The Lost Throne(134)

When everything stopped moving, Dial and Andropoulos were left sprawling on the side of the road. Both of them were conscious, but badly bruised and scraped. Somehow their motorcycle had twisted around on the ground, so its headlight was now pointed back at them. The bright beam of light allowed them to see, but what they saw was frightening.

Two Spartans were coming in for the kill.

Dial reached down for his gun, his fingers fumbling with the strap on his holster. Seconds passed before he heard the quiet snap that allowed him to yank his weapon free. But by then it was too late; the Spartan was upon him.

He kicked the gun out of Dial’s hand and laughed as he did. He was going to enjoy this. His sword was already slathered in blood, fresh from his recent kill. Now he could add some more.

Two victims in less than a minute. His ancestors would be proud. The Spartan lifted the sword above his head, ready to drive it through Dial’s chest.

And all Dial could do was watch.





70




As the blade started forward, Dial heard the two most beautiful sounds of his entire life. A gunshot rang out from the tree line, followed by a soft gasp from the Spartan’s mouth.

His cocky laughter from a moment before had been replaced by his dying breath.

Blood gushed from the hole in the warrior’s neck as he slumped to the ground. As he did, he tried to use his last ounce of strength to kill one more opponent. With wide eyes, Dial watched the sword on its downward flight as it headed straight for his face. But before it made contact, multiple shots burst from the night, knocking the Spartan off-balance. His blade struck the ground with so much force that it remained upright a lot longer than he did.

The sword stood at attention like a flag planted on foreign soil.

Dial turned his head and stared at it. He gulped as he did.

Four inches to the left, and he would have been dead.

“Are you all right?” called a voice from the trees.

“Yes,” Dial said, his heart pounding in his chest. “I’m fine.”

“Show me your hands.”

“What?”

“Show me your fucking hands!”

“Okay.” From his prone position, Dial lifted his arms slowly. “I’m unarmed.”

“Are you alone?”

“No. I was riding with my partner.”

“Your partner?”

“I’m a cop. . . . Is my partner all right?”

The shooter in the trees crept closer, trying to see the face of the cop he had just saved. “Your partner is fine. What are you doing here?”

“I’m working on a case.”

“What kind of case?”

“A homicide. . . . The men with swords killed several monks.”

Silence filled the air for several seconds. Dial glanced toward the tree line, from where the shooter had last spoken, but saw nothing. A moment later, Dial heard footsteps behind him.

Somehow the shooter had traveled twenty feet without making a sound.

“Damn,” Dial said to himself. “What are you doing back there?”

“I’m picking up your gun.”

“Oh.”

Dial listened closely, worried that the man was going to put a bullet in the back of his head. Some criminals got a special thrill from that, using a cop’s weapon against him. Then again, if he had wanted Dial to die, why had he just saved his life?

“Can you sit up?” asked the shooter.

“Yes.”

“Then lock your hands behind your head and sit up slowly.”

Dial did as he was told, sitting up despite the pain that emerged in his ribs and back. With all the excitement, he had temporarily forgotten he had just been in a bike wreck.

Meanwhile, the shooter waited until Dial was in an upright position. Now, for the first time, he would be able to see the cop’s face in the beam of the headlight. Moving quietly, he walked around to the front and stared at the man whose life he had just saved.

And he was stunned by the sight.





Payne couldn’t believe his eyes. “Nick?”

Dial flinched at the mention of his name. With one hand, he shielded the bright headlight of the motorcycle and focused on the man in front of him. He was just as shocked as Payne. “Jon?”

“What in the hell are you doing here?”

Dial slumped to the ground in utter relief. “Holy shit, you gave me a heart attack. I thought you were going to kill me.”

“Kill you? I just saved you.”

“I know,” he said, laughing to himself. “But it’s been a strange night.”

Dial had met Payne and Jones several years ago at Stars & Stripes, a European bar that catered to Americans who worked overseas. They were in the MANIACs at the time, and Dial was still rising through the ranks at Interpol. The three of them hit it off, and they had kept in touch ever since—occasionally bumping into each other in the strang est places. Once at an airport in Italy. Another time at a bookstore in London. But this, by far, took the prize for their most auspicious meeting ever.