The Forbidden Tomb

33

Cobb’s tank was empty. So was McNutt’s. They had started the day on a magnificent yacht, and now they leaned against a battered fire truck. Their muscles ached and their wounds throbbed as they tried to make sense of everything that had happened.

The cisterns were destroyed, the tunnels were buried, and hundreds were killed or injured — all at the hands of a mysterious foe that had surfaced with violent intent. Sarah and Jasmine were presumed dead since they had last been seen heading toward the epicenter of the blast, and they couldn’t reach Garcia to confirm anything.

All in all, it was a horrible day.

The worst they could remember.

Despite the carnage, McNutt forced himself to take stock of his surroundings. Everywhere he turned, all he saw was chaos. Burning buildings. Sobbing onlookers. Emergency vehicles of every shape and color, along with dozens of crews attempting to handle the situation. After a while, it all started to blend together into one continuous vista of death and destruction… until he saw something that stood out.

McNutt rubbed his eyes in disbelief, convinced that the smoke was playing tricks on him. And yet the man’s appearance didn’t change. He had seen him less than an hour earlier in the cistern.

McNutt nudged Cobb to get his attention. ‘Jack, it’s one of them.’

‘One of who?’

‘One of the guys from the tunnels. The goddamn monkey men.’

‘Where?’

‘At your three o’clock.’

Cobb zeroed in on the triage area, scanning for anything that looked familiar. Only one man stood out. ‘Black pants, black tunic, dark skin.’

‘That’s him.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Almost positive.’

Cobb nodded in understanding. McNutt didn’t recognize his face, but the man was wearing the same clothes as the other men in the cistern.

Plus, he was acting strangely.

With nothing else to go on, they stood back and watched as he worked his way through the tent that had been set up on the edge of the blast site. The victims, both dead and alive, had been spread out in rows so that the doctors could quickly work their way through the masses. Many of the dead had been covered with sheets, towels, or scraps of clothes, and he took the time to uncover every last one.

Cobb and McNutt understood his intentions.

He was searching for someone.

Maybe one of his own. Maybe one of his targets.

Either way, it showed remarkable dedication to his cause.

And his boldness filled Cobb with rage.

Once the man had finished his search, he broke away from the makeshift hospital and made his way toward the periphery of the madness. Determined to get answers, Cobb knew they needed to act fast. They simply couldn’t let a lead like that walk away. Despite the crowd, Cobb sensed their opportunity and decided to take him down.

‘Nice and slow,’ he whispered to McNutt. ‘We don’t want to spook him.’

‘Slow, I can promise. But nice is out of the question.’

Cobb took a course to intercept the man while McNutt trailed from a safe distance. No discussion was needed; both knew how to proceed. They had been taught well by the US military. They knew how to coordinate their actions and predict each other’s moves. The entire time they scanned the crowd for trouble without making themselves known. They walked casually but quickly, confident but not defiant.

They simply looked like they belonged.

Meanwhile, the bomber was the exact opposite.

He strode purposefully through the chaos. Not strolling or running but somewhere in between, as if he were trying to do some light cardio in the middle of a warzone. As he walked, the man shook his head back and forth to someone in the crowd.

The movement was subtle, but Cobb noticed it. Looking ahead, he spotted an ambulance parked fifty feet away. A second man stood next to an empty gurney behind the vehicle. He looked the part of a medic — the uniform, the comfortable shoes, the sterile gloves — but the anger on his face gave him away.

This was a man who took lives, not a man who saved them.

Cobb lowered his head and tried not to be spotted, but he was a large white man in an Egyptian city. It wasn’t easy to hide. Eventually the medic saw Cobb’s approach and knew their cover had been blown. He slapped the side of the ambulance, shouting instructions to the driver in Arabic. A moment later the engine roared to life as the medic opened the rear doors and climbed into the back of the van.

For an instant, Cobb was tempted to raise his gun and fire.

But all of that changed when he saw the cargo inside.

Somehow, someway, Jasmine was in there.

Obviously he was thrilled that she wasn’t buried under a million pounds of rubble like he had feared, and yet her appearance was mystifying.

When did they grab her?

Why did they grab her?

And how did they smuggle her out before the blast?

The last time he had seen her was in the depths of the tunnels, more than a block away. She and Sarah were heading off to investigate the Roman temple; now Jasmine was lying on a tilted gurney, as if she were watching TV. Her hands and feet were bound to the railings with plastic straps. Heavy tape covered her mouth. Her unblinking eyes were frozen open, but Cobb couldn’t tell the reason why.

Maybe she was drugged. Maybe she was dead.

Until he knew for sure, he couldn’t risk a shot.

Cobb, McNutt, and their initial target all broke for the ambulance at the same time. The medic in the van kicked the empty gurney into Cobb’s path, slowing him down just enough for the first assassin to get inside. He dove into the rear compartment as the medic slammed the doors shut behind him.

Tires squealed as the ambulance sped off.

Bile burned the back of Cobb’s throat as he sprinted after the vehicle. His frustration had been growing throughout the day, but seeing Jasmine had pushed him over the edge. Though he prided himself on his calm demeanor, rage began to fuel his actions. It was a consuming, blinding hatred of those responsible for the day’s tragedies.

In his mind, justice wasn’t enough.

They needed to be punished.

The layout of Alexandria has changed very little in the last two thousand years. Though much of the city has been destroyed and rebuilt numerous times, the architects retained the original design of north — south and east — west streets whenever possible.

Obviously, the grid has grown over time and the roads have been vastly improved, but the only considerable difference between the ancient and modern layouts was a handful of major thoroughfares that linked Alexandria to the rest of Egypt. Had the explosion taken place in the suburbs, the ambulance would have had an easy escape route. On the outskirts of town, wide surface streets offered quick access to the larger arteries that connected the various districts around the city. Once the ambulance reached the highway, Jasmine and her kidnappers would have disappeared.

But in the city, things were more complicated.

Though contemporary in appearance — McDonald’s and Starbucks sightings were commonplace — the older section of the city was surrounded by the classical, narrow streets of Alexandria’s past. There were no medians or bike lanes. Even the buses were forced to fight their way through traffic, just like everyone else. It was a striking juxtaposition: the progress of modern buildings nestled in an ancient city.

Unlike the tragedy of 9/11 when millions of citizens fled New York and stayed away for days, people in the Middle East were more accustomed to bombings. As crazy as it seemed, the streets were clogged in both directions with a mixture of locals fleeing the scene and people who wanted to see the damage for themselves.

Both groups slowed the bombers’ escape.

Cobb watched as the ambulance’s lights began to flash and its siren began to wail. Normally that would be enough to clear a path through traffic, but not on a day like today. There was simply nowhere for the other cars to go.

When the ambulance ran out of road, it bounced over the curb and sped down the sidewalk. Surprised pedestrians jumped from the path of the careening van before it suddenly veered back onto the asphalt. A moment later it changed direction again — this time disappearing around a street corner to the left.

Despite their anger and their fitness, Cobb and McNutt knew there was no way for them to keep up with a speeding ambulance, not on foot. Their desperate desire to retrieve Jasmine would keep them going until they dropped; but they would drop.

They needed something faster. Something mechanical.

Something that didn’t feel fatigue.

Fortunately, scooters were quite popular in Egypt.

The nimble motorbikes allowed riders to dart in and out of traffic and down narrow alleyways where cars weren’t allowed to travel. What they lacked in top-end speed, they made up for in agility. In the congestion of the older neighborhoods, they were a remarkably efficient means of transportation.

Plus, they were pretty easy to steal.

McNutt eyed the closest rider and braced for impact. This wasn’t the time for negotiations. This was a time for action. McNutt charged toward the rider like a jouster without a horse. Or a lance. At the very last moment, he threw his arms out in front of him and tackled the rider to the ground as his scooter toppled, then slid, to a crashing halt.

McNutt hopped to his feet and reached out his hand.

Lying bruised and battered on the pavement, the dazed rider stared up at McNutt and was ready to curse him out in a dialect that McNutt wouldn’t have understood anyway, but the moment he saw the rage in McNutt’s eyes, he knew any complaints on his part would most likely lead to a severe beating — or worse.

He quickly changed his approach. ‘Take it, my friend. The scooter is yours.’

‘No thanks,’ McNutt said as Cobb lifted the bike from the ground and quickly sped off toward the ambulance. ‘I’ll take the next one.’