Finally, the last echoing footsteps disappear into the night.
“Let’s go.” Bes beckons me, with Cec’s grip on his shoulder once more.
Now’s my chance.Pulling the Amulet of Amun from my neck, I deftly slip it into Cec’s left pocket. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
Once we’re nearly at the edge of the graveyard, I split off in another direction, opposite of where the Italian soldiers went.
It takes a bit of maneuvering, but I finally reach the other side of the graveyard. Peeking around a tomb large enough to conceal me, I wait another second longer until I’m sure there are no more Italian soldiers hanging about. I glance behind me as Bes and Cec hurry past the edge of the graveyard, far enough away I can barely see them in the half-light.
Swallowing hard, I turn from them and sprint toward the closest building, not daring to look back again.
An inkling of fear pricks at the back of my neck.I hate being exposed like this.With every step, my boot heels clack against the cobblestone like muffled gunshots, and each breath thunders inside my lungs and out through my mouth like a war drum.
But I can’t stop now.
Sticking first to the sides of the grime-streaked buildings and then long rows of empty crates, I eventually reach the dock. My heart pounds hard enough against my ribcage, I can barely hear myself think.
“Time to find a ship,” I murmur. “Any ship.”
Best case scenario, I stumble upon a cruise ship. Normally, cruise ships don’t come to North Africa, but ever since the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War no more than a month ago, more of them have been diverting here and even to Italy. If I’m lucky—very lucky—one has docked for the night.
Unfortunately, I pass all cargo ships. The large monstrosities loom like dark blots of ink in the low moonlight. The further I walk, the more panic begins to set in, hastening my breathand pooling sweat under my arms. The docks at Alexandria are quite expansive, and there’s a chance the cruise ships berth on the other side, in the direction Mussolini’s men marched. Even if I could steal onto one of these cargo ships, I doubt I’d find somewhere to hide.
This turned out to be an ill-thought plan.
Just as I think this, a figure materializes from the shadows of the tall stack of crates beside me.
Barely illuminated by the dim lamplight, my pulse quickens as I realize that I managed to run into another soldier. Once I recognize the familiar khaki uniform, though, any fear abates. This man is no Italian soldier, nor one of the God Men; the most dangerous thing about him is the rifle slung over his shoulder. He’s merely a British soldier making his rounds. I let out my held breath.I can handle that.
“What’re you doing here?” he demands in a thick accent. “This is a restricted area.”
I try to think of something quick—when a shot rings out. I duck, heart galloping inside my chest. The sound of the bullet leaving the gun hums in my ears.
The soldier immediately crumples to the ground.
Jesus Christ, where did that come from?
Head swiveling frantically, a figure steps out from the shadows. A black Fedora cloaks his face in shadow, the rest of him dressed up in an all-black suit and black shoes.
“Amelia Hawkins,” they announce in a German accent. I grit my teeth.Goddammit, another one of the God Men.“I’m here to retrieve the Amulet of Amun.”
“Get in line,” I mutter, wishing I’d put Claude’s gun in my pack instead of my suitcase.
I should’ve stayed with Bes and Cec.
Waiting for him to make a move, I still don’t understand why these God Men don’t just kill me and take it. No doubt they planto question me, but what information could they possibly think I have? They need me alive forsomething.
Right as I think this, the hair on my arms stands on-end. Another figure appears, stepping out of the shadows of a nearby crate stack.Who’s this now?
A woman’s voice with a heavy Scottish lilt demands, “Put yer ‘ands in tha air.”
At first, I think she means me, but she points the rifle in her grip at the umbrageous man instead. Covered from neck to toe in a tan trench coat three sizes too big for her frame, a doctor’s mask from when the Black Plague ripped through Europe conceals her face. Squinting, I notice a mark at the center of the mask’s forehead. From here, it looks like an F but with slanted prongs. It’s familiar, but I can’t place it.
For what it’s worth, the man stands his ground, keeping his gun trained on me. “This doesn’t concern you.”
The woman cocks her gun. “Do ye truly wan’ ta tempt a Scot pointing a loaded weapon at ye.” She then aims it directly at his head. “I won’ ask again.”
The man hesitates. Out of the corner of my eye, though, his feet start to pivot. Before I can open my mouth to warn the woman, the man swings his gun toward her—and she fires. I flinch and throw my free hand over my ear, the sound so much louder than the hand gun moments ago.They’ll bring the entire British army down on our heads.Better than the Italian one, though.
