Now it was a more dangerous game.
One of the combatants had dismounted near the edge of the plateau and set up a sniper’s position, flat to the ground, taking potshots at them, keeping them on the defensive. Out in the open with little shelter, it would have been like shooting fish in a barrel—but with the mix of eight horses and the sniper’s fellow men out here, Duncan and the others had some cover.
If only that damned cover would quit moving or trying to kill you . . .
Monk slammed into Duncan, dancing from a round that ricocheted at his toes. They both ducked behind a horse for a few breaths. Duncan kept hold of its lead to keep their stallion between them and the sniper.
Sanjar joined them a second later.
Monk gasped. “Dunk, go take out that shooter.”
No argument here . . . that guy was really pissing him off.
“Sanjar and I’ll try to make it over the wall,” Monk said and pointed.
Moments ago, they had all heard the shooting on the far side, coming from the lake. A few of the enemy must have gotten through before the charges blew. Someone had to go help Jada and Khaidu.
Duncan understood. For that to happen, the sniper had to be taken out. Monk and Sanjar would never be able to scale that rubble and drop to the other side with the shooter having a clear shot at them.
“I got it,” Duncan said, “but I’m going to have to borrow this horse . . . and this guy’s helmet.”
He tugged the headgear from a body underfoot and slammed it atop his head. Once ready, he hooked a boot in a stirrup, got a nod from Monk, then leaped into the saddle. Grabbing the reins, he turned his steed toward the sniper and goaded the beast into a full gallop, the leather armor flapping with each strike of a hoof.
Duncan kept low to his mount’s neck, hoping the shooter only saw the horse and the helmet. The sniper fired—but he aimed into the chaos behind Duncan, likely spotting Monk and Sanjar striking for the wall.
Duncan centered on the muzzle flashes in the dark. He urged the horse faster in that direction, knowing he’d only have this one chance. Hooves pounded the granite; sweat flecked the stallion’s neck.
Then he reached the sniper.
He caught a look on the man’s face as the sniper realized the ruse too late. The horse tried to shy away at the last moment, but Duncan held him firm by the reins. Eight hundred pounds of Mongolian stallion trampled over the sniper’s sprawled body, stamping bone and crushing flesh.
Then Duncan was past him, flying down the slope toward the forest’s edge. It took several yards to slow and wheel the horse around and head back up. He slid from the saddle—not to check on the sniper, who was clearly dead, but to go for the man’s gun, to turn the tables on the enemy.
Unfortunately, an unlucky hoof had struck the rifle, breaking the stock and bending the barrel. He lifted the weapon up anyway and looked through the night-vision scope for his friends.
A bobbling search across the killing floor revealed Monk standing over a limp form near the wall, his pistol smoking. Sanjar slit another man’s throat, dropping his body. Then a horse moved, and Duncan spotted a final attacker, coming from behind them.
“MONK!” he yelled.
The whinnying and clattering of horses drowned his warning.
He could only watch as the man ran his sword through Sanjar’s back, while raising a rifle with his other hand toward Monk. Duncan recognized the attacker, even with his face in ruins.
Arslan.
Duncan was already on his feet running, knowing he’d be too late.
6:47 P.M.
Victory must be savored.
Batukhan stood over the young Mongol woman, no more than a girl, her stomach soaked in blood. She had some skill with the bow, dropping his horse with a single arrow. He now had his sword pressed between her small br**sts, pushing enough to pierce cloth and skin and touch its point against the bone of her sternum.
Pain etched her features, but she still stared stonily at him.
Tough, hardy stock.
A flicker of pride for his people flared through him, not that he wouldn’t relish this kill. He remembered his favorite quote from Genghis Khan: It is not sufficient that I succeed—all others must fail.
He would grant this one a quick death.
The American would be slower.
He held his pistol in his other hand, pointed back toward the lake. He would stalk the defenseless woman at his leisure. There was nowhere for her to run, no weapon with which to defend herself.
Smiling behind his mask, he leaned forward, ready to plunge his sword to sweet satisfaction—then a loud splash erupted behind him.
A glance behind revealed a dark figure rising out of the lake, a Nubian goddess, rushing toward him, swinging a deadly length of steel in one hand toward his head.
6:49 P.M.
Jada swung the crowbar at the beast’s head, ready to cleave it clean off the man’s shoulders.
After diving into the lake, she remembered Duncan abandoning the tool below after cracking open the satellite’s bulk. She might not be good with a pistol—but from years of racing triathlons, she had stamina and knew how to swim. While crossing the lake, she had taken a few breaths by surfacing on her back, bringing just her lips and nose up enough to get air. Once in position, she dove deep and used the moonlight through the clear water to find and seize her weapon.
Then she swam back, gliding through the shallows, trusting the reflection of starlight on the midnight lake to hide her.
She waited until the man was turned fully away to leap forth and attack. But alerted at the last minute, he shifted enough to take the blow to the crown of his helmet.
Steel rang against steel.
The shock ran up her arm to her shoulder, numbing her fingers enough to lose the crowbar. It clanked against the stone.
Still, the resounding strike dented the man’s helmet and staggered him back. He dropped the sword, weaving on his legs—but unfortunately he kept hold of his pistol.
He raised it to point at her chest and swept his damaged helmet off with his other hand. He cursed at her in his native language, his face as much a mask as before, but now one of fury and vengeance.
He shoved the pistol at her—then winced in shock, dropping heavily and suddenly to his knees.
Behind him, Khaidu held his abandoned sword, bloody after slashing him across the back of the legs, where he had little armor, hamstringing and crippling him.
Jada kicked out with a waterlogged boot and struck the gun from his stunned fingers. The weapon flew and splashed into the water. She then retrieved the crowbar from the ground, and with an uppercut swing, cracked him in the chin. His head flew back—then the rest of his body followed.