Mason let the truck roll to a stop and Annja climbed out for a moment. There weren't too many westerners who had the opportunity to see what she was seeing and she took her time, savoring the view. Somewhere, amid those peaks and valleys, the greatest warrior the world had ever seen had been laid to rest more than eight centuries before. And she was determined to find him.

It was at that point that they ran into a problem with their local guides. Up until then Nambai and, by extension, his grandson had been keeping them on track, even after the road had stopped and they had been forced to cut across country. But now, with the mountains looming ahead of them, Nambai had a change of heart.

He refused to take his grandson any farther into the heart of the Ikh Khorig.

When questioned, he mumbled something about a dream he'd had the night before in which the spirits told him that none of them would return alive from such a trip. He was willing to risk his own life, and those of the foreigners who had paid him, but he would not risk the life of his daughter's child.

Neither talk nor threats could change his mind. Even Cukhbaatar's pleading didn't work. The man clearly believed what he had seen was an omen and nothing was going to alter that fact.

Mason paced in frustration, venting his anger on anyone who got too close. Turning back wasn't an option. They had come too far to have to backtrack and then retrace their route. Ransom was sure to get ahead of them if they were forced to do so and that was simply unacceptable.

But Mason couldn't leave the young man there to await their return, either. Recent events had clearly shown that those on their tail were willing to kill to stop them from reaching their goal, and Cukhbaatar would be a prime target for them.

Finally he stopped pacing and pulled Kent to one side. "How are our wounded doing?" he asked.

Kent glanced over at the truck where the two men were resting. "Harris is doing okay. The knife wound he took to the shoulder seems to be responding decently to the sulfa powder and it hasn't started bleeding again, which is a good sign. D'Angelo, on the other hand, is a mess."

"Can he go on?"

The other man shook his head. "Not if you want him to have use of that leg for the rest of his life. That hatchet must have been dirty as h.e.l.l because I can't get a hold on the infection and I'm afraid it's going to spread. If it does, he'll wind up losing the leg before we make it back to civilization."

"All right. Thanks," Mason said, clapping the other man on the shoulder to let him know that it wasn't his fault that the news wasn't good. Things go wrong sometimes on an op; that's just the way it goes.

D'Angelo's medical condition made Mason's decision easier, though. Because Kent was trained as a medic, Mason ordered him to take one of the trucks and accompany Harris, D'Angelo and Cukhbaatar back to the city. In the meantime, the rest of them would continue on in the other two vehicles. That would give the wounded men the medical care they needed and satisfy Mason's obligation to Nambai, all in one fell swoop. It was the best he could do under the circ.u.mstances.

They divvied up the supplies, making sure both groups had what was needed to continue on their way. Farewells were exchanged, and with a last, parting wave Kent and his crew piled into their truck and headed back toward Ulaanbaatar and civilization.

The rest of the group continued on. Mason, Davenport, Annja and Nambai were in the lead truck now, with Jeffries, Williams and Vale bringing up the rear in the other, the carca.s.s of the antelope Vale had managed to bring down tied to the roof.

As the day grew longer they left the plains behind and, after pa.s.sing through a region of rolling hills, began to climb through a series of interconnected alpine valleys. They were slowly gaining in elevation as they went and the air took on a bit of a chill, causing several of them to break out warmer clothing. Near the end of the day they came upon a pristine mountain lake and despite the bone-chilling temperature of the water, they all took the opportunity to take a quick dip and wash up. The men went first, laughing and roughhousing the whole time, and then Annja took a turn, with Mason standing guard.

Afterward, they hung out their freshly washed clothes to dry and enjoyed antelope steaks and fresh fish that night for dinner as the sun dipped over the horizon.

It was almost enough to make Annja forget what they had been through the previous evening.

Almost.

26.

Ransom paced back and forth in the large Quonset hut he was using as his temporary headquarters, his irritation growing as the clock ticked onward. Turning to where Santiago sat in front of their communications equipment, he asked, "Any word from our new friends?"

Warily, Santiago shook his head.

"What the h.e.l.l is keeping them?"

"I don't know. Maybe they're still mopping things up."

"All right, give them another hour."

But when they hadn't reported in at the end of that time, Ransom's patience had worn thin; he'd finally had enough. "I'm tired of waiting around for someone else to do our work for us. Do we still have them on the trackers?"

Wordlessly, Santiago spun the laptop that was sitting on the table in front of him in Ransom's direction, so that his boss could see the display. Three bright red dots marked the location of the three vehicles against a sea of green lighting.

Near as Ransom could tell, they hadn't moved much since the night before. There they were, still cl.u.s.tered near one another in the same general place.

"How fast can the chopper be ready?"

"Five minutes, sir," Santiago replied, a hint of antic.i.p.ation in his reply.

Without taking his eyes off the screen, Ransom said, "Let's pay them a visit."

Santiago pumped his fist in the air in agreement.

Ten minutes later they were airborne and headed toward the rendezvous with their unsuspecting enemies. The chopper could cover the territory much faster and more efficiently than the trucks Davenport's men were using and so it didn't take long to get into position.

Ransom held the laptop containing the tracking software on his lap, providing instructions to the pilot, while Santiago cradled his rifle in his arms, making certain the weapon was ready for action when he needed it.

No more s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around, Ransom thought.

It didn't take long for their targets to grow closer on the screen and Ransom turned to be sure Santiago understood what he wanted.

"Remember what I said."

Santiago's eyes shone with excitement. "Yes, sir. Quick clean shots. Minimum damage to the vehicles if at all possible but collateral damage to the occupants is acceptable, even preferred, regardless of whether it is the tribesmen we hired or Davenport's team."

That's what he liked about his lieutenant. You didn't have to spell everything out for him. He had initiative in spades.

The targets were less than a mile out and Ransom gave the signal for the pilot to take it lower. He didn't want to give them any more warning than was necessary.

The pilot took the chopper down low, and behind him Ransom felt Santiago slide open the side door and ready himself for what was to come.

Screw you, Davenport, Ransom thought. Time for this little game to come to an end.

He thought back to that day when Davenport had discovered his activities on the building project. The fool should have been happy that he'd found contractors willing to use the cheaper materials that he'd had shipped in when no one was looking. If they had finished the building the way he had planned, they would have saved eleven million dollars in construction costs alone, never mind what he could have done with the interior. So what if the structural engineers had claimed the building wouldn't hold together long-term; he'd have found another inspection firm who would have said the exact opposite. All that mattered was the money they were making.

But Davenport hadn't agreed. Ransom had been humiliated and now he intended to return the favor. He'd be known worldwide as the man who found the lost tomb of Genghis Khan, and Davenport would be buried in a shallow grave in the middle of east nowhere, right where he belonged.

A glance at the trackers showed their targets should be just over the next rise. Antic.i.p.ation surged in his veins.

"Get ready!" he shouted to Santiago, and the other man gave him the thumbs-up.

Like an avenging angel-one of darkness, at least-the helicopter crested the ridge and Ransom looked through the windscreen, searching for the trucks on which the bugs had been planted back in Ulaanbaatar.

At first, all he could see was brown scrub gra.s.s. Then the herd of wild horses that had been grazing on it burst into motion, surging left and right as they sought to escape the thunder of the mechanical bird above them.

"Where are the trucks?" Santiago shouted.