The outer shell of the grenade containing the Composition B explosive charge was made of high tensile steel designed to fragment. The force of the blast and flying shrapnel, flung at fifteen hundred metres per second, created a five-yard radius lethal zone from the point of the explosion.

  First, Sly saw a cloud of dust erupting in the square and shrapnel triggered inky splotches along the length of the shield. Then the marks vanished, revealing one of three high-value targets down and another HVT staggering, eyes bloody, no longer holding his staff.

  Eli’s rifle cracked. The blinded man fell as though deboned.

  “The shield’s down,” said Eli, the sergeant’s voice monotone.

  The third HVT, robed and armoured, froze momentarily, then ran – not to his companion’s aid, but away.

  Crack. He fell, sprawling.

  “Open fire!” cried Ramirez.

  Sly took the order and squeezed half a magazine into the ranked soldiers this side of the arches. The columns rippled with blue light and the men scattered with loud yells and a couple of pained screams. Sly changed to single shot, taking out individuals one by one. He looked, but there was no sign of Ghost. He started with shots to centre mass but saw more than one man stagger and stay upright. He was near enough to be accurate, so he switched to fire into their faces.

  Now when they fell, they sometimes stayed down.

  Sly looked up, blinked and frowned. The light was weird, fading.

  The sunlight from the central arch was dimming. On the other side the cavalry reined in, stopped, then disappeared as midnight abruptly returned to the middle arch. Inky black filled the cavern.

  Night-vision re-initiated and the world returned in greyscale.

  “Forward,” Ramirez called and stood, starting to advance. The others rose, some changing magazines before they stood. “Objectives are to get Ghost, collect intelligence and protect yourselves! Singh, rear guard! Watch our backs!”

  The fleeing enemy streamed across the plaza, not heading for the middle arch but the smaller one on the right side. Exactly where it went Sly didn’t know, but the men sprinted as if for the exit.

  From the start fighting was fierce as a rear-guard engaged to let others run. A huge, bearded man in black emerged swinging a bloody scimitar, forcing Sly to shoot point-blank, bowling him over with a flash of azure, the stink of ozone and a heavy crash of armour. Another shot kept him down, but the giant rose again. Sly swore with fury, aimed directly at the beard and squeezed the trigger.

  When a blow glanced off Sly’s armoured shoulder he shifted, shot a man carrying a crossbow. And like that the close quarters melee continued. When he momentarily surfaced, he flipped to UV but saw no reflections from a flaming Ghost. He fought on, a shot at a time, flanked by companions doing the same.

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  Six fought into the deserted enemy camp.

  “Look for anything that might have belonged to the researchers,” Sly reminded them, “any books, papers, maps or electronic media. You know the drill.”

  They expended ammo to push the tangos back and took a minute to pick through the scattered detritus.

  ‘Here,’ Smith signalled.

  The medic had found a robust container the size of a breadbox on its side, empty. Sly recognized the shape and size of the box from the bodycam footage Fox showed him, carried by Chopra. When he raised a rope handle with the carbine, the box weighed too much and he peered inside, expecting a trap. At the bottom...

  A collection of books.

  He picked one up and fanned the pages. The first was blank. And so was the one under that. He hurried, flicking through the pages. It wasn’t until the eighth book that he was startled to find a book containing writing.

  Writing, not print.

  Stiff pages were covered in a script exactly like the notebook he carried under his armour. Or nearly. There were no pages hard creased down the centre. He picked up the next one down and flicked through. Another blank, no writing.

  Sly imagined the researchers paying in diamonds for the container, satisfied by the top layer. After the deal went wrong, someone retrieved the thin section of real books, leaving only one in the rush.

  A single book, the cost of a man’s life.

  Sly flicked through the one small bound book until Gus said it had captured a scan of the pages. He let it fall into the container then shared a map location and left a message for Singh with the pin.

  Contact Major General Fox or Officer Jarvis, let them know you found the researcher’s books.

  A minute later he was back in the fighting, not pursuing Tangos as much as rushing to the same objective. Resistance was firm. The team took fire from crossbows and other ranged weapons, but the enemy saw less well in the darkness. Low on ammo, he reached in his bag for another magazine, hand closing on nothing.

  He cursed himself for not reserving more magazines but in the middle of the skirmish he was unwilling to take the others’ ammo. He took to the rear of the group, reserving his last carbine rounds as the last few tangos sprinted ahead.

  “There!” Marcus pointed. Sly didn’t see until he shifted to UV. Three white shapes blazed, men on fire sprinting to the same right-hand archway as the rest. Marcus took careful aim and rattled off four or five shots. Sly fired twice.

  One of the blazing shapes stumbled, then ran on to be absorbed by the arch.

  “Don’t let them escape!” Ramirez cried his voice harsh with emotion. He wasn’t alone, Marcus had secured his weapon and was running furiously. Sly saw no one else in view, fighting or retreating. The team would be unimpeded unless tangos tried to hold the arch entrance. But why would they do that? We’d only encircle the arch, pursue from the other side.

  Sly would long remember how the team was swallowed by the minor archway. First on Ramirez’s heels was Emil Marcus, pounding up the short flight of steps with Eli Brown immediately after, carbines ready. Then Nio Gonzalez and Grace Clarke entered nearly together in a rush to catch the others. Josh Smith was a second later, not running as blindly, and hesitating before pushing through.

  Sly finally ran out of ammunition and put down the empty carbine on the last pale, dusty stone slab before the steps began.

  He took out the fully loaded Sig M17 and saw eight clips in his bag. Taking a two-handed grip, he ascended into the cool darkness. Why would they all retreat to this archway? Was there a way out in the unknown city quarter beyond?

  He stepped into the shadows. Unless –

  By then, it was far too late to speculate. Dark tentacles snatched him up, and he was gone.