Clive Cussler - Treasure of Khan

The three men around the campfire jumped to their feet in shock, but that was to be the last move they would make. In an instant, a hail of arrows rained down on them like a tempest. The horsemen were killing machines, wielding their bows and firing a half dozen arrows apiece in mere seconds. The drunken surveyors had no chance, the archers finding their targets with ease at such close range. A brief sprinkling of cries echoed through the night and then it was over, each man lying dead with a tombstone of arrows protruding from his lifeless body.

Vlad watched the massacre in wide-eyed terror, nearly crying out in shock when the first arrows took flight. His heart felt like it would beat out of his chest, and then the adrenaline hit, urging his body to get up and flee like the wind. Scrambling down the gully, he started to run, faster than he had ever run in his life before. The pain in his knee, the alcohol in his blood, it all vanished, replaced by the singular sensation of fear. He ran down the sloping foothills, oblivious to any unseen nighttime obstructions, pushed on by sheer panic. Several times he fell, cutting nasty gashes on his legs and arms, but immediately he staggered to his feet and resumed the pace. Over the pounding of his heart and the gasping from his lungs, he listened for the sound of pursuing hoofbeats. But they never came.

For two hours, he ran, staggered, and stumbled until he came to the rushing waters of the Selenga River.

Moving along the riverbank, he came upon two large boulders that offered both shelter and concealment.

Crawling into the crevice beneath the rocks, he quickly fell asleep, not wanting to awake from the living nightmare he had just witnessed.

The ride, Theresa decided, replicated the jarring discomfort of a Butterfield stagecoach passage across the American Southwest in 1860. Every bump and rut seemed to vibrate directly from the wheels to the bed of the two-ton panel truck, where the energy was transferred up her backside in a force that made her bones rattle. Bound, gagged, and seated on a hardwood bench across from two armed guards did not improve the comfort factor. Only the presence of Roy and Wofford shackled beside her offered a small degree of mental consolation.

Sore, tired, and hungry, she struggled to make sense of the events at Lake Baikal. Tatiana had said very little after waking her in their shared cabin with a cold pistol pressed against her chin. Marched at gunpoint off the Vereshchagin and onto a dinghy, she and the others had been transferred to the black freighter briefly, then pushed ashore and bound into the back of the panel truck. They waited on the dock nearly two hours, hearing gunshots and a commotion on the ship before the truck was started and they were driven away.

She wondered grimly what had become of the Russian scientist Sarghov. He had been roughly pulled away from the group when they first boarded the freighter and herded off to another part of the ship. It hadn't looked good, and she feared for the safety of the jolly scientist. And what of the Vereshchagin? It appeared to be sitting low in the water when they were forced off. Were Al, Dirk, and the rest of the crew in danger as well?

The larger question was why had they been abducted? She feared for her life, but her self-pity quickly vanished when she gazed at Roy and Wofford. The two men were suffering far worse pain. Wofford was nursing a badly injured leg, likely fractured when he was shoved off balance from the black freighter. He held the leg stiffly in front of him, wincing in pain every time the truck lurched.

Gazing at Roy, she saw that he had fallen asleep with a small accretion of dried blood caked to his shirt.

Stopping to help Wofford up from his fall, a spiteful guard had swung his carbine at Roy, cutting a wide gash across his scalp. He was unconscious for several minutes, his limp body having been roughly tossed into the back of the truck.

Theresa's dread was temporarily displaced by another jolt from the truck, and she tried to close her eyes and sleep away the nightmare. The truck bounced along for another five hours, at one point passing through a sizeable city, as judged by its stop-and-go progress and the sounds of other vehicles. The traffic noise soon vanished and the truck again picked up speed, swaying across a winding dirt road for another four hours. Finally, the truck slowed, and from the sudden alertness exhibited by the two guards Theresa knew they were arriving at their destination.

"We might as well have flown, given the amount of time we've been airborne," Wofford grimaced as they all flew off the bench seat from another encounter with a pothole.

Theresa smiled at the brave humor but offered no reply as the truck ground to a halt. The clattery diesel motor was turned off and the back doors of the truck flung open, bathing the bay in a shock of bright sunlight. At the guards' nodding, Theresa and Roy helped Wofford from the truck, then stood absorbing their surroundings.

They stood in the center of a walled compound that encompassed two freestanding buildings. Under a bright blue sky, the temperature was much warmer than at Lake Baikal, despite a light breeze blowing across their faces. Theresa sniffed the air, noting a dry and dusty flavor. A rolling grass valley appeared far below in the distance, while a gray-green mountain peak rose adjacent to the complex. The compound appeared to be dug into the side of the mountain, which she noticed was covered by low shrubs and thick clusters of tall pines.

To their left, half hidden behind a long row of hedges, stood a low-rise brick building, similar to those found in a modern industrial park. Seemingly out of place, there was a horse stable attached to one end of the building. A half dozen stodgy horses milled about a large corral, nibbling remnants of grass that poked through the dust. At the other end of the building was a large steel garage, which housed a fleet of trucks and mechanical equipment. Inside, a handful of workers in black jumpsuits were working on a dusty fleet of earth-moving equipment.

"I thought the Taj Mahal was in India," Roy said.

"Well, maybe we are in India," Wofford replied with a pained smirk.

Theresa turned and studied the other building in the compound. She had to agree with Roy, it did bear a slight resemblance to the Indian landmark, albeit a much smaller version. In contrast to the functional efficiency of the brick industrial building, the structure before her was built with ornate flair and drama.

Thick columns fronted a gleaming white marble edifice that was built low to the ground. At its center, a circular portico enveloped the main entrance. A bulbous white roof capped the entry hall, topped by a golden spire protruding from its peak. The design was, in fact, little removed from the dome of the Taj Mahal. Though elegant, the image looked to Theresa as if a giant scoop of vanilla ice cream had fallen from the heavens.

The landscape in front of the structure was equally palatial. A pair of canals flowed across the compound, feeding a large reflecting pool before disappearing under the front of the building. Theresa could hear the rushing waters of a nearby river, which fed the canals some distance from the compound.

Around the canals and pool stretched a lush green ornamental garden, manicured to a detail that would shame an English nobleman.

Across the lawn, Theresa spied Tatiana and Anatoly conversing with a man who wore a holster on his side. The man nodded, then approached the back of the truck and said, "This way," in a thick accent.

The two guards bunched up behind Roy and Wofford to emphasize the command.

Theresa and Roy each lent an arm to Wofford and followed the squat man as he marched down a walkway toward the opulent building. They approached the portico, where a large carved wooden door led into the premises. Flanked on either side, like doormen at the Savoy Hotel, was a pair of guards dressed in ornately embroidered long silk coats colored orange. Theresa knew they were guards, as they made no move to open the door, instead standing perfectly still, firmly grasping sharp-pointed lances in one hand.