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“Hold on, Ollie, hold on.”
He yells again, in Arabic,“You proud fighters, you poor men of God, release me and my friend, and you will be rewarded—”
The swordsman comes forward, a militiaman pushes Ollie farther to the dirt, and in one heavy slice it’s over. A heavythumpas Oliver’s head strikes the ground, spraying the right side of Jeremy’s face with his friend’s arterial blood.
Now it’s hard to see what’s going on.
Strong hands are on his back.
He knows it’s his turn now.
It was bound to come, here or in any other place Queen and Country sent him. But if Jeremy feels one regret, it’s that there’s so much left to live, so much left to do, so many who deserve to be killed by his hands.
The swordsman bends down, wipes the blade clean on the back of Ollie’s jacket, and Jeremy’s anger and fury are cold and steady.
For as long as it will last.
The swordsman comes back, looking down at Jeremy, familiar brown eyes lit bright with pleasure and determination.
Then, a surprise that almost makes Jeremy gasp aloud.
In clear, Oxford-accented English, the swordsman says in a strong voice:
“You should have stayed home, Jeremy.”
The sword goes up, up, and up, but Jeremy refuses to lower his eyes. And so he is able to see and hear what happens next.
The sharptingof metal striking metal, and the sword flying out of the man’s hands.
Chapter8
I’M RACINGas hard as I can, what gear I need bouncing around my waist and back, and Santiago is right next to me as we approach the low courtyard. From behind I hear the sharp, flatsnapof Jordan taking his first shot. He typically shoots with a sound suppressor, but not now.
I want the knot of gunmen before us to frighten and scatter, and they do. Santiago and I kneel in front of the low, stone wall, and it’s over in a manner of seconds, the gunmen holding up their weapons and spraying round after round in our direction, the recoil kicking back and making the bullets whistle over our heads.
But Santiago and I keep low, keep our cool, and in careful, three-round bursts, we kill them all.
“Cover,” I say to Santiago. I go through the open wooden gate and run over to Jeremy, who’s struggling to get up. His clothes are torn, dusty, bloody. His face is also bloody and one eye is nearly swollen shut. I kneel down, withdraw my Ka-Bar knife, and cut the ropes around his ankles. He kicks free and stands up, sticks his wrists out from the rear.
“I’m cuffed,” he says. “That big chap over there missing the back of his head, he was the leader. The handcuff keys might be with him.”
I go over to the dead man, work my way through his pockets, find a small key with a long piece of colored rope attached. I return to Jeremy and use the key, and with the sound of the lock unclicking, he bursts his arms free and says, “The swordsman. Where is he?”
I look at the four bodies sprawled in the small courtyard. Santiago is still on the other side of the wall, keeping watch. A shape jogs into view—Jordan carrying his Remington rifle—and I wave at him and he comes through the gate.
I point to the building behind us. “Up you go.”
He nods, says to Jeremy, “Sorry I was late.”
“Did your best,” Jeremy replies, then says to me again: “Where’s the swordsman? The man who killed Ollie?”
I say, “Isn’t he here?”
Jeremy says, “No. The bastard was dressed in a black robe and scarf. Older and heavier. He’s not here.”
I give the four sprawled corpses one quick glance and say, “He must have run off when the shooting started. There was lots of movement here. Confusing. You know how it is.”
“Damn.” He calls up to Jordan, who’s taken position on the roof. “Any movement?”
