The Solomon Curse

“Doesn’t sound optimistic,” Lazlo said.

Their speculations were cut short by a scrape, followed by the bolt sliding free. They stepped back just as the heavy door swung wide, hinges creaking. The cave beyond was also dark and they couldn’t make anything out.

“Which one of you is the better shot?” a familiar voice asked from the doorway. “I managed to relieve one of the natives of his pistol, but there are more where that came from,” Leonid said.

“Leonid! You’re alive!” Lazlo whispered in surprise.

“Barely. So who’s best with a pistol?” Leonid repeated.

“Remi is,” Sam said.

“Where is she?” Leonid asked.

“I’m right here,” Remi offered from Sam’s left.

Leonid took a step into the room and held out the gun, which Remi felt for and then took from him.

“Are you hurt?” Sam asked.

“Nothing broken, but I’m not going to win any beauty contests.”

“You killed the lights?” Lazlo asked.

“Yes. Machete to the main power cable. Took three tries.”

“Where’s the machete?” Sam asked.

“Buried in a guard.” He paused. “I have a flashlight, but I don’t want to turn it on. Better to wait for the others to return and shoot at their lights.”

“I keep forgetting that you were in the Russian army,” Sam said.

“And I’ve been married three times,” said Leonid.

A glow bounced from the far end of the cave as a flashlight approached. Remi stepped in front of Sam and pointed beyond a row of beds at the oxygen tanks lined up against the wall. She held her fingers to her lips as the light drew closer and said softly to Sam, “Take cover. I’m going to close the door so they don’t see anything wrong. It might buy us a few seconds.”

“I’m coming with you,” he said.

There was no time to argue. She and Sam moved into the cave with the medical equipment, pulled the door shut, and bolted it. Remi ducked behind a wooden crate and Sam hurried to a portable monitoring system near the beds, hoping the apparatus would hide him.

They didn’t have long to wait. A flashlight appeared in the opening at the other side of the cave and they could make out three islanders toting pistols. The beam moved directly to the door, as Remi had hoped, stopping at the bolted lock. The men muttered unintelligibly among themselves and took cautious steps toward it, and both Sam and Remi held their breaths as the gunmen moved past them to the door.

Remi’s shots were as loud as ca

The flashlight lay on the ground, shining into nothingness, providing just enough illumination for Remi to make out the far crate. The gunman’s leg shot out and kicked the flashlight into the wall, shattering the bulb and plunging the cave back into darkness. Remi’s night vision took several seconds to adjust and her reaction was too slow as the gunman rolled from behind the crate, pistol in hand.

Sam pushed the cart over and the heavy monitor landed on the stone floor with an explosive crash, buying Remi critical moments for her eyes to fully adjust. The gunman froze at the unexpected commotion fifteen feet from where he thought the threat lay, exposing himself for an instant.

Which was all the opportunity Remi needed. She fired two more times, emptying the revolver. The gunman slumped over and his gun clattered harmlessly to the floor. Sam moved from behind the cart to where the first two islanders lay dead by the door and groped around until his fingers found one of their guns—another revolver.

“See if you can find the other pistol,” Sam whispered to Remi. “I’m going to get the door open so we can use Leonid’s flashlight. After this, we’ve lost any element of surprise.”

“Okay,” Remi agreed, moving cautiously toward the sound of his voice.

Sam worked the bolt free and swung the door wide as Remi neared. Lazlo and Leonid were crouched inside. “Time for your flashlight,” Sam told Leonid, who switched it on.

Remi located the other gun, a Beretta 9mm semiautomatic, and scooped it up. She quickly checked the magazine, which was full, as Sam retrieved a fallen flashlight. She felt in the gunman’s shorts for a spare and noted without emotion that the dead man was the lead islander who’d captured them, the one who had brutalized Sam’s head with the same weapon she now held.

Now that there was light in the cell, they could see the extent of Leonid’s injuries. Sam didn’t react to the Russian’s appearance, but his stomach tightened when he saw the patchwork of scabs and cuts covering his face and arms. It was a minor miracle Leonid had managed to recover from his spill into the chasm, but he was clearly the worse for wear and every visible inch of skin sported a contusion or scrape.

Lazlo followed Sam and Leonid out of the cell and moved to where the third gunman’s weapon lay near his dead hand. Lazlo leaned over and picked it up, distaste written across his face, and held it out to Leonid. “I suspect you might be able to make more productive use of this than I,” he said. Leonid took the revolver without comment and quickly checked the cylinder.

“Only two rounds,” he said, then grunted and directed the beam at the cave entry. “Who wants to take the lead?”

“I will,” Sam said, but Remi shook her head.

“You’re hurt. I’ll do it. Leonid, give me your flashlight.”

Leonid nodded and handed her the light. Sam looked ready to challenge her, but she cut him off with a determined look. “No arguments, Fargo. I’ve got the most firepower with the automatic. Back me up.” She glanced at Lazlo. “Give him a hand, would you please?”

Remi shone the light around the chamber and froze when a moan drifted from another doorway—which was bolted shut. They moved to the heavy door and Sam pulled loose from Lazlo, a determined expression on his face. Remi stood by the side of the door, pistol at the ready, as Sam worked the bolt loose.

They exchanged a glance and Sam nodded. He swung the door wide as Remi aimed into the darkness, Sam shining his beam into the gloom. When no attack came, he took a cautious step toward the threshold, and then another moan came from inside the chamber.

It sounded like a girl.

“What on earth . . .” Remi whispered as she moved into the cavern. She sca

Sam played his beam along the surface, where manacles hung from rusting chains clasped to iron rings. In one corner, an iron box stood open and he shuddered when he saw what it was—a coffin-shaped contrivance just large enough to imprison a human. Next to it stood a metal cage backed against the wall, its surface grooved from hands scratching at the stone in a futile effort to get free. Rust-colored streaks ran down the wall and again Sam shuddered—it was dried blood, some of it probably decades old, but enough of it relatively fresh to send chills up his spine.

Remi moved to the bed, where a young female islander was laboring for breath. Empty IV bags littered the stone floor, along with discarded syringes and medicine vials. A cockroach scuttled near Remi’s foot and she grimaced.

“It’s . . . it’s like some kind of medieval torture chamber,” she murmured.

“I think we’ve found where the Japanese did their dirty work,” Sam agreed, leaning over to examine the girl. He touched her forehead and looked at Remi. “She’s burning up.”