The Shroud Key (20 page)

“You … You get back inside that cave!” he shouts in an Arabic accent. “This is no concern of yours. Yours is to work. To dig. To find what we’ve come for.”

Small arms fires rattles our eardrums. It feels like the whole place is about to explode. But Manion doesn’t go back inside the cave. He stands his ground while the gunfire grows more intense, fills the valley, echoing off the mountain and hillsides so that you never know precisely where the shooting is originating from.

I’ve got a clear choice here. I can take out both the business-suited man and his goon, leave them for buzzard food, snatch up Manion and head back to the rallying point, no worse for wear. Or, I can hold the suit and the goon at gunpoint, grab Manion and proceed to said rallying point without skipping a beat.

If I should go with the former, there’s a good chance a bounty will be put on my head by some rather hateful religious fanatics whose arm extends far beyond the perimeters of the desert, Egypt, and even the Middle East for that matter. In a word, if I shoot these bastards where they stand in cold blood, their friends will stop at nothing to see me dead. They will come after me one night while I lie asleep in my bed in Florence or even New York. And once I’m dead, they could very well go after my daughter and my ex-wife. They might belong to the Muslim Brotherhood, but the rules of engagement apply in these matters. These people prefer to use swords for God’s sakes. Their preferred method of execution is beheading, just like it has been for thousands of years.

Better therefore that I opt for the latter choice, and at least present myself as somewhat chivalrous. Because this is indeed a crusade and, in the end, I’m only doing what they’ve already done: Stealing Manion. In the end, if I steal him back and uncover the true resting place of Jesus, all the better for me. I win, fair and square.

That solidly in mind, I raise myself up from my protective perch behind the pickup, aim the business end of the 9mm at the two captors.

“Down on your knees!” I shout.

Business suit shoots a look at the goon. He smoothes out his thick black mustache with his forefinger and thumb like he’s contemplating what sandwich to order from a MacDonald’s menu. Leather Jacket mumbles something to his boss in Arabic. I haven’t a clue what he’s saying. But if I had to guess, it would be something like, “Shall I kill this man now?”

Out the corner of my right eye, I’m watching Manion. The archaeologist is staring at me, his jaw dropped to somewhere around the middle of his chest. I switch the pistol from my right hand to my left, never veering my aim from the two captors.

“Nice to see you again, Professor,” I say. “Been a long time. How’s about a ride home?” He doesn’t move. “Now, Professor. I ain’t got all day and neither do you.”

He drops what’s in his hand, and approaches me.

In the distance, another explosion rocks the camp. I hear screaming. It’s not the voice of Anya or Sameh. I’m guessing he’s used his second RPG and scored a direct hit on a rat pack of bandits.

For a brief second, we all turn to gaze over our shoulders at the sight of the explosion. That’s when Leather Jacket begins lifting his AK47, firing off a burst of rounds as the barrel raises up. It’s all happening in slow motion, the rounds spitting up sand and gravel in a direct line for the spot of ground I occupy. I don’t move now, I’ll be split in two from caudal to clavicle.

Dropping fast onto my right-hand side, I trigger a volley of bullets that land square in the center of Leather Jacket’s chest. He drops back onto his ass, speaks something soft and low, then lies back slowly, and dies. So much for trying to avoid a bounty on my scarred head.

I keep the gun poised on the suit.

“I know who you are,” he says. “You have come for Jesus before, along with Dr. Manion. But you did not find him. Perhaps you know something now that I do not.”

He smiles, as if I am going to share my secrets with him.

“What does a good old Muslim boy like yourself want with the bones of the Christian Christ?” I pose.

“The bones prove the Koran true. That Jesus, the mighty prophet, used an imposter to fill in for Him on the cross. That the real Jesus married, bore children, lived a long life. When the world comes to realize the truth, the earth will shake and the heavens will open up and Allah will reveal himself as the true messiah. The true son of God.”

“And, armed with this newly proven revelation, you and yours will no doubt declare a final war to end all wars with every Judeo/Christian on the planet. Am I close?”

Another smile.

“We shall proclaim ourselves victorious as Israel is crushed once and for all, and as the Vatican crumbles. You have seen your trade center destroyed and the thousands of infidels who burned and fell to their deaths. You have seen your ships and consulates attacked and obliterated with explosives. You have seen your people beheaded in the name of Allah on YouTube, and these things are mere preludes to a great and just war that is sure to come. Once we have the bones of Christ to prove the righteousness of our universal and ancient cause, nothing will stop us. Do you understand me, Mr. Chase?”

Now I feel the need to excavate the Jesus remains, not for the cash reward, or for the benefit of scholarly study, but simply to keep them away from the filthy hands of these radical extremists. Like I said, the God fearing world depends upon it.

My pistol trembles in my hand.

It isn’t as if it’s grown heavy. More like its metal and plastic has come alive, its inner workings connected to the synapses in my brain and fueled by the anger in my heart I feel for this man and all he represents. But killing him like this is not my style. Wounding him might be a different story however.

Lowing my aim, I pull the trigger.

His right thigh explodes in a red spray of arterial blood.

Turning, I approach a stunned Manion. I grab hold of his arm.

“Let’s go,” I say.

Behind him, maybe two dozen robed workers fill the wide opening of the cave. Not a single one of them isn’t smiling. My guess is that these workers are more or less slaves to the suited man. His cause. His threats of extremist style retribution should they protest their working conditions.

In the near distance, more gunfire.

Sameh is holding the bandits back, but I know it’s only a matter of time until they come after me. Maybe a shorter time than I realize.

I spot the pickup with the 30 cal. mounted to it.

“There, Professor,” I shout out to Manion. “You okay to drive?”

He nods. “Yes,” he says. “I believe so, Chase.”

I point to the opening in between the hills on the other side of the valley plain.

“I need you to take us through that pass. Gun it. Don’t stop for anything until I tell you to. You with me, Professor?” He nods. “Good, now go.”

We run for the truck. Opening the driver’s side door, I pray the keys are in the ignition. Because this isn’t Hollywood and I have no idea how to hotwire a Toyota pickup, or if it can be hotwired at all.

The keys are in the ignition.

Maybe Allah really is smiling down upon us…

“Fire her up, Professor!” I shout, as the bandits begin to give chase.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The pickup’s thick off-road wheels spit up sand, until the four-by-four catches hold of firm earth. We buck forward heading in the direction of the pass just as the first shots whistle past my head.

Spinning the 30 cal. around on its tripod, I plant a bead on three bearded and robed bandits coming at me on horseback. The pale riders of my personal apocalypse. I thumb the trigger and spray them with multiple rounds. The first man’s head explodes like a melon while the two behind him are split in half at the chest. The frightened horses stop, rear, turn and sprint off in the opposite direction of the gunfire. I don’t expect them to stop running for hours.

For the moment there are no more bandits to be seen. But I know that more will be coming. In the meantime I take a quick visual survey of the surrounding landscape. I don’t see Sameh anywhere. Pulling the radio from my belt, I make a call for him.

“Sameh, do you read me? Over.”

Static fills the speaker as soon as I release the transmission trigger.

Thumbing the trigger again: “Sameh, do you read me? Sameh, you there? Over.”

I listen for a response. But all I get is more static.

I don’t have the time to make another call, because coming up on our tail is the second pickup. I aim for its front grill, trigger a short burst of belted 30 cal. rounds. The pickup engine explodes, a piston shooting out the metal hood like a ballistic missile. The truck spins out, comes to a dead stop. Two bandits emerge from the doors, firing their AK47s at us. But it’s too late. We’re already approaching the pass. I could shoot them, even from this distance. Shoot them out of anger, revenge. But I elect not to.

We’ve beaten the bastards already.

In broad daylight. Beaten them back.

It’s only a matter of a few short hours until I come face to face with my maker and his remains. When that happens, it might be better if my conscience
and
my soul are clean.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Driving through the pass, I pound my fist against the pickup truck’s metal roof, signaling Manion to stop at the designated rallying point which is located at the base of the hill.

He stops.

I look one way, then the other. Sameh and Anya are nowhere to be found. I pull my radio from my belt once more.

“Sameh,” I speak into the transmitter. “Speak to me.”

Releasing my thumb, I get nothing other than more static. Until the sound of static is broken by a voice. But the voice isn’t coming from the radio. It’s coming from on high.

I turn, look up.

Sameh is standing at the top of the hill, Anya right beside him.

“Coming down!” he shouts.

When he gets here, he shows me his radio which has been impaled with a bullet. He holds the palm-sized radio up like it’s a sacred talisman.

“I am the luckiest man alive,” he exhales. “The radio took a bullet meant for me.”

I slap his back, knowing that Anya should have been equipped with a radio also.

“Thank Allah for small miracles,” I say. Then, shifting my focus to Anya. “You okay?”

But she isn’t looking at me. She is gazing into the eyes of her ex-husband.

“Hello Andre,” she whispers in a hoarse voice no doubt choked with memory and desert sand.

“Hello Anya,” he says. “I never…” He allows the thought to drop, as if the words need not be spoken. Truth be told, I’m feeling a little jealous of their reaction to seeing one another. What I sense is not hatred or indifference, but a man and a woman who genuinely care for one another. Two people who might even be surprised at their own reactions now that their physical separation has come to an end in the most unlikeliest of places.

“We should go,” I say after a weighted moment. “The bandits will be coming after us as soon as they regroup.”

“Everyone pile into the truck,” Sameh says.

“I’m driving,” I say. “Professor, you sit in front with me. We’ve got some talking to do. Sameh and Anya, you get on that 30 cal., case we need it.”

“How do I work this thing?” Anya asks.

“Just point and shoot,” I answer.