The Lost Throne

68

The Spartans moved swiftly and silently in pairs. Some of them continued up the mountain, searching for the ancient book. Others sprinted across the slope, striving to kill the guards before their search gained momentum. Without modern weapons, the Spartans realized they had to choose their battles carefully. They couldn’t wage war in an open field, so they positioned themselves for a sneak attack, using the rocks and branches as camouflage.

The first confrontation was remarkably one-sided. Two young guards, who were used to patrolling the eastern side of the peninsula, trudged up the mountain, their flashlights leading their way. The Spartans saw the beams from their position in the trees a full minute before the guards were underneath them. In unison, they leapt on top of the guards, using their weight and gravity to drive their blades through the guards’ shoulders all the way to their hearts. Blood sprayed in all directions, coating the Spartans’ hands and faces. And both of them loved it.

In their world, the only thing that quenched their thirst was the blood of the enemy.

And since they rarely got to taste it, they planned to drink all night.

The next pair of Spartans weren’t as lucky. They had been asked to defend the southeastern slope of Mount Athos. Since their boat had landed on the southwest corner of the peninsula, they had been forced to run across the breadth of the mountain in order to get into position.

Shortly after getting there, they spotted a single beam of light. Despite the rocks and fallen tree branches that clogged the slope, it moved up the gradient at a steady rate. The Spartans grinned in anticipation. One of them took his position in the trees above. The other ducked down behind a large boulder that was partially embedded into the turf.

Their ambush would begin a minute later.

Fifty yards away, Payne was oblivious to their presence. There was no way for him to know the Spartans were waiting for him. They hadn’t scaled the hill that Payne was climbing, so no footprints marred the ground. And the Spartans had moved without light, their years of training preparing them for moments like this, when they were asked to hunt in darkness.

In fact, if not for a lucky break, Payne probably would have been filleted by one of the Spartans’ blades before he even knew what hit him. But the best-trained soldiers are able to take advantage of opportunities, letting them live another day. Many heroes could recall the land mine that didn’t go off when they stepped on it, or the dropped canteen that caused them to bend over just as the bullet whizzed overhead.

In this case, it was the simple crack of a branch as the Spartan shifted his weight that alerted Payne to the danger in the trees. He glanced up just as the Spartan leapt, his sword held above him ready to strike. In one fluid motion, Payne fell backward onto his pack and extended his arms forward. With two rapid pulls of his trigger, he sent two rounds into the night. The first caught the Spartan just below his trachea. It ripped through the cartilage of his neck and tore through the center of his spine before it dug itself into a nearby branch.

Bullet number two struck the man six inches higher and slightly to the left, missing the metal flap of his helmet by a fraction of an inch. His cheekbone exploded from the impact, as did the back of his skull. By the time he landed on Payne, the Spartan was already dead. His blade clanged harmlessly to the ground, followed by Allison’s screams of terror.

Jones saw the attack from his position in the rear. He charged forward, more concerned about Payne than Allison’s screaming, just as the second assault began. When Payne fired his gun, he had dropped his light, which gave the hidden Spartan a window of opportunity. Using the darkness as his ally, he crept out from behind the boulder and inched down the hill.

“What the hell was that?” Payne demanded as Jones pulled the dead Spartan off him. Blood covered the front of Payne’s clothes as he struggled to make sense of what had happened.

Jones flipped the body onto its back and stared at half a face. The rest was either torn asunder from Payne’s bullet or covered by the metal helmet.

“Seriously,” Payne repeated. “What the hell was that?”

Jones was about to answer when he noticed the second Spartan. “Behind you!”

Payne, who was sitting on the ground and facing downhill, arched his body backward as he lifted his gun over his head. At the same time, Jones pointed his gun at the creeping shadow. Bullets sprang from both weapons as the Spartan charged forward. The first shot pinged off his shield, but his luck stopped there. From his position on the ground, Payne fired low, splintering the Spartan’s legs with multiple shots. Meanwhile, Jones aimed high, squeezing his trigger in rapid succession until he hit brain.

Pink mist could not be seen in the darkness. But it was there.

The Spartan fell forward and rolled, the slope of the hill and his momentum carrying him forward like a human avalanche. Eventually, he skidded to a bloody stop at Allison’s feet.

Her screams echoed through the night as Payne and Jones scrambled into position.

“Shut up!” Payne ordered as he slipped off his pack.

He helped her understand his orders by clamping his hand over her mouth and pulling her back into the trees. Then he forced her to crouch near the ground.

“Stay here,” he whispered. “Do you understand me? Stay here!”

She nodded her head.

“I’ll be back,” he said as he ran up the hillside, searching for more Spartans.

Jones had started his search a moment before, occasionally clicking his flashlight on to hunt for footprints. As far as he could tell, only two men had been lying in wait. And they were now dead. Payne came to the same conclusion a few minutes later.

They reconvened near the bodies, hoping to learn more about their enemy. They stared at the armor with amazement. The helmets, shields, greaves, and swords. Both Payne and Jones were experts on the history of war. At the military academies, they had studied ancient warfare and particularly loved reading about the Spartans. Still, in their wildest dreams, they had never imagined they would come across hoplites on the battlefield.

It didn’t make any sense — even in an archaic place like Mount Athos.

“What do you think?” Payne asked as he picked up a sword.

Jones laughed. “What do I think? I think Jarkko dropped us off in Ancient Greece. I don’t know what he paid for his yacht, but it was worth every penny.”

“D.J., I’m serious.”

“I am, too. If we hurry, maybe we can help them build the Parthenon.”

Payne grinned and turned his attention to Allison. She was standing next to him, staring at the blade he held in his hands, even though she had been told to stay behind. “Are you okay?”

She nodded but said nothing. Prior to her trip to Russia, she had never seen anyone killed before. Now everywhere she turned, she was surrounded by death.

It would take a while for things to sink in.

“Come on,” Payne said as he tossed the sword to the ground. “We have to get moving. It’s just a matter of time before the guards investigate the gunshots.”

Dial heard the gunfire from his position on the mountain. It had come in disciplined bursts. Two shots, a long pause, and then a rapid cluster. Whoever was firing was a seasoned pro.

And they were shooting at something on the southeastern side of Mount Athos.

“Son of a bitch,” Dial growled, realizing that his search party was on the southwestern side of the mountain — the same side where the dead monks had been found. “Who’s over there?”

“Let me find out,” Petros said as he turned up his radio and started asking questions in Greek. A few minutes passed before he had an answer. “It is not the guards.”

“Shit!” Dial blurted. “That means one of two things. Either the Spartans are carrying guns, or there’s another party on the mountain. And if I had to guess, I’d go with number two.”

“Why is that?” Andropoulos asked.

“Because if the Spartans have guns, who are they firing at? I mean, we’re over here.”

“That is true.”

“It also means there might be more Spartans over there. Because that other party is firing at someone, and it’s certainly not us.”

Dial paused, rubbing his chin in thought. As he did, Petros and Andropoulos stared at him, waiting for his next set of instructions. None of the guards had as much experience in hostile situations as Dial. For the time being, everyone was willing to follow his lead.

“Petros, we’re at a serious disadvantage here. Multiple groups of armed men are climbing your mountain and we don’t know why. We don’t know where they’re headed, and we’re clueless about their numbers. The only thing we know for sure is that they’re willing to kill.”

“What should we do?”

“Honestly? We shouldn’t do anything. We should recall the guards and wait for reinforcements.”

“We should wait? They killed two monks, and we should wait?”

Dial nodded. “Here’s the problem. In combat, elevated positions have an advantage. We’re several minutes behind them in our climb. That means there’s no way we can overtake them without going through them. If we had superior firepower or twice as many men, I’d be tempted to take those odds. But as it stands, our pursuit would be suicide.”

Petros asked, “What if I could change the odds? What if we could get in front of them?”

“How? Do you have a helicopter I don’t know about?”

He shook his head. “No, but I have an idea that just might work.”