Will Adams - The Lost Labyrinth

All around him, people heard the dread word and scampered for cover. The two guards unbuttoned their holsters and yelled at Davit, Knox and Boris to put up their hands. Mikhail ran past them, making out he was too petrified to do anything but flee; then he dropped the pretence and began sprinting across the car park after the Mercedes. Zaal saw him coming; he surged towards the exit. But two cars were already queuing to leave, and a third was coming in. He tooted then drove down the narrow lane between them, his side-mirrors folding back as they caught, the screech of metal on metal as he forced the Mercedes through and then turned left into the one-way stream of traffic. Mikhail caught up with him at that moment, tried to open the passenger door, but it was locked. Zaal put in a little spurt, but there was too much traffic and confusion for him to get away clean. Mikhail caught up with him and tried the hatchback. It was unlocked and it lifted up and he threw himself inside as the Mercedes lurched off again. Zaal looked in his mirror and his complexion turned to white when he saw Mikhail kneeling there. He tried to open his door but too late, Mikhail leapt over the back seats and grabbed his chin from behind and hauled it back, sawing his knife across his throat, cutting through his windpipe and carotid, blood spraying over the wheel and dashboard and the inside of the windscreen, Zaal's feet sliding off the pedals, the Mercedes drifting to a halt.

He heaved Zaal aside then took the wheel and gathered his bearings. Thankfully the tinted windows seemed to have prevented any of the few bystanders from seeing what he'd done. But he didn't have long. The windscreen was splattered with blood, so he wiped it with his sleeve, but only succeeded in smearing it all the worse. He felt the indignity of it all. Someone was going to pay for this.

Panic had blocked the exit ahead. There was no way through. He pulled a U-turn, put his hand upon his horn and kept it there as he drove back against the traffic. A lorry was hurtling towards him; he had no choice but to wrench his wheel around and head the wrong way up an access ramp. He made it unscathed to the top, reached an overpass, sped by the air traffic control tower then through a pair of half-open gates along a small access road. He turned off his headlights, lest they give the police a target, and raced on until he reached what looked like a freight area under construction, some nearly-completed offices and warehouses set around a huge parking lot. There was equipment and materials everywhere, but no sign of workers; the site had evidently closed down for Easter. He drove a lap of the parking lot looking for a way out; but the only way out was back the way he'd arrived, and headlights were already approaching down that, swinging slowly back and forth, searching for him and blocking off his retreat.

An aircraft took off from a runway just the other side of the warehouses. Perhaps he could get to his plane. But Knox would surely be blabbing his mouth off right now, and the police would get to him before he could take off. He felt a spike of hatred for him, and his hand drifted to his groin as he thought of the revenge he'd take upon his girlfriend. What was the name of the place she'd sent those pictures from again? Agia Georgio, wasn't it?

The headlights were getting closer. There were three containers parked against the fringe of the lot. He drove over to them, hoping to hide behind one or other of them, but two were parked so close to the fence that he couldn't fit behind, and the third was jacked up a metre or so off the ground, so that his Mercedes would instantly be spotted beneath it. He was running out of time. He drove along the line of newly-built offices and warehousing. A steel shutter was three-quarters up on one of the lock-ups; they were painting the inside. He drove inside, got out to pull the shutter down after him, then bolted it on either end.

A car arrived outside. Its engine turned off. He stood there quietly, wondering if they'd spotted him. A minute passed. He heard two men talking, and their footsteps. Someone tried to lift up the steel door, but the bolts held and they moved along. The engine started again. He listened to it leave. He went to the Mercedes, turned on its interior light, checked himself in the rear-view. His face was caked red with Zaal's blood. For such a small man, he'd certainly proved a gusher. He stripped naked, squirted wiper fluid onto the windscreen that he mopped up with his shirt and used to wash himself and his trench-coat clean. He put on some clean clothes from his suitcase, tucked his knife into his belt, grabbed the money. He went over to the shutter, listened for a minute, then unbolted it and lifted it just enough to check that the lot was clear. He lifted it a little higher, ducked beneath it, then pulled it down behind him, and stood up tall.

Rather to his surprise, he discovered that he was enjoying himself.

Knox stood helpless as security guards and police converged upon him, handguns and automatic weapons aimed at his chest and face, yelling at him to do as Davit and Boris had already done, and put his hands above his head. But Knox couldn't put his hands above his head, they were cuffed behind his back; and if he shrugged off Davit's jacket to show them, they might well think he was going for a weapon, and kill him just in case. 'Don't shoot!' he pleaded. But he could see fear in their eyes, how close they were to the edge.

Nadya ran across him just in time. 'No!' she shouted. 'His hands are cuffed. His hands are cuffed.' She had her own arms raised as she came over to him, but she lowered one to knock Davit's jacket from his shoulders and turn him around for the police to see.

Tension decreased instantly. Weapons lowered; someone cracked a joke and earned laughter. 'What's going on?' one of them asked Nadya. 'What the hell happened to your hand?'

But Nadya ignored the question. She worked some saliva up into her mouth instead, then turned to Boris and spat it shotgun at his face.

Gaille stared numbly down at the photograph.

Iain.

So he'd been here before. At least twice. Which meant he'd known about this place long before Knox had telephoned him. All that nonsense about knowing Petitier as Roly, about his Belgian archaeologist friend, about asking directions at that shop in Anopoli! He'd been stalking Petitier for…she checked the date on the first folder of photographs-for at least six months.

It took a few moments for the barking to register. Argo was going berserk outside. It could only mean Iain was on his way back. She froze a moment, wondering what to do. But she couldn't let him find her here, not with these photos. She hurried out, switching lights off as she went, then ran up the steps and closed the trap door behind her even as she heard his boots outside. She laid the rug back out, pulled the chair across it, then stood there attempting negligence as the door opened and Iain came in. 'Fuck me!' he said, throwing himself down into the armchair. 'My feet!'

'Long day?' she asked.

'I hadn't realised there'd be so much to search.'

'Any luck?'

'Some. I found his Minoan site.'

'But that's brilliant!' she exclaimed, trying her hardest to sound suitably impressed. 'Where?'

Iain nodded south. 'Most of it is covered up with earth, but there's enough still exposed to get an idea. A small palace or temple dating from Early Minoan II, I'd say, though there are obvious signs of destruction and a rebuild in the Mycenaean. But he can't have been doing anything there for at least five years, probably longer. So if he's found anything recently, it must be from somewhere else.' He looked up at the racks of journals. 'I'll bet those are his excavation notes. You make any progress on them?'