The Eye of God (Sigma Force 9)

Monk had better not be late.

17

November 19, 12:17 A.M. QYZT

The Aral Sea, Kazakhstan

Rachel and the others hurried below, returning to the clutter of Father Josip’s inner sanctum. Deep in the warren of tunnels and rooms, the howl of the wind reached them as the storm bore down upon the derelict ship above their heads. It whistled through the rusted hull, shook loose tin, rattled broken rails.

Up above, the pilot was securing the chopper against the storm, positioning the craft on the leeward side of that mountain of corroded steel, and doing his best to seal and cover the engine and moving parts from the blowing salt and sand.

More of Josip’s crew occupied the lowermost levels, seemingly oblivious to the racket and danger, plainly used to retreating below when Nature grew too violent above. They lounged, or played cards, or did simple chores to occupy their time.

Rachel took some small comfort in their ease.

“Let’s get this box on the table,” Monk ordered Duncan.

As the two hauled the tarnished silver chest across the room, Jada shook sand from her hair and patted dust and salt off her clothes. But she wasn’t the only one with her feathers ruffled.

Sanjar coaxed his hooded falcon to a wooden perch. Heru flapped his wings several times, irritated, but his sharp claws clung to the roost; he knew better than to fly blind. His handler whispered soothingly, calming the bird with a preening scratch behind its neck.

Rachel stood next to him, appreciating his skill.

Her uncle had other interests. He waved Josip toward the table. “We should study this as thoroughly as we can, discern any clues about where to go next.”

Josip nodded, but again he wore that distracted look, as if his mind were elsewhere. He stood staring at a tall bookcase, his back to the table as Monk and Duncan placed the box next to the other relics.

Arslan moved to the priest’s side, as if to consult him.

Instead, he placed the muzzle of a black pistol into Josip’s side and barked loudly, “Everyone away from the table! Hands up and high!”

Caught off guard, no one moved for a breath—then men poured into the room through the open door, carrying rifles or curved swords. They appeared to be members of the excavation crew hired by Josip.

Gunfire echoed out in the hallway.

Rachel could guess the fate of the remainder of that crew. She pictured the explosion at the university, the bombing in Aktau. It seemed the enemy had been closer than anyone suspected all along.

Josip turned to his foreman, wearing a confused expression. “What is this about, Arslan?”

As answer, Arslan cuffed him hard across the mouth, splitting his lip. He then roughly grabbed Josip’s arm, spun him about, and moved the pistol to the middle of his back.

Sanjar stepped forward. “Cousin, what are you doing?”

“I do what the Master of the Blue Wolf commands,” Arslan said. “And you will obey. You swore allegiance, same as I.”

Josip turned to Sanjar with a wounded expression.

Arslan motioned with his head toward the door, bitter command in his voice. “Go now, Cousin. Or be buried here with them.”

Sanjar took a step back. “I agreed to watch, to report on Father Josip’s actions . . . but not this, never this. He is a good man. These others have done no harm.”

“Then die with them,” he said with ringing disdain. “You were always too weak, Sanjar, your head in the winds with your bird, pampered by your rich parents who looked down upon their poorer cousins. Never a true warrior of the khan.”

Turning aside, Arslan shouted to his crew in Mongolian. Four immediately ran up, scooped the relics from the table, and retreated to the door.

Rachel watched their hard-won treasures vanish.

Arslan followed in their wake, with Josip clutched in front of him, using the priest as a hostage and a shield. He called to his men, who began closing the door to the chamber. It was heavy steel. From the rivets and rust, it was probably a hatch salvaged from the ship above.

From the doorway, Arslan shared a final threat for his cousin, for them all. “While you were all gone, my warriors placed explosive charges throughout this hollowed-out rat’s nest. Rock will turn to dust, collapsing all. And as the heavy ship above sinks atop you, it will be your gravestone. None will ever know what happened here.”

A few men laughed harshly.

The crew kept their guns trained, especially on Monk and Duncan, wise enough to recognize the biggest danger to their plans.

“Kill them,” Arslan ordered his men in the room. “Then join us up top.”

Sanjar cast a glance toward Rachel, rolling his eyes up, then over to the falcon.

It took her a heartbeat, then she understood.

With the crew ignoring her, Rachel reached over and plucked the bonnet from Heru’s feathered head.

Sanjar yelled a command in his native tongue and pointed at Arslan. The falcon exploded off the perch, sweeping up to the wooden rafters that bolstered the sandstone roof.

Weapons shifted, shooting at the bird, the blasts stinging Rachel’s ears.

Untouched, Heru dove down, a feathered arrow shot from Sanjar’s bow. Claws raked Arslan, splitting cheek and scalp. Wings beat at his face, driving the man to his knees, screaming in pain.

Then gunfire erupted in the middle of the room.

12:38 A.M.

As soon as the nearest weapon swung toward the roof, Duncan moved. He bowled into the nearest guard, taking him down. The gunman’s head hit the corner of the table, hard enough to crack bone. The man fell limp under him.

He grabbed the loose rifle and rolled away. Still, on his back, Duncan took out a second assassin with a burst of rounds to the chest. Then gunfire chewed into the stone between his legs, chasing him backward, until he was under the table.

From his sheltered vantage, he took out the shooter’s left kneecap—as the man toppled, Duncan placed a round between his eyes.

Another attacker slid into view on his knees, strafing under the table.

Then the neighboring bookcase fell on top of him, crushing him. Monk clambered over the top and punched a stunned gunman in the throat with his prosthetic hand. With his larynx crushed, the man fell to his side, writhing, choking on blood.

At the exit, one of Arslan’s crew clubbed the bird away from their leader’s face.

Josip used the chaos to break free and run deeper into the room.

Two shots cracked loudly.

The priest’s chest blew out. He collided with Monk, who caught him in his arms.

Behind them, Arslan’s pistol still smoked as his men dragged his bloody form through the door. Duncan fired after them, but the hatch swung closed with a clang of steel.