The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) (39 page)

“Okay. Look, whoever they are,” said Annie, “they’re not here to help us. That means we’ve been discovered. Somebody knows we’re here—Prophet’s Guard, Muslim Brotherhood, who cares. And that means our time is short. This may be it—our one chance. I don’t know. But I don’t think we give it up just yet. Let’s keep going, try to stay inside the rooms. At least stay away from the street. And let’s see how far we can get. Maybe we can find ‘Daniel’s face’ before they find us.”

The four exchanged glances and an all-for-one, one-for-all feeling welled up in Tom’s heart. They were in this together. No one wanted to quit. But one thing had to change. Tom allowed his pack to slip off his left shoulder. He reached up with his left hand and removed the sling from around his neck. Sparks darted down his right arm as he stretched it out and put strain on his damaged shoulder.

“Tom!” Annie whispered.

“I’ll get it fixed when we get home,” he said, glancing in Annie’s direction. “Right now I need two arms. I can handle the pain.” He tossed the sling into the dust. “Let’s go.”

Whalen cast one more glance to the east, where Annie and the team had disappeared into the streets of Babylon. The sun was slipping deeper into the west. Their light would soon be gone. Atkins and Vordenberg were at his side, the two NYPD anti-terrorism vets who were his right- and left-hand men. Smart, resourceful, they were hired by
NG
for their experience with sound devices—bugging apartments and warehouses was an art form—they were taught lighting, and they provided oft-needed muscle.

A British accent crackled on the radio. “We’ve got some visitors, chaps. Two sets. One coming to you. The other apparently looking for our mates.”

Whalen glanced over at Vordenberg. “Pack it up, Steve. We’re moving. Fast.”

Fred Atkins was at Whalen’s side. “The civilians.”

“Yeah, I know. But we’re too exposed … we can’t get caught here. Steve and Leo can drive these two Rovers, and you and I will try to find Bohannon. We’ll meet them on the far side of the tower’s foundation”—he glanced at his watch—“in thirty minutes.”

Whalen toggled the radio. “James, wait for us at the rally point.”

“Roger, that.”

Annie led the group between two crumbled buildings and into a narrow alley. Walking quick-step, not running.

“Quiet,” whispered Annie. They came to a break in the alley, another street cutting across it. She peeked around the corner. Cruising slowly down Procession Street, just passing the street that intersected their alley, was one of the gray SUVs. “They’re looking for us.”

Whalen fitted the night-vision goggles above the brim of his hat, slung the pack between his shoulder blades, and picked up the Swiss-made SIG Sauer, .30-caliber, short-barrel 751 semiautomatic rifle, set for three-round bursts. He stuffed a half-dozen extra twenty-round magazines into his battle vest.

“Ready.” Atkins came up to his side, equally equipped.

Whalen stepped between the two Rovers, where Matkins and Vordenberg were getting the last of the gear back into the vehicles. “Steve, you and Leo take the Rovers to the rally point. James is headed there now. Take different routes and try to avoid our uninvited guests. We will see you in thirty minutes. If we’re not there in thirty, well … stay together. We’ll come to you.”

“See you in thirty,” said Vordenberg. “And Whale, don’t get lost. You still owe me ten bucks.”

Atkins and Whalen were running east as the Rovers drove into the gathering dark.

“I’ve been running so much lately I should enter a marathon,” muttered Rizzo, his legs pumping as he tried to keep up with the three people in front of him.
Don’t fall behind … don’t be a liability.

He was definitely at a disadvantage. They were hustling along a narrow alley, the partially destroyed mud-brick walls of differing heights. The others could probably venture a glance when the wall was low, but all the walls were over Rizzo’s head and he plunged on with no idea what was happening around him.

“Looks like we’re moving roughly parallel to Procession Street.” Annie’s voice was strained, breathless. Whether from exertion or anxiety, Rizzo couldn’t tell. “Joe, any idea how far we’ve come?”

Rizzo ran into Rodriguez as he jolted to a stop behind the other three. “Hey!”

“Quiet!” hissed Rodriguez. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure it out as we ran—how long a stride, how many strides. I can’t say for sure, but I think we’re close. We need to risk getting up to Procession Street pretty soon.”

Perspiration began rolling down Rizzo’s back. His shiver was involuntary. “Let
me
go. It’s getting dark. I’ll be harder to see.”

“Not in that shirt,” said Rodriguez.

“We’re all going … through the rooms,” said Annie. “C’mon.”

Still shaken by the threats from his master, Gamal Muhammad had pushed his Toyota to the breaking point on his fevered drive from Baghdad. He slowed his speed to navigate the long, looping curve around Saddam’s palace—but not enough. The road was covered with sand and gravel, except for tire tracks where repeated use kept a path clear. In the turn, Gamal’s Toyota drifted out of the track cleared by other cars. The Toyota lost its grip and the back end began driving as if it had a mind of its own.

When Gamal pressed on the brake pedal, the car looped around completely at least twice before leaving the road. Still spinning, it was airborne. But not for long. The right rear dropped into a ditch, and the Toyota whipped around, slamming the driver’s side door into a mound of brown gravel. Brute force stopped the car’s motion, a shock that Gamal felt throughout his body.

Steam was enveloping the front of the car’s body, and pain was taking up residence in Gamal’s back. But he remained conscious. And determined. His right hand felt around on the car’s seat and found the radio.

“I’m at the Palace curve.” His voice sounded like the grit still swirling inside his car. “Crashed. Come get me.”

Vordenberg was on foreign territory, and it was getting dark, which gave his pursuer a distinct advantage, but there was nothing else to do. Vordenberg engaged the red, night-vision lights attached to the front bumper so he could at least see some distance ahead. But now he was an illuminated target.

He turned east to avoid a crumbling, brick wall. He knew the yawning chasm that was the Tower’s foundation was south … a bit west of the old city. Leonard, Matkins, and the rest would be there: reinforcements. But first he had to lose the vehicle that had started following him as soon as he left the plaza surrounding the Lion of Babylon.

He glanced into the rearview mirror once more, expecting to see the gray SUV gaining ground. The SUV’s lights bounced crazily as Vordenberg led the chase over ruined walls and through un-reclaimed neighborhoods of ancient Babylon. Suddenly it veered off to the right.

Vordenberg put his hand on the machine pistol in his lap and cast a sideways glance to his right. But the SUV was gone. He could see its lights bouncing in the distance.

Strange … but thanks.

He throttled down quickly and doused the lights. It would take longer, but he would find his way to the Tower’s foundation in the dark. And hopefully not bring any unwanted guests with him.

The large, bald Iraqi man—Achmed—stood beside the second SUV and looked across the roof at his partner. “It’s Gamal. He’s crashed his car. Ismail’s gone to get him. It’s up to us.”