Chapter 10
An inkling of fear pricks at the back of my neck. I hate being exposed like this. With every step, my boot heels clack against the cobblestone like muffled gunshots, and each breath thunders inside my lungs and out through my mouth like a war drum.
But I can’t stop now.
Sticking first to the sides of the grime-streaked buildings and then long rows of empty crates, I eventually reach the dock. My heart pounds hard enough against my ribcage, I can barely hear myself think.
“Time to find a ship,” I murmur. “Any ship.”
Best case scenario, I stumble upon a cruise ship. Normally, cruise ships don’t come to North Africa, but ever since the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War no more than a month ago, more of them have been diverting here and even to Italy. If I’m lucky—very lucky—one has docked for the night.
Unfortunately, I pass all cargo ships. The large monstrosities loom like dark blots of ink in the low moonlight.
The further I walk, the more panic begins to set in, hastening my breath and pooling sweat under my arms. The docks at Alexandria are quite expansive, and there’s a chance the cruise ships berth on the other side, in the direction Mussolini’s men marched.
Even if I could steal onto one of these cargo ships, I doubt I’d find somewhere to hide.
This turned out to be an ill-thought plan.
Just as I think this, a figure materializes from the shadows of the tall stack of crates beside me.
Barely illuminated by the dim lamplight, my pulse quickens as I realize that I managed to run into another soldier.
Once I recognize the familiar khaki uniform, though, any fear abates.
This man is no Italian soldier, nor one of the God Men; the most dangerous thing about him is the rifle slung over his shoulder.
He’s merely a British soldier making his rounds.
I let out my held breath. I can handle that.
“What’re you doing here?” he demands in a thick accent. “This is a restricted area.”
I try to think of something quick—when a shot rings out. I duck, heart galloping inside my chest. The sound of the bullet leaving the gun hums in my ears.
The soldier immediately crumples to the ground.
Jesus Christ, where did that come from?
Head swiveling frantically, a figure steps out from the shadows. A black Fedora cloaks his face in shadow, the rest of him dressed up in an all-black suit and black shoes.
“Amelia Hawkins,” they announce in a German accent. I grit my teeth. Goddammit, another one of the God Men. “I’m here to retrieve the Amulet of Amun.”
“Get in line,” I mutter, wishing I’d put Claude’s gun in my pack instead of my suitcase.
I should’ve stayed with Bes and Cec.
Waiting for him to make a move, I still don’t understand why these God Men don’t just kill me and take it. No doubt they plan to question me, but what information could they possibly think I have? They need me alive for something.
Right as I think this, the hair on my arms stands on-end. Another figure appears, stepping out of the shadows of a nearby crate stack. Who’s this now?
A woman’s voice with a heavy Scottish lilt demands, “Put yer ‘ands in tha air.”
At first, I think she means me, but she points the rifle in her grip at the umbrageous man instead.
Covered from neck to toe in a tan trench coat three sizes too big for her frame, a doctor’s mask from when the Black Plague ripped through Europe conceals her face.
Squinting, I notice a mark at the center of the mask’s forehead.
From here, it looks like an F but with slanted prongs. It’s familiar, but I can’t place it.
For what it’s worth, the man stands his ground, keeping his gun trained on me. “This doesn’t concern you.”
The woman cocks her gun. “Do ye truly wan’ ta tempt a Scot pointing a loaded weapon at ye.” She then aims it directly at his head. “I won’ ask again.”
The man hesitates. Out of the corner of my eye, though, his feet start to pivot.
Before I can open my mouth to warn the woman, the man swings his gun toward her—and she fires.
I flinch and throw my free hand over my ear, the sound so much louder than the hand gun moments ago.
They’ll bring the entire British army down on our heads. Better than the Italian one, though.
The bullet serves its purpose: the man in black drops to the ground before he can even get a shot off.
Though the woman lowers her weapon, she cocks it again and doesn’t release her finger from the trigger.
Dropping my suitcase to the floor with a thud, I lunge for the dead man’s gun with trembling hands.
Though I’ve just seen someone shot—again—and can barely stomach the thought of having to shoot another person today, I won’t be next.
“Miss Hawkins, wait,” a familiar voice commands from behind me before I can take aim.
Bes.
Damn. They found me.
Though I stop moving, I keep my hand steady, tightening my grip on the Luger’s handle. “And why would I do that? This woman just shot someone.”
“I jus’ saved yer life,” the woman explains. “‘Specially considering ‘e wanted you an’ the Amulet of Amun.”
My brow furrows. She knows about the amulet too? Honestly, at this point, who doesn’t?
“Of course, he did.” Bes comes to stand beside me, Cec at his other side. “Det ?r som morkast innan gryningen.”
She bows her head. “Det ?r som morkast innan gryningen.”
I take a beat before asking, “Was that… what was that?”
“Swedish,” Bes says.
I huff, keeping one eye on the woman. I haven’t studied much Swedish, but I know enough to recognize it when it’s spoken.
“I know that. What does it mean?”
Cec answers. “It is darkest before dawn.”
They must know each other, then; perhaps another acquaintance of Uncle Arturo. Still, I refuse to drop the gun. If they know each other, then they wouldn’t need a passcode.
This is getting strange, I think, then realize it’s been strange all along.
We went right past strange when Claude turned out to be one of the God Men.
And now, I’m dealing with Scottish saviors and Swedish passwords and all this other spy shit that I did not sign up for.
It’s not as if I’ve been given much choice in the matter, but it’d be nice to get some sort of explanation.
“So, you three are acquainted,” I surmise.
“You could say that,” Cec says. “This is one of Arturo’s friends.”
I glare at him, wishing he could appreciate it.
“Good ta see ya Bes, Cecilio,” the woman interjects before I can ask him to elaborate.
At the sound of their names on her lips, solidifying their connection, I come to the realization that Bes and Cec and their damned uncle truly are my only option of escaping Egypt. If this “friend” already brought a seaward vessel to take us away from this place, then I’m going to be on it.
Besides, the woman did save my life.
I slowly straighten and tuck the gun into the back of my waistband. Taking a step back, I keep my attention trained on the woman.
She draws out her silence, the mask over her face unnerving.
“And thus mus’ be the famous Amelia Hawkins.”
I close my eyes for a moment and consider drawing the gun again. Fantastic, another person who already knows too much about me.
Working to conceal my anger, I speak to Bes out of the side of my mouth. “Did you and Cec tell everyone in Egypt that I was here?”
“Just the ones who can smuggle us out of the country,” he replies, matching my tone.
“I’m Ailsa,” the woman says, finally removing her mask.
She looks to be around forty-years-old, with slight creases around her hazel eyes and along her forehead, a scar cutting through the left side of her thin lips.
Her gaze sharpens above her button nose, larger ears framing her heart-shaped face.
Her shock of red hair is shaved on one side, while the other boasts waves of crimson locks that reach down to brush her shoulder.
She doesn’t offer me her hand to shake, so I don’t offer mine.
“Yer shorter than I thought ye’d be,” she muses.
My brow furrows. “I’m five-foot-six and above-average, thank you very much.”
She stares at me.
Oh right, I realize, she likely knows the metric system.
“Or over one-hundred and sixty-seven centimeters, or…” I do a quick calculation in my head of the unit of measurement they used in ancient Egypt. “Approximately three-point-three royal cubits, give or take. Either way, still above-average.”
Her lips turn into a thin line. “Ye gentlemen certainly ‘ave yer hands full. Bu’ we’d best be off.”
The woman hurries along the dock back the way I came without waiting for a response. Cec follows after her first, Bes pausing to wait for me.
Walking past him, I refuse to meet his gaze. I’m having trouble accepting that Bes was right: my fate is now tied to these men. And I nearly got myself killed proving it.
Peering into the enveloping dark, I recognize a long luxury vessel poised on the edge of the dock, not far from where I started walking in the opposite direction.
Black waves break gently against the white underbelly, stark against the starry night.
Looks like we won’t have to worry about boarding a commercial vessel. That’s something at least.
“Why did you run from us?” Bes finally asks as we come upon it. “After all we spoke about in the car, after all that’s happened, why try to escape on your own?”
Hurt and anger draw down his brow when I glance over. Guilt niggles at my stomach.
Despite expecting the question, I pause, embarrassed by the answer. In truth, some part of me didn’t fully believe I was in as much trouble as they claimed. Not after we escaped Cairo. I thought we—I—could be free of the God Men on my own terms.
I was wrong—and I hate being wrong.
I sigh. “I wanted to get as far away from all this—the Amulet of Amun, the God Men, the Third Reich, everything—before I got in too deep. I thought if I could escape without your assistance, I’d make it. It was an idiotic plan.” One I won’t be repeating.