“This isn’t your party, Storm,” she said in a hush. “And, remember, we’re not really here to protect anyone’s art. Would you at least try to keep a low profile and not go shooting up the citizenry? If Doctor Dolittle thinks he can talk to the animals, let him try.”
Raynes and the raiders came to a stop about fifty yards away. There were four enemy pickup trucks with seven armed assailants standing in the backs of the flatbeds. The professor kept his hands in the air and began chattering in Arabic with the man who appeared to be the head bandit. The conversation was, to say the least, tense in tone and body language.
But then Storm began dialing in on what was actually being said.
“Start shouting at me, point the gun at me, and sound really angry,” the professor said in smooth, easy Arabic, never realizing that the boob who was just quoting Ferris Bueller was, in fact, quite fluent in the language.
The lead bandit, a tall man with a prominent nose, complied with the professor’s instructions, lifting the muzzle of his gun and shouting something about how the professor had better stop playing games, saying it loud enough that everyone could hear it.
“Very good,” the professor said calmly. “Now take a swing at me with the butt of your rifle. But for God’s sake, Ahmed, would you miss this time? It hurt like hell last time.”
The lead bandit — whose name was, apparently, Ahmed — unleashed another angry burst of words, punctuating it by swinging his rifle like an axe, coming within two inches of his head.
Strike, who also spoke Arabic, turned to Storm and asked, “Are you getting this?”
Storm nodded. He wanted to see how it would unfold. He trained his ears back toward the distant conversation.
“Okay, thank you,” the professor said, his hands still raised. “Now, I’m going to give it to you for the same price as last time, but next time the price is going up, understand?”
“We’ll see about that,” Ahmed replied. “Let’s just worry about this time.”
“Very well. But we’ll have to talk about next time,” the professor said. “In the meantime, what you’ve come for is in the second truck. You’re going to have to make a show of taking it forcefully, of course. You might want to be particularly careful of the big guy on top of the cab of the truck there. Keep a gun trained on him in case he tries anything. Shoot him if you want to. But otherwise you’ll find everything wrapped real nicely for you.”
Ahmed said something Storm couldn’t quite make out — his accent was thicker than the professor’s. But, at this point, Storm didn’t need to hear more.
“Katie, I’ve got bad news for you,” Storm said. “What you’re seeing isn’t a stickup. It’s more like a negotiation. Professor Raynes has been selling you out.”
“What?” Katie said.
“He and the bandits are in cahoots. I’m sorry.”
Katie was, at first, too stunned to form a full sentence. Instead, she sputtered, “What do you…He’s…But that’s not…”
“Katie, who owns the stuff you guys dig up?” Strike asked.
“Well, ultimately, the Egyptian people,” Katie answered. “That’s part of the agreement we sign with the Supreme Council of Antiquities.”
“That’s why he’s selling you out,” Strike said. “He doesn’t see a dime if these pieces end up in a museum somewhere, but I bet these bandits are giving him a nice percentage of what they get for this stuff on the black market.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” Katie asked.
Storm didn’t answer. He had already resumed his position in front of the CheyTac, where he began counting heartbeats.
HE DID NOT AIM FOR HEADS.
He aimed for shoulders. Right shoulders, in particular. Storm knew the left hand was seen as unsanitary in Islamic culture. He was therefore betting all seven of the armed men in front of him shot with their right.
Unless they got shot first. A wound to the right shoulder would not be fatal for any of these men; and, truly, they did not deserve to die for the crime of being poor, desperate desert bandits. But it would certainly keep them from shooting back.
Storm trained his sights on Ahmed, the lead bandit, and squeezed the trigger. Ahmed crumpled, clutching his right shoulder as he went down. Storm quickly targeted the goon next to him. Thump, pause, thump, pause, thump, BANG. The goon joined his boss in agony.
By this point, the other bandits were looking wildly around, trying to ascertain where the gunfire was coming from. For as hostile as they pretended to be, they had not anticipated any resistance from this ragtag group of scientists. Especially when they probably all knew this was just a business deal in disguise.
Storm used this time of confusion to drop a third. Three of the men had, by this point, taken cover in their pickup trucks. One was still somewhat exposed. Storm buried a bullet in his bicep. Technically, it was a miss. But it would do the job.
The professor had put his hands down and now had his hands on the reins of his camel, which was braying loudly and running in a pattern that had no discernible sense to it.
The bandits were, likewise, in full panic. Their shouts were filled with confusion. Storm could tell, in that instinctive way he had, that the chief thought on all of their minds was, How the hell do we get out of here?
He just had to give the drivers of the pickup trucks a little more incentive. So he switched his scope from shoulders to a far easier target: windshields.
From just fifty yards, aiming at such a relatively large mark, he didn’t bother counting heartbeats. He was just careful enough to make sure he didn’t hit anyone sitting behind the windshield and started squeezing off rounds.
The first one shattered. Then the second one. By the time he was fixed on the third one, the trucks were already starting to move out, spinning sand in their haste to escape. Just for emphasis — and to give an enterprising windshield repair shop some extra business — Storm sent one more round hurtling out of the CheyTac.
With the bandits in retreat, Storm hopped off the roof of the cargo truck and was heading for the back of it. Katie, who had dismounted from her camel, appeared to be in shock more than anything. Strike was having a hard time steadying Cleopatra, whose gentle disposition did not appreciate gunfire. Antony, standing still with unusual serenity amid all the excitement, was perhaps the only living creature that seemed genuinely unconcerned about the commotion.
“My goodness gracious,” Raynes was saying as he rode back toward the group. “That was amazing! Did you see that? You were right, Mr. Talbot. Bullies do need to be punched in the mouth!”
Storm ignored the man. He unhooked the trailer door to the middle cargo truck, the one that had supposedly been carrying Bouchard but was now — allegedly — carrying rocks. Hopping up, Storm found a hammer that had been left on the floor and began prying open the crate inside.
“I don’t know whether to curse you or thank you,” the professor was yammering, having dismounted next to Katie. “But I will say it doesn’t look like we’ll have to worry about those ruffians again. So I guess I’ll thank you.”
The crate top was off now. It was not rocks. It was a large metal box with clasps on the sides. Storm opened the clasps, lifted the top, then peered inside.
It was a large pile of white powder.
A granular, white powder.
Which is exactly what Alida McRae said raw promethium looked like before it was refined.
A Geiger counter could confirm it, but Storm didn’t need sensitive instrumentation to figure out what was going on. The archaeological dig was just a front. The professor was really running a promethium-mining operation. The men Storm had just shot at weren’t bandits. They were terrorists who had come to buy it.
“I will have to write a very positive letter to the International Art Protection League about your performance here today,” Raynes said.