Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Inside the stateroom, Noah searched the crowd.
So many people were here tonight. No wonder Victoria and Alastair had so easily concluded that this would be a good moment to strike. Where the hell is Alastair? He hadn’t turned up here yet.
Noah recognized fellow officers and members of Anglo Cairo, and he nodded stiffly at them as he passed.
Much as his job required him to know how to navigate polite conversation with ease, he loathed it.
He was not inclined to speak to strangers under most normal circumstances.
Even casual acquaintances rarely roused him to conversation if he could avoid it.
At last, Noah stopped, spotting his uncle about thirty feet away.
His jaw clenched, rage snaking its way up his spine. All these people were in imminent danger. And Masry was here smiling and laughing with them. Before he planned to kill them.
While last night his uncle had looked like the fierce leader of an extremist nationalist group, tonight he looked every bit the part of the refined gentleman in white tie from Egypt’s upper class.
Noah’s pulse leapt in his throat, as he tried to do everything in his power to keep his fury from controlling him. He needed to find Victoria, tell her to give the signal to Alastair that Masry was here.
“Captain Stephen Fisher, Viscount Huxley.”
The announcement of the newest person entering the room slammed into Noah’s gut with ferocity. Noah turned. At the entrance stood his enemy, dressed to the nines.
And free.
Fisher held a champagne flute. He lifted it to Noah in a mock toast.
How? How was he free? And walking so openly in society.
It meant more than just an escape.
Noah didn’t appear to be the only one who had noticed Stephen enter. Masry had left his spot and stalked toward Stephen, a scowl on his face.
As Masry reached Stephen, Stephen bowed his head. Then he whispered something, pointing toward Noah.
The distance between them was far enough that Noah couldn’t overhear Stephen’s voice. But he knew what he was saying.
Masry’s head jerked up, his eyes combing the room.
Whatever hope Noah might have held that Masry wouldn’t know him dressed like this faded away. The expression on his uncle’s face was a mix of twisted fury and hatred.
The noise of the crowd fell away to a dull din.
Masry started toward the exit.
Where was Ginger? Had she left yet?
Noah pushed his way toward Stephen. As he did, he bumped into a woman holding a champagne glass, spilling it all over them both. “My word!” the woman said.
Excusing himself, Noah sped past her. He’d almost reached Stephen when he nearly slammed into a guard.
“Colonel Noah Benson? Come with us,” he said in a heavily accented voice. Another guard joined him.
Masry had descended the stairwell. “What’s this about?” Noah asked the guards as one of them gripped him by the elbow. Stephen was only a few feet away, an amused look in his eyes.
Noah was attracting stares from some of the guests.
“You’re under arrest,” one of them said.
Noah didn’t have time to spare. If he allowed them to take him, even the attempt to explain himself might make Masry speed up his timeline. He tried to see where Masry had gone. “There’s a bomb,” he said to the guard, his eyes narrowing. “I need to go after that man.”
“Just as I told you,” Stephen said cryptically to a guard. “Take his sidearm. He won’t hesitate to use it.”
As one guard put his hand on the holster at Noah’s waist, Noah moved with speed. He threw his elbow hard into the guard’s stomach, then drew his pistol. The man doubled over, but Noah wrapped his arm around his chest, putting a pistol to his head.
The scuffle provoked gasps from the people nearest to him. The other guard held his hands up in surrender and Noah backed away, wrestling the man in his grip to move with him. “Now … you will let me leave this room.”
“Surrender, Benson. You’ve lost.” Stephen’s voice carried. Murmurs had spread through the room, the guests falling to silence. He had an audience now.
Other guards began their approach.
Noah backed toward the door. “This man is working with an extreme group of nationalists,” Noah shouted to them. “They planted a bomb here tonight. Everyone should proceed to the exits immediately.”
His shout unleashed chaos.
A few women cried out, the crowd panicking.
“Still attempting to blame me for your own actions?” Stephen stretched his shoulders, looking broader. Bolder. “The game is over, Benson. We all now know what you are.” Something twinkled in his eyes.
As though he was enjoying this.
Noah had only seconds to go after Masry before the exits became too crowded with the panicked crowd. Hauling a hostage through the mess would be impossible. He pushed the guard into the other one, then dashed past them, toward the stairs.
“She’s in the wine cellar, Benson. I sent her there myself.”
Stephen’s shout sounded behind him and Noah risked a look back at him.
He’d cupped his hands around his mouth, to ensure his voice would be heard over the noise.
She?
Stephen knew him well enough. He could only mean one person. Ginger.
Cold sweat broke out on Noah’s neck as he pushed his way forward. By now, the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen of Cairo society had broken into a dash for the doors. They offered one advantage: the guards chasing him wouldn’t dare fire into the crowd. Noah shoved his way past the attendees.
“I say. Benson?” one of his friends from the CID called out as he bumped into him.
No time for apologies.
Noah had lost all sight of Stephen, not that it mattered. He couldn’t hope to catch Stephen under these circumstances.
When he broke free of the throng blocking the door to the staircase, he skipped the stairs. Then he jumped onto the railing and slid down part of the way, to audible gasps. As his hands slipped on the cold marble, gripping for a handhold, he flung himself over the side.
His hands wrapped against the stone rails, grasping them as his feet searched for a toehold. Finding one, he pushed his weight down. The drop wasn’t a long one—far easier than others he’d made. His palms ached with sweat as he let go, falling freely onto the floor below.
His feet hit the floor hard, his knees bending and absorbing the blow.
He was exposed, and the guards from the room were now on the railing, trying to get to him.
Running would leave him vulnerable to being shot in the back. But what choice did he have? He needed to get to the cellar.
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.