He placed a knife to her throat and glided it along the old cut put there by Abdullah. She stiffened at the sting of the cold metal.
“Go ahead,” the psycho whispered. “Struggle. Fight me.”
Determined not to obey, she squashed the urge to do just that. Why waste the energy? If she stayed still, he’d kill her. If she moved, same. There was no way out of this without at least getting hurt. Probably badly. She needed a strategy. A weapon. Maybe that knife in his hand. Her fingers twitched.
A deafening blast cracked through the air.
Mr. Psycho whirled around and Leila fell backward, her ears ringing.
“Get back,” came Abdullah’s icy voice. For the first time since Leila had met him, he spoke English. She didn’t even know he could. “Or I’ll shred you.”
A warm surge of relief swelled in her chest. He’d meant it when he said he was letting her go.
Mr. Psycho released a growl, the knife still glistening between his fingers. He stood his ground, glaring at the Bedouin.
Abdullah lifted his chin toward Leila, then switched to Arabic. “Get out of the way.”
Don’t mind if I do. She scrambled to her feet and staggered to safety. Seething breaths came from behind her, as if the maniac was filling his lungs with burning rage. But he didn’t move. Leila stopped behind Abdullah, who kept his eyes on his target, his expression already shooting imaginary holes into him. He shifted, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. Swearing, Abdullah pulled at the slide, and when it didn’t budge, he popped out the magazine.
Mr. Psycho laughed, a proud, maddened sound, and lifted his own rifle to his shoulder. Abdullah pushed Leila in the direction of the tomb, the doors twenty feet away. Leila whirled around and burst into a sprint.
Bullets pelted the floor and walls around them, as if the man wasn’t even trying to hit them. If he’d aimed, they would both be dead by now. Maniacal laughs echoed between the bursts of gunfire.
The Medjay statues waited for them, their knowing smiles mocking their predicament. Leila ran between them, as fast as she could go, and threw herself behind a pillar. It was barely large enough to shield her, but there was no time to make it to the shelter of a tomb.
Abdullah stopped at the entrance and whipped out his knife. With one swing of his arm, the blade sliced through a rope at the side of the door. The shriek of grating metal filled the chamber as the spiked gate crashed down, its impact on the stone floor echoing like thunder.
Rapid footsteps grew louder, then came to a stop at the gate. There was a clang of metal against metal. Abdullah sprinted past Leila, and ducked behind the pillar to her right. He stood his suddenly useless weapon on the floor and stomped on the slide. A casing flew out, the chiming innocently on the tile.
Blasts filled the chamber, bullets pelting everywhere. Leila screamed and covered her head with her arms, wishing the floor could swallow her. Ricochets ripped past her ears. White-hot pain slashed across her arm, just below her shoulder. She kept her hands over her head, not daring to look. One move and she could expose even more to the shooter. Another flash of pain shot through her thigh. Sudden silence came over the chamber and the putrid smell of sulfur hung in the air.
“You’re trapped now,” Mr. Psycho taunted, his voice full of excitement. A series of clicks came from his direction. He was reloading.
She pressed herself against the pillar, resisting the urge to double over from the wave of nausea. The torrent of adrenaline pulsing through her veins was enough for her to fight back the blurry vision. The room slowly stopped spinning. Refocused, she glanced at Abdullah, whose eyes locked on Alexander’s doorway. He sprang from his hiding spot.
Cringing from the burning in her leg, Leila pushed herself to her feet. With her aim pinned on the empty tomb, she ran. Her leg protested, each tread sending an agonizing jolt through her muscle. She stumbled the last steps, arriving seconds after Abdullah. He shoved her into the circular room, just as gunshots shattered the silence.
She ducked behind the wall next to the door and pressed herself up against it. No matter how many quick breaths she took, she couldn’t seem to get enough air. Abdullah slipped inside, not closing the doors, and backed against the wall, out of the gunman’s line of fire.
The shooting stopped. Howls of rage reverberated in the chamber.
“You can’t stay in there forever. I’ll be waiting!”
Despite the sudden calm, Leila felt no relief. Her knees wobbled and her upper body swayed, so she lowered herself to the floor before she could cause any more damage. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and lowered her head to fight another churn of sickness. The movement tugged at her clothing, which stuck to her bleeding arm and leg. It hurt. A lot. But it could be worse. She’d still be able to go back downstairs and find the escape route Abdullah had mentioned earlier. And hopefully Xander was still far away from this place.
A crash from behind her jerked her out of her thoughts. She turned to see Abdullah still leaning against the wall, his gun now lying on the floor at his feet. His eyes were closed, his head tilted. She had all but forgotten he was there, he’d been so quiet.
As she watched, his head tipped forward and he slowly began to slide to the floor. She let out a gasp. Thick, red streaks painted the wall behind him.
She darted to Abdullah’s side, wincing as pain shot up her leg. She kept her focus on him—he was much worse off than her. The material that covered his heaving chest glistened with each breath he took. What could she do? Where would she start? Her hand hovered over him as she debated what to do next.
Heart pounding, she picked up his hand, the skin cool and damp as it hung limply in hers. She pressed her fingertips against his wrist. At first she couldn’t find a pulse, then she noticed a faint beating.
He was barely there. He didn’t have much time. And there was nothing she could do. She dropped his hand and covered her face with her own. Something grabbed her wrist.
She gasped and looked down at Abdullah. From the tightness of his grip, he still had some strength left in him. A lot, actually. She wet her sandpaper lips and tried to pull away. “Listen to me. I’ll bring back help—”
“Don’t.” His fingers squeezed painfully tight and her eyes burned, fighting tears.
“There’s nothing I can do. You need a doctor.”
“I’ll be dead before a doctor can get here, idiot,” he said through gritted teeth.
She glared at him. Obviously he wasn’t too hurt if he could still insult her. “Then what are we going to do now?”
“Pull me up.”
Leila blinked. Her first intuition was to say no. To force him to rest. But then, if he wanted to get up, who was she to stop him?
“Okay. Fine.” She stood and held out a hand. He latched onto her wrist again and grimaced when she pulled. Unprepared for his weight on her shoulder, she staggered. Once they found their footing, they inched along the wall, avoiding the line of fire through the open doorway.
“What are we doing?” Leila asked, matching her steps to his.
“We’re going downstairs.”
He stopped and looked down at her, his pale features set in determination. “There’s not much time. I have to destroy the Greek fire. Now.”
