The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers) (3 page)

He
grabbed Vance by the jacket. “Are you okay?”

The man
nodded through the blood. “I think so, just hurts like a mother fucker. How’s
it look?”

“Could
be an improvement. I’ve gotta check on Ferrero.”

“Forget
it. I’ll do it. You go after those bastards.”

Randy
grimaced, then nodded. He pulled two clips from Vance’s vest, then ran toward
the steps as his friend, grunting behind him, rose to his feet. Randy reached
the steps leading up the side of the monument to the next level, the shouts in
Arabic distinct, the gunfire unfortunately stopped, indicating they were
meeting no resistance.

And he
knew his old legs weren’t going to get him up two levels of these steps in
time. Sirens had his head spinning to his right and he could see several boats
of the harbor patrol arriving at least giving Randy the satisfaction that these
men weren’t going to get away with what they had planned. They’d be caught.

Unless.

The
thought sickened him, but he knew he was right. They had no intention of
getting away with it. They intended to die for their cause, martyr themselves
for entry into a twisted sexual paradise designed to urge young horny males
living in repressed societies to die young for their god so they could access
some booty.

Where
do the female martyrs go?

He
pushed himself up the last few steps, but there was no one there to engage, the
last man clearing the second level and disappearing from sight. Finally a burst
of gunfire, but it was short-lived, and he had no doubt one of his comrades was
now dead.

Randy
gasped with each step he took toward the next set of steps, his thighs
screaming in agony as he pushed himself to continue. He hit the first step,
cursing his age, cursing the sedentary lifestyle he had pretty much adopted
since retirement, and swore when he got home today, he would hug his wife, call
his daughter as he did every Thursday night, then hit the treadmill.

He heard
shouts behind him and a quick glance showed a SWAT team rushing down the path, too
far behind to be of any help.

If
only that asshole Yakovski had called it in.

As he
pushed himself up the steps, one at a time, his hands on his legs, pushing with
them, he took a glance up at the most gorgeous woman in his life, save his wife
and daughter—Lady Liberty. She stood proudly, arm raised in the air proclaiming
the ideals of her country. Made in France by French artisans over a nine year
period, then transported in pieces across the ocean, it took two additional
years to raise the money to build the base she now stood on, and once erected, she
became the symbol, the beacon, that tugged on the heartstrings of every modern
American, and drew every immigrant who graced her shores with dreams of those
ideals.

Freedom
and democracy for all. A place where dreams could come true with hard work,
where no man could blame his country for his failures, only himself, a beacon
to the world of what could be accomplished if men and women were given the
freedom to do what they wanted, when the wanted, with whom they wanted.

And
proof of this philosophy stood over his right shoulder, one of the richest,
freest cities in the world, in a country that in just two centuries had
surpassed all others despite many with histories in the thousands of years.

And this
beacon that soared above him in her own adopted home, had inspired him every
day of his life growing up and working in New York City, and there was no way
in Hell he was going to let her fall.

He
pushed the last few steps, and saw the entrance that stood at her south side,
unguarded, the shouts inside echoing up and down her copper structure, the
screams of trapped tourists inside heart wrenching as the high pitched cries of
women and children sometimes drowned out the shouts in Arabic.

He
nearly crawled toward the entrance, his legs flaming piles of meat that barely
functioned, his hands barely off the ground as he gasped for breath, his
weapon, still gripped tightly in his hand, dragging on the stone. Stumbling the
last few feet, he willed himself upright, taking a deep breath and pushing the
pain to the back of his mind, instead focusing on the job ahead.

The
shouts behind him told him the young legs of the SWAT team were closing in
quickly, but they were still too far behind. He was the only one here, the only
one who could stop what was about to happen. He stepped into the doorway, and
he heard the most chilling two words he would ever hear in person shouted by
one, then echoed by many.

“Allahu
Akbar!”

God
is great!

Randy
felt his chest tighten as a rumbling sound rolled from the structure, his feet
beginning to shake as the entire edifice began to vibrate, then a screeching
sound, like a beast from the seventh level of Hell had escaped its confines,
tore open his ears as at least a dozen deafening blasts followed each other in
rapid succession, and as Randy continued into the entrance, he saw a wall of
dust and fire rush toward him. He squeezed his eyes shut, raising his hands to
protect himself, and began to turn.

But it
was futile.

The
blast wave, augmented by the confined space, shoved him off his feet, sending
his body soaring through the air, the feeling oddly curious. He should be
terrified, he should be in pain, but he felt nothing, his vision filled with
the rapidly shrinking monument, her torch held high, her face looking down at
him with an expression of pride in what he had tried to do for her, and
sympathy for what was to become of him.

Tears
filled his eyes as he saw the dust and debris from the blast exploding from
every opening in the base and the old lady herself. He hit the water hard, his
breath knocked from him. Quickly he began to sink and it took him a few moments
to realize what was happening. Kicking with his legs, he slowly worked his way
to the surface, but something was wrong. He was reaching up with his arms to
help, but he wasn’t seeing his right hand. Looking over at his shoulder, he
gasped. His right arm was gone, nothing but a bloody stump remained. He shouted
in panic, expending his air, then stopped, kicking even harder, his still
exhausted legs working on the last bit of adrenaline his body could muster.

He broke
the surface and sucked in a deep breath, trying to stabilize himself as he strained
to reacquire Lady Liberty in his sights. He turned around and saw her, still
standing, hand defiantly in the air, and he smiled.

Then
frowned.

Something
was wrong. She didn’t look like she should, she didn’t look like she had for
the fifty plus years he had been looking at her from every angle imaginable.

She was
leaning to the left. His left, her right. And she continued to lean. He gasped
as the elaborate stone pedestal she stood on crumbled on its western side, and
she tumbled over, the cries of the metal and stonework painstakingly
constructed by stonemasons and metalworkers over a century ago failing under
the awesome power of modern explosives, carried by fanatics hell bent on
destroying the very way of life she represented.

And they
had succeeded in their mission.

To
destroy the symbol that most truly represented America.

He
sobbed as the mighty lady crashed into the ground in a pile of dust, her
defiant torch, held to light the way of millions who had come to our shores, disappearing
as Randy sank beneath the waves, his attempt to save her a failure, and his
will to live, gone.

Alexandria, Egypt

11 August, 30 BC

She gripped her pillow tightly, sobbing as she had never sobbed
before, the heartache she felt all-consuming, the thought of going on without
her beloved Antony unimaginable. She knew now how he had felt when she had
lied, sending word to him that she had died. It had been a desperate act, one
born from fear after their forces had deserted them and joined Octavian’s
forces against her darling Antony, fear that her beloved would think that she,
Cleopatra, had betrayed him, and would have her killed.

What a
fool she had been.

Her dear
Antony, upon hearing the lie repeated by her messenger, overcome by grief,
stabbed himself in the stomach with his own sword. And if her messenger was to
be believed, he lay on his couch, crying out her name, praying to the gods to
deliver him from this wretched place and back into her loving arms in the
afterlife. And when his prayers went unanswered, and he continued to slowly
bleed out, death escaping him still, he begged his servants and friends to
finish him off, but none had the courage nor the will.

Her
messenger had fled, bringing her word of his actions, and she had immediately
returned him with orders to bring her dying Antony to her sanctuary. She smiled
at the remembrance recounted to her by her messenger, of how Antony had
apparently reacted to the news she was alive. Smiles and laughter, thanks to
the gods, then demands he be taken to her immediately.

But with
Octavian’s treacherous forces so close, she hadn’t trusted the party that had
arrived, and rather than welcome him with open arms, ordered her handmaidens to
lower ropes to him through the window of her bedchamber so that if it were a
ruse, the ropes could be cut, and the perpetrator’s skull cracked open upon the
rocks below. The act of being hauled up the side of the building had nearly
killed her love, but her warrior had hung on, long enough for them to kiss once
again, and as she saw how horribly mutilated he was, she had torn her clothes
off, covering his shivering body, then tore at her own in anger, for she knew
she was the one to blame.

“Stop,
my love,” he had said.

“But
why? It is my fault you have done this to yourself. It was my lie, from my
lips, repeated by
my
messenger, that caused you the grief you suffered.
The grief that caused you to do
this
!” she cried, pointing at his wound.

“But it
is my grief no longer. To know you are alive, to know you will survive, is all
this man’s heart needs to go on. I may die here today, but our love is eternal,
a flame never to be snuffed by the treacheries of others, a bond that will
continue after our deaths and into the afterlife, forever at each other’s side,
forever as one, I Caesar, you my Queen, for eternity.”

He
winced, and she rushed to his side, her tirade of self-pity over.

“Wine,”
he gasped, and she motioned for one of her handmaidens to fulfill the request.
Cleopatra sat on the couch, lifting his head gently into her lap, tears rolling
down her cheeks and onto her bosom, dignity no longer something she cared
about, her grief overtaking her, for she knew her lover was about to die.

The wine
arrived, she held it to his lips, and he drank it thirstily at first, then with
each sip, slightly weaker, until finally his lips drew no more, and he sighed
one final time, looking into her eyes, his own filled with tears, as a weak
smile looked up at her. She caressed his cheek, wiping away a tear that had
escaped, and returned his smile.

“I love
you, my darling.”

“And I
you,” he whispered, his eyes closing, his smile waning, and his body going
slack in her arms.

“No!”
she screamed, dropping her face to his, pressing her lips against his forehead,
holding him tighter than she could remember doing before, as her handmaidens
rushed to her side, comforting her and urging her away from the corpse that now
lay in her lap. She fought them off, refusing to let go, and it was hours
before she finally could be convinced to release him.

And with
one last kiss, she whispered in his ear, “I shall be with you soon, my love.”

But it
wasn’t to be. The treacherous Octavian had captured her in her mausoleum in the
middle of her grief, and ordered his freedman Epaphroditus to guard her lest
she should attempt suicide. It was her final defeat. Her armies were wiped out
or had deserted her, her lover was gone, dead by her own words, and now she, in
a final act of humiliation, was being denied her right to suicide, her right to
reunite with her lover, and instead, if she knew Octavian, would be paraded
through the streets of Rome, humiliated before the masses, then condemned to
either a life of isolation, or worse, torture.

And she
was determined not to let that happen.

She let
go of her pillow and sat up in her bed, causing the ever alert Epaphroditus to
rise as well.

“Can I
get you anything?” he asked, always the model of politeness.

“My
handmaidens.”

He
nodded, exiting the room and whispering something to the Roman Centurion
standing outside. Within moments her handmaidens arrived, rushing to her side,
one brushing her hair, another wiping her face of her tears, another
straightening her clothes.

It was
her trusted confidante, touching up her face, that she whispered her orders to.
And as she hoped, the young girl gave no indication she had even heard the
horrific directions, other than to make momentary eye contact.

Cleopatra
stood up, her entourage scurrying with a flick of her wrist, her plan set in
motion.

Residence of Queen’s Preferred Goldsman, Alexandria

11 August, 30 BC

“Your Queen needs you.”

Tarik’s
eyebrows shot up, the hooded man who stood in the doorway at first thought to
be a beggar, was anything but, the quality of his robes dismissing the very idea.
He stepped over the threshold and into the luxurious home of one of
Alexandria’s greatest goldsmen, and one of several personal jewelers to the
Queen.

Tarik
regarded the man skeptically.
How can I possibly help the Queen? She’s a
prisoner of that pile of camel dung Octavian!
He looked at the man again,
but all details were hidden by the robes that covered him from head to toe.