Raymond Khoury - The Sanctuary

“Mia, please, just…please.” Kirkwood paused, then they heard him say urgently, “Where did you find this book?” clearly asking Abu Barzan.

“I don’t know, I’m…I’m not sure,” an Iraqi voice, obviously Abu Barzan’s, replied in a not entirely convincing stammer.

“Don’t do this, alright? Not after everything we’ve done to get here. You’ve been paid a small fortune already. Where did you get this?” Kirkwood insisted fiercely.

After a brief pause and what sounded like a deep tug on a cigarette, the Iraqi finally said, “I came across it in a Yazidi village. A small place, in the mountains north of Al Amadiyya, near the border. It’s called Nerva Zhori,” he admitted somewhat ruefully.

“Were there other books there with this symbol on it?” Kirkwood asked intently. “Did you see anything else there like this?”

“I don’t know. The village’s mokhtar ”—the term referred to its equivalent of a mayor—“asked me to go through a storeroom of old rubbish they had there, to see if there was anything I could buy,” Abu Barzan said. “I took a few things, some old books, a few amulets. They didn’t care what I took, they just needed some cash. Since the war, people are desperate, they need to sell whatever they can to try and make some money.”

Kirkwood paused, then said, presumably to Mia, “Once your mother’s out safely, we need to go there. We have to talk to this mokhtar and find out how this book ended up there.”

“Why?” Mia asked.

“Because Sebastian disappeared somewhere in the Middle East while looking for the formula,” Kirkwood explained, the passion in his voice cutting through the static hiss of the directional microphone. “And this is the first time we’ve found a clue as to what happened to him and where he ended up.”

Omar reached up and pressed his finger to his earpiece, and a breath later, he turned to Corben and nodded as if to say, That’s all we need.

Corben gave him a terse shake of the head, like Not yet , but Omar wasn’t interested. He’d already reached for his handheld radio and, in a low murmur, issued the kill order.

“Wait a second,” Mia insisted, “you still haven’t answered my question. What do you mean he’s your ancestor? Who are you? What are you really doing here?”

“It’s a long story.” Kirkwood looked around, clearly uncomfortable with having an audience. “Let’s get everything back to the plane. I’ll tell you the rest there.”

Two muffled thumps disturbed the stillness outside the house. Barely noticeable, except for Bryan, who was positioned closest to the front window.

“No,” Mia flared up. “You’re telling me now. I’ve had enough of you and Corben drip-feeding me what you think is—”

“Quiet,” Bryan interrupted tersely. He’d edged over to the side of the front window. Mia and Kirkwood went brusquely silent and watched as Bryan, careful to use the wall for cover, peered out from behind the netted curtain.

His colleague, and Abu Barzan’s man, were sprawled on the ground. The South African had blood pooling under his head. The Arab was leaking from the chest area. Neither was batting an eyelid.

“Get down,” Bryan ordered, pulling out his handgun and darting away from the glass. “We’ve got company.”

He peered over again carefully and scanned the rooftops opposite. He caught a glimpse of a sniper looking for a shot and ducked behind the wall just as a couple of more silenced, high-velocity rounds punched through the window and crunched into the tiled floor, showering the front of the room with shards of broken glass.

Bryan swung back out and loosed a few rounds towards the rooftop while, behind him, everyone in the room scrambled for cover. Kirkwood clutched the book as he hustled Mia behind the dining table, his eyes scanning the room for options. Abu Barzan grabbed the attaché case with one hand and pawed a handgun with the other. His nephew and their host had also reached for their weapons, and all three were backing up towards a door at the back of the room.

“Is there another way out?” Kirkwood shouted to Abu Barzan.

The big Iraqi was half-crouched, scouring the windows nervously as he retreated deeper into the house. “Yes, at the back,” he said nervously. “Through here.”

By the window, Bryan fired a few more rounds, emptying his magazine before rushing back to join Kirkwood and Mia.

“How many could you see?” Kirkwood asked.

“I just saw the sniper.” Bryan nimbly slapped a full magazine into his handgun. “Who are these guys?”

“I don’t know,” Kirkwood said as several shots obliterated the lock on the front door before a military boot kicked it in.

“Take cover,” Bryan yelled as he upended the dining table and flung it on its side, diving behind it before leaning out, looking for a target.

A tirade of eerily silenced gunfire from outside raked the room before one of the attackers burst in, firing as he ducked away from the door. Bryan tracked him and squeezed off a few rounds, hitting him in the thigh. The man yelled in pain as he tumbled behind a sofa. As Bryan leaned out, looking to finish him off, another shooter slung his arm in and pumped two silenced shots, one of which caught the Australian in the shoulder.

He winced with pain as he darted back behind the table, checking his bloodied wound with his good hand.

“Get out the back way,” he muttered to Kirkwood and Mia through clenched teeth, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead.

Kirkwood protested, “We can’t leave you like—”

“Just go, mate,” Bryan ordered. “Get the hell out of here before it’s too late.”

And with that, he swung out and fired at anything that moved by the door, cutting down the first man he had injured and pushing back the other shooter who was moving in.

Kirkwood turned to Mia, yelling out, “Come on,” before bolting out from behind the table, the codex still under one arm. Mia followed, hot on his heels, as they rushed through the doorway towards the rear of the house.

They slipped past the stairs that led to the upper levels of the house before reaching the kitchen. They’d barely stepped into the cluttered room when they heard more gunfire and thuds, then Abu Barzan came rushing back through the kitchen door alone. He wasn’t fully in yet when his eyes met Mia’s just as something struck him from behind and sent him crashing to the floor and writhing in pain as a crimson patch blossomed in his left thigh.

Kirkwood herded Mia back into the house, shouting, “Back, the other way, quick.”

She tore her eyes off the fallen Iraqi and hurried back towards the living room.

Corben stood next to Omar, muscles clenched, his hands still nylon-cuffed in front of him, and watched as the first gunman charged into the house.

He’d seen the two guards outside cut down by the sniper, who had just made his way back to them. Omar had already sent three men around to the back of the house, and Corben knew they’d cut off any retreat from there. Right now, he couldn’t do anything. He just stayed close to the wall, biding his time, looking for an opportunity, and watched helplessly as Omar’s men went about their business.

He knew their orders were not to harm the American buyer — he’d heard Omar repeat the orders several times — and felt a flush of anger as he thought of Mia being trapped in the shooting gallery.

Omar hadn’t said anything about her.

He heard gunshots coming from behind the house, then a barrage of rounds hammered the doorway around them. Omar scowled at the house, listened intently, and ordered the sniper in.

The gunman nodded, peered in, swung an arm in, and fired several rounds. A low growl of pain from inside told Corben the second of Kirkwood’s escorts had been hit. He looked at Omar. The hakeem’s man had heard it too. A psychotic gleam flitted across his murderous eyes as he ordered his men to finish him off.