The Pharaoh's Secret (NUMA Files 13)

“Time is on their side,” the Egyptian said. “At least a dozen men have boarded your ship. Perhaps more. There is a third rubber boat nearing the stern.”

A second exchange of gunfire well aft of their position confirmed what the Egyptian was saying.

“That’s no good,” Bracko replied. “The weapons locker is on the lower aft deck. If my men can’t get to it or make it back here, we’ll be badly outnumbered.”

The Egyptian moved to the bulkhead door, opened it a crack and stared down the passageway. “It appears as if that’s already the case.”

The sound of lumbering footsteps came down the passageway and Bracko readied himself for a fight, but the Egyptian opened the door to let a limping, bleeding crewman stumble through.

“They’ve taken the lower deck,” the crewman managed.

“Where are the rifles?”

The crewman shook his head. “We couldn’t get to them.”

The man held his stomach where the blood was spreading from a bullet wound. He slumped to the floor and lay there.

The boarding party was coming forward, shooting anything that got in the way. Bracko left the wheel and tried to help his crewman.

“Leave him,” the Egyptian said. “We need to move.”

Bracko hated to do it, but he could see it was too late. Furious and wanting to draw blood, Bracko cocked the pistol and stepped to the hatchway. He was ready to go into battle, guns blazing and come what may, but the Egyptian grabbed him and held him back.

“Let go of me,” Bracko demanded.

“So you can die uselessly?”

“They’re murdering my crew. I won’t let that happen without answering.”

“Your crew are meaningless,” Ammon Ta replied coldly. “We have to reach my cargo.”

Bracko was stunned. “Do you really think you’re going to get out of here with your hash?”

“Those barrels contain something far more potent,” the Egyptian replied. “Potent enough to save your ship from these fools if we can get to it in time. Now, take me to them.”

As the Egyptian spoke, Bracko noticed an odd intensity in the man’s eyes. Maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t lying. “Come on.”

With the Egyptian behind him, Bracko climbed through the shattered bridge window and jumped to the nearest shipping container. It was a six-foot drop and he landed with an awkward bang, bruising his knee.

The Egyptian landed beside him, immediately crouching and turning.

“Your cargo is in the first row of containers,” Bracko explained. “Follow me.”

They took off running, hopping from container to container. When they reached the forward row, Bracko climbed down between the containers and dropped to the deck.

The Egyptian stayed with him and they hid for a moment between the huge metal boxes. By now, the muted sound of gunfire was far more sporadic: a shot here, another shot there. The battle was ending.

“This is the one,” Bracko said.

“Open it,” the Egyptian demanded.

Bracko used his master key on the padlock and yanked hard on the lever that secured the door. He cringed as the ancient hinges sang out with a falsetto screech.

“Inside,” the Egyptian ordered.

Bracko stepped into the dark container and flicked on a handheld light. One of the cylindrical propane tanks took up most of the room, but against the far wall were the white barrels the Egyptian had brought aboard.

Bracko led Ammon Ta to them.