Crescent Dawn (Dirk Pitt 21)

“You,” he said, waving his gun at her. “Stand up.”

Sophie rose slowly to her feet but kept her eyes focused on the ground. The gunman poked his rifle beneath her chin, forcing her to raise her head.

“Leave her alone,” Raban cried in a weakened voice.

The gunman stepped over and thrust a boot at the agent, striking him on the side of the jaw. Raban crumpled over, lying on the sand in an open-eyed daze.

“Coward,” Sophie said, finally looking the Arab in the eye with contempt.

He slowly moved close to her. Easing his rifle up, he gently poked her in the cheek and jaw with the weapon’s muzzle.

“Mahmoud, you like that one?” his partner said, watching the confrontation with amusement. “She is pretty, for a Jew. And even prettier for an antiquities agent,” he added with a laugh.

Mahmoud said nothing, his eyes boring salaciously into Sophie’s. He eased the gun barrel down the side of her neck, then followed the border of her open-collared shirt, pressing the cool metal against her skin. When the barrel reached the top button of her blouse, he held it there, straining against the clasp. When it failed to give, he slowly pulled the barrel to one side, attempting a glimpse of her left breast.

Sophie wanted to knee him in the groin but opted for a quick kick to the shin, hoping it would lessen the likelihood of him killing her. Mahmoud jumped back, grunting in pain as he hopped about on one foot. His partner laughed aloud at the scene, heaping further humiliation on the gunman.

“You have a spirited one there. I think she is too brazen for you,” he taunted.

Mahmoud shook off the blow and marched over to Sophie. He stood so close that she could smell the dank odor of his breath.

“We shall see who is spirited,” he hissed, a rabid glare to his eyes.

He turned to hand his rifle to his partner when the loud whine of a generator erupted down the beach. A few seconds later, a pounding splash of cascading water echoed over the waves. All eyes turned that direction, and a faint silvery arc could be seen shooting over the horizon.

“Mahmoud, go and see what that is,” the partner ordered, his demeanor suddenly serious.

Mahmoud leaned toward Sophie and whispered in her ear, “I shall have fun with you when I return.”

Sophie eyed him with daggers as he turned and marched down the beach, his rifle at the ready. She then collapsed onto the sand, trying to hide her hands that trembled with fright. Trying to calm herself, she thought again of Dirk and wondered whether he might have had anything to do with the commotion.

As th

e figure of Mahmoud disappeared into the darkness, the other gunman paced nervously in front of the captives. He scanned down either stretch of beach, then stepped around the captives and surveyed the empty seats of the amphitheater with a flashlight. Finding nothing amiss, he resumed his position along the beachfront.

Lying on the sand, Sam rolled to a sitting position, finally regaining his bearings after an earlier blow to the head.

“How are you feeling, Sam?” Sophie asked him.

“Okay,” he answered in a slurred voice. He looked around at his fellow captives, slowly reorienting himself. His gaze shifted toward the gunman, and he raised an unsteady arm in his direction and asked, “Who’s that?”

“One of several terrorists holding us hostage,” Sophie replied bitterly. But she nearly choked on her last words as she glanced toward the guard and realized that wasn’t who Sam was asking about.

A dozen yards behind the Arab, a shadowy figure had emerged from the surf and was making a quick beeline toward the guard. He was tall and thin and carried a blunt object in his arms. Sophie’s heart nearly pounded out of her chest when she recognized the owner of the profile.

It was Dirk.

The gunman stood with his back to the sea, his eyes focused on the area around the amphitheater. Just a turn of the head would expose Dirk’s approach, leaving him quick fodder for the assault rifle. Sophie realized she had to hold the guard’s attention so that Dirk could approach unseen.

“What . . . what is your name?” she stammered.

The gunman gave her a quizzical look, then laughed.

“My name? Ha. You can call me David, the boy shepherd tending to my flock.”

He was proud of his joke and gazed at Sophie with beaming eyes. Sophie tried not to look past him as the shadowy figure moved closer.

“What will you do with the artifacts, David?” she asked, struggling to keep the man engaged.