Текст книги "Sandstorm"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

Painter spotted a slumped form by the doorway. It was one of the masked gunmen, the one he had seen sprawled on the deck. He lowered Clay to the floor and crept next to the man. Perhaps he could find something on the gunman that would help. A radio or something.

Captain al-Haffi joined him. “I dragged him back here, hoping he had extra ammunition on him. Or a grenade.” He said this last with thick bitterness. A single grenade would have ended the stalemate on the deck.

Painter patted the body down, ripping away the mask. The man wore a subvocalizing radio. He tugged it free and pushed the earpiece in place. Nothing. Not even static. The team had gone silent.

As he searched further, he pocketed the man’s night-vision gear and discovered a thick strap around the man’s chest. An EKG monitor.

“Damn it.”

“What?” Kara asked.

“Lucky you never discovered that grenade,” he said. “The men are rigged with status monitors. Killing them would be as good as letting them escape. Once they’re gone-overboard or dead-the others will blow the ship.”

“Blow the ship?” al-Haffi repeated, eyes narrowing, speaking English.

Painter quickly explained what he had spied and the implication. “We must get off this ship before the rear guard does. I saw a motorized skiff stowed behind the stern.”

“It’s the ship’s gig,” the captain confirmed.

Painter nodded. An aluminum runabout.

“But the infidels stand between us and the launch,” al-Haffi argued. “We could perhaps try to go under them, through the ship’s bowels, but once my men stop shooting, the others will escape.”

Painter abandoned his search of the gunman and peered outside the doorway to the open deck. The firefight had slowed, both sides running low on ammunition, needing to make each round count.

The Phantoms were at a disadvantage. They couldn’t let the gunmen escape-but neither could they kill them.

Another form of stalemate.

Or was it?

He swung around, having a sudden idea.

Before he could speak, a thunderous crash erupted from the aft deck. He glanced back outside. The lower hold’s hatch had been thrown violently open, shoved under the weight of a trio of horses. The Arabians galloped and bucked out onto the windy deck, smashing into crates and tangling through rigging. Chaos ensued. Lights shattered. Night fell darker across the ship.

One of the horses, a mare, trampled directly through the gunmen’s barricade. Shots were fired. A horse screamed.

Amid the confusion, a fourth horse appeared from the hold, galloping under a head of steam. The white Arabian stallion. It flew up the lower ramp and onto the deck, hooves pounding the planks.

But this time it was not wild and unguided.

Astride the stallion’s back, Omaha rose from the saddle, pistols in both hands. He aimed toward the nearest masked men and fired both guns, emptying them without mercy at almost point-blank range.

Two men fell as he rode past.

“No!” Painter called out, pushing out the door.

The barrage deafened his words.

Movement by the aft hatch revealed Coral sneaking into a sniper’s post. She had a rifle on her shoulder. She took aim at the only standing gunman. The man dove for the starboard rail, intending to leap overboard.

A single rifle blast exploded with a muzzle flash.

The gunman jolted in midair as if kicked by a phantom horse. The left side of his head exploded away. His body slid across the deck, coming to rest against the rails.

Painter bit back a groan. The stalemate had finally ended. With the rear guard dead, nothing would stop Cassandra from blowing the ship.

2:10 A.M.

CASSANDRA CHECKEDher watch as she climbed from the Zodiac pontoon boat and back aboard the hovercraft. The mission timetable was behind by ten minutes. Clambering onto the deck, she was met by her second.

John Kane crossed to her. He barked for two men to help haul the prone form of the museum curator aboard. The seas were getting choppy as the winds kicked up, making climbing aboard an exercise in balance and timing. Cassandra dragged up the suitcase with the artifact.

Despite the setback, they had completed their mission.

Kane stepped to her side. He was more shadow than man, dressed in black, from boots to a knit black cap. “The Argusradioed their all clear eight minutes ago. They await your order to detonate the mines.”

“What about the demolition team?” Cassandra had heard the firefight aboard the Shabab.While she was racing back, sporadic gunfire had echoed over the waters. But for the past minute, there had been only silence.

He shook his head. “Status monitors just went tits up.”

Dead. Cassandra pictured the men’s faces. Skilled mercenaries.

Footfalls pounded across the deck from the pilothouse. “Captain Sanchez!” It was the team’s radioman. He skidded to a stop on the slick surface. “We’re picking up the signals again. All three!”

“From the demolition squad?” Cassandra glanced across the sea. As if noting her attention, a new barrage of gunfire erupted from the Shabab Oman.She glanced to Kane, who shrugged.

“We lost contact a short time,” the radioman reported. “Maybe interference from the storm. But the signal’s back, strong and solid.”

Cassandra continued to stare across the seas toward the lights of the other ship. Her eyes narrowed, picturing the men again.

Kane stood at her shoulder. “Orders?”

She glared across the seas as a stiff rain began to pelt the deck. She barely felt its sting on her cheek. “Detonate the mines.”

The radioman startled but knew better than to question. He glanced at Kane, who nodded. The man clenched a fist and ran back toward the pilothouse.

Cassandra rankled at the delay in snapping to her orders. She had noted the radioman seeking confirmation from her second. Though Cassandra had been assigned to lead this operation, these were Kane’s men. And she had just condemned three of them to death.

Though Kane’s face remained stoic, his eyes glass, she elaborated. “They’re already dead,” she said. “The new signal is false.”

Kane’s brows drew together. “How can you be so-”

She cut him off. “Because Painter Crowe is over there.”

2:12 A.M.

CROUCHED WITHthe others, Painter checked the straps snugged around the bare chests of Omaha and Danny. The dead men’s heart monitors seemed to be functioning fine. The device on his own chest blinked regularly, transmitting his pulse to the hidden assault ship out there.

Danny wiped the rain from his glasses. “These things won’t electrocute us if they get wet?”

“No,” Painter assured him.

Everyone gathered on the stern deck: Kara, the Dunn brothers, Coral. Clay had been revived enough to stand. But the steep rolling of the ship in the higher seas kept him weaving and needing support. Steps away, the four Omani border patrol fired off rifles periodically, mimicking a continued standoff.

He didn’t know how long the ruse would hold. Hopefully long enough for them to abandon ship. Captain al-Haffi had rallied the crew. The ship’s motorized launch had been untied and was ready for boarding.

The other lifeboat was being swung out, ready to drop. The fifteen-man crew was now ten. With no time to spare, the dead would have to be left behind.

Painter watched the ever-growing seas from a shadowy vantage, not wanting to be spotted by the patrolling Jet Skis. Waves had climbed to twelve feet. Winds snapped sails while rain swept in bursts over the deck. The aluminum launch knocked against the stern as it hung free now.

And the full brunt of squall had yet to strike.

Painter spotted one of the black Jet Skis fly over a tall wave, hang in the air, then race down the far face. He instinctively ducked lower, but there was no need. The pilot of the Jet Ski was angling away.

Painter stood. The Jet Ski was heading away.

She knows…

Painter spun around. “To the boats!” he screamed. “Now!”

2:14 A.M.

SAFIA WOKEout of blackness to the crack of thunder. Cold rain spattered her face. She was on her back, soaked to the skin. She sat up. The world spun. Voices. Legs. Another burst of thunder. She cringed at the noise, sinking back.

She felt rocking, heaving. I’m on a boat.

“Tranq’s wearing off,” someone said behind her.

“Get her below.”

Safia’s head rolled to stare at the speaker. A woman. She stood a yard away, staring across the seas, some strange scope fixed to her face. She was dressed in black, wore her long ebony hair braided away from her face.

She knew the woman. Memory came flooding back. A shout from Clay, followed by a knock at her door. Clay?She had refused to answer, sensing something wrong. She had spent too many years at the edge of panic not to have built up a thick layer of paranoia. But it made no difference. The lock was picked as easily as if they had a key.

The woman standing before her now had been the first through the door. Something had stung Safia’s neck. She reached fingers now and felt a tender spot below the angle of her chin. She had scrambled to the far side of the cabin, choking, panic narrowing her vision to a laser point. Then even this sight vanished. She had felt herself slumping but never felt herself hit the floor. The world had slipped away.

“Get her some dry clothes,” the woman said again.

With shock, Safia recognized the voice, the disdain, the sharp consonant strikes. The rooftop of the British Museum. Tell me the combination.It was the thief from London.

Safia shook her head. She was in a waking nightmare.

Before she could respond, two men hauled her to her feet. She tried to find her legs, but her toes slipped on the wet deck. Her knees were warm butter. Even holding her chin up took all her will.

Safia stared beyond the metal rail of the boat. The storm had struck. Seas rose and fell in dark hummocks, like the backs of whales, slick and smooth. A few whitecaps flashed silver in the meager light. But what drew her eye, kept her head strained up, was the fiery ruin a short distance away.

All strength left her.

A ship burned atop the rough seas, masts now torches. Sailcloth fanned out in swirls of fiery ash, carried by the gusting winds. The hull lay gutted. All around bits of flaming flotsam decorated the seas like so many campfires.

She knew the ship. The Shabab Oman.

All air squeezed from her lungs. She strangled between a scream and despair. The roll of the seas suddenly sickened her. She vomited across the deck, splattering the shoes of her guards.

“Fucking Christ, man…” one of them cursed, yanking her cruelly.

Still, Safia’s eyes remained fixed across the sea. Her throat burned.

Not again…not everyone I love…

But a part of her knew she deserved this pain, this loss. Since Tel Aviv, she had expected everything would be taken from her. Life was cruelty and sudden tragedy. There was no permanence, no safety.

Tears ran hotly down her cheeks.

Safia stared at the fiery ruin of the Shabab Oman.She held little hope of survivors-and even this hope was dashed with her captor’s next words.

“Send back the patrol,” the woman said. “Kill anything that moves.”

2:22 A.M.

PAINTER WIPEDthe blood from the cut above his left eye. He kicked his feet to keep himself above water as the seas heaved up and down. Rain fell heavily out of low skies, flashing with lightning. Thunder grumbled.

He glanced back to the overturned launch as it rose and fell in sync with him. Around his waist, a length of towline secured him to the skiff’s bow. Immediately around him, the seas remained dark, as if he were floating in oil. But farther out, fires sputtered in the rolling seas, appearing and disappearing. And in the center, the fiery bulk of the Shabab Omanloomed, half sunk, burning down to the waterline.

Swiping blood and rain from his eyes, Painter searched the waters for any threat. A vague worry about sharks fluttered across his mind. Especially with the blood. He hoped the squall would keep such predators deep.

But Painter watched for other predators.

He didn’t have long to wait.

Lit by the many fires, a Jet Ski hoved into view, circling wide.

Painter reached up and slipped the night-vision goggles over his eyes. He sank lower, minimizing his silhouette. The world dissolved to greens and whites. Fires appeared as blindingly bright glows, while the seas took on a silvery aquamarine sheen. He focused on the Jet Ski. Through the scope, the ski now shone starkly, its shaded headlamp as bright as the fires. He toggled the magnification feature. A pilot hunched in front. Behind him, his passenger manned the mounted assault rifle, capable of firing a hundred rounds a minute.

With the goggles in place, Painter easily spotted two other Jet Skis circling the debris field. They were starting wide and circling inward. Somewhere beyond the bulk of the fiery ship, the rattle of gunfire erupted. A scream accompanied it, but it ended immediately; the gunfire did not.

The purpose of these scavengers was plain.

No survivors. No witnesses.

Painter swam back to his overturned launch, a cork in the rough seas. Once near the skiff, he dove down and under it. The night-vision goggles were watertight. It was strange how bright the seas were through the scope. He spotted the many legs dangling from beneath the capsized skiff.

Maneuvering up through them, he surfaced under the runabout. Even with the night-vision scope, details were blurry. Figures clung to gunwales and bolted aluminum seats. Eight in all. Hidden beneath the launch. The air had already staled with their fear.

Kara and the Dunn brothers helped keep Clay Bishop in place. The grad student seemed mostly recovered. Captain al-Haffi took a position near the launch’s windshield. Like his two men, he had stripped out of his desert cloak and wore only a loincloth. The fate of the fourth Phantom remained unknown.

The explosion had occurred just as the launch had hit the water. The concussive force had tossed them away, toppling the small runabout. All bore minor injuries. Afterward, amid the confusion, Painter and Coral had herded the others under the launch as debris rained down. It also offered good cover from searching eyes.

Coral whispered at his ear, “Did she send a cleanup crew?”

Painter nodded. “We’ll have to hope the storm shortens their search.”

A whine drew nearer, waning and ebbing as the launch and its hidden passengers rose and fell with the waves. Finally, the noise sharpened. The ski must have angled into the trough with them.

Painter had a bad feeling.

“Everyone underwater!” he warned. “For a count of thirty!”

He waited to make sure everyone obeyed. Coral was the last to vanish. Painter took a deep breath, then-

Gunfire rattled against the launch’s aluminum side. Deafening. Golf-ball-size hail on a tin roof. But it wasn’t hail. At such close range, a few rounds perforated the double hull of the runabout.

Painter dove down. A pair of stray bullets sizzled through the water. He watched the others holding themselves beneath the skiff, arms extended upward, hands clutching. Painter hoped the speed of the bullets would be dulled by the launch’s double hull and impact with the water.

Painter watched one of the trajectories slam past his shoulder.

He held his breath clenched until the barrage stopped, then rose up. The whine of the Jet Ski still sounded near. Thunder caused the aluminum hull to reverberate like a struck bell.

Omaha popped up beside him, followed by the others as their need for air overwhelmed them. No one spoke. They all listened to the nearby puttering engine. Everyone prepared themselves to dive again if necessary.

The Jet Ski whined closer, bumping against the side of the skiff.

If they tried to turn it over…used a grenade…

A large swell lifted the boat and its hidden passengers. The Jet Ski bumped harder, jostled by the storm surge. A loud curse erupted from outside. The engine whined louder and began to pull away.

“We could commandeer that Jet Ski,” Omaha whispered at him, nose to nose. “The two of us. We’ve still got a couple pistols between us.”

Painter frowned at him. “And then what? You don’t think they’d miss one of their skis? There’s a main boat out there, something fast. They’d be upon us in a heartbeat.”

“You’re not getting it,” Omaha pressed. “I wasn’t talkin’ about leaving. I’m talking about taking the damn thing back to where it came from. Going in undercover. To rescue Safia.”

Painter had to grant the man had balls. Too bad he didn’t have the brains to go with them. “These aren’t amateurs,” he snapped. “You’re going in blind. All the advantage is theirs.”

“Who gives a damn about the odds? It’s Safia’s life we’re talking about.”

Painter shook his head. “You wouldn’t get within a hundred yards of the main boat before you were discovered and blown away.”

Omaha refused to back down. “If you won’t go, I’ll take my brother.”

Painter made to grab for him, but Omaha shoved his hand away.

“I’m not leaving her.” Omaha turned his back and swam to Danny.

Painter recognized the pain in the other’s voice, the fury. He felt the same. Safia’s kidnapping was his fault, his responsibility. A part of him wanted to lash out, to charge in, to risk all.

But it was also a futile course. He knew this.

Omaha had his pistol out.

Painter could not stop him-but he knew who could. He turned and grabbed another person’s arm. “I care for her,” he said sharply.

Kara tried to free her arm, but Painter held tight. “What are you talking about?” she asked.

“Your question earlier…in your cabin. I careabout Safia.” It was hard to admit aloud, but he had no choice but to recognize the truth. He did indeed care. While maybe it was not love…not yet…he was willing to see where it would lead. This surprised him as much as it seemed to surprise Kara.

“I do,” Painter pressed. “And I’ll get her back-but not this way.” He nodded toward Omaha. “Not hisway. He’s more likely to get her killed. She’s safe right now. Safer than we are. We need to survive for her sake. All of us. If there’s to be any hope of a realrescue for her.”

Kara listened. Ever the consummate corporate leader, she did not delay her decision. She swung to Omaha. “Put the bloody gun away, Indiana.”

Beyond the aluminum hull, the predatory Jet Ski suddenly screamed, its engine Dopplering up. It was heading off.

Omaha glanced in its direction-then swore and shoved the pistol away.

“We’ll find her,” Painter said, but he doubted the other man heard. And perhaps it was just as well. As much as he had blustered, he didn’t know if it was a promise he could keep. He was still shaken from the assault, the defeat. From the outset, Cassandra had been a step ahead of him.

He needed to clear his head.

“I’m going to keep watch. Make sure they leave.”

He dove back down and kicked free of the launch. His thoughts remained on Cassandra’s skill at anticipating their moves. How had she managed that? A worry had seeded in his chest. Was there a traitor among them?

2:45 A.M.

OMAHA CLUNGto the launch’s gunwale, rising and falling with the waves. He hated waiting in the dark. He heard the others’ breathing. No one spoke. All remained lost in their own worries.

His grip tightened on the aluminum frame as the launch climbed another wave, taking them all up with it.

All but one. Safia.

Why had he listened to Painter? He should have tried to commandeer the Jet Ski. To hell with what anyone thought. Pressure built in his throat, tightening his breath. He clamped it down, unsure if he let it loose whether it would come out as a sob or a scream. In the dark, the past came rolling up out of the depths of the sea.

He had walked away from her.

After Tel Aviv, something had died in Safia, taking all love with it. She had retreated to London. He had tried to stay with her, but his career, his passion, lay elsewhere. Each time he returned, more and more of her was gone. She was wasting away inside. He found himself dreading the return to London from the lost corners of the world. He felt trapped. Soon his visits grew fewer and fewer. She didn’t notice or complain. That hurt the most.

When did it end, when did love become dust and sand?

He couldn’t say. It was well before he finally admitted defeat and asked for his grandmother’s ring back. It had been over a long, cold dinner. Neither had spoken. Both knew. Their silence said more than his faltering attempt to explain.

Ultimately she had only nodded and removed the ring. It came off easily. She placed it in his palm, then looked into his eyes. There was no sorrow, only relief.

That’s when he walked away.

The others stirred as Painter splashed up to them. He rose among them with a sigh of breath. “I think we’re clear. There’s been no sign of the Jet Skis for the past ten minutes.”

Relief murmured among the others.

“We should strike for shore. We’re too exposed out here.”

In the dark, Omaha noted the man’s slight Brooklyn accent. He hadn’t noticed it before. It grated with each word now. Painter’s instructions sounded too much like commands. Military background. Officer training.

“There are two oars secured in oarlocks on either side of the boat. We’ll need them to overturn the launch.” He sidled among them and showed them how to free the oars.

Omaha found one oar shoved into his hand.

“We’ll need to split into two groups. One group to heave weight down on the port side, the others to use the oars to prop up the starboard. We should be able to flip it. But first I’m going to detach the outboard. It was strafed, shot, and now’s leaking oil.”

After a final few coordinations, everyone ducked down and out.

Rain spattered out of the dark skies. The winds had died to faltering gusts. After the time he’d spent hiding under the launch, the night seemed brighter to Omaha. Lightning flickered among the clouds, illuminating patches of ocean. A few fires still floated atop the water. There was no sign of the Shabab Oman.

Omaha spun around a bit, searching. Painter swam to the stern of the launch and fought to free the engine. Omaha considered going to help, but instead simply watched the man’s struggle with the locking pin.

After a few tugs, Painter finally freed the engine. It dropped into the sea. His eyes found Omaha. “Let’s get this baby flipped.”

It wasn’t as easy as Painter had described. It took four attempts until they put everyone on one side, leaning their weight down. Painter and Omaha, each armed with an oar, levered the starboard side up. They also timed the maneuver with the roll of a wave. But finally the launch flipped back upright, half filled with water.

They climbed aboard and bailed the craft. Omaha fit the oars into place.

“It’s still filling with water,” Kara said as the water level inside the launch began to rise again under all their weight.

“Bullet holes,” Danny said, feeling through the water.

“Keep bailing,” Painter said, again with that bite of command. “We’ll alternate between rowing and bailing. It’s a long haul to shore.”

“Be warned,” Captain al-Haffi said, bare-chested but unabashed. “The currents here are treacherous. We must watch for reefs and rocks.”

Painter nodded and waved Coral toward the prow.

Omaha stared at the few burning bits of flotsam, then back the other way. The coast was barely discernible, a slightly darker bank of cloud. Flashes of lightning revealed how far they had drifted.

Painter also stared around the boat. But it wasn’t sharks or coastline that concerned. The worry was plain in the set of his lips. Somewhere out there lurked the murderous men who had kidnapped Safia. But did he fear for her safety or his own skin?

Painter’s earlier words repeated in Omaha’s head.

I care for her…for Safia.

Omaha felt a burst of anger warm the chill from his wet clothes. Was he lying? Omaha clenched both fists on the two oars and set his back. He began to row. Painter, at the stern, glanced over to him. Cold eyes, the glass of the night-vision goggles, studied him. What did they know about the man? He had much to account for, much to explain.

The muscles of Omaha’s jaw ached from clenching too long.

I care for her.

As he rowed, Omaha wasn’t sure what made him more angry.

If the man was lying…or telling the truth.

3:47 A.M.

AN HOURlater, Painter waded through the waist-high water, dragging the towline over his shoulder. The beach stretched silvery before him, framed in tumbled rocky cliffs. The rest of the coastline was dark, except for a few meager lights to the far north. A small village. The immediate vicinity seemed deserted. Still, he kept a wary eye. He had given Coral the night-vision goggles to keep a watch from the launch.

As he continued forward, his shoes dug deep into the rocky sand. His thighs burned from the effort. His shoulders ached from his shift at the oars. Waves helped push him toward the waiting shore.

Only a little further…

At least the rain had stopped.

He leaned his shoulder into the line and hauled the trailing boat toward solid ground. Behind him, Danny worked the oars while Painter guided the boat around the rocks. At last, the beach opened up ahead, a clear shot.

“Pull hard!” Painter called back to Danny.

Slack grew in the line as Danny obeyed. The launch leaped forward with a sweep of oars. Painter fought the water, climbing out of the waves, knee-deep. He slogged forward and to the side.

The launch surfed a final wave and passed to Painter’s right. He ducked to avoid being hit. “Sorry!” Danny called to him, dragging in the oars.

The boat’s prow ground into the sand with a screech of aluminum. The wave receded, leaving the boat beached.

Painter crawled and kicked out of the water, gaining his feet.

The eight men and women clambered from the launch. Coral helped Kara, while Danny, Omaha, and Clay half fell out of the boat. Only the three Desert Phantoms-Captain al-Haffi and his two men-remained on their feet, scanning the beach.

Painter lumbered farther out of the lapping water, sodden, limbs heavy. He crossed beyond the tide line in the sand. Winded, he turned to see how the others were faring with the launch. They’d have to hide the boat, drag it somewhere, or sink it.

A shadow loomed behind him. He failed to see the raised fist. He was struck in the face. Too weak, he simply fell backward onto his rear.

“Omaha!” Kara called out.

Painter now recognized his attacker. Omaha stood over him.

“What are you-” Before Painter could finish, the man was on him, shoving him back into the sand, one hand on his throat, the other going for another punch.

“You goddamn son of a bitch!”

Before the fist could land, hands grabbed Omaha’s shoulder, shirt. He was tugged backward. He fought, twisting, but Coral had a fistful of the man’s collar. She was strong. Cotton ripped along the neckline.

Painter took the opportunity to scramble backward. His left eye wept from the first punch.

“Let me go!” Omaha bellowed.

Coral threw him bodily into the sand.

Kara circled to his other side. “Omaha! What the hell are you doing?”

He sat up, red-faced. “That bastard knows more than he’s been telling us.” He jerked a thumb at Coral. “Him and his Amazon sidekick.”

Even his brother tried to calm him. “Omaha, this isn’t the time to be-”

Omaha shoved up to his knees, panting, spittle flying. “Goddamn right it’s time! We followed the bastard this far. I want answers before we move one step further.” He heaved to his feet, swaying a bit.

Painter gained his feet with an arm from Coral.

The others all faced them, a line drawn in the sand between them.

Kara stood in the center, glancing at each group. She held up a hand, seeming to settle on a side. She faced Painter. “You said you had a plan. Let’s start there.”

Painter took a deep breath and nodded. “Salalah. That’s where they’ll be taking Safia. Where we have to go next.”

Omaha called out, “How do you know that? Why are you so sure? They could be taking her anywhere…for ransom, to sell the artifact. Who the hell knows where?”

“I know,” Painter said coolly. He let silence stretch before speaking again. “This was no random raiding party that attacked us. They were focused, purposeful in their assault. They whisked in and grabbed Safia andthe iron heart. They knew what they were going after and who knew the most about it.”

“Why?” asked Kara, clipping some outburst from Omaha with a thrust of an arm. “What do they want?”

Painter stepped forward. “What we wanted. Some clue to the true location of the lost city of Ubar.”

Omaha swore under his breath. The others simply stared.

Kara shook her head. “You haven’t answered my question.” Her tone darkened. “ What do they want?What do they seek to gain by finding Ubar?”

Painter licked his lips.

“This is bullshit!” Omaha growled. He shoved past Kara, fast.

Painter stood his ground, holding Coral back with a hand signal. He would not be punched again.

Omaha lifted his arm. Metal glinted in the meager light. A pistol pointed at Painter’s head. “You’ve been yanking our chains long enough. Answer the woman’s question. What the hell’s going on?”

“Omaha,” Kara warned, but there was not much energy in her voice.

Coral sidled to the side, positioning to go for Omaha’s flank. Painter again signaled her to hold.

Omaha punched the gun at him harder. “Answer me! What goddamn game is going on here? Who do you really work for?”

Painter had no choice but to come clean. He needed the group’s cooperation. If there was to be any hope of stopping Cassandra, of rescuing Safia, he would need their help. He couldn’t do it with Coral alone.

“I work for the U.S. Department of Defense,” he finally admitted. “Specifically DARPA. The research-and-development arm of the DOD.”

Omaha shook his head. “Fucking great. The military? What does any of this have to do with them? We’re an archaeological expedition.”

Kara answered before Painter could. “The explosion at the museum.”

Omaha glanced at her, then back at Painter.

He nodded. “She’s right. It was no ordinary blast. Residual radiation pointed to an extraordinary possibility.” All eyes were on him, except Coral, who still had her full attention on Omaha and the gun. “There is a high probability that the exploded meteorite contained some form of antimatter.”

Omaha let out an explosive sound of derision, as if he had been holding it all along. “ Antimatter…what a load of bullshit! Who do you take us for?”