Ark of Fire

CHAPTER 91

Ignoring the vibrating mobile phone clipped to his waistband, Caedmon urged Edie to keep moving; the convoy truck was no more than thirty meters ahead of them.

“Maybe you should answer it,” Edie whispered, clearly unnerved by the incoming call. “Otherwise they’ll know something’s up.”

Well aware that the end result would be the same regardless of whether he answered the mobile, Caedmon made no reply as they continued to creep along at a quick but cautious pace.

A few moments later they approached the stone watchtower. The wood-planked door stood wide open; MacFarlane’s men hadn’t bothered with locking up before they departed the premises.

Time being a commodity in short supply, Caedmon yanked Edie into the building’s protective shadow, where the two of them huddled close. He peered around the corner, verifying that the truck was still parked on the other side of the tower.

“I want you to go inside and, if at all possible, lock yourself into a room. Then I want you to use Gallagher’s mobile to ring the authorities. Understood?” When she nodded, he handed her the now-silent mobile phone. “Tell them that you’re an American tourist and that you were earlier abducted from your hotel room. Make no mention of the Ark of the Covenant.”

“What about you?”

“I am off to slay the dragon,” he deadpanned. As he spoke, he checked the clip on the Glock. Sixteen rounds. Thank God. He only needed three bullets. One to blow out a tire on the convoy truck. One to take out Stanford MacFarlane. And a third bullet to fell the behemoth.

Hit those three targets, and chaos would ensue.

With chaos, all of MacFarlane’s well-laid plans would come to a crashing halt. The dreams of a madman finally put to rest.

He motioned to the door of the watchtower. “In you go.”

“But—”

“No buts,” he interjected, placing a hand over her mouth. With the other hand, he gently pushed her through the open doorway. Then, hoping she would heed his command, he pulled the door shut.

Stay safe, love.

His right arm cocked at the elbow, the Glock clutched in his hand, Caedmon wended his way around the perimeter of the tower; his plan was to approach the truck from the front rather than the rear, enabling him to take out the cab passenger, the driver, and one of the front tires. In that order. And in quick succession.

The plan was brazen. Reckless, even. But it was the only option left to him. Under no circumstance could he permit MacFarlane to leave the isle alive. Too much was at stake. Too many lives in the balance.

Suppressing the innate fear that arises in any life-and-death situation, he ventured forth. The truck was no more than twenty meters away, just beyond the curve of the building.

Suddenly, he heard the roar of an engine. Blinked at the near-blinding beam of a headlight. The truck was on the move.

He fought the instinctive urge to fire his weapon.

He needed a clean shot. If he botched it, all would be lost.

Knowing he had but seconds to launch his attack, he charged out of the shadows, coming at the truck from an angle to avoid being caught in the headlights. He refused to entertain the thought that in the contest between man and machine, machine almost inevitably won.

Arms locked in a firing position, he found his first target—Stanford MacFarlane—took aim, and fired.

“Shag it!” he muttered; the Glock had jammed. He pulled back the slide on the top of the pistol.

Suddenly, the clatter of machine-gun fire erupted all around him.

Caught in a corona of bullets, he quickly chambered a round, shock and anger hitting him in equal measure.

A heartbeat later, shock instantly mutated into fear as he saw a shaky shaft of green light being aimed at the truck’s windshield.