eyes, his gaze moving behind me. He knew I wouldn’t turn to look, so he did the next best thing to let me know what I was missing. What he was missing.
I was fixated on that hand still tucked in his jacket, but it was the other hand by his side that caught my eye for a split second, or about as long as it took for him to tuck his fingers into his palm as if he were holding something.
He was dressed as a commuter.
I now turned to look. I looked because I knew. He wasn’t reaching for his gun. That hand inside his suit jacket was on a different kind of trigger. He’d been carrying a briefcase. It was sitting in the middle of the corridor, just where he’d placed it before seeing me.
I whipped my head back around to the Mudir, his smile now even wider. There was no time for me to get off a shot. No time to yell Bomb!
The explosion knocked me off my feet, the force of the blast throwing me through the air until I landed with a smack on the ground. I was burned and bloodied, but I was still alive. I’d even managed to hold on to my gun.
Staggering to my feet, I immediately turned to look for him. It was as if he knew the exact range of the blast, and he’d been standing on the edge of it. Now he wasn’t standing anywhere. He was gone.
I ran back toward the doors, back outside. The sidewalk had cleared. Explosions have a way of doing that. I turned left. Nothing. I turned right. Nothing. What do they teach children to do before crossing the street?
I turned to my left again. He seemed to appear out of nowhere. The Mudir was standing ten yards away from me. He was no longer smiling. He was aiming. His suit jacket was pulled back, the empty holster hanging off his shoulder, and his MP-443 was aimed directly at my chest.
I raised my gun, but I knew I was outdrawn. He had me. All I could see was him squeezing the trigger. It was as if the entire world had collapsed around me. My world. And it was coming crashing down.
I felt the piercing, sharp pain in my ribs, the air leaving my lungs in an instant. I fell to the pavement, unable to brace my fall. It hurt like hell. My head was spinning, but even more so from the confusion.
What just happened?
The answer quickly peeled off me, rolling onto his side to squeeze off two rounds at the Mudir.
I hadn’t been shot. I’d been tackled.
The Prophet. Eli. He’d hit my body like a linebacker, flying through the air and knocking me down in the nick of time.
I remembered. You’ll see me again, the Prophet had said.
We both looked down the street at the Mudir running away. He was turning a corner.
“I think I clipped him,” said Eli. “Don’t know how bad, but—” He stopped and shook his head. “Ah, shit.”
I looked back at him, following his eyeline down to his side. The hole in his shirt was an inch above the belt, the blood oozing out and spreading across his stomach. He’d taken the bullet for me. If I didn’t stop the bleeding, he was going to die. But I also had to warn Elizabeth.
If I didn’t, she was going to die, too.
CHAPTER 113
THE MUDIR was bleeding badly from his left shoulder, but he knew he would survive. He was sure of it. Martyrs die in an instant or they don’t die at all.
He’d lost a battle today, but Sun Tzu didn’t write The Art of Battle. This war was far from over. There were more attacks to come. Bigger attacks. Followed by the biggest one imaginable, the day to end all days in this godforsaken city.
As he continued running, weaving his way through the mayhem around the station, the Mudir looked back to see if he was being chased, but there was no sign of that son of a bitch Reinhart or whoever it was who saved the professor’s life.
Ha! Some professor. You can put a tweed jacket on a CIA operative, but it will never change who they really are.
There wasn’t a doubt in the Mudir’s mind as he kept running that he would have his revenge and kill them both. Reinhart and his savior. All in due time.
What couldn’t wait, the person who had to be taken care of immediately,