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container. It was a six-foot drop and he landed with an awkward bang, bruising his knee.
    The Egyptian landed beside him, immediately crouching and turning.
    â€œYour cargo is in the first row of containers,” Bracko explained. “Follow me.”
    They took off running, hopping from container to container. When they reached the forward row, Bracko climbed down between the containers and dropped to the deck.
    The Egyptian stayed with him and they hid for a moment between the huge metal boxes. By now, the muted sound of gunfire was far more sporadic: a shot here, another shot there. The battle was ending.
    â€œThis is the one,” Bracko said.
    â€œOpen it,” the Egyptian demanded.
    Bracko used his master key on the padlock and yanked hard on the lever that secured the door. He cringed as the ancient hinges sang out with a falsetto screech.
    â€œInside,” the Egyptian ordered.
    Bracko stepped into the dark container and flicked on a handheld light. One of the cylindrical propane tanks took up most of the room, but against the far wall were the white barrels the Egyptian had brought aboard.
    Bracko led Ammon Ta to them.
    â€œNow what?” Bracko asked.
    The Egyptian didn’t answer. Instead, he pried the top from one of the barrels and put it aside. To Bracko’s surprise, a white fog spilled out over the rim of the container and drifted downward.
    â€œLiquid nitrogen?” Bracko said, feeling an instant coolness to the air. “What on earth do you have in there?”
    Ammon Ta continued to ignore him, working in silence, bringing out a cryogenically cooled bottle with a strange symbol on the side. As Bracko stared at the symbol, it dawned on him that this was probably nerve gas or some type of biological weapon.
    â€œThis is what they’re after,” Bracko blurted out, lunging for the Egyptian and grabbing him. “Not propane or protection money. It’s you and this chemical they want. You’re the reason these thugs are killing my crew!”
    The initial move had taken the Egyptian by surprise, but the man recovered quickly. He knocked Bracko’s hands free, twisted one of the burly captain’s arms backward and flung him to the ground.
    An instant after he landed, Bracko felt the weight of the Egyptian coming down on his chest. He looked up into a pair of merciless eyes.
    â€œI don’t need you anymore,” the Egyptian said.
    A sharp pain ripped through Bracko as a triangular dagger plunged into his stomach. The Egyptian twisted it and then removed it and stood.
    In excruciating pain, Bracko tensed and released his grip. His head fell back against the metal floor of the container as he clutched at his stomach, feeling the warm dark blood that was soaking his clothes.
    It would be a slow and painful death. One that the Egyptian saw no need to hasten as he stood and calmly wiped the blood from the stubby triangular blade and slid it back into a sheath, pulled out a satellite phone and pressed a single button.
    â€œOur ship has been intercepted,” he told someone on the other end of the line. “Criminals, it seems.”
    A long pause followed and then the Egyptian shook his head. “There are too many of them to fight . . . Yes, I know what must be done . . . The
Dark Mist
shall not fall into the hands of others. Remember me to Osiris. I’ll see you in the afterlife.”
    He hung up, moved to the far side of the propane tank and used a large crescent wrench to open a relief valve. There was a loud hiss as gas began escaping.
    Next, he pulled a small explosive charge from a pocket in his coat, attached it to the side of the propane tank and set the timer. That done, he returned to the front of the shipping container, opened it a crack and slipped out into the darkness.
    Even lying in a pool of his own blood, Constantine Bracko knew what awaited him. Despite almost certain death either way, he decided to stop the