Thank God thank God thank God...
Potzner shuffled his feet, relaxed slightly.
He’s seen it.
“Darling, don’t be scared,” Dracup babbled, willing Kadesh to move, just a pace. Just one. “Daddy’s here. It’s all right. I love you.” He held out his free arm, palm upwards. Kadesh sneered, enjoying the moment, but Dracup’s forward motion had caused him to take a small step back. The red dot tracked across Kadesh’s dishdash and settled above his left eye like an angry wasp.
Dracup found himself hesitating.
I can’t kill him in cold blood – can I?
Moran spoke up. Two words: “Do it.”
“Enough.” Kadesh said. The knife drew back and plunged towards Natasha’s neck.
Dracup closed his eyes and stabbed the second button. The rifle exploded into life, emptying its programmed quota of rounds, filling the chamber with the stink of cordite. Dracup was on his feet, catching Natasha as she fell, stepping over Kadesh’s body, grimacing at the bloody mess of bone and skin which was all that remained of the Korumak leader’s head. A bizarre silence descended as both marines and jihadis tried to work out what had happened.
A voice in Dracup’s head said Move! He leapt for the cover of the exposed hole in the west wall. Moran had the same idea. They collided, sprawling, half in, half out of the chamber. The jihadi automatics were chattering, raking the chamber with crossfire. Potzner, taking cover by the sarcophagus, barked out orders to the marines. “Cover me, you asshats!”
Dracup rolled, smothering Natasha’s body. His shoulder blades twitched in anticipation of the ripping burst that would end his life. He inched forward, then shoved Natasha’s bottom towards the gap. Moran grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the line of fire. Dracup stumbled after her, his head ringing with the explosive noise of the jihadi and marine automatic fire.
But they were outnumbered. The jihadis advanced through the chamber, bending low, using the sarcophagus as cover. Bullets pinged and whined off the lid. Potzner duck- walked backwards, yelling, “Careful, you morons – not the casket. Clear shots only.”
Potzner made it to the hole. He came through and flattened his back against the outside of the wall. Dracup held Natasha tight. He could see, as he had supposed, a mirror image stairway beginning its long descent twenty metres from where they stood. Beside him, a squat, muscled marine winked at him.
“Nice shootin’, man. This’ll sort the suckers out.” He showed Dracup a grenade grasped tightly in each fist. Potzner was reloading, fingers working methodically as he fed the magazine. The marine stepped forward, into the gap. Potzner glanced up, realised his intent too late. He held up his hand and screamed.
“No! No grenades!”
In slow motion, Dracup saw the marine turn, a quizzical look on his face. Why not? We want to waste the creeps, don’t we? The grenades left his hands in two rolling, overarm pitches.
Potzner yelled again. “No!”
Dracup watched the American dive into the gap. He knew what was on Potzner’s mind: the contents of the sarcophagus. Protect it. At all costs.
He’s going for the grenades. He’s crazy.
Dracup had to look. He pressed Natasha into Moran’s arms and picked up a fallen marine’s rifle. He edged his face round the wrecked wall into the chamber. Through the smoke he saw Potzner in a half dive, half lunge, stretching for the second grenade, the other already secure in his left hand.
He’s out of time – it’s going to blow.
A jihadi loomed over Potzner’s prostrate body. Dracup aimed, pulled the trigger. The rifle breech wheezed and clicked. Empty. Potzner had fallen alongside the sarcophagus. Dracup watched him raise his arm to speed the grenade away towards the jihadi stairwell; parallel with Potzner’s head it exploded in a flash of brilliant light. A microsecond later there came another sharp crack as the second grenade exploded. The chamber roof groaned, heaved and fell with a noise like a tearing thunderclap.
Dracup was pushed back by the combined force of the explosions and the sudden shifting of masonry. His head was ringing, but he moved forward again to enter the chamber. Perhaps Potzner could be saved. No more deaths. Enough was enough.
A hand was on his arm, pulling. “Get the hell out of there. Fall back!” Dracup turned, dazed. A marine roared in his face. “Move out!”
Dracup stumbled away a second before a sheet of flame burst from the chamber and flicked towards the stairwell. Moran was shouting, Natasha’s face pale and shocked beside him. He made the stairway and lurched down, two, three, five steps at a time. Three marines ahead, one, maybe two behind him. Moran glanced back, nodded briefly in acknowledgement. He felt for Natasha’s hand and grasped it firmly. Smoke billowed down the stairwell, overtaking them as they fled.