Celtic Empire (Dirk Pitt 25)

While Summer was setting the loader in motion, Dirk had circled the palace ruins and sprinted to the body of the antiquities agent. He ducked beside the dead man and retrieved his sidearm. It was a bulky, antiquated Webley Mk VI revolver, but it still packed a lethal kick with its .455 caliber cartridges.

Dirk had barely gotten his hand around the gun’s grip when popping erupted and the sand kicked up in front of him. He dropped flat beside the body, which absorbed a pair of rounds. Targeting the source, Dirk rose and fired two quick shots, then sprinted east across the site.

The gunman recovered to fire another salvo, struck only air, as Dirk dove into the pit that held the offering table. Summer appeared a few seconds later, leading the others through the trench with their heads down.

Summer gave a mirthless grin. “I guess we’ve got ’em right where we want ’em.”

“I’ve still got a few rounds,” Dirk said. “To buy us time to summon help.”

“A little tough without cell coverage.”

Riki slipped past Summer to the head of the group and poked her head over the side. Dirk eyed the attractive woman.

“You best keep your head down,” he said. He popped up for a quick look, leading with the Webley.

The two surviving gunmen had dropped into the trench that ran perpendicularly and were now inching closer. Dirk fired a shot to deter them, the bullet raising dust in front of the trench.

The two men ducked low for a moment, then one sprang up and flung a round object toward the group.

“Grenade!” Dirk shouted. “Everybody down!”

The grenade bounced into the trench near Stanley at the back of the line. It struck the ground a few feet away and detonated.

With its deafening boom, the explosion kicked up a cloud of dirt and more dust. Once the debris began to settle, Dirk moved through the haze to the point of the explosion. He passed the two laborers, who were picking themselves up, appeared unhurt. Zeibig was just beyond, leaning over Stanley.

“How’s the professor?” Dirk asked.

His ears ringing, Zeibig couldn’t hear the question. He did note Dirk’s presence. “Leg,” he said.

Zeibig had a smattering of blood on his arm and shoulder, yet he appeared pristine compared to Stanley. The British archeologist was caked in dust and splattered with blood, but his clothes and limbs seemed intact. Zeibig had already torn a strip from Stanley’s shredded pants and was using it to bandage a damp red spot near his knee.

His eyes glazed, the archeologist mumbled quietly.

Summer appeared behind Dirk. “We can’t take another one of those.”

Dirk nodded. He jumped up with the revolver and fired a snap shot at the gunmen’s shadowed location in the nearby trench.

He took cover. “We need to move.”

“I don’t think he can walk,” Summer said, motioning at Stanley.

Dirk nodded and climbed past them. He positioned himself with a clear shot down the trench line, raised his weapon, and waited for a gunman to appear.

“Dirk, look at this.”

Zeibig was digging at the side of the trench, but his body blocked Dirk’s view.

“What is it?”

“An opening.”

Dirk rose and fired another shot, then glanced again. Summer had joined Zeibig in tugging a thick chunk of limestone from the trench wall and rolling it aside. Where the stone had been, a black hole beckoned.

“The blast opened a hole in the trench,” Zeibig said. “I felt a cool draft on my leg.”

The NUMA archeologist pulled his phone from his pocket, activated its light, and stuck it in the hole. He craned his head against the opening, then turned to Summer and nodded.

“It appears to be a passageway.”