Russell Blake: The Goddess Legacy

Suri did as asked and was returning from the cave when he heard approaching helicopter blades. He stood motionless for a moment and then barked orders to the guard manning the .50-caliber machine gun, who nearly fell off his seat in his haste to swing the big weapon skyward.

“What’s going on?” the lead terrorist demanded, his voice cracking on the last word.

“I don’t know,” Suri said, trying to get a report from the gunmen he’d sent to the clearing on the radio. His eyes widened in shock at the ghostly image of five dark gray helicopters converging on the camp, and then the .50-caliber opened up beside him, the guard firing wildly at the airships as a pulsing green laser swept from the lead helo and settled on his sandbagged area.

Suri and the Pakistanis were running for the cave when the sandbagged gun station exploded in a ball of flame, vaporized by a rocket from one of the gunships that sent scraps of metal, earth, and flesh skyward in flaming arcs. They made the cave mouth just in time to see dozens of heavily armed combat soldiers dropping from the bellies of the aircraft, their weapons firing at the slavers caught in the open, mowing them down without mercy.

“Hold them off,” Suri commanded the guards at the cave opening, and motioned to the terrorists to follow him through the passage. The gunmen fired at the helicopter force and instantly drew a barrage of answering shots, the rounds ricocheting in the interior of the cavern. The shooting from the cave mouth receded as Suri led the terrorists deeper into the earth, and then they were in the main sleeping area. Hundreds of startled faces watched them as they ran along the edge of the cavern, Suri shouting orders to the gunmen, who rushed to defend the approach.

When Suri and his companions had disappeared into the second chamber, the remaining guards glanced around nervously, suddenly aware that they were outnumbered a hundred to one. The same thought simultaneously occurred to some of the younger men, who stood and began moving toward them. One of the guards fired a warning shot overhead, which only served to galvanize the slaves, and then a wave of humanity rushed the gunmen, who emptied their rifles into the mob in blind panic. The bodies of the dead barely slowed the survivors, who leapt over the fallen in their haste to tear their captors apart with their bare hands.

Suri arrived at Mehta’s chamber, pushed open the heavy iron door, and froze at the sight of an empty vault. He twisted around to where the terrorists were waiting, the stink of fear thick in the passage as more gunfire boomed through the caverns behind them. The elder terrorist grabbed him by the robe and pulled him near.

“You will pay for your treachery, you lying dog,” he hissed.

Suri shook his head in terror as bursts of automatic weapon fire, higher in pitch than that of the distinctive AKs the guards were equipped with, rattled from the cave.

“No. We must try to—”

Suri’s jaw gaped open as the terrorist stared into his eyes, and then a wash of blood erupted from his mouth as his gaze drifted down to the hilt of a knife protruding from his chest. The Pakistani released his hold on Suri, who staggered backward, grabbing at the knife handle with weakened hands before slumping down the front of Mehta’s desk, dead.

Running boots reverberated in the passage, and the terrorists spun around just in time to face eight fighters with black body armor and night vision monocles, their helmets and uniforms unmarked and black smeared on their faces to kill any glare. One of the men pointed, his M4 assault rifle trained on the leader’s head, and another handed his rifle to the commando next to him and spoke, first in Hindi and then in Arabic.

“Move and you’re dead. Hands over your heads. Now,” he ordered.

The terrorists looked to their leader, who nodded slowly and raised his hands. The soldier patted the men down, tossing their daggers onto the stone floor, and then cinched tie wraps around their wrists. When he was done, four of the gunmen continued down the passage, past Mehta’s office, toward the ore milling cavern, and the soldier who’d bound the Pakistanis pulled black hoods over their heads. When he finished, his companion handed him back his weapon, and the soldiers escorted their captives from the cave, past the riot of slaves who were exacting lifetimes of revenge upon their captors in a tableau drawn straight from the bowels of hell.

Drake held his hands in the air as a dozen commandos approached through the spotlight’s blinding beam, and was surprised when the man at the head of the group spoke to him in American English.

“Where’s Reynolds?” the commando demanded.

Spencer shielded his eyes with one hand. “Over by that hill. There’s a cave. I patched him up as best I could, but he’s not going to walk out of this on his own power.”

“You hurt?” the soldier asked.

“No.”

“Get up, nice and slow, and the sergeant here will search you. Then show me where he is.”

“Fine by me. I’m guessing you’re the cavalry he called in.”

The soldier didn’t say anything, and Spencer pushed himself to his feet and allowed himself to be patted down. When the frisking was done, he gestured toward the cave. “Couple hundred yards. But you might want to ensure the perimeter’s secure, just in case there’s a straggler who wants to play hero.”

“We’ve got infrared. All hostiles are neutralized,” the man snapped.

An explosion boomed from the distant camp, followed by the sound of a pitched battle, the gunfire steady and furious. Drake and Spencer exchanged a glance, and Spencer nodded.

“Sounds like the black hats are getting the crap kicked out of them,” Spencer said.

“But the slaves…” Allie said, looking up at the soldier who’d done all the talking. “There’s a cave — a big one, with nearly a thousand slave laborers. They’re unarmed,” she warned.

The man ignored her and leveled a hard stare at Spencer. “Lead the way to Reynolds.” He turned to his men and indicated Drake and Allie. “Search them, and then get them into the bird. I want to be gone seconds after we return. Have the medics follow us over with a stretcher,” he instructed, and addressed Spencer. “Move.”

Spencer obliged, leaving Drake and Allie to their armed escorts, who directed them to the helicopter after patting them down. Two medics bolted past them at a dead run, and Drake and Allie ducked as they neared the helicopter cargo door, the big aircraft’s blades turning slowly over their heads as the turbine idled. A soldier helped them aboard and motioned to a bench seat at the back. They sat and peered through the open doorway, and three minutes later the medics had returned with Reynolds on their stretcher. They hoisted him aboard and Spencer followed, and the first medic started an IV line in the dim red light of the cabin as the second removed a plasma bag from a first aid kit. Spencer joined Drake at the rear of the hold, and three more commandos climbed into the helicopter, followed by the officer who’d directed the operation.

“I gave him a morphine stick about forty-five minutes ago,” Spencer said as the officer pulled the cabin door closed and took a seat facing them.

“You told us already,” the officer said.

“Right,” Spencer said. “Is there any point in asking where we’re going?”

The officer checked his watch, ignoring the question.

The helicopter lifted slowly into the air, and the officer turned away and muttered into his comm line, listened, and spoke again. The aircraft leveled off no more than five hundred feet above the terrain below and began moving forward, turning in a slow bank before accelerating away from the clearing, rising and dropping with the landscape, the only sound the throbbing pulse of the motor as the medics fought to save Reynolds’s life.