Chapter 5
The bullet finds its mark—I flinch.
Claude clutches at his chest, shock scoring his features as the Luger tumbles out of his hand. Red blood spurts out between his fingers and drips down the front of his white shirt. Another second or so goes by before he collapses to the sand, lifeless.
I’m both horrified and… relieved.
For a single, terrifying moment, a trickle of regret races down my spine at what I’ve just done.
My muscles harden and I can’t move, can barely breathe.
Pulse thundering inside my head, my vision blurs again, and I have to remind myself to suck in breaths through my nose and mouth, to allow more oxygen to my brain.
I unintentionally pull dust and hot desert air in with it, but I barely notice.
Whatever I’m doing isn’t helping anyway. My head swims and my stomach roils—
The amulet warms once more against my chest, like it did beneath the water inside the temple. It cuts through the haze and allows me to hear the painful hiss nearby. My mind clears completely and my nausea instantly settles.
Bes.
Scrambling to my feet, I slide into the sand beside him, ignoring the way it coats my still-bleeding knee.
I throw the soldier’s gun to the ground like it burned me, and take stock of Bes.
He grips his right arm tight, his face pinched in agony.
Bright crimson trickles out between his fingers, plopping delicately onto the desert floor.
“Are you alright?” I ask, louder than I mean to.
“Fine,” he bites out through his teeth, “no thanks to you.”
I scoff. The audacity of this man.
“Thanks to me, he never got a second shot off,” I argue, even as my voice trembles slightly. “The hand holding the gun was unsteady, and I had to force him to make a move before I could; I’m surprised his aim was so true.”
Bes grunts. “I would’ve liked to have questioned him.”
“And I would’ve liked to never have met him in the first place, but we can’t always get what we want, Mr. Belzoni.” I clear my throat. “Now, move your hand so I can get a look at the wound.”
I reach for him, then stop myself. I don’t know this man, and though he proved his identity to me, I have no idea if I can trust him. He still has a lot to answer for, and I haven’t forgiven him yet for being late to the airfield in Luxor.
Doesn’t mean you should let him die either.
Finally, he moves his hand, watching me intently.
Examining it, I think, I’ve had worse. The bullet sliced open a straight line through the skin of his upper arm, the outer edges of it slightly burned. The wound is already starting to clot, and based on the size of it, I can say with certainty he’s not in any danger of dying.
Wincing, he sucks in a breath. “Just a graze.” He repeats my first thought back to me: “I’ve had worse.”
I glance up at the sky. Men.
Tearing off the rest of his ruined sleeve from the seam without asking, I rip it longways before tying it tight above, below, and directly on top of the wound.
His toned muscles are on full display now.
I fleetingly wonder how he has any time to maintain them when he’s working inside the museum all day.
There must be more to him than meets the eye.
As I tie the final knot, I swear I still feel his eyes on me, watching me. My cheeks warm at the attention, even as I realize what a foolish notion that is. Good God, I need sleep.
When I glance up, he looks away.
I stare back down at the wound. “That should hold for now.”
He nods and I get to my feet.
Though he follows, he doesn’t otherwise move.
I glance over at his blank face, brown eyes staring off in Claude’s direction.
Has he never seen a dead person before? My stomach roils at the reminder.
More likely he’s in shock from being shot.
He’s a museum employee for God’s sake—this is probably the first time he’s had a gun pointed at him, much less marred by one of its bullets.
In my mind’s eye, I remember the first time I got shot. I was somewhere deep in the South American jungle, being chased by a pair of ruthless poachers who thought I stole their compass. Which, admittedly, I did.
I had a hard time believing it happened, like it wasn’t real. But the pain felt real, like I’d been stung by a hundred bees in the same exact spot, their poison spreading to my entire leg. And that was merely a through-and-through in the fleshy part of my outer thigh.
Bes hisses again when he moves his arm too quickly, drawing me back to the present.
We need to get the hell out of here.
Finding my bearings once more, I glance at the British soldier who’s still unconscious, Claude who’s quite dead, and finally to Bes who’s already bleeding through his bandage.
Sighing, I beckon him to me so I can wrap it looser this time with a second strip of his mangled sleeve.
After a moment, he complies, leaning closer than before to give me a better angle.
Taking a measured breath as I work, I catch the scent of sandalwood, sweat, and blood. Somehow, it settles my nerves.
“I’m not usually one to look a gift horse in the mouth,” I say. “But I hope this wasn’t your idea of a rescue attempt.”
He grunts, choosing silence.
“Because, honestly,” I continue, untwisting an unruly section of cloth, “I’d rate it about a four out of ten, and that’s being generous.”
He works his jaw. “I’ll admit, I’m not at my best. But I don’t see how you could’ve done any better.”
“I was doing better. In fact, I was about to steal the Nazi’s car and drive it back to Cairo before you two stepped in.”
Bes laughs humorlessly, and I wonder what could possibly be funny about any of this.
“First of all, he was one of the God Men, not a Nazi,” he corrects me. “And second, on what petrol?”
He winces when I tie the final knot a little too rough.
I glance at Claude’s car, less confident than before. “What do you mean, on what petrol?”
He nods at the soldier. “Williams cut the fuel lines when we arrived so there’d only be one way out of here: with us.”
I raise a brow at him. That’s actually quite ingenious. Whether it was the soldier’s idea or Bes’s, though, I can’t be sure.
“We should load Williams into the only working car then, and get the hell out of here before more Nazis show up.”
He shakes his head, deciding not to correct me on the title this time. I smile to myself in triumph.
Trudging through the sand to where the soldier lays prone on his back, I bend down to pick up his arm.
It’s as heavy as a brick. I recall learning in anatomy class how muscle weighs more than fat, which must be why he’s so difficult to move.
Good for him. Unfortunately, that means there’s no possible way we’re going to be able to carry him all the way to the car with only three working arms.
I turn back to Bes. “Do you have smelling salts or—what?”
Gripping his injured arm, his eyes spark with curiosity and suspicion. “You’re not at all what I was expecting, Miss Hawkins.”
Heat rises to my cheeks once more. That’s the second time today someone has told me that.
“There’s a compliment in there somewhere.” I thoughtlessly brush a few lingering grains of sand from my thigh. “And call me Mel.”
His expression remains even.
“Come on, then.” I wave him over. “We’re not going to be able to move Williams without divine intervention, and we can’t leave him here. I’m fairly certain you hit him hard enough he won’t remember his name, much less what I said about the am—”
I jump back as water splashes onto one of my boots unceremoniously. Although most of it hits Williams’s face. I shake my foot, glaring at Bes.
He tightens the cap back on the canteen he procured, unconcerned. “You’re right, we wouldn’t have been able to move him without assistance. Better if he does it himself with his own two legs.”
“You could’ve at least warned a gal,” I mutter, then say louder, “Glad we agree on something.”
It takes the soldier a moment to come to. When he does, he groans then blinks up at me, eyes widening as he recalls what happened. He reaches for his gun. But it lays lifeless on the ground beside Bes where I left it—he grasps at an empty holster.
“Good, you’re awake,” I tell him.
“What—what happened?” he mutters.
I quickly formulate a lie, coming up with one he wouldn’t believe if he were of sound mind. “One of the men who abducted me—a Nazi—snuck up on us and hit you over the head. We took care of him, though.”
He winces. “A Nazi? In Egypt?”
I throw up my hands. “I’m as surprised as you.”
Growing ever-desperate to leave this place, I hold out my hand to help him up. Williams stares at it, clearly torn over whether or not to take my olive branch. I wouldn’t.
Eventually, though, he gives in. His expression retains its wariness even after I pull him up with all the might I can muster with a bad knee. Bes places himself at the soldier’s other side and wraps his uninjured arm around his back for support.
“Besides, it never would’ve worked out between us.” I wink when he glances over at me with incredulity; past him, Bes shakes his head. “Cultural barrier, you understand.”
He grumbles nonsense in return.
We head for the car, but I could swear something’s missing. My bag.
“Wait.”
Letting Bes bear his full weight, I hurry over to where I abandoned my soaked pack in the sand. I shove the contents that Claude ripped out back inside—including the Luger—and swing it over one shoulder, avoiding looking anywhere near his lifeless body.
Back with the others, I wordlessly hand Williams the skin of water tied to my pack. He gulps half of it down, a few drops dribbling down his chin, before letting it fall back against the canvas.
With that, we hobble over to what I now know to be the only working car.