The Sanctuary

Chapter 59

“Wait a second,” Mia insisted, “you still haven’t answered my question. What do you mean he’s your ancestor? Who are you? What are you really doing here?”

“It’s a long story.” Kirkwood looked around, clearly uncomfortable with having an audience. “Let’s get everything back to the plane. I’ll tell you the rest there.”

Two muffled thumps disturbed the stillness outside the house. Barely noticeable, except for Bryan, who was positioned closest to the front window.

“No,” Mia flared up. “You’re telling me now. I’ve had enough of you and Corben drip-feeding me what you think is—”

“Quiet,” Bryan interrupted tersely. He’d edged over to the side of the front window. Mia and Kirkwood went brusquely silent and watched as Bryan, careful to use the wall for cover, peered out from behind the netted curtain.

His colleague, and Abu Barzan’s man, were sprawled on the ground. The South African had blood pooling under his head. The Arab was leaking from the chest area. Neither was batting an eyelid.

“Get down,” Bryan ordered, pulling out his handgun and darting away from the glass. “We’ve got company.”

He peered over again carefully and scanned the rooftops opposite. He caught a glimpse of a sniper looking for a shot and ducked behind the wall just as a couple of more silenced, high-velocity rounds punched through the window and crunched into the tiled floor, showering the front of the room with shards of broken glass.

Bryan swung back out and loosed a few rounds towards the rooftop while, behind him, everyone in the room scrambled for cover. Kirkwood clutched the book as he hustled Mia behind the dining table, his eyes scanning the room for options. Abu Barzan grabbed the attaché case with one hand and pawed a handgun with the other. His nephew and their host had also reached for their weapons, and all three were backing up towards a door at the back of the room.

“Is there another way out?” Kirkwood shouted to Abu Barzan.

The big Iraqi was half-crouched, scouring the windows nervously as he retreated deeper into the house. “Yes, at the back,” he said nervously. “Through here.”

By the window, Bryan fired a few more rounds, emptying his magazine before rushing back to join Kirkwood and Mia.

“How many could you see?” Kirkwood asked.

“I just saw the sniper.” Bryan nimbly slapped a full magazine into his handgun. “Who are these guys?”

“I don’t know,” Kirkwood said as several shots obliterated the lock on the front door before a military boot kicked it in.

“Take cover,” Bryan yelled as he upended the dining table and flung it on its side, diving behind it before leaning out, looking for a target.

A tirade of eerily silenced gunfire from outside raked the room before one of the attackers burst in, firing as he ducked away from the door. Bryan tracked him and squeezed off a few rounds, hitting him in the thigh. The man yelled in pain as he tumbled behind a sofa. As Bryan leaned out, looking to finish him off, another shooter slung his arm in and pumped two silenced shots, one of which caught the Australian in the shoulder.

He winced with pain as he darted back behind the table, checking his bloodied wound with his good hand.

“Get out the back way,” he muttered to Kirkwood and Mia through clenched teeth, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead.

Kirkwood protested, “We can’t leave you like—”

“Just go, mate,” Bryan ordered. “Get the hell out of here before it’s too late.”

And with that, he swung out and fired at anything that moved by the door, cutting down the first man he had injured and pushing back the other shooter who was moving in.

Kirkwood turned to Mia, yelling out, “Come on,” before bolting out from behind the table, the codex still under one arm. Mia followed, hot on his heels, as they rushed through the doorway towards the rear of the house.

They slipped past the stairs that led to the upper levels of the house before reaching the kitchen. They’d barely stepped into the cluttered room when they heard more gunfire and thuds, then Abu Barzan came rushing back through the kitchen door alone. He wasn’t fully in yet when his eyes met Mia’s just as something struck him from behind and sent him crashing to the floor and writhing in pain as a crimson patch blossomed in his left thigh.

Kirkwood herded Mia back into the house, shouting, “Back, the other way, quick.”

She tore her eyes off the fallen Iraqi and hurried back towards the living room.

Corben stood next to Omar, muscles clenched, his hands still nylon-cuffed in front of him, and watched as the first gunman charged into the house.

He’d seen the two guards outside cut down by the sniper, who had just made his way back to them. Omar had already sent three men around to the back of the house, and Corben knew they’d cut off any retreat from there. Right now, he couldn’t do anything. He just stayed close to the wall, biding his time, looking for an opportunity, and watched helplessly as Omar’s men went about their business.

He knew their orders were not to harm the American buyer — he’d heard Omar repeat the orders several times — and felt a flush of anger as he thought of Mia being trapped in the shooting gallery.

Omar hadn’t said anything about her.

He heard gunshots coming from behind the house, then a barrage of rounds hammered the doorway around them. Omar scowled at the house, listened intently, and ordered the sniper in.

The gunman nodded, peered in, swung an arm in, and fired several rounds. A low growl of pain from inside told Corben the second of Kirkwood’s escorts had been hit. He looked at Omar. The hakeem’s man had heard it too. A psychotic gleam flitted across his murderous eyes as he ordered his men to finish him off.

In the living room, Bryan slammed in his last magazine and peered out at the front of the house one last time. Both shooters were taking cover. He couldn’t stay behind that overturned table much longer — they’d rush him sooner or later. His shoulder was hurting more now, the wound quickly getting colder, the blood loss starting to hit his head.

He had to make a move.

He leaned out, saw some movement, and squeezed off several careful rounds before scuttling, fast and low, towards the doorway the others had disappeared through. He spotted the shooter from outside glancing in and slammed a couple of shots his way as he reached the doorway.

He dived into it and rushed towards the back of the house. He reached the stairs just as Kirkwood and Mia did, coming back from the kitchen. Not a good sign — he was planning to follow them out the back of the house.

He saw Mia glance upwards, then yell, “This way.”

Urgent orders in Arabic erupted in the front of the house, and the shooter he hadn’t wounded came after him. Bryan took cover on the stairs, counted down a few seconds to himself, and bolted out, blasting the man with a chest hit that dropped him like a piece of blubber.

That was when the first of the three bullets struck him in the back.

Mia had barely taken the first few risers, Kirkwood charging up close behind her, when a small volley of bullets crunched into the walls of the narrow hallway below all around Bryan. She looked down to see the Australian take cover and return fire, only to be struck in the back seconds later by a shooter who had followed them in through the kitchen.

She felt a spasm of horror deep within her at the sight of the man’s body collapsing to the floor as the bullets plowed into him, but steeled herself and willed her legs to keep going. She bounded up the narrow steps feverishly, Kirkwood following, and quickly reached the first floor. The stairs continued to another level.

“Keep going,” Kirkwood yelled, but she was already on her way up, completely at the mercy of her overworked instincts.

Another flight of stairs and she’d reached a wooden, horizontal trapdoor with an old latch that, mercifully, wasn’t locked. She pushed against it, flung the door open and rocketed up, and found herself on the flat roof of the house. Kirkwood clambered up after her before slamming the trapdoor back shut, but there was no lock on it from the outside, and nothing heavy to block it with.

Kirkwood scanned the roof, found a piece of rusted metal rebar, and jammed it through the latches on the door. It would hold, but not for long.

Mia spun around, her eyes scrutinizing the small, whitewashed space, hoping for a miracle. A big pigeon coop occupied the center, by the trapdoor. She strode around it, her nerves overwhelmed, her mind racing to process her options, which turned out to be nonexistent: The house was freestanding, surrounded by streets and passages on all sides.

There was nowhere for them to go.