dark mouth of the tunnel. She’d only been inside once, many years before, and tried to picture it in her mind’s eye as they walked. A curved ceiling, lots of cracked, dirty white tile, cement floor, a jog at the end…
There was enough light from the entrance to illuminate partway inside—but from there the rest of the tunnel disappeared into thick darkness. The close confines smelled strongly of body fluids and greasy french fries. There were American-style fast-food places everywhere in Cairo, and people the world over littered.
Their shoes echoed alarmingly as they crunched on the gritty floor. The air was still and close, and did nothing for her sweat-dampened skin, or her recurring jitters.
“Down!” Thorne yelled, reaching back one-handed to rip her fingers free from his belt. A shot ricocheted through the space, causing Isis to flinch. Then another. She dropped flat on her stomach on the filthy floor, then rolled out of the way as booted feet converged and the sound of flesh meeting bone mingled with men’s grunts and guttural curses. She rolled into as small a ball as possible and covered her head with her arms—which was insane, because her forearms weren’t fricking bulletproof.
FIVE
Thorne was ready for them—in fact, he fucking well welcomed them. He’d had enough of this bullshit of running around in the dark with his head up his arse. His lips curled back in a snarl as he got off a shot at the guy on his left, which was answered by a hoarse shout, followed by a bullet coming from his right. Close enough to feel the heat and hear the buzz as the shot whizzed by his ear, then ricocheted farther down the curved walls. The sound echoed in the close confines of the tunnel, mingling with the explosion of shattered tile and cement behind him.
He spared a quick glance to assure himself Isis was out of the line of fire. She was down on the ground, pressed tightly against the wall, head buried in her arms.
He counted four men but suspected there might be more. Thorne spun to face the closest gun, parried the first blow with his forearm, and used his weapon hand to slam into an eye socket. The man howled, grabbing him by the wrist, and wrenched his arm back. Thorne followed the momentum of the twist, extricating himself, kneed the guy in the balls, and followed through with a right cross.
It would be nice to get some questions answered, but these guys were clearly the brawn so he saved his breath. Feeling a rush of displaced air, he spun around as someone ran up behind him. Parrying the thrust of a knife with a chop of his arm, he felt the thin, white-hot line cut in his skin. Fuck, he hated knives. The man topped Thorne by a good six inches and was at least fifty pounds heavier, all of it fat, but he moved fast. Only a quick, fast-shoe shuffle had Thorne dancing inches out of reach before the man grabbed him around the throat. He spun and fired a shot almost point-blank into the man’s chest. The warm scatter of blood hit his face before the guy dropped.
“Who sent you?” Thorne demanded, shooting out his fist as a third guy, robes flapping, came at him with some sort of cudgel.
Someone else grabbed his arm, trying to wrench it out of its socket. Pain radiated up into Thorne’s neck as he leaned into the wrench. His fingers went numb, and the Glock he was using fell uselessly to the ground. Fucking hell! There was too much action to even consider dropping down to look for it. Thorne spun, rammed his elbow into someone’s jaw, and heard the snap of breaking bone and a grunt of pain. He danced back to avoid another knife, slipped on a pool of blood, and righted himself with a flip in midair before he went down.
Another attacker seized upon his disadvantage and with a wild cry leapt at him. Thorne grabbed his wrist, wrenched the knife from his fingers, and did a roundhouse kick with his bad leg to the guy’s head. Boot met cranium with a sound like an exploding watermelon. The guy dropped.
So his leg was good for something. Good to know.
Fatty was back and sucker-punched him in that nanosecond’s distraction. Thorne’s breath went out in an agonized rush of air. But he’d been hit worse, and he repelled Fatty’s buddy, Robes, by slamming his palm into the