He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [206]
“Over my dead body,” I exclaimed.
“Precisely what I had in mind,” said Percy.
I grasped at the last frail straw. “Your confederate is unarmed. I will shoot him if you don’t drop your gun.”
Sethos, who had not moved, now shook his head and sighed. Percy laughed.
“Go ahead. You would probably miss, but our association was about to end anyhow. All right, Ramses, old chap, here’s your chance to die like a hero. Shove her out of the way and let me have a clear shot, or I’ll put a bullet through the two of you.”
The gun turned in their direction. Mine turned back toward Percy. Before I could fire, the weapon was swept from my hand and a hard shove sent me staggering back. Unable to keep my balance, I sat down with such force that I was momentarily paralyzed, and my ears were deafened by a series of explosions so rapid they sounded like those of a machine gun. Too many things were happening at once. My eyes would not focus. Where was Nefret? Where was Sethos? Percy was screaming and pawing at his chest, but he was still upright and the gun was in his hand. Ramses launched himself at Percy and the two fell to the floor. Ramses could not hold him; they rolled over and as his scored back struck the floor Ramses cried out and lay still. Percy crouched by him, groping for the gun he had let fall—and as I half-crawled, half-stumbled toward them, Nefret ran back with her knife in her hand.
The look on her face stopped me like a blow. It was as remote and merciless as that of the goddess whose High Priestess she had once been. Raising the knife in both hands, she brought it down with all her strength, up to the hilt into Percy’s back. For a moment she stood unmoving. Then her face crumpled like that of a frightened child, and she turned with a cry into the arms of . . .
Emerson?
Emerson! He was not alone. Men in uniform pushed into the room. There were others in the corridor outside.
Still on hands and knees, I turned my head.
Leaning against the wall, drenched in blood, Sethos tossed my gun away and gave me a twisted smile. “As usual, I have been upstaged. Don’t waste a bullet on me, Radcliffe; I haven’t much time left.”
“You shot Percy,” I gasped. “And he shot—”
“I hit him first,” said Sethos, with a shadow of his old arrogance. “Twice, and both square on target. I don’t mean to sound critical, Amelia dear, but you might consider carrying a larger . . .”
He swayed and would have fallen if I had not hastened to support him. Almost at once my hands were pushed aside and replaced by the strong arm of Emerson. He lowered his old enemy carefully to the floor. “It might be advisable for you to talk fast, Sethos. The Turks are advancing and ten thousand lives depend on you. When will the attack come, and where? Kantara?”
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about, Emerson?” I cried. “The man is dying. He gave his life for—”
“You? No doubt, no doubt, but what concerns me at this moment is the fact that he is an agent of British intelligence, and that he was sent here to get that information. Don’t stand there gawking at me, Peabody, raise his head. He is choking on his own blood.”
Stupefied by disbelief, I sat down and lifted Sethos’s head onto my lap. Emerson opened his coat and ripped the bloody shirt away from his body. “Damn,” he said. “Nefret, come here. See what you can do.”
She came, and Ramses with her; they were interwined like Siamese twins and both looked as dazed as I felt. After she had examined the gruesome wound she shook her head. “It has penetrated his lung. We must get him to hospital immediately, but I don’t think . . .”
“Can he talk?” The man who had spoken was a stranger to me, one of General Maxwell’s aides, to judge by his uniform. “An ambulance is on the way, but if he can tell us where—”
Sethos opened