The Emperor's Tomb

The door swung open and the police commander from earlier entered, carrying a pistol. He didn’t look happy.

“Tough night?” Malone asked.

He wondered if the man understood. But this was not Beijing or eastern China where English was common. This was the middle of frigging nowhere. The man motioned for them to stand and leave. Outside the doorway, two more men waited with automatic rifles.

Malone studied them. Both young, unsure, and jittery. How many times had they been in this situation before? Not many, he guessed.

The commander motioned again.

He noticed that the steel door, which opened to the outside, contained no knob-operated latch, just a handle and a lock that engaged, once closed, in a steel catch, which required a key to release.

“I don’t think these people understand English,” he muttered to Cassiopeia.

The head man was impatient with their chatter but did not seem to know what they were saying. Malone smiled and said in a calm voice, never breaking his smile, “You smell like a pig.”

The commander stared back with no reaction to the insult, offering only another gesture with the gun for them to leave.

He turned and said to her, “He knows no English. Ladies first. Be ready to move.”

She stepped through the doorway.

He watched as the chief dropped back to give him room to leave, exactly what he thought the man might do. That way he could counter if they tried anything funny, the distance between them adding protection.

Except for one thing.

As Malone exited, he swung his right foot up and slammed the door shut, trapping the policeman inside. At the same time, his left elbow burrowed into the man nearest him, sending the guard careening back.

Cassiopeia pounced, attacking the man closest to her with a kick to his chest.

Both guards had been caught unawares.

Malone lunged forward and planted a fist into his man’s face. The guard tried to retaliate while also keeping a grip on the rifle—bad idea—and Malone gave him no time to think. Three more right jabs and the man went down. He relieved him of the weapon, along with a pistol from a waist holster.

He turned to see Cassiopeia having a little difficulty:

“Hurry up,” he said.

Two thrusts of the other man’s fists missed as she dodged. The guard had already lost his weapon, which lay on the floor. Cassiopeia lashed out, but the blow just grazed her opponent’s throat. She then spun and jumped, her right leg swinging in an arc that landed with full force in his chest. Another leg jab smashed him into the wall, and she finished with two thrusts to the throat, which sent the guard slinking to the floor.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

“You could have helped.”

“As if you needed it.”

She stole the man’s pistol from his holster and retrieved the rifle. The chief was no threat, locked away inside a steel room, banging on the door, screaming something in muffled Chinese.

“There were two more earlier,” she said, “with rifles. Plus the two drivers.”

He’d already done the math. “I suggest we move with caution.”

He slipped close to one of the windows and glanced out, spotting the Range Rover parked fifty yards away. The van was nowhere in sight.

Which worried him.

“Let’s hope the keys are in that Rover,” he said.

They found the door and cautiously inched it open. Night still loomed thick and heavy, the landing field quiet.

“They were either taking us somewhere to kill us or were going to kill us here,” he said. “Either way, they’d need that van.”

He saw she was thinking the same thing.

“No sense waiting around.”

She stepped out, her assault rifle leading the way.

He followed.

A hundred and fifty feet lay between them and the Rover. His gaze raked the darkness. Pools of light from the rooftop floods lit the way. They were halfway to their objective when the roar of an engine disturbed the silence and the van motored its way past one of the hangars, heading their way.

He saw an arm extend from the passenger side holding a pistol.

Cassiopeia did not hesitate, spraying the windshield with a barrage from the automatic rifle. The bullets caused the gun in the window to disappear and the van wheeled right, careening up on two wheels as it executed too sharp a turn, spinning out of control, sliding on its side, slamming into one of the hangars.

They raced to the Range Rover and hopped inside, Malone at the wheel. Keys hung from the ignition.

“Finally, something went right.”

He gunned the engine and they fled the fenced enclosure.

“There is one thing,” Cassiopeia said.

He’d been waiting.

“How do we get there? We certainly can’t stop and ask directions.”

“Not a problem.”

He reached into his back pocket and produced a folded bundle. “I kept the map Ni used on the plane. Thought we might need it.”

SEVENTY-ONE

BATANG

7:00 AM