Free Silver Tomb (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 2) by P. J. Thorndyke Page B

this but I don’t fancy his chances of winning the argument. Or ours of getting out of here in one piece.”
    “Let’s not get carried away, Flinders,” said Lazarus. “They haven’t drawn knives on us yet. And we’re all armed, aren’t we?”
    “What, even Miss Mikolavna?”
    “I wouldn’t be much of an agent if I only carried a parasol to defend myself with now, would I?” Katarina said.
    There came the sound of shouting, but from outside the house this time and from female throats. Ahmed and Mohamed rushed into the room and peered out into the street. Ahmed turned, his face livid in the lamplight.
    “Lying dogs! Did I not say you were lying? Now your police friends are going from door to door, bullying my people and threatening to ransack their homes!”
    “Oh, that foolish oaf!” Lazarus hissed. “Couldn’t he have waited until we reported back to him?”
    Ahmed was shouting orders to the male members of his family who were dragging chests out into the center of the room and flipping the lids open. Martini Henry carbines were produced, and Colt revolvers. The family was turning out to be a regular militia. They filed out into the street and shots were instantly fired. Ahmed slung the six barreled hunk of a Gatling gun over one shoulder and shoved its tripod under the other arm before heading to the steps that led up onto the roof.
    “Bloody hell!” Petrie exclaimed.
    “That was a Gatling Jericho gun,” Lazarus remarked. “And those Colts—American gear.”
    “No mystery who they got them from,” said Katarina. “We’re in the right village, at least.”
    “But at decidedly the wrong time,” said Lazarus as the ‘boom-boom-boom’ of Ahmed’s rounds sounded out from the rooftop. “Come on, let’s make a break for it.”
    One of Ahmed’s cousins stood in the entrance, blocking their way onto the street, a carbine held across his chest. Mohamed cried out to him, “Let them pass, in the name of Allah! What use are they to us?”
    “Shut up and take that chest of ammunition up to your brother, Mohamed!” said the man in the doorway.
    Mohamed, cowed once again, did as he was told. An explosion rocked the building and they were thrown off their feet as dust and fragments of shattered mud brick filled the air.
    “They’re using grenades in a civilian area, the mad bastards!” said Lazarus, coughing on the dust.
    He was on his feet before their opponent and drew his revolver in one fluid motion. The man tried to level his rifle at him, but Lazarus sent a bullet into his forehead that knocked him backwards, spilling out a long stream of blood. There were cries from the men in the street who had seen what he had done. Several bullets ricocheted off the wall, forcing Lazarus and his companions to duck. Another explosion lit up the sky as a grenade bounced off the roof of a neighboring building, sending the men in the street hurrying for cover.
    “Now’s our chance!” said Lazarus, and the three of them were on their feet and hurrying across the debris-strewn street towards the darkness of the palms, while the crackle of gunfire sounded out behind them.
     
     
     
    Captain Hassanein’s men had been forced to retreat during the night, beaten back by the force of the el-Rasoul family’s firepower. They sat now in the morning sun by the banks of the Nile, licking their wounds. Lazarus was livid with the police captain, and had told him in no uncertain terms what he thought of a man who stormed a village in the middle of the night without warning and began tossing grenades around.
    “And yet you saw the firepower they owned,” was the captain’s defense. “You see what I have to deal with in my country? Peasants armed with military grade weapons. And who sold them these arms? The British, the French and your American friends.”
    “Well what are you planning to do now that your police investigation has turned into a war?” asked Katarina. “You’ve shot to hell any chance of finding the