Under oar and sail, Gunboat No. 5 set chase after the corsair cruiser, which recognized the danger it was in and tried to flee.
Fifteen yards separated the two boats. Ten yards … five.
Xavier could discern the features of the enemy captain. A short, broad Moor, he also stared back at Xavier, clearly wishing to have the chance to kill him. He spit and cursed at Xavier in Arabic, shaking his fist at him, while his own men frantically rowed in an attempt to avoid combat.
Xavier looked at O’Brien and nodded. The grappling hook was thrown, instantly connecting the two gunboats. With a wild shout, Xavier leapt aboard the enemy vessel, ahead of all of his men.
He wanted to seize her, quickly.
The Moor came at him, welding a huge Turkish dagger, his face set in ferocious lines. Snarling, Xavier dodged the first blow, viciously striking out at the Turkish captain with his cutlass. His blade opened up the man’s forearm, but the Moor did not scream—nor did he release his dagger. Xavier cried out when he felt the Moor’s blade ripping open his right side.
He kicked upward at the other man’s groin. The Moor buckled but did not go down. Xavier had dropped his cutlass, so now he gripped the man’s right wrist, which held the dagger. The two men strained against one another, grappling for control of the dagger. And finally Xavier ripped it free from the other man’s grasp.
The Moor’s eyes widened with utter comprehension.
Xavier lifted the dagger and impaled the Moor in the chest.
Panting, he stood. Most of the corsair’s crew had jumped ship the moment the grappling hook had caught their vessel. Others were hiding in the hold. Now the Moors who were wielding daggers and pikes against Xavier’s men began to turn and flee, jumping overboard. An instant later Xavier and his men were in command of the enemy gunboat.
Xavier wiped the sweat from his eyes. Exultation seared him. Now he could do what he had returned to Tripoli to do. Slip into the harbor in the guise of corsairs, enter the palace, and rescue Alexandra—or die trying.
She was a naval historian, but no amount of studying had prepared her for the actuality of being immersed in nineteenth-century warfare.
Alex cringed on the floor as another explosion sounded, this one almost on top of her head. Her ceiling continued to fall in on her, splinters and shards and rocks raining down upon her.
Alex had decided that she was going to die.
She had time-traveled to Tripoli to save Xavier’s life, it seemed, but her own fate was death.
She could not harbor regrets. She only wished she could tell Xavier how much she loved him, only wished he would believe the truth.
And then, in spite of the ever-present sound of explosions and gunfire, she thought she heard the bolt on her door. Alex shifted her body, craning her neck—and froze. Her door was shoved open.
Murad rushed into the room. “Alex! Where are you!”
“Murad!” Alex launched herself at him while registering the fact that he was bleeding from a gash on his forehead. She clung to him, telling herself that she would not cry. She had never been happier to see anyone.
He held her away so he could see into her eyes. “Are you hurt?” he asked anxiously.
She shook her head. “No.”
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
Alex realized she had cuts on her arms and legs, and even on her face. “I’m all right. You’re hurt.”
“It’s just a graze.” He gripped her arm. “You were right, Preble attacked. Viciously. It is clear to me that the Americans are going to destroy the city.” They hurried out of her room.
Another round of fire was launched from the brig cruising just outside the palace, and Alex and Murad hunched together against the wall of the corridor, while the world around them heaved and shook. Stone and marble cascaded down around them. Their gazes met. “Where are we going to go?” Alex asked with real desperation.
“Right now? Out of the palace,” Murad said grimly.
They began to run.
All around him the city was on fire. Flames danced from the small houses lining the streets, the ground was already scorched, piles of refuse and abandoned carriages and carts burned, and ahead of them, Xavier could see that the mosque closest to the palace was completely on fire. Bombs and mortar continued to land everywhere, sending chunks of stone and pieces of tile rooftops flying through the air. Behind them, in the harbor, several of the larger Tripolitan vessels were burning. They raced past the burning mosque. Arabs were screaming, rushing about, trying to put out the fire.
Xavier and his men crouched beside the thick palace walls, panting but alert. Above the palace, smoke mushroomed in the sky. Parts of the palace had to be on fire, too.
The plan was to enter the palace through the secret tunnel—if it was not yet destroyed. As Xavier located the tunnel’s door, set in one of the palace walls, his men looked worriedly toward the sea, at the battle still being waged below them. Time was running out. The battle would not continue indefinitely. Preble himself would decide when to disengage. But the battle provided vital cover for this operation. When it ceased, the rescue attempt would have to cease, as well—or fail.
