The Assassin's Throne by E. Chris Ambrose

Author:E. Chris Ambrose
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Elaine Isaak

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

* * *

It had been a few years since Grant went full Muslim, bare feet, forehead to the ground, the whole thing, but his body remembered. The insults, too, were familiar. Beardless boy, Farouk had called him when they met. Cast him back fifteen years to his first tour, his first mission, self-selected, to rescue a woman in need. Not unlike this one. The murmur of men’s voices surrounded him, the chant of prayer, accompanied by the shifting of bodies against prayer rugs. Twenty-eight men packed the room, part of a former warehouse on the outskirts of Hama, in a makeshift prayer room clearly made to two or three times as many — was the set-up optimistic of more recruits, or reflective of a number of people already on assignment elsewhere?

The light outside grew long, the prayer likewise. Farouk watched him intently, an automatic rifle propped on one knee, an unlit cigarette between his teeth. He rolled it from side to side, in a way that made Grant anticipate the slide pulled back, the gun taking aim. He knelt in the middle of these men, clad in old fatigues, a scarf at his throat, marking his status, hiding his ink.

Each of the other men had a gun as well, lying alongside their rugs. Three in a quick reach. Even with an automatic gun, even with reflex on his side, the only way out was through. If things went south, how many could he take down? Farouk had placed him in the middle of the group, ensuring he’d have to pass through a line of armed men on any side if he tried to flee. And it wouldn’t get him any closer to her. He bent his back, he bruised his knees, he whispered his prayers — a little louder than the other men to prove his creds — and his thoughts were anything but godly.

If he had to take the truth-test now, to place his hand between the lion’s jaws, whatever fate the lion held would bite him for sure. The heat of the metal building pressed down on him, the smell of other men’s sweat hovered in the air. What the hell was he doing? He had no back-up, knew nobody around except the woman he’d come to find and the man who had told him who to call, and even then Grant had to listen between the words to know the Nizari had their own base somewhere close. The king said he had earned his sword, and he wished he had it now. Wouldn’t last long against three dozen men with semi-automatics, but still.

Stay cool, stay cool. Wasn’t his first rodeo. Nothing to do but ride this mustang to the finish.

They reached the end of the prayer cycle, and rose, some with the stiffness of old injuries, others with the vigor of youthful enthusiasm. Three dozen men willing to die for whatever Farouk said next.

“My brothers, there is one more transport in the morning. I believe you all know your tasks.

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