The Pharaoh's Secret

17

Kurt crawled down the length of the crane using the circular holes in the steel beam as handholds. He saw three men with guns running across the street toward a microvan parked on the far side. He hopped off the boom when he was close enough to the ground and discovered several workmen had been shot to access the crane.

Across the street, the lights of the van came on and the engine roared to life.

Kurt looked around for something to chase them with. The only real option was a tiny Citroën dump truck. It had a narrow wheelbase and a tall profile that gave it an odd look, by American standards, but was a far better fit for the constricted roads of a small island.

He raced over to it, climbed in, found the keys in the ignition. As the engine turned over, he jammed the truck into gear and accelerated across the plaza on a diagonal, driving down the steps and trying desperately to cut off the microvan.

The little van was too nimble to be stopped. It swerved around him, drove up on the sidewalk for a hundred feet and then careened back onto the road.

Kurt threw the transmission into reverse, backed up and worked the wheel around until the dump truck was pointed in the right direction.

He was about to hit the gas when a familiar face appeared in front of the museum.

“Get in!” he shouted.

Joe piled into the truck’s cab as Kurt stepped on the gas pedal.

“Couldn’t you rent anything smaller?” Joe asked.

“Free upgrade,” Kurt said. “Membership has its privileges.”

“What happens when the cops decide those privileges don’t include stealing dump trucks from the scene of a crime?”

“Depends,” Kurt said.

“On what?”

“On whether we’ve caught the bad guys by then or not.”

Despite the roar of the dump truck’s engine, that prospect didn’t seem likely. The microvan was no horsepower champion, but it was spry and maneuverable and was quickly outdistancing them. By comparison, the dump truck felt slow and ponderous.

An area of congestion evened the playing field for a moment, but the little van was soon swerving through the traffic. Kurt didn’t have that option. He switched on all the lights and leaned on the horn with reckless abandon.

In response to the oncoming truck, drivers with any sense got out of the way, but several vehicles parked on the side of the road were not so lucky. Kurt couldn’t help but sideswipe them, taking out five consecutive mirrors.

“I think you missed one,” Joe said.

“We’ll hit it on the way back.”

With his foot to the floor, Kurt kept the truck accelerating. “I thought I told you to stay with Kensington,” he said.

“I did,” Joe said.

“I meant, until help arrived.”

“Be more specific next time.”

They were gaining on the van now, picking up speed, as the road opened up and dropped down to the waterfront, where it curved along the harbor’s edge past million-dollar yachts and small fishing boats. Someone in the van didn’t seem happy with that idea. He shot out the back window and began blazing away at the dump truck following them.

Kurt instinctively ducked as the front window was peppered with shells. At the same time, he swerved to the right, up onto a side road that angled inland, taking them away from the harbor.

“Now we’re going the wrong way,” Joe noted.

Kurt had the pedal mashed to the floor. He manhandled the truck into a lower gear, keeping up the revs and the horsepower.

“And now we’re going the wrong way even faster,” Joe added.

“We’re taking a shortcut,” Kurt said. “The coastline here is like a bunch of fingers sticking out into the harbor. While they follow the outline of those fingers, we’re going to cut across the palm.”

“Or get lost,” Joe added. “Since we have no map.”

“All we have to do is keep the harbor to the left of us,” he said.

“And hope they don’t turn around.”

The harbor was easy to keep track of since all the forts and important buildings surrounding it were lit up by floodlights. From higher ground it was even possible to see the lower road.

“There,” Joe said, pointing.

Kurt saw it too. The little microvan was continuing on. Speeding as it had before. Apparently, the driver had no interest in blending in.

The dump truck rumbled onto the descending grade and began to pick up speed. It shook and shuddered and the load of broken concrete and rebar in the back jumped around, creating a jarring racket.

They angled toward the intersection.

“What are you going to do?” Joe asked.

“Like the Romans, I’m going to ram them.”

Joe hastily looked for seat belts and found none.

“Hang on!”

They hit the merge, shot out onto the road and missed. Picking up so much speed on the downslope had thrown Kurt’s timing off. They’d taken the lead.

“We’re now in front of the van we’re supposed to be chasing,” Joe said.

“So do something about it.”

Joe did the only rational thing he could think of. He shoved the lever for the hydraulics in the dump bed upward. The bed tilted and thousands of pounds of broken concrete, twisted metal and other construction debris went sliding out.

The load of debris tumbled toward the speeding van, slamming into it like a minor avalanche. The grille and radiator caved in from the first impact. The windshield shattered from bouncing fist-sized chunks of concrete and the van careened out of control, heading off the road and tipping over.

Kurt slammed on the brakes and the dump truck skidded to a halt. He jumped out and began running for the overturned van. Joe followed, grabbing a crowbar for a weapon.

They reached the van to find steam pouring from the radiator and every piece of sheet metal dented and mangled. The scent of gasoline wafted through the air.

A quick check told them the man in the passenger seat was dead. A chunk of rubble had come through the window and caught him in the head. But he was the only one inside.

“Where are the others?” Joe asked.

Bodies were often thrown from vehicles in rollover accidents, but, looking around, Kurt saw no one. Then, in the distance, he spotted two figures running across the rocks, heading for the lights of Fort Saint Angelo.

“Hope you brought your running shoes,” he said, taking off after them. “We’re not done yet.”