The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers) (13 page)

“Masks,”
ordered Dawson as he and Kane took up positions on either side of the door
holding the sarin gas, the rest covering the compound. Kane nodded to Dawson
who then grabbed the handle and turned, shoving the door open. They were
greeted with a burst of gunfire, and an “Allahu Akbar!”

Dawson
tossed in a flash-bang, not willing to risk a shrapnel grenade with the gas.
There was a muffled explosion and a bright flash, followed by screams from
inside. Dawson pushed through the door, knife in hand, and silenced the
screams. Spock rushed past him with Atlas, who yanked the top off the crate
sitting in the middle of the room as Spock planted the explosives.

Atlas
gave a thumbs up. “It’s all here.”

Spock
stood up, tossing the remote detonator to Dawson. “All set.”

“Evac.”

Spock
and Atlas rushed from the building, followed by Kane and Dawson. What greeted
them outside however was chaos. Women and children were pouring out of the main
building, screaming in anger and anguish. Their wails were loud, loud enough
Dawson knew to attract the attention of other fighters in the area, and though they
might not be the same fundamentalist faction as they had just eliminated, they
were definitely not on the side of a group of infidels.

Kane
stepped forward, his hands raised, motioning for them to back up, yelling in
Arabic, “Move back, or you will get hurt!” His voice was muffled, Dawson barely
able to understand him, the gas mask still snugly attached to his face.

“Let’s
get out of here!” ordered Dawson. “Grab the kids, the women will follow. Once
we’re behind the main building, I’ll blow the charges.”

He
rushed forward and grabbed two girls who couldn’t be more than five, one under
each arm, and rushed toward the rear of the building. Their wails and kicks
went unnoticed, the swatting by two female relatives making more of an
impression.

But they
followed him.

He heard
more screams as other children were grabbed. He rounded the rear of the
building, rushing toward the far end, a quick glance over his shoulder showing
the rest of his team, including Kane, with kids under arms or over shoulders,
mothers and grandmothers chasing the men.

“All
clear,” came Red’s voice over the comm. Dawson placed his precious load on the
ground, then flipped the cover protecting the switch from accidental
activation, and flicked it. A terrific explosion rocked the compound, the high
explosives hopefully doing their job.

“Spock,
Atlas, report!”

Spock
and Atlas rushed around the corner and out of sight, and a moment later Spock’s
voice crackled over the comm.

“Crate
confirmed destroyed, contents vaporized. And we’ve got a lot of company coming
our way, over.”

“Bravo
Two, Bravo One. Your team covers us, then rendezvous at evac point Alpha,
over.”

“Roger
that, Bravo One.”

Dawson
and his team raced from the compound, rushing across the craggy landscape
toward their former position, as a growing chorus of shouts and sporadic
gunfire broke out behind them. Dawson cleared the berm first and hit the deck,
immediately flipping over and scrambling up the embankment to assess their
situation as another half dozen bodies thudded to the ground behind him. He
could see over a hundred hostiles through the night vision goggles, and several
technicals moving through the streets, gathering rebels in the rear of their
improvised tactical vehicles.

“Let’s
go!” he said, motioning for them to take a line along the berm that should keep
them out of sight for a good portion of their egress. Dawson led the way at a
crouch, the rest of the men following, when he heard Red’s voice over the comm.

“You’ve
got two technicals coming straight for you, over.”

“Take
them out, over.”

“Roger
that, engaging.”

Dawson
could hear the engines approaching, then suddenly a loud bang, followed by a
cracking sound then the shouts of the occupants as their transportation was
brought to a standstill. Seconds later this repeated itself on the second
vehicle.

“Both
vehicles out of commission. You’re in the clear, over.”

“Roger
that, Bravo Two. Begin your evac, over.”

Red gave
orders to his teams as Dawson continued the crouched sprint for another half
mile, rounding a series of large rocks and feeling a sense of relief at the
sight of the two Gen-3 Ghost Hawk “Jedi Ride” choppers waiting for them. He
loaded his team on the first chopper, himself waiting for Red’s team as the
helicopters pushed to full power, their remarkably quiet engines still a thrill
to Dawson’s ears, having grown up with the thumping of Hueys and worse.

Red’s
team rounded the same rocks and he directed them to the second chopper,
climbing aboard his own. Seconds later the skids were off the ground, and they
were pushing south toward the Israeli border and clear of Syrian airspace.

“Bravo
Two, Bravo One. Sit rep, over.”

“All
present and accounted for, no casualties, over.”

“Roger
that, same for us. Over and out.”

The
helicopter banked sharply to the right as they entered Israeli territory on
their Israeli approved course, rushing toward the sea and the USS Arleigh Burke.
Within minutes they’d be safely aboard, leaving the blame for the poor
Israelis, who he was certain were used to it by now.

I
wonder what it’s like to live surrounded by millions of people who want to wipe
you off the face of the earth.

Dawson
thanked God he lived in the United States, where to the south you had a country
of people desperate to live where you did, and to the north a country of people
so polite, if it weren’t for terrorist paranoia, the border could be left
pretty much unguarded. Red and his family were going to Niagara Falls in a few
weeks and had invited him along. He hadn’t decided one way or the other, but
perhaps a vacation somewhere peaceful might be nice, and he had always wanted
to see the falls, and besides, Red’s son Bryson was also Dawson’s godson, and
he knew with his lifestyle, at his age, the chances of him ever finding
somebody to settle down with besides the unit were next to nothing.

His mind
drifted to the two professors who had caused him so much grief over the past
few years, and on occasion had proved capable warriors when necessary. Jim was
older than him, and he had found Laura. Under fire of all places. Dawson pictured
the women he had encountered over the past few years under fire. Most were
dead, or the enemy. In fact, he couldn’t think of one eligible woman he had met
while on duty except for Laura Palmer.

The
Chinese girl had been cute.

But she
was dead.

Dawson
sighed.
Dead or enemies.
He pictured his Xbox, 3D TV and beer fridge at
home, and the unit where his team met, trained and socialized. His eyes rounded
the chopper, remembering how he had met each of his team, then rested on Kane.

What
would I do without these guys?

“You
look a million miles away.”

It took
a moment for him to realize Kane had spoken.

“What’s
that?”

“A
piastre for your thoughts.”

“Huh?”

“Piastre.
It’s a Syrian penny.”

“Oh.”
Dawson pursed his lips, then shook his head. “Nothing, just thinking about
home.”

Kane’s
head bobbed slowly, his eyes glassing over as he looked out the window. “Home.
Sometimes I wonder if I even have a home anymore.”

“We all
have a home.”

“I have
an apartment outside of Langley that I barely see.”

The
life of a spy.

“Forget
what’s on your driver’s license. Where’s your heart?”

Kane
looked at his old instructor. “I guess home is where I grew up. Where my
parents still live.” He shook his head. “But that means
home
is where I
have to lie to the ones I love about what I do.”

Dawson
nodded knowingly. His family had no idea what he did, but at least knew he was
in the military. He looked at Kane. “What do they think you do?”

“Insurance
investigator.”

Dawson
chuckled at the thought, then started to laugh out loud, Kane joining in.

“Ridiculous,
isn’t it?”

Dawson
covered his mouth and bit his forefinger, trying to stifle his laughter.

“I’m
logistics, so I guess it’s not that much better.”

“At
least you’re armed forces. I’m a fucking glorified insurance salesman.” Kane
scratched his chin. “Do you know last Christmas I spent most of my time giving
my family advice on their property and life insurance?”

Dawson
grinned. “Must have been a good test of your cover.”

“Thank
God I represent Shaw’s of London, otherwise I’d probably have to sell them some
policies.”

Dawson
leaned back and closed his eyes. “My mom takes credit for my supposed logistics
capabilities. She says, ‘Keeping a family clothed and fed is the same as
keeping an army clothed and fed, just a bigger family.’”

“Sounds
like a strong woman.”

“You
have no idea.”

Kane
became silent, looking out the window again.

“Perhaps
you’re right.”

“How
so?”

“Home
is
where the heart is, no matter how corny it sounds.”

As
Dawson nodded, he looked at the water rushing past below, his mind thousands of
miles away at a dining room table set for Christmas dinner. His mouth watered
at the thought of a turkey dinner with all the trimmings.

And his
stomach grumbled.

I
think it’s time for a visit home.

The comm
squawked, yanking him from his reverie.

“ETA two
minutes. CAG wants to see you all for a debrief.”

Dawson
activated his comm.

“Acknowledged.”

He sat
back, crossing his arms over his chest as he tried to regain the image of a
family dinner, instead his mind insisting on showing images of sarin gas
victims.

I definitely
need a vacation.

Lord Carnarvon’s Room, Continental-Savoy Hotel, Cairo, Egypt

March 25
^th
, 1923

George Herbert, the 5
^th
Earl of Carnarvon, stroked his
moustache in the mirror with satisfaction. It had been a good day. The dig at
the Valley of the Kings continued to surprise, King Tutankhamen’s tomb, or
Tut’s as some of the men had taken to calling him, proving more valuable than
any had expected. The treasures were spectacular, this one of the few finds
that hadn’t been at least partially looted. With the burial chamber completely
intact, they were finding treasures like nothing ever seen before. Every day
was an adventure that kept his aging, crippled bones alive.

“Another
wise investment,” he mumbled to himself, clipping a stray whisker, then
returning the tiny scissors to their case. A final inspection of his moustache
in the mirror, and he returned to his bed chamber, climbing into the lonely
bed, his beloved wife Almina visiting family back in England. “Yes, another
wise investment.”

But it
was more to him. He justified the expense publicly as an investment, but in
truth he could care less. They were discovering ancient treasures, ancient
secrets, that could now be shared with the world. With his money this forgotten
king that the professor had said appeared to be barely a boy, would now be
known to the world.

If
only we could find Cleopatra’s tomb! Now that would be something!

He
turned down the light, then rolled to his side, tucking his arm under the
pillow, closing his eyes, breathing deeply to calm himself as the day’s
excitement played across his eyelids like one of those motion pictures he had
seen in London last year. He tossed and turned, the excitement of the day
simply too much, finally sitting up and turning up the light.

He
gasped.

Two men
stood at the foot of the bed. One with a pistol aimed directly at him, the
other holding what appeared to be a syringe. Both wore masks that resembled
snake heads, much like that found entombing the child king. His heart hammered in
his chest, fear gripping him like nothing he had experienced since his near
fatal car accident years ago, a foolish incident he regretted every day since.
But this was a terror that he knew would haunt him until the end of his days,
his fear now that those days would be few, or none.

George
was about to call out for help when the gun was cocked. He bit his lip, his
racing heart refusing to obey his wishes of calming down to let him think.

“What is
it you want?” he finally managed, his wavering voice not the model of British
courage he would have preferred to portray.

“You are
Lord Carnarvon? The funder of the King Tutankhamen expedition?”

George
nodded to the one who had spoken, the one with the syringe, noting the accent
was thick with the local Egyptian dialect.

“And
what of it?”

“You
have desecrated the final resting place of a Pharaoh, a crime punishable by
death,” replied the one with the gun. His English was Oxford, but there was a
hint of something else, probably Egyptian.

And
pure, unmitigated hatred.

And it
terrified him to his very core.

But he
was British, and he’d be damned if he’d let his enemy know his fear. He took a
deep breath, filling his stomach with courage, then slowly let it out, staring
down the man in the Royal Cobra death mask.

“I apologize
unreservedly if our expedition offended you in some way. We are merely
explorers, archeologists who want to share history with the people of the
world, so they can learn better about history—both theirs and yours. This King Tutankhamen
had been forgotten by time, and now, thanks to our expedition, he will be
forever remembered, perhaps more so than any that have come before or will come
again. Surely you must see that we are not grave robbers, but preservers of the
past. We have painstakingly documented the chambers, where every artifact,
every speck of dust was, so that nothing will be forgotten.” He took another
deep breath, slowing down his speech. “We have done everything we can to honor
your Pharaoh.”