Havoc - v4 (45 page)

The Alembic of Skenderbeg was about six feet tall and four wide and was covered in Ancient Greek script. The two chambers were separated by a complicated mechanism that prevented the active plutonium from coalescing. There was something ominous about the device that went beyond Mercer’s knowledge of what it did. He sensed the alembic as a presence in the room with him, not alive exactly but aware. He could tell that it wanted to be found, that it wanted to be taken from this place so it could unleash its deadly radiation on a new world. The hairs on Mercer’s arms stood erect when he realized he was in the presence of pure evil.

The sound of gunfire echoed through the tomb. Mercer whirled as one of the guards burst into the burial chamber. Mercer was a fraction of a second slow reaching for his assault carbine. The guard fired a snap burst from his AK-47. The rounds stitched Alexander’s sarcophagus, shattering the delicate panes of crystal and powdering the mummified remains.

Mercer dove as the string of bullets cut through the air toward him, and came up hard against the wheels of a chariot. He slithered under the ornate vehicle as the terrorist started taking better aim. The filigreed wood splintered as it was savaged by the assault. Mercer got to his knees and fired through the spoked wheel, catching the gunman in the legs. The guard kept his finger on the trigger as he fell. The wild spray tore apart more of the chariot and sparked off the stone floor where Mercer knelt. His HK virtually exploded in his hands when a lucky bullet slammed into the receiver. The AK-47 fell silent when the bolt came down on an empty chamber. The terrorist had fired through the entire magazine.

Mercer jumped to his feet before the guard could reload. He snatched a short sword from the pile nearby and vaulted over the chariot. For a moment he didn’t understand what the wounded guard was doing. The object in his hands wasn’t the distinctive curve of a Kalashnikov magazine. It was round. Then he saw the beatific smile. The guard yanked the pin of the grenade and held it to his chest.

Mercer had five seconds and knew it wouldn’t be enough to get clear of the blast radius. He rushed forward and without pause swung the sword down onto the prone figure. The ancient weapon held a keen edge and the terrorist’s head jumped free in an eruption of blood and escaping air.

Mercer scooped the grenade from his lifeless fingers and with an underhanded toss flipped it over the sarcophagus. The explosion destroyed the rest of the priceless casket and sent Alexander’s remains into the air like so much dust, but the blast wave passed harmlessly over Mercer where he lay with his head cradled in his arms.

He got up and blinked, the gunfire in the next room sounding distant to his tortured hearing. He shot a concerned look at the alembic and breathed a sigh when he saw it hadn’t been hit by the fragmentation grenade. He grabbed the fallen Kalashnikov and searched the corpse for more magazines, cursing when he realized the man hadn’t been carrying any.

Alexander’s burial chamber was a storehouse of state-of-the-art weapons for their day but they were worthless against automatic rifles. Mercer could only hope that however many Janissaries followed him into the tunnel could take care of the remaining three killers. Then he saw the bows.

One in particular caught his eye; the wood was glossy smooth and it had a handle of inlaid ivory. It was a magnificent weapon, surely Alexander’s own. Hanging from its tip was a bowstring of tightly wound wire. Mercer took up the ancient weapon, reversed it, and tried to bend it to hook the string on the top notch. He could barely cause it to flex. He repositioned himself and pressed with all his strength, throwing his weight on the bow and digging in with his feet. The tough wood dug into his chest as it bent ever so slightly. Mercer ignored the pain and redoubled his efforts.

Slowly the weapon bent, curling downward so the loop on the string was tantalizingly close to the notch, but Mercer couldn’t get it that last half inch. He felt his body weakening and the half inch gap grew to an inch, then two. He wasn’t up to the challenge. Only Alexander himself had ever managed to string the mighty bow. What made him think he could handle the weapon of a god? Yet Mercer refused to give up. He pressed all the harder, closing the gap once again. He drew a deep breath, strained with everything he had, and the loop touched the top of the bow and then slid over the notch. Mercer relaxed and the wire held.

He marveled at the weapon’s balance and how the handle fit perfectly in his hand. The quiver for the arrows was a bronze tube. Its strap had rotted away eons ago so he improvised one with the sling of the AK.

He nocked an arrow and tried to draw the string back, the muscles in his chest and shoulders taking the strain. No matter how hard he pulled he could only get the bow to about half cock.

Not wanting to become trapped in the dead end burial chamber, Mercer made his way to the exit. In the diorama room he could see tongues of flame shooting out from the darkness as Poli and his men fired at the unseen Janissaries.

He padded silently around the perimeter of the chamber, keeping to the shadows away from the burning braziers as he sought a target. A long burst of autofire to his left caught his attention. He could just make out a man on the other side of three of the skeleton tableaus, firing at someone farther down the arcade of columns. Mercer drew the bow and paused, not sure of who he was aiming at. It could be Booker or one of Ahmad’s men.

The gunman moved just enough for light to flit across his face for a second. Mercer recognized Mohammad bin Al-Salibi and his hatred flared.

Between Mercer and Al-Salibi the three rearing monsters out of mythology made the shot next to impossible. Mercer would have to thread the arrow though the gaps in their skeletons if he wanted to hit the terrorist leader, and he hadn’t fired a bow since summer camp when he was thirteen.

He drew back on the wire, pulling it past what he’d managed before, until the downy feathers at the end of the arrow touched his cheek. Salibi had shifted position, hiding behind a towering thighbone of what the ancients believed was a cyclops. Mercer could just make out a sliver of his face through the forest of interwoven bones.

Shifting his aim a fraction of an inch, Mercer let fly. The ninety pounds of pull he’d maintained on the ancient weapon sent the arrow singing though the air. It shot through the gap between the hips and tail of the hydra, passed the length of its rib cage and out a hole in its shoulder before streaking to the next skeleton. Here too Mercer’s aim held true. The arrow barely brushed the tooth of the snake-like creature as it arced through its open jaw. And then it passed through the bones of another monster.

Salibi must have heard the sound of the bow because he turned at the last second. The arrow sliced though his cheek, breaking when it hit the bone but still carrying enough speed for the tip to pierce his skull. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Mercer readied another arrow and continued the hunt. The firing suddenly stopped and he lowered himself behind a column, waiting to see what would happen next. He detected shadowy movement heading in the direction of Alexander’s tomb, but he wasn’t quick enough with the bow. He continued around the perimeter of the chamber, his eyes straining to see in the uneven light of the braziers while making sure whoever had entered the third room didn’t reemerge.

A hand reached out and grabbed his ankle. He jerked it free and heaved on the bow, letting off the tension when he saw Ibriham Ahmad lying on the stone floor. His customary black suit was shiny at the shoulder and along his side. The sheen was fresh blood.

Mercer knelt at his side. “How bad are you hit?”

“I am dead, Dr. Mercer.” His voice was a hoarse croak. “Yet I go to my grave knowing the alembic will not leave this place.”

“You dynamited the entrance to seal us in.”

He nodded stiffly. “When I blew up the tunnel only Devrin and one other were left. I could not risk losing the fight.”

Had the Turk not already been dying, Mercer would have killed him with his bare hands. “You could have fucking warned me you were going to pull something like this, for God’s sake.”

“It is for God’s sake I did it. There was no other way. Our sacrifice will save millions.”

That was the difference between them. Mercer was willing to risk his life on even the slimmest odds, but willingly knowing there was absolutely no chance was something he couldn’t comprehend.

“I only managed to get one of them,” Ibriham slurred. He was going fast.

“Poli?”

“No, an Arab.”

“I got Salibi.”

“May Allah’s blessing be upon you, and may he rot for all eternity in the most foul hell.”

Trapped in this subterranean nightmare he might be, but as long as Mercer was alive there was always hope. He’d take care of Poli first and then try to figure a way to get himself and Ahmad out of here. That must have been the one-eyed assassin he’d seen skulking back into the burial chamber.

“Where’s your gun?” Mercer asked the Janissary.

“I am out of ammunition. I think we all are. That is why Poli stopped shooting.”

“Haven’t any of you heard of fire discipline?” Mercer spat. “Well, if I could take Salibi with a bow I can do the same to Poli. Are you going to be okay for a couple of minutes?”

“No, Doctor. I will be dead.” He said it with calm resignation.

Mercer didn’t know what to say. He laid a hand gently on Ahmad’s good shoulder.
“Vaya con Dios.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s Spanish. It means go with God.”

“You could give me no better blessing,” Ibriham said with a faint smile and then he simply didn’t take another breath.

Mercer gently closed his eyes. “Enjoy your virgins, my friend. You’ve earned them.”

He stood and quickly made his way down the columned promenade, an arrow at the ready. At the entrance to the burial chamber he paused and scanned the space, unable to see anyone hiding amid the clutter of funerary artifacts. He took a cautious step into the room.

The bronze sword swung in a tight arc and sliced into the tough wooden bow, which saved Mercer’s life. Poli had been hiding just inside the entrance ready to ambush him.

The blow sent Mercer staggering back, and the sword lodged in the bow was ripped from Poli’s hand. Stunned by the attack, Mercer tried to dislodge the blade but it was stuck fast. Poli reared from around the corner, his single eye glinting in the firelight. Mercer backpedaled to give himself room. When he drew the bow the weakened wood broke where it had been sliced and the weapon just sagged in his hands.

Poli was only a couple feet away, his massive arms outstretched as he towered over Mercer. Mercer threw the bow at him. Poli caught it, contemptuously tossed it aside, and came on like a machine.

“You are a dead man.”

“Funny,” Mercer said. “I was about to tell you the same thing.”

Poli lunged at him. Mercer dashed to his left to avoid the attack and almost got free, but one of Poli’s big hands clamped down on his wrist. He turned on the inside and punched the Bulgarian under the arm. It was like hitting a truck tire.

Poli bent his wrist back, forcing Mercer to his knees. The mercenary fired a fist into Mercer’s face using all his weight. Mercer felt his nose break and the blood jet from his nostrils before he lost consciousness for a second. Poli yanked on his arm to rouse him and punched him again, even harder.

Mercer felt like he was being worked over with a sledgehammer. Poli heaved him to his feet and shoved him back against a wall. He tried to knee Mercer in the groin but Mercer shifted just enough to take the blow on the thigh. The leg went numb to his toes.

“I have never particularly enjoyed killing people,” Poli said. He wasn’t even breathing hard. “It is something I happened to learn I was good at doing.”

“So maybe now’s a good time to quit,” Mercer said and spat a glob of blood on the ground.

“But I am going to enjoy killing you. It will be hours before they dig us out so I am going to take my time.” He casually cuffed Mercer on the side of the head.

When he let go, Mercer couldn’t stay on his feet and he collapsed. Poli grabbed him by the hair and started dragging him back into the burial chamber. Mercer grabbed Poli’s wrist to lessen the pain as his scalp was nearly ripped off.

Poli dragged him upright again and, using one hand to hold him and one hand to punch him, fired a rapid series of shots into Mercer’s already bloody face. There was nothing Mercer could do but take the beating. He’d fought, and even defeated, men who were bigger than himself, but nobody with Poli’s size or immeasurable strength. He felt as powerless as a child at the hands of an abuser.

When Poli stopped, Mercer collapsed again. The big assassin went to a pile of swords leaning against a stack of sandalwood boxes. He came back, testing the edge, and showed Mercer the bloody line it left on his thumb.

“How do you think you’ll look without skin?”

Mercer could just lie there and stare up at him. Poli set the weapon down and forced him onto his feet again, saying, “I thought you were tough. The least you could do is make this interesting.” Holding one of Mercer’s arms Poli spun in place like a discus thrower and tossed him across the room. Mercer smashed into one of the chariots, almost flipping over its side. He couldn’t straighten himself by the time Poli grabbed him and threw him again. This time he crashed into the long wooden skiff Alexander was to use on the rivers of the underworld.

Poli reached for him again and just as his hands clamped on the back of Mercer’s neck, Mercer turned and rammed the butt end of a skinny oar into the giant’s eye.

Poli Feines roared in pain as blood and clear ocular fluid sprayed from the wound. Mercer took a painful step forward and rammed the oar deeper into the eye socket. Poli’s screams turned shrill.

Mercer reached out and yanked the oar from Poli’s eye and the merciless killer fell to the ground, clutching at his ruined face. “You’ve blinded me.”

Mercer grabbed a nearby lance to help keep him on his feet. “Not exactly an eye for an eye, you sadistic son of a bitch, but I think you get the point.”