Raymond Khoury - The Sanctuary

“Behind you,” she shouted.

Kirkwood glanced back, turned to her, dropped his eyes and slid one last glance at the book he gripped in his hands, and in one fluid motion, he flung it to her.

It twirled in the air, spinning around itself, a priceless ancient Frisbee, before landing in her arms just as the killer reached the parapet. She saw him raise his handgun at her, she saw death about to reach out from its nozzle and rip the life right out of her, only the man she knew as Bill Kirkwood lunged at him from the side and tackled him, pushing his arm away and sending the bullet careening into dead air.

“Run,” Kirkwood yelled as he struggled against the armed killer.

And despite every yearning, every emotion, and every instinct gluing her feet to the ground, she did.

In the darkness at the bottom of the stairs, Corben watched the nervous shooter guarding him as they both listened to the repeated blows echoing down from above. It sounded as if Mia and Kirkwood had locked themselves into a room. Omar would break through soon, of that Corben had no doubt.

It would soon be over. If he was going to try something, he had to do it now.

Only one man watching him.

A nervous wreck, at that.

Time to party.

Kirkwood’s dead gunslinger was blocking the stairs. Further down the hall, one of Omar’s dead shooters was sprawled on the ground. Something of interest was lying by his arm.

Corben’s eyes snared his guard’s nervous look, then glanced sideways, down at the body of Omar’s man, and turned to his guard in mock surprise.

“The book. It’s there, look.” Corben pointed down at the bloodied floor. And he took a step towards the dead shooter, keeping an eye on his guard, testing his reaction.

The shooter yelled at him, warning Corben off, but Corben stared him down and kept moving, his voice even louder. “It’s the book, asshole, you understand? Al kitab. ”

And he took another step, raising his cuffed hands in a gesture of helplessness, then pointed downward. “Al kitab,” he repeated. “It’s what your mu’allim wants, numb nuts.”

The shooter kept shouting and raised his gun, his eyes darting nervously up the stairs after Omar, unsure what to do. Corben was committed now, he was in a zone and wasn’t going to back out. He kept reaching down, yelling, “The book, okay? Al kitab, you understand?” And with that, positioning his back to the gunman, his fingers grabbed the fallen man’s silenced gun and he spun to face the wide-eyed Arab and pulled the trigger, hoping to a God he didn’t believe in that its magazine wasn’t empty and undergoing a small conversion in matters of faith as several rounds drilled into the man’s chest and punched him backwards before dropping him to the floor in a bloody mess.

On the roof, Omar shoved Kirkwood off him with a vicious head butt and pushed himself to his feet. He held him at bay with his handgun as he scanned the roof of the adjacent bazaar.

There was no trace of Mia or of the book.

He grabbed Kirkwood by the neck and pulled him to his feet. He took one last look across the roof, then gave up and yelled at Kirkwood to move. He pushed him through the trapdoor and herded him down the stairs, prodding him in the back with his handgun.

He was livid.

He’d lost the book, when it was right there, within reach. But he had what the hakeem wanted even more: the buyer. Unscathed. Ready for questioning. But it wasn’t a success, not by any means. Apart from the book, he’d lost several men.

He had to get out of there fast. The Turkish police would, no doubt, be rushing over, alerted by the gunfire.

He followed Kirkwood down and saw Corben’s back as they reached the bottom of the stairs. He barked out angrily to the man he’d left guarding the American.

Corben turned to face him slowly, unthreateningly, his expression a blank sheet.

And in the darkness of that dusty hallway, Omar didn’t see the gun in Corben’s hand, not even when it spat a 9mm round that spun out of its nozzle and cleaved a path straight through his forehead.

Kirkwood watched Omar fall to the ground beside him and tumble down the last few steps, headfirst, until he lay still in a mangled, splattered heap by Corben’s feet.

Corben looked up the stairs. “Where’s Mia?” he asked urgently.

Kirkwood studied Corben’s eyes. He was still processing the eruption of the last few minutes. The killers were Arab and had to be the hakeem’s men — only Corben was with them. Which didn’t compute. “What are you doing here?”

Corben seemed to be busy processing things himself. “They grabbed me last night.”

“How did they know about this rendezvous?” Kirkwood pressed. “Through you? You’ve been keeping tabs on Abu Barzan?” His tone had an overtly accusing tone to it.

Which didn’t faze Corben. “We don’t have time for this,” he countered bluntly. “Where’s the book?”

“Mia’s got it. And trust me, she’s long gone by now.” Kirkwood watched Corben for a reaction. “Can’t blame her, really, what with all the bullshit she’s been hearing about how getting her mom back’s your top priority.”

Corben glanced up the stairs after Mia, then confronted Kirkwood’s gaze. “Clearly, it’s yours too,” he shot back, his voice laced with cynicism. “I mean, that’s the only reason you’re here, right? Nothing to do with tracking down the formula your ancestor was after.”

The mention tripped Kirkwood’s mind. Corben couldn’t have known about that — not unless he’d been listening in. Which had to mean that he wasn’t here as a prisoner. He was already working with the hakeem — only something about his plans had evidently changed, given that he’d just killed the man who seemed to be the leader of the hakeem’s hit team.

Corben glanced towards the front door, then bent down to Omar’s body, pulled a knife from one of his pockets, and cut his hands free. He rubbed the blood back into his wrists, then retrieved his cell phone from the fallen Arab and quickly checked its battery. It was fully charged. He took its battery out and put it away, then turned to Bryan’s body, picked up his submachine gun, which he slung over his shoulder, and rifled through his pockets. He found some extra magazines, which he took, as well as the Land Cruiser’s keys, which is what he was really after.

Kirkwood saw him cast his eyes to the back of the house, as if wondering about something.

“Come on,” he ordered Kirkwood as he stepped over Omar’s body and stole deeper into the house.

“Where are we going?” Kirkwood asked.

Corben didn’t answer.

Kirkwood followed him into the kitchen. Corben gave the alleyway that ran behind the house a quick check, then stepped back inside. Abu Barzan was lying in the corner of the room, facedown, a dark pool of blood under him. By his feet was the attaché case.

Corben picked it up. He turned. Kirkwood stood there, facing him. He looked at the agent quizzically, then held out his hand for the case.

Corben shook his head slightly. “I think I’ll hang on to this. Make sure it gets back to the UN safely. Wouldn’t want them to miss it now, would we?” A thin, mocking smile broke through his stern expression.

Kirkwood held his gaze for a moment, then nodded with silent frustration. The gloves were off, clearly. There was no point in dissembling. He looked down, and his eyes fell on one of the Iraqis’ weapons, a handgun, on the floor beside him. It was tantalizingly within reach.

Corben had seen it too.

Kirkwood’s muscles went rigid. He locked eyes with Corben. It was as if they could read the thoughts etched across each other’s face.