Petros accelerated on the dual-sport bike, which was street legal but had off-road capability, and rocketed up the goat trail. Andropoulos and Dial were next, only they took things much slower. Their headlight lit the way as they crept past the weeds and trees that lined the narrow path.
“Are you all right?” Andropoulos shouted over his shoulder.
Dial ignored the question. “Can’t this thing go any faster?”
“It can go much faster.”
“Then quit talking and start driving.”
Andropoulos grinned. “Yes, sir!”
In a flash, their speed tripled, and Dial found himself holding on for dear life. The young cop proved his skill by accelerating and turning like an expert. Despite the extra weight, they found themselves catching up to Petros less than a minute later.
They rode like this for nearly 3 miles, cutting across the western face while gradually climbing higher. Dial did calculations in his head and tried to figure out how high they had to go in order to guarantee that they would be ahead of the Spartans. Unfortunately, it was an equation he couldn’t solve without knowing all the variables.
When did the Spartans arrive on the peninsula? How fast were they moving? Were they headed straight up the mountain, or did they start to angle toward the east or west?
Actually, Dial wasn’t even sure when the Spartans would stop marching. Maybe they were heading to a cave that was only a thousand feet from the shore. If that was so, they might have overshot the Spartans by several hundred feet.
A few seconds later, Dial found out that wasn’t the case.
The two Spartans heard the roar of the engines long before they saw the headlights approach. They quickly repositioned themselves along the footpath, preparing for a sneak attack. One crouched behind a boulder to the south of the trail. The other remained standing, hidden by a thick grove of trees. On the battlefield, Spartans would never relinquish their shields-it was considered the ultimate sin, because it left other soldiers in the phalanx unprotected. But here, where mobility was more important than defense, it was the right thing to do.
Both Spartans clutched their swords with two hands, ready to strike.
Petros led the charge over the crest of the hill. He was fifty feet ahead of Dial and Andropoulos, barely within range of their headlight, when the Spartan in the trees launched his assault.
As Petros sped through the night, the Spartan stepped forward and swung his weapon with all his strength. Years of discipline and training went into that swing, and it showed when his blade made contact. One moment Petros’s head was attached to his neck; the next it was spinning through the air as the rest of his body shot forward on the motorcycle. Somehow the bike stayed upright for several feet before it tilted off the path and crashed into a tree, tossing the headless corpse into the air like a scarecrow in a dust storm.
Dial saw none of this from his position on the back of the second bike. But Andropoulos saw it all. The sword, the head, and the Spartan who blocked their path. Not wanting to suffer the same fate as Petros, the young Greek went into a controlled slide-hitting the brake and shifting his weight in order to minimize the impact of his fall. His front wheel went sideways, and so did he. Dial fell first, tumbling off the back of the bike and skidding to a painful stop on the upslope of the mountain. Andropoulos was dragged twenty feet farther, tumbling along the rock-strewn turf until his momentum slowly died.
When everything stopped moving, Dial and Andropoulos were left sprawling on the side of the road. Both of them were conscious, but badly bruised and scraped. Somehow their motorcycle had twisted around on the ground, so its headlight was now pointed back at them. The bright beam of light allowed them to see, but what they saw was frightening.
Two Spartans were coming in for the kill.
Dial reached down for his gun, his fingers fumbling with the strap on his holster. Seconds passed before he heard the quiet snap that allowed him to yank his weapon free. But by then it was too late; the Spartan was upon him.
He kicked the gun out of Dial’s hand and laughed as he did. He was going to enjoy this. His sword was already slathered in blood, fresh from his recent kill. Now he could add some more.
Two victims in less than a minute. His ancestors would be proud. The Spartan lifted the sword above his head, ready to drive it through Dial’s chest.
And all Dial could do was watch.
70
As the blade started forward, Dial heard the two most beautiful sounds of his entire life. A gunshot rang out from the tree line, followed by a soft gasp from the Spartan’s mouth.
His cocky laughter from a moment before had been replaced by his dying breath.
Blood gushed from the hole in the warrior’s neck as he slumped to the ground. As he did, he tried to use his last ounce of strength to kill one more opponent. With wide eyes, Dial watched the sword on its downward flight as it headed straight for his face. But before it made contact, multiple shots burst from the night, knocking the Spartan off-balance. His blade struck the ground with so much force that it remained upright a lot longer than he did.
The sword stood at attention like a flag planted on foreign soil.
Dial turned his head and stared at it. He gulped as he did.
Four inches to the left, and he would have been dead.
“Are you all right?” called a voice from the trees.
“Yes,” Dial said, his heart pounding in his chest. “I’m fine.”
“Show me your hands.”
“What?”
“Show me your fucking hands!”
“Okay.” From his prone position, Dial lifted his arms slowly. “I’m unarmed.”
“Are you alone?”
“No. I was riding with my partner.”
“Your partner?”
“I’m a cop. . . . Is my partner all right?”
The shooter in the trees crept closer, trying to see the face of the cop he had just saved. “Your partner is fine. What are you doing here?”
“I’m working on a case.”
“What kind of case?”
“A homicide. . . . The men with swords killed several monks.”
Silence filled the air for several seconds. Dial glanced toward the tree line, from where the shooter had last spoken, but saw nothing. A moment later, Dial heard footsteps behind him.
Somehow the shooter had traveled twenty feet without making a sound.
“Damn,” Dial said to himself. “What are you doing back there?”
“I’m picking up your gun.”
“Oh.”
Dial listened closely, worried that the man was going to put a bullet in the back of his head. Some criminals got a special thrill from that, using a cop’s weapon against him. Then again, if he had wanted Dial to die, why had he just saved his life?