The Balkan Escape (Short Story): A Cassiopeia Vitt Adventure - By Steve Berry Page 0,2
mountain. Mentally, she ticked off the distance between herself and the nearest exit. About fifteen paces. Straight line. Nothing in the way.
She admired the frescoes again and marveled at the obvious lack of Greek influence. Thracians had enjoyed a rich culture, and, if not for their disunity, they could well have developed into a lasting civilization. Unfortunately, when they were Hellenized, the beards, tattoos, cloaks, boots, and hats that had distinguished them disappeared from both their lives and their art. The images here were from a time before that influence, showing them as they originally had been, not blue-eyed and red-haired as one observer incorrectly described, but dark-haired with features more common to Europeans.
“Will you tell me why you here?” Sokolov asked again.
“Please tell us,” a new voice said. “I want to know answer to that question.”
Petar Varga entered the chamber.
Today he was dressed in more stylish clothes, his dirty work overalls gone. He approached the spot where she and Sokolov stood, each step crunching loose gravel beneath his soles, his swagger that of a man in charge.
“You can stick it up your ass,” she said.
Varga’s arm swept up and the back of his hand smacked the side of her face. The blow jarred her, but she regained her balance and was about to pounce when Varga produced a pistol.
“You’re tough with a gun,” she said. “How are you in a fight?”
He laughed. “Not so good. I like advantage of you not knowing what I do.”
She rubbed her cheek and her stinging jaw. He’d regret doing that. Just one opportunity, that’s all she’d need.
“I hope last night show you we are not to be ignored,” Varga said. “Why you here?”
She decided to play him, since it really didn’t matter what she said. “I came to find you.”
Varga’s face twisted. “For who?”
She turned away and stepped close to the altar where some fist-sized rocks lay scattered. The chamber was large for a Thracian tomb. Some research done a few days ago had revealed that, usually, the rectangular-type vaults consisted of three separate rooms, each rich in ornamentation with columns, friezes, and caryatids. This one, though, displayed only frescoes.
Which was odd.
She wondered if the other two exits led to more chambers or tunnels. Impossible to know for sure. Power cables snaked a path into the darkness of each. Unfortunately, she could not make it to the exit that she knew led to fresh air, because two armed men guarded it, one on each side.
She lifted one of the stones and tested its weight.
Plenty heavy.
“What do you do?” Varga said. “Throw rock at me?”
She stole one last look around and grabbed her bearings. “That would be stupid. But—”
She whirled the rock at the light bar.
It slammed into the center of the panel, the bulbs erupting in a frenzy of blue-white sparks. The chamber plunged into blackness and she ducked behind the altar. Using the faint light from bulbs beyond the three exits as beacons, she shifted her position, rushing the fifteen paces across the blackness toward the opening. She had no idea where it led, but anything was better than here.
The men were screaming Russian at one another.
She kept on course and hoped she did not slam into any of her captors or rock.
She found the tunnel and plunged forward.
Two shots rang out from behind.
Far more darkness loomed here than light, the bulbs fewer and farther apart. She slowed her pace. Her boots caught on loose gravel, and she kept one arm extended, groping the air ahead.
She came to a place where the tunnel drew to the right. A light appeared behind her as she angled around. Flashlights were headed her way. She kept moving, one arm out front, the other tracing the tunnel wall.
One moment she was walking on firm earth, the next she was falling.
Her stomach folded up into her throat.
For a few seconds she was weightless.
Then she slammed into hard ground and consciousness slipped away.
She opened her eyes, but a cascade of water forced her lids shut. The cold liquid rushed over her with the force of a waterfall. She pushed herself up from a rocky floor, swiping wet eyes with her sleeve. Darkness surrounded her save for a hole in the ceiling ten meters above. Her vision was blurry but slowly revealed Varga and Sokolov, each holding a flashlight, staring down at her through the opening.
“I thought water might help,” Varga called down.
Her legs were sore, and the small of her back ached, but nothing seemed broken. Her hair