They must have planned it this way. Mahaz’s men would create a racket outside the chamber while the injured Iranian thug would hide himself among the shadows, only to spring himself when the time was right.
The three soldiers take their positions against the wall of the circular chamber, AK47s aimed at da Vinci and myself.
“Drop your weapons,” Mahaz insists.
I glance down at the bleeding stub where his hand once existed.
“How’s that wound treating you, Mahaz?” I say. “The gangrene kicked in yet?”
He slaps the back of my skull with the barrel on his semi-automatic. Once again, I see stars while the pain shoots from the back of my head to the frontal lobes and back again. What’s another blow to the head gonna matter at this point? Chase the punch drunk.
I shift myself
