Annja heard a voice shout, "Throw down your weapons and come out with your hands over your heads!"

Fat chance of that, Annja thought, as she raised her head off the ground to try to get a look at what they were up against.

More gunfire came their way as a result and Annja crawled behind a nearby boulder. Davenport had already taken cover in the same location. If they crouched very close together, the stone was just big enough to cover both of them.

Bullets whipped through the trees and smacked off nearby rocks.

If they stayed there they were dead. Annja knew it was as simple as that. Some of Ransom's men would pin them down with gunfire while sending others around to flank them on the sides. Eventually, the enemy troops would simply walk up and shoot them both in the heads.

She had to get them moving!

She waited for another lull, then jumped to her feet, dragging Davenport with her.

It was now or never.

"Run!" Annja yelled.

She shoved Davenport ahead of her, forcing him to move, and headed down the left trail, away from Ransom and his thugs.

Gunfire split the air and bullets whined around them like giant prehistoric insects, but thankfully none of them found their marks. The thick trees and the suddenness of their rush for safety protected them in those first few seconds, before the winding nature of the trail took them out of the ambush team's sight.

Annja knew that it wouldn't take them long to come after them, however.

Ahead of her, Davenport stumbled and fell forward, but Annja reached him before he could hit the ground and hauled him back to his feet, practically dragging him after her as she sprinted down the trail.

If they could reach the bridge, she thought, they might have a chance to cross to the other side and then drop it into the gorge behind them, temporarily separating them from Ransom and his men. Hopefully that would give her enough time to figure out a plan to get them out of this alive.

Visions of Mason being cut down by the enemy's gunfire rose in her mind, but she chased them away angrily. You don't have time for that right now, she told herself. Mourn for what might have been later. For now, concentrate on getting the two of you out of this alive.

It was a feat that was going to take all of her concentration.

Both of them were exhausted. They'd been climbing all day, only to face the disappointment that they had overlooked a crucial element. In the midst of that blow to their morale had come the attack. The emotional impact of the sudden ambush was almost as bad as the physical one. Losing Mason was even worse. She didn't realize how much she'd come to rely on his calm leadership and good sense until it was abruptly stripped away from her.

Davenport was her responsibility now and she'd do her best to see to it that he survived. As the bearer of Joan's sword, she could do no less. And the first thing they had to do was increase the distance between them and Ransom.

She realized that she had no idea what had happened to Nambai. She hoped he'd managed to get away from Ransom and his thugs as going back for him was out of the question at this point. None of them would survive if she did.

Their headlong rush down the meager trail continued, brushing aside low-hanging branches, stumbling over rocks partially hidden in the thick undergrowth, their breath pluming out around them in the high mountain air.

Before they knew it, the trees abruptly gave way, leaving them exposed on an open stretch of ground that ended at the lip of the ravine. Annja's innate sense of direction hadn't failed her. The bridge she'd glimpsed on the way up was directly ahead of them.

The two of them plunged ahead.

There was a good twenty yards of open ground between the tree line and the bridge, Annja calculated. The bridge itself was probably a hundred feet in length, so make it two hundred feet total that they had to cross before Ransom's men caught up with them. She knew that if they were caught in the open they were done for. Ransom's goal was to prevent them from getting word about the Khan's tomb out of the country. Once they had, he wouldn't be able to muscle in with a claim. That meant they were better off dead than alive to him. If they were caught here, his men could gun them down with impunity and no one would be the wiser.

They had to get across that bridge!

The few moments it took to cross that open stretch of ground felt like hours to Annja, but then her feet hit the wooden slats holding the bridge together and she had more important things to worry about.

The bridge seemed ancient. Two thick ropes served as railings on either side above the narrow walkway constructed across the ravine. The rope and wood slats that made up the walking surface of the bridge were worn smooth from years of use in some places and missing entirely in others.

The sound of the raging river far below could be heard clearly, a testament to its power and strength.

Annja went first, gripping the rope rail on either side tightly, knowing that if her feet slipped off the slats the railing lines would be the only thing keeping her from a long plunge into the raging river below. Behind her, Davenport struggled along as best he could. He stayed about ten feet back, not wanting to unbalance her with his own shifting weight, as the bridge rocked to and fro with their movement.

The narrow gorge acted as a natural wind tunnel, so that they were buffeted by gusts that shook and moved the bridge beneath their feet. Annja kept her eyes on the far side, trusting her balance, not wanting to be constantly reminded of the sheer drop beneath her.

She was about three-quarters of the way across the bridge when a horse burst out of the trees on the other side. Its rider stood high in the stirrups in the manner Mongolians had ridden for centuries, guiding the horse with his thighs, leaving his hands free for other things.

In this case, one of those other things included pointing an arrow directly at Annja's head.

She froze, astonished by what she was seeing. The man on the horse looked as if he'd just stumbled out of the history books. He wore armor made from cured leather and overlapping metal plates over a thick coat and had a sword hanging from the belt at his waist. Dense boots of leather and felt protected his feet and a helmet complete with a plume of horsehair covered his head.

A small round shield was strapped to his lead arm, ready to be put to use in defense if need be, once he'd loosed the arrow currently in his bow.

His face was relatively broad and flat, with a high forehead. His hair was dark, if the edges peeking out from under his helmet were any indication. She was also close enough to see that his eyes were a deep gray in color, a striking change from the dark brown eyes she'd seen in so many Mongol faces since arriving here.

The rider's gaze met hers.

Very clearly, so that there could be no misunderstanding, he shook his head.

His message was obvious. You are not welcome here You are not welcome here.

He tucked his head back down and sighted carefully along his bow, lining it up with her so that she could not mistake the warning.

Annja knew just how deadly accurate those bows could be in the right hands. Historically, Mongol children were taught to use them as early as age four, which was also about the time they began to learn how to ride. By the time a warrior reached middle age, he was extraordinarily proficient in both skills.

While she debated what to do about this new arrival, several other riders emerged from the trees behind him. They quickly spread out into a semicircle at his back, marking him as their leader. All of them were armed in a similar fashion, many with bows pointing in her direction, though some suddenly shifted position and aimed at something back in the direction she and Davenport had come.

Annja turned and looked behind her, only to see Ransom and his men emerging from the woods. They spotted the fugitives, and the Mongol cavalry, almost immediately and, in response, fanned out in unconscious imitation of their foes, shouting in defiance and taking a few potshots at Annja and Davenport.

The Mongols took that as an act of aggression and, their leader's signal, let their arrows fly.

Suddenly, Annja and Davenport were caught in the midst of a savage firefight. Bullets and arrows flew back and forth around them and the air was filled with the painful cries of the wounded and the dying. Davenport's hat was knocked off his head by a low-flying arrow and a bullet s.n.a.t.c.hed at Annja's coat, punching a hole right through it when the wind lifted it away from her body.

As if that wasn't enough, a thunderous roar suddenly filled the canyon.

Annja turned to her left just in time to see Ransom's helicopter rise up out of the depths and hover in line with the bridge itself, looming there like some great dragon out of legend. The downdraft of the chopper's ma.s.sive rotors sent the bridge bounding left to right like a drunken partygoer. Annja was so close that she could see herself reflected in the dark Plexiglas that covered the c.o.c.kpit. She could just imagine the expression of glee on the copilot's face as the chain gun mounted under the helicopter's nose turned in their direction.

38.

The chain gun went off with a thunderous roar, but amazingly neither Annja nor Davenport was. .h.i.t. A sudden gust of wind had tossed the helicopter to one side as if it were nothing more than a piece of flotsam caught in the tide, causing the gunner to miss his target.

Instead of knocking Annja and Davenport to their deaths, as had been intended, the bullets ripped through the cl.u.s.ter of Mongol warriors gathered on the far side of the bridge.

At the same time, the helicopter came dangerously close to smashing into the edge of the canyon. Only the quick action of the pilot as he yanked back on the stick kept the aircraft from becoming an early casualty of the fight.