Shots rang out, one ricocheting from the floor near him, sending a spray of broken tile onto his shoes.
A servant carrying an empty tray of champagne glasses stood frozen to the spot in the hallway.Noah dove past him as another shot rang out, then grabbed the silver tray, sending the stemware to the floor.The glasses shattered, and Noah held the tray out in front of the servant and himself.
A bullet deflected from it, burying itself in the ceiling above their heads and knocking the tray from Noah’s hand.
Grabbing the servant by the front of his shirt, Noah hauled him to his feet, using the servant to shield himself.“Take me to the wine cellar,” he ordered in Arabic.
The man trembled, his hands raised in surrender.They raced down the hallway together, Noah half-dragging the man before they headed through an open doorway.Noah kicked the door closed.
“Where’s the cellar?”Noah demanded.
The man shielded his face in terror.
“No harm will come to you,” Noah added, more gently.
In rapid Egyptian Arabic, the man gave him directions.Then Noah released him and broke into a sprint.
Servants, unaware of the chaos unfolding in the stateroom, carried trays of food and champagne.Noah ran past them.They gave him astonished looks, pushing back against the walls, holding on to their trays tightly to keep them upright.
The aromatic scent of food and smoke told him he was close to the kitchens.He paused, catching his breath, his throat dry.
The cellar wasn’t far.
He pushed his legs back into action, despite the exhaustion weighing down his limbs.Why had Ginger gone this way?Then again, Stephen could have lied to him to lure him here.But he couldn’t take that chance.As he reached the cellar door, he slowed and drew his gun, wrapping his hands around the handle.
Anything could be behind that door.
He pushed the door open into darkness.
He heard nothing.But that meant nothing either.
The shuffle of a footstep sounded, then the blade of a knife sliced past his face, the tip barely skimming his cheek as he pulled his head back and saw his attacker.
Masry grabbed a fistful of his shirt, hauling him into the dark room, illuminated only by the faintest flicker of an oil lamp on the floor.As the door closed, Noah was blinded by the darkness.
In the dark, the gun was no advantage.Masry had had more time for his eyes to adjust, more time to prepare mentally with a plan.He swung toward Noah again, and Noah jumped back.
Their dance continued, as Noah grappled without a plan.Masry’s skill with a knife wasn’t something he could take for granted.The blade caught his jacket several times, shredding it, leaving long, thin, excruciating scratches in his skin underneath.
As Masry swung again, Noah kicked at his wrist.His uncle released the knife, and it clattered across the floor.
Then Masry tackled him against a row of wine bottles, hands outstretched.
Noah’s head collided with the bottles and his vision danced with spots.Masry’s hands closed on Noah’s throat, squeezing tightly.
A bottle smashed against his uncle’s head and shattered into pieces.Red wine and blood poured down over them both.
Ginger stood there, the remains of the bottle in her hands.
Oh, thank God.
Masry fell back with shock and pain.Stumbling to the ground, he collapsed against a wire rack, out of breath.
Noah lifted his gun again, then found the light switch for the cellar.He turned it, and the room was bathed in orange.Towering over Masry, he leveled the gun at him.“Where’s the bomb?”Noah demanded.
Masry spat at him, bleeding from a wound at the top of his head.His eyes narrowed with pure hatred.“You son of a whore.I should have known.I should have recognized you.Fatima—”
“Don’t you dare speak her name.”Noah jabbed the gun at him.“Where is the bomb?”
