He crashed to the stone, knocked cold, bleeding from his legs.
Jada hurried to Khaidu’s side and helped her to her feet.
They weren’t out of danger yet.
6:52 P.M.
As panic slowed time, Duncan ran through molasses. He staggered toward the tableau of Sanjar pierced clean through, of Monk turning too slowly, of Arslan aiming his rifle at his partner’s back.
Underfoot, the rock ran slick with the blood of men and horses. Large panicked bodies shoved around him.
Never make it.
Sanjar slumped to his knees—then glanced up and yelled, “HERU!”
Arslan flinched from that name, dropping back and ducking, raising his rifle in defense against the falcon.
A bird that wasn’t there.
Monk used the shock to swing around, shifting his pistol up.
But Sanjar surged to his feet, dagger in hand, and slammed it to the hilt into Arslan’s neck. The falconer had used the phantom of his own bird to terrorize his cousin, knowing Arslan would react with panic and alarm after his recent mauling.
Sanjar dragged Arslan down, twisting his knife as he did so. Blood poured thickly from Arslan’s mouth and nose, drowning him in racking quakes. As the man finally slumped, his eyes glassy, Sanjar shoved him away—then fell onto his back himself.
A shining dark pool quickly formed under him.
Duncan finally reached the others and slid on his knees to Sanjar’s side. But someone beat him first to the young man.
A shadow of wings swept down, and a sleek form alighted onto his master’s chest. The falcon fluttered and rustled, bending his head down, brushing Sanjar’s chin and cheek.
Hands rose to cradle the bird. Fingers freed the leather jesses from around Heru’s talons. He then brought the falcon to his lips, whispering something into the ruff of feathers.
Done saying good-bye, Sanjar let his head drop back, a shadow of a smile on his lips as he gazed up at the open starry sky. For several breaths, he lay there—then his hands went slack, slipping away, freeing his companion.
Heru leaped forth and sailed high into that same sky.
Sanjar stared upward, but he was already gone, too.
7:10 P.M.
Fear stoked them all to move faster.
Jada had changed into dry clothes and hurriedly secured her pack to her horse, patting the gyroscopic casing inside. So much blood had been lost to secure this piece of the wreckage. She refused to let those sacrifices be in vain.
Poor Sanjar . . .
As she worked, she kept her back to the carnage on the plateau, trying to hold it together. But she could not escape the stink of death. She kept her eyes averted from a body trampled into the rock nearby.
A few minutes ago, she had been relieved to see Duncan climbing over the rockslide, coming to their rescue. He was late, but at least he made up for it by helping her get Khaidu to the other side.
Monk still worked on the girl’s injury. He was plainly a skilled medic, performing a swift triage using the team’s emergency field kit. He had snapped off the steel arrowhead and did the same with the feathered end, leaving the wooden shaft pierced through her abdomen. He plainly feared to extract it. Instead, he had applied a tight belly wrap, working around the broken ends.
“Get ready to move!” Monk called out as he finished patching Khaidu for the ride back to civilization.
Duncan nodded and stepped to his own horse. He had been keeping tabs on the lower forests with a night-vision scope. Other combatants might still be out in the dark woods or reinforcements could be on their way.
But that wasn’t the only fear driving them to hurry.
Howling rose like steam out of the dark woods, growing steadily louder, drawn by the scent of blood and meat.
They dared delay no longer.
Monk passed Khaidu up to Duncan, who cradled the girl across his lap as he sat astride his horse, prepared to carry her down the mountain.
Jada climbed into her saddle. She had her own reason for a hasty flight off this mountain. She rested a palm on the gyroscope’s case. If this hard-won prize held any answers, she needed to get it to safety, back to the States, back to her lab.
And soon.
She would let nothing stop her.
Monk waved an arm and pointed below. “Go!”
7:25 P.M.
Batukhan woke to the sound of thunder.
Dazed, he rolled to a seated position beside the steam-shrouded lake. He frowned at the clear skies.
Not thunder . . .
As his head cleared, he recognized the fading echo of trampling hooves, heading away.
“Wait,” he croaked out, fearing his men were abandoning him.
The single utterance flared pain in his jaw. His fingers rose and found his chin split and bloody. Memory filled in slowly.
Fucking bitch . . .
He rolled to his feet—or tried to. Agony lanced up his legs. He stared down at his blood-soaked limbs, confused by their lack of cooperation. His hands probed the fire behind his knees, discovering deep slashes, the tendons shredded, turning his legs into floundering appendages that refused to hold his weight.
No . . .
He needed to signal his men.
Fools must have left me for dead.
He hauled his leaden bulk toward his fallen horse, dragging his legs, pulling with his arms, each movement a new torment. Sweat pebbled his forehead. Blood dripped from his chin. It felt as if the lower half of his body had been set on fire.
Just need to reach my phone.
Then all would be fine. He could rest until rescue came.
Lifting his head, he spotted a shift of shadows on the far side of the lake, over the top of the rockslide.
Someone was still here.
He raised his arm—then heard the low growls.
More dark shapes flowed over the wall, leaping down.
Wolves.
Primitive terror keened through him.
Not like this.
He rolled toward the edge of the cliff. He would rather die a quick death by his own hand than be torn apart alive. His useless legs still fought his efforts, leaving a trail of blood. Shadows closed toward him, moving so silently for such large beasts.
But at last, he reached the edge and flung himself over, relieved in some small way. Then something snatched his trailing arm, latching hard onto his wrist, piercing flesh and locking onto bone.
Another jaw snatched the leather armor of his forearm, halting his fall. Strong legs and powerful hearts dragged him from the abyss.
More teeth found him, rolling him to his back.
He stared up as the pack leader loomed over his face, lips curled back into a growl, showing sharp teeth, long fangs.
This was no mask.
Here was the true face of Genghis Khan.
Merciless, relentless, indomitable.
Without warning, they tore into him.