The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,17
view—then hung in place in the current, hovering just at the edge of the meager light.
A bullhorn blasted from it.
“HAND OVER THE STORM ATLAS AND YOU WILL LIVE!”
Mac frowned. He pictured the gold map. Was that the Storm Atlas? If the attackers already had a name for it, they clearly knew far more about it than Mac’s group.
So, definitely not ordinary thieves.
This was further confirmed by the next command: “HAVE DR. CARGILL CARRY IT TO MY MEN.”
Mac flinched. How did the bastards know Elena was here?
“FOLLOW THESE SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS, AND ALL WILL END WELL.”
Yeah, right. Try telling that to John’s cousins.
“YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE TO DECIDE.”
A scuffle and scrape behind him drew his attention. Elena and Nelson came forward, hauling the map box between them.
“I’ll do it,” Elena said. “It’s not like we have much choice. They can easily take it if they want to.”
Nelson nodded. “We don’t have the firepower to stop them.”
Mac rolled to face the pair. “That atlas—or whatever it’s called—is the only reason they haven’t come in here guns blazing. They clearly don’t want to damage it. But once they have possession of it . . .”
“Then all bets are off,” Elena finished.
“Still, we can buy extra time by cooperating,” Nelson said. “Every minute we’re still breathing, we have a chance. Otherwise, we’re dead already.”
Mac considered this. If nothing else, the enemy seemed to want Elena, maybe for her knowledge, maybe because she was a senator’s daughter and they planned to use her as leverage. Either way, if the shit hit the fan, she might still live. And besides, Mac could think of no other solution. Especially with everything happening so fast. And maybe Nelson was right. With more time, he might think of something.
The bullhorn sounded a final warning. “TEN SECONDS!”
Okay, he definitely needed more than ten seconds—but one step at a time.
“Fine,” Mac conceded. “We’ll play along.”
For now.
11:12 A.M.
Elena struggled with the box as she crossed from the ship toward the water’s edge. The large map weighed at least seventy to eighty pounds, far too much for her to manage on her own, so Nelson had agreed to accompany her. Despite her terror, a corner of her mind dwelled on the mystery in her hands.
The Storm Atlas. Why was it called that? And how did these strangers know its name?
Curiosity tempered her terror—but only slightly.
As she and Nelson neared the meltwater river, a trio of divers rose from the icy stream. Assault rifles were fixed to their cheeks. Tiny lamps flanked their masks, shining brightly in the dim light.
The centermost figure approached. Once close enough, he waved his weapon’s barrel from Nelson to the ancient dhow. “Put down. Go now.”
“All right, all right,” the geologist mumbled.
She and Nelson lowered the map box to the rocky shore. The geologist gave her a worried look and retreated toward the dark shelter of the ship. As he did, the gunman aimed his rifle at her chest. He didn’t need to tell her to stay.
She stood, shivering.
One of the attackers, standing calf-deep in the current, lifted a wrist radio to his lips. She heard a smattering of what sounded like Arabic. Though fluent in a handful of dialects, she could not make out the man’s words due to the rumbling cascade behind her.
In response to his call, the motor of the pontoon boat growled to a higher pitch. The vessel shot forward, aiming straight for her. As it neared, she counted five on board. All outfitted in dry suits. One manned the tiller in the stern. Two leaned out over the black pontoons with deadly rifles raised. Between them, in the bow, stood a mismatched pair. A wall of muscle towered over a smaller, slim figure with a bullhorn in hand.
Clearly the team leader.
As the nose of the Zodiac reached the water’s edge, the leader tossed the bullhorn aside and leaped gracefully to shore. Only now did Elena realize it was a woman. The tight-fitting black wetsuit left little doubt as to her gender. A neoprene hood covered most of her head, but from her ample cheekbones, dark eyes, and a caramel complexion, she had to be Middle Eastern.
Elena glanced back at the ancient dhow, then to the map.
Is that why this group—clearly all Middle Eastern—knew so much about this treasure?
She couldn’t help but be intrigued by the historical mystery here.
Without a word, the dark woman came forward, dropped to one knee, and opened the box. Gleaming gold greeted her. Elena studied the map once again. It seemed