The Templar Salvation (2010)

by Raymond Khoury

  She nodded ahead and said, “North. There are Christian communities there, small villages and monasteries built into cliffs. They’ll take us in.”

  Conrad gave her a doubtful look.

  “They don’t need to know what you just hid in those caves,” she told him.

  He shrugged. She was right.

  He spurred his mount forward.

  They trotted away, leaving behind her father’s grave, leaving behind the trove that so many had died for, uncertain about what to do with it from here on.

  Chapter 42

  Reilly advanced cautiously across the canyon, hugging the shadows. He’d spotted the dusty Cherokee parked in a small clearing by the side of the road, sitting slightly apart from a handful of other cars. A rusting sign in three languages had told him it was a staging point for hikers setting off to explore the Zelve canyons and had set his Spidey-sense tingling.

  His eyes strained as they monitored the surreal landscape around him. There was too much for them to take in—unusual shapes casting unusual shadows, shapes his eyes weren’t accustomed to, the entire target area riddled with ominous dark openings that felt like a thousand eyes tracking his every move. He felt like he’d been sucked into a Dali painting or teleported into an episode of Star Trek, and it was impossible to keep it all under watch. Still, he concentrated on the bigger picture, making sure his peripheral vision was on high alert for any sign of movement.

  He navigated his way through a cluster of fairy chimneys and reached a field of massive rock cones that nestled at the base of a tall cliff. Small windows peeked out of every one of them, vestiges of a long-gone community that had lived within. The cliff banked to the right, disappearing out of view behind a thicket of almond trees. The whole valley was eerily quiet now, adding to the sense of unease that Reilly felt with each new step through the ghost town.

  He was about to clear the last of the rock cones when he glimpsed movement beyond the trees. He quickly ducked out of view into the doorway of the nearest house. He craned his head out carefully while reaching into his pack for his weapon—and they appeared. The man he didn’t know, followed by Tess, then his quarry.

  Walking his way.

  Unaware of his presence.

  Without taking his eyes off the approaching figures, Reilly muffled the gun between his thigh and the rock face and chambered a round, then brought the weapon up. If they were making their way back to the Jeep, they would go past him. Which would give him an opportunity to finish it—for good.

  He watched as they rounded the cones, disappearing momentarily behind one of them before reappearing in a gap between two others. He crept carefully from one cone to another, keeping Tess and the others in view, inching closer, his gun ready in a tight, two-fisted grip, until he was about thirty yards from them and had a bead on the Iranian’s back.

  He debated pulling the trigger right there. Thirty yards, unobstructed view—he wouldn’t have too much trouble dropping the bastard there and then. He straightened his arms and took aim, tracking his target with the sight on the automatic’s barrel. His chest constricted as he tightened his finger around the trigger. One pull was all it would take. One pull and the motherfucker would be gone.

  And none of the questions would be answered.

  Not who he really was. Who he was working for. What else he had done. What else he was planning.

  The answers would die with him.

  Reilly ground his teeth, hard. Wanting to pull that trigger. Wanting it bad. But unable to follow through. And in that moment of indecision, in those fleeting few seconds, the opportunity vanished. The angle of the path meant that the Iranian was now positioned directly between Reilly and Tess, and a bullet from Reilly’s gun risked going through him and hitting Tess. He had to find a clear shot again and thought of going for a thigh shot to at least cripple him—

  Then he decided he wanted him alive and sprang out from his cover.

  “Tess, move away,” he yelled, his heart kicking at his rib cage. He was stepping sideways to find a clear angle at the Iranian and keep him off balance while waving Tess to one side before jabbing a finger straight at the Iranian. “You, get your hands up where I can see them. Do it.”

  They all spun around in surprise. Reilly flicked a quick glance at Tess and registered the relief flooding her face, but he couldn’t afford any more than that and yanked his eyes back onto his target.

  The Iranian had spread his arms out slightly, low, level with his waist. He had his gaze locked on Reilly and was inching sideways too, clearly thinking the same thing as Reilly and trying to keep Tess in a vulnerable place for a through-shot.

  Reilly struck out an open palm at him. “Stop right there and get your hands all the way up. Do it,” he growled. “Tess, get the hell away from him—”

  And in that instant, everything went wrong.

  The Iranian lunged at Tess, too fast and too close to her for Reilly to risk taking a shot, grabbing her and flinging her in front of him to shield himself. He had his right arm tightly clasped around her neck, then he moved his left hand out, just enough to give Reilly a clear view of it. He was holding a phone in it.

  “She’s wearing a bomb,” he shouted back. His right hand went down her front and yanked her shirt up to reveal the canvas belt around her waist. “I’ll blow her guts all over this fucking canyon if you don’t drop your weapon right now.”

  Blood flushed into Reilly’s temples. “You’ll take yourself out too if you do that,” he blurted, the realization that he was playing a losing hand flaring through him.

  The Iranian grinned. “You think a good Muslim like me would have a problem dying for his cause?” His face tightened. “Put the fucking gun down or she dies,” he barked.

  Reilly felt his feet riveted to the ground, his arm muscles taut to their tearing point. He had no choice. He sucked in a deep, slow breath and rotated the gun sideways and up, on display to the Iranian, his other palm open in a calming gesture.

  “Put the safety on and throw it away,” the Iranian ordered, his hand signaling to Reilly to toss it to his right. “Far.”

  Without taking his eyes off the bomber, Reilly flicked the safety on. Then he chucked the gun aside and watched it land about ten yards from him, thudding flat against the hard soil, his insides pulverized by the realization that he’d messed up and would probably soon be stone dead.

  The Iranian’s face relaxed, as did his grip on Tess. He took a step back and away from her, and as he did, his hand dove quietly into his rucksack.

  The rucksack dropped to the ground by his feet as his hand came back up. It had a gun in its grip.

  “Say hi to the virgins for me,” he yelled out as his finger pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 43

  He’s going to kill Sean. Wild emotions ripped through Tess as her eyes followed the handgun’s flight and watched it hit the ground. First he’s still alive—not just alive, but here, standing in front of her, unscathed. Not just that, but he’s rescuing her, he’s got a gun on the son of a bitch—and now he’s going to die?

  Because of her?

  Because of her damn phone call?

  No way.

  She couldn’t let it happen.

  No fucking way.

  With a ferocious, primal yell, she launched herself at her captor with the unbridled fury of a caged predator. Regardless of the consequences. Regardless of whether or not she was going to get blown apart. If she was going to die, if he was going to hit that button, she was damn well going to take him with her.

  She took him by complete surprise.

  She hit him hard, slamming into him from his left, the sideways tackle pushing him off his feet and swinging his gun hand wide just as he squeezed the trigger. She didn’t see where the round went, didn’t have time to see if Reilly was still standing, but her gut told her she’d got there in time and that Reilly had to be okay. What she did see was the Iranian’s left hand—the one with the phone. She saw it come up in a defensive reflex j
ust as she rammed him, saw it rising to block her, saw its grasp loosen, saw the phone fly out of it and fall to the ground—and in that millisecond, she felt her breathing cut out, felt the whole world freeze, expecting the explosion, expecting to feel her insides ripped out—but it didn’t happen. She didn’t explode. She was still there, in one piece, still there to feel the full brunt of the Iranian’s elbow that flew up and smashed into the back of her jaw as they both fell to the ground.

  REILLY’S HEART BLEW A GASKET as he saw Tess make her move.

  It took over, overriding his brain, cutting off any attempt at thought and spurring his legs to just take off.

  Which he did—fast, like a sprinter going for gold. Or steel, in this case. The hard, tempered steel of the automatic, ten yards to his right.

  He’d seen the phone fly out of the bomber’s hand, seen Tess tumble to the ground with him. He didn’t have enough time to get to them and intervene. The Iranian would very quickly have the upper hand again. Reilly had to get to his gun, fast, and hope his aim would prove as true as it had been on his best ever day at the firing range. Or better. He’d get one shot, if that. It had to count.

  His legs at full gallop, he flicked a quick glance sideways, but couldn’t see more than the tangle of both bodies. He flung his eyes back at the ground ahead, at the gun.

  Five yards.

  Three.

  One.

  He was there.

  TESS FELT HER BRAIN RATTLE under the impact of the Iranian’s elbow, but she stayed on him, both hands clamped tight against his gun wrist like the jaws of a rabid wolf.

  She had to keep the weapon at bay, just a second or two longer, knowing Reilly had to be on the move, hoping he’d soon be with her, but she only managed to keep the Iranian’s gun hand pinned to the ground for a couple of heartbeats before his left hand flew up to her face and shoved her head back. She fell backward, but didn’t let go, even as his gun hand rose off the ground and swung toward her.

  Instead of recoiling backward, she surprised herself by doing the opposite. She lunged forward and pulled his hand closer to her before biting down into it as hard as she could. She heard the Iranian grunt-curse as her teeth sank into him, and she felt tendons and cartilage snapping under her bite. In the frenzy of the moment, she saw his fingers loosen around the weapon’s grip, and her bite went into overdrive. The Iranian shouted angrily and reared up, lifting her up with him as he flung his arm to shake her off. She twisted on herself, felt her neck bending out of shape, but stayed on him, her teeth still digging in—then the gun flew out of his grip.

  He lashed out with his other hand again, his fingers digging into her cheeks, looking for her eyes. The pain was too intense—she had to let go. The release unleashed him, and he pushed her off with a hard shove to her chest. She scurried backward, out of his reach, her eyes darting left and right, searching for the gun.

  As were his.

  Both found it at the same time, a few feet behind him. She met his eyes for a nanosecond, the raw anger blazing out of them more terrifying than the gun itself.

  Then he moved, diving for the gun.

  REILLY SNATCHED THE GUN off the ground and swung his arms around and up, into position, in a two-fisted stance, ready to take the shot, his eyes taking an instant read of the situation.

  The first thing that registered was that the Iranian and Tess were a few feet apart and she was clear of him, which was good. Less good was that the Iranian had the gun in his hand—and was aiming it right at him.

  Reilly squeezed off a round and dove to his left just as a volley of bullets whizzed by, so close that he actually heard them cutting the air mere inches from his cheek. He rolled on the ground, heading toward the nearest cone house, pulling the trigger every time he was lying on his front, but he knew full well that he wasn’t likely to hit him like that, especially given that the Iranian was also low on the ground and made for a small target. He just had to keep him pinned down long enough to give Tess a chance to make a break for it.

  Which, he now saw, she was doing.

  THE BULLETS THUNDERED THROUGH TESS’S EARSand froze her in place—then she snapped back and got moving.

  She saw Abdulkerim waving to her from behind a cone house and started for him before almost tripping over something: the Iranian’s rucksack. She scooped it up by the handle without slowing down and sprinted across to join the Byzantinist.

  The man was buzzing with panic. “The phone, that’s the trigger to … ?” He couldn’t even say the word.

  “Yes,” she fired back, flinching with each gunshot that echoed through the valley.

  “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied, still breathless. “He dropped it.”

  “Come,” he told her. “Follow me.”

  He led her through the maze of tightly packed cone houses.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “In there,” he said as he stopped by the doorway of a nondescript dwelling. He pointed inside it. “There’s an underground city. Under this village. It’s been shut down for years because of the rock slides, but some of it must still be accessible. You need to go down there quickly, you’ll be safe in there. There’s probably no phone signal, right?”

  Tess nodded. He was right. “Okay, but—you’re coming with me, aren’t you? It’s safer for you too.”

  “No, I—” He hesitated, his eyes twitching left and right. “I’ll go get help.”

  “Listen to me,” she insisted, grabbing him by the shoulders, “you’ll be safer in there.”

  He looked at her, his forehead bathed with sweat, then shook his head and said, “I can’t. I’ll get help. You need to go now. Here,” he said, digging into his pack and handing her his flashlight.

  Tess took it from him—and just then, his eyes went wild and he pointed behind her.

  “He’s coming,” he blurted.

  Tess turned, her mind all jumbled with conflicting impulses—and saw the Iranian charging at her, saw him raise his gun, heard the shot, and felt Abdulkerim’s blood splatter across her cheek.

  ZAHED KNEW HE HAD to get out of there.

  Reilly was rolling his way to cover. Once he got there, the American would be able to get a clearer shot at him. Zahed realized he was too exposed where he was; he had to make a run while he still had the chance.

  He’d glimpsed Tess scurrying away with his rucksack—the one with the codices and his handgun’s extra magazines in it. He’d brought his gun around to drop her, but the damned American’s relentless firing had forced him to duck for cover and given her a chance to slip away.

  Now he had to do the same.

  He stayed low and let his eyes make a quick scan of the ground around him, searching for the phone. He quickly found it—off in the opposite direction to the cone houses he needed to get to for cover, the ones where Tess had disappeared.

  He decided to risk it.

  He rolled over to it, firing a couple of shots as he did and reaching it in three spins. He grabbed it, then sucked in a couple of quick breaths to steel himself and spring to his feet. He hurtled to the nearest cone house, peppering Reilly with gunfire as he sprinted across the hard ground, knowing that each bullet counted now that he no longer had the extra ammo clips. Just as he dove into cover, one of the agent’s rounds bit into the rock inches from his head sending tufa shrapnel biting into his cheek, but he was otherwise untouched.

  He rushed through the cone houses, on edge, eyes scanning the shifting shadows. Then he saw them, two houses ahead, Tess and the Byzantinist, by the dark doorway.

  He had to get to Tess. He needed the books and the ammo clips, and she was all the leverage he needed as far as Reilly was concerned.

  The Byzantinist was less crucial right now.

  More of a liability, actually.

  Which was why Zahed raised his gun and fired.

  TESS SCREAMED AS SHEWATCHED Abdulkerim drop to the ground. Blood was spewing out of his mouth, pumped up from the hole
that been punched through his chest.

  She spun her head back around. The Iranian was charging at her, now only a couple of cone houses away. A crippling fear surged through her. If the Iranian was up and coming for her, maybe he had his phone back.

  With chilling synchronicity, he raised his hand—the one with the phone in it—to show her that he did. His scowl had one clear message in it:

  Don’t move an inch—or else.

  Something snapped inside her. A surge of rage pushed her fear aside, fight taking over from flight. Her hands moved to either edge of the rucksack and slid it across her midriff so it was now pressed against the bomb in her canvas belt. Her face hardened as she glared at him defiantly, and she caught a reaction across his face and in his step. It wasn’t any more than his eyes widening and his jaw tightening and him faltering for just a split second, but it was there, and it was enough to send a burst of badly needed satisfaction through her.

  It didn’t change the fact that he was still coming at her.

  She had to move.

  She cast one last glance at the fallen Byzantinist. The gurgling had stopped, and his eyes were staring out in a dead glaze. She forced herself to accept that there was nothing she could do for him now—then, with the rucksack still clutched against her midriff, she dove through the doorway.

  She knew she had to get deep inside, and fast. The cone house was basically a habitable cave. Whatever faint light was seeping in from outside wasn’t reaching far in. There was nothing but darkness ahead.

  She rushed into it.

  REILLY ROLLED INTO COVER BEHIND the cone house and risked a fast peek in time to see the Iranian make a break for it.

  He managed to loose a couple of rounds, but had to pull back from the barrage of gunfire the Iranian rained back at him. He cursed inwardly as he rode it out for a couple of seconds, then he peered out again, knowing the Iranian wouldn’t be there anymore.