rejoin them.

The Iranian had something in his hand. His handgun. The bastard had managed to retrieve it.

“Run,” he yelled to the guide, grabbing him by his collar and yanking him down the rock-strewn incline and away from the monastery.

ZAHED’S HEAD WAS STILL RINGING from the blow, but he knew how to bury the pain until he had completed what he set out to do. He wasn’t about to let some pissant archaeologist mess up his plans. The man would be brought to heel. He’d teach him a lesson in respect and make sure he never forgot it.

But he had to get to him first.

He made it onto the last boulder in time to see the archaeologist scurrying down the slope about a hundred yards away, his feet struggling for purchase in the loose rocks. The guide was close behind him, but less assured in his movement. Something else, too—he was wasting time by looking over his shoulder repeatedly, wary of Zahed coming after them. Unlike Simmons, this was all new to him, it had hit him completely unexpectedly, and there was still a slight uncertainty about what was going on, an infinitesimal hesitation inside him, that was holding him back just slightly.

The hesitation was all Zahed needed.

The Iranian snatched his rucksack, shoved his gun into it, and slung it over his shoulder as he barreled after them, his eyes scanning the ground ahead and making sure to select the perfect footings for him as he hurried down the rocky incline. His mind was locked on the immediate essentials of the task at hand—making sure he didn’t trip and twist an ankle, keeping his breathing deep and sharp to keep his energy up, assessing his enemies’ changing positions and making micro-adjustments to his heading to gain precious seconds on them.

It was working.

He gained ground with every stride as his quarry scampered across a track of loose gravel before traversing diagonally down a steep hillside to reach a broad, grassy ridge. By now, Sully had fallen behind Simmons by about ten yards or so—and when he twisted around for another glance, Zahed was close enough to see the fear in his eyes. The sight gave him a boost of adrenaline that lit up his legs like an afterburner and soon brought the guide within reach.

He tackled his first target in a steeply angled scree bowl. They rolled down the slope, with Zahed’s arms clutched around Sully’s neck. He kept them in place until they reached the bottom of the slope, where Zahed adjusted the positions of his hands quickly—grabbing hold of Sully’s head with a tight, clawed grip—then twisted them around in one savage wrench to snap the guide’s neck. It gave way instantly in a loud crack of bone and cartilage, his head sagging to one side as his lifeless body toppled to the ground.

Zahed didn’t waste any time. He gave Sully’s pockets a quick frisk, found the guide’s phone, and stuffed it in his own pack. He also took the man’s keys and his wallet. Then he glanced around, saw an outcropping of rocks a dozen or so yards away, and grabbed hold of the dead man’s ankles and dragged him over to a position where he wouldn’t be easily spotted. The precious seconds would put more distance between him and Simmons, but he was confident he would still reach him in time, and given that he still had a lot of unfinished business in Turkey, it was best not to leave dead bodies lying too far out in the open.

Then he resumed his chase.

Simmons was a small silhouette in the distance by then, but it was enough. Zahed wasn’t in that much of a rush to catch up with him. They were still hours from where they’d left the cars, and the faster they got down there, the better, as far as he was concerned. He just needed to keep Simmons in sight and motivate him to keep going as fast as he could, which he managed to do by stalking him from a safe enough distance.

After about an hour of doing this, Zahed felt it was time to pounce. Simmons had slowed down and was moving awkwardly, and the Iranian guessed what he was up to.

He caught up with him by a narrow scree col and the head of a valley. Simmons saw him appear and stopped running. He was bent over with the tool in his hand, sawing desperately at the bomb belt, trying to cut it off.

Zahed just stood there and watched him from about ten yards away, breathing in deeply, slowing his heart rate back down, wiping his brow.

Simmons looked up, panting. His hand’s movements quickened as he sawed more frantically.

It wasn’t working. The cloth was too strong.

“I wouldn’t bother,” Zahed yelled out to him. “It’s made of sailcloth. Kevlar sailcloth. You can’t cut through it. Not with that, anyway.”

Simmons glared over at him, sweat streaking down his face, fear glistening in his eyes. He collapsed onto his knees, his hands working harder still, desperately trying to cut through the fabric.

“Besides,” Zahed said as he pulled out his phone and glanced at it, “guess what?” He held the phone face-front at Simmons, knowing the archaeologist was too far away to read its screen, but enjoying the taunt. “I’ve got a signal again.”

Simmons looked at him, breathless, his face contorted in exhaustion and despair.

“It’s up to you,” Zahed called out. “You want to live? Or are you ready to pack it all in?”

Simmons shut his eyes and didn’t move for an agonizing moment. Then, without looking up, he let the knife tumble out of his hand. It clinked against the scree. He didn’t move, didn’t look up. He just stayed there, immobile, slumped, his head drooped, his chin tucked in against his chest, his arms tightening around his waist, his entire body trembling.

“That’s a good boy,” Zahed said as he walked right up to him. He stood there, like a bullfighter looming over his downed prize—then he flicked his hand out and gave Simmons a ferocious backhanded slap that lifted the archaeologist off the ground and sent him plowing into the gravel.