As Moffitt scrambled up the dune to its peak, he had a hard time admitting to himself that his heart was pounding. From what, anger? Nervousness? Fear for Hitch or fear for how he himself would handle the situation?

Hang it all, he thought. I'm going to see this through.

He reached the top of the dune and stood, erect, with one hand on his holster and the other shading his eyes. He didn't care if he made a good target—he was an Englishman, blast it, and he wasn't going to lurk behind a pile of sand like a common coward. From there he could see, quite clearly, the slight, khaki-clad figure that stood in the doorway of the ruins. His face was obscured by distance and the shimmering waves of heat rising from the sand, but Moffitt knew him well enough.

"This is Sergeant Moffitt," he called out. "What do you want, Diamond?"

"I have your Private Hitchcock, Sergeant," the Arab returned, his words warped by that odd silky accent Moffitt recalled so easily. "If I do not get what I want, I will kill him. I will shoot him."

"And just what is it you would like, Diamond?" Moffitt could hear, behind and below him, the stealthy tread of leather boots over sand. He glanced back, saw Troy beginning to slip around the dune as they had planned before, and gave a sharp cutoff gesture with one hand. Not yet, he mouthed. Now that he'd had to engage this lunatic, he wanted to at least see what their situation was. He turned back to the ruins, hoping Diamond hadn't been watching too closely.

"What would I like?" the Arab repeated incredulously. He laughed; the sound was weird and raucous, stretched thin across the vast desert. Moffitt could remember it rattling against the confining stone walls of his and Dietrich's holding pen, and his heart gave a furious lurch in his throat.

Steady, Jack, he told himself. Steady.

"I should think it obvious, Sergeant!" came Diamond's derisive voice. "I remember you well, Englishman. We had so much unfinished business between us, you and I. Do you not remember?"

"I remember," Moffitt said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. "I remember," he said again, loud enough to be heard this time. "A hostage trade, Diamond, is that what you mean? Myself for Private Hitchcock?"

"You catch on quickly, Englishman." Diamond was too far away for the smirk on his face to be visible, but it was plain enough in his voice. "Unless you give yourself up, I will kill Private Hitchcock. And then where will we be?"

Right back where we started, Moffitt thought. At square one with no idea what we're even doing and a body count to boot. "How do I know Hitchcock is even alive?" he countered. "I'm no fool, Diamond. Show me proof."

"Proof? Proof, Englishman?" The slender khaki figure disappeared into the shadows of the doorway and reappeared a moment later. He had a taller figure securely by the shirt collar, holding him at gunpoint. Moffitt snatched up his field glasses and peered through them. He caught blue eyes, blond hair, a dark slash like dried blood across a square-jawed face. . .

"Sarge?" Hitch's voice, with its odd straight-from-the-boroughs inflections, was unmistakeable. "That really you, Sarge?"

"Of course, Hitch." Moffitt lowered his field glasses. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, sure, Sarge, I'm fine." He gave his shoulders a twitch in something halfway between a shrug and an attempt to tug his collar loose. Diamond held fast. "What he's sayin', Sarge, it's nuts. Don't do it, all right?"

"I. . .I don't know, Hitch," Moffitt said falteringly. "Diamond, I'll think on it."

"Two minutes," the Arab snapped. "Two minutes and he is dead."

Two minutes and somebody will be dead, all right, Moffitt thought darkly as he scrambled back down the slope. But it doesn't have to be Hitchcock. He landed on both feet and straightened up, reaching the jeep in two strides.

"Troy—" he began.

"No," said Troy firmly. "Absolutely not."

"But—"

"Moffitt," Troy interrupted. "Think a minute. Does Diamond look the type who would keep his word to anyone? If you gave yourself up he'd probably kill you both."

"But I would've tried," Moffitt said lamely, sounding like an idiot even to his own ears. "I could get close enough to get a shot in—"

"And if you miss?" Troy snapped. "You end up dead and so does Hitch, and Diamond dies happy no matter what Tully and I do." He aimed a thoughtful stare at his boots. "How long'd he give you, two minutes?"

Moffitt glanced at his watch and grimaced. "Minute and a half."

Tully whistled. "Not much time for a conference." He gnawed on his matchstick, looking on the verge of an idea. "I could take a Tommy and head up on the ridge there. See if I can get a good shot."

Moffitt and Troy both eyed the rocky hills that had been stretching along to their left ever since they'd encountered Dietrich. They offered little cover, only a few scrubby bushes, but Tully's khaki jacket would help him blend in. And it was worth a try.

"I'm for it," said Moffitt quickly. "If Tully goes up there and you, Troy, try for the other side of the ruins, and I stay here, we can flush him out into a crossfire." He fell silent, looking urgently at his American counterpart and hoping he would agree.

Troy checked his watch. Time, it seemed, was on Moffitt's side—the American didn't have any chance to argue. "Let's do it," he said with only a little reluctance. "Move it. Moffitt, get up there and let him know you're still here."

"Right." Moffitt clambered back up the dune and balanced himself carefully on its shifting peak. "Diamond!" he yelled. "Diamond, are you there?"

"I'm here, Englishman," the Arab called back. "Have you decided?"

"I, er. . ." Moffitt glanced over his shoulder at the other two. Tully was long gone, making a bent-low dash across the sand for the hills with a Tommy held tight in his grip; Troy was circling around the dune, looking for a place to slip through without Diamond noticing. Both of them were too far away to do anything now. Moffitt huffed out a resolute breath. "I'm coming, Diamond," he replied. "Don't shoot. I'm coming down."

And, without a backward glance, he started down the dune, waiting for the hammer to fall.

It did, after his words had sunk in and Troy fully realized the Brit was throwing his direct order in his face. The American sergeant appeared over the dune, his .45 held in a white-knuckled grip. "Moffitt!" he hollered. "Moffitt, get back here! Moffitt!"

But Moffitt was extremely good at ignoring people, and he did so now. He focused instead on the crunch of sand beneath his feet with each step, the deafening thud of his heartbeat in his ears, the slowly nearing ruins and the triumphant, disdainful smirk on Diamond's face as he watched. The young Arab should by all rights be somehow marked from the close proximity of the explosion that should have dispatched him, but he was oddly untouched. Something else to send ice-cold uneasiness up the Brit's spine.

Out of the corner of his eye Moffitt could see faint movement up on the stony ridge; Tully, good old faithful Tully, was still getting into place even though the entire plan had just taken a nosedive into chaos. It made Moffitt feel a little better to have a Tommy trained on his every movement and a man like Tully at the trigger. He could be relied on.

Rather unlike you, Jack, he thought with resigned amusement. Never could overcome that secret impulsive streak, could you?

Soon he was near enough to see behind Diamond into the darkness of the doorway; and he realized Hitch was watching him.

"Sarge!" the private burst out. "Sarge, you can't!"

Be quiet, Hitchcock, Moffitt told him silently. This is for your own good.

When he was several yards from the outer edge of the ruins, he stopped abruptly. "This is as far as I go, Diamond," he announced. "Send Private Hitchcock out. Now."

He only hoped his Webley was as loose in its holster as it had been an hour earlier at the oasis. And that Diamond hadn't noticed it was still there.

But the Arab missed nothing; he regarded Moffitt with glittering black eyes. "Nonsense, Englishman. None of us move until you throw down your gun." He cocked his head to one side, waiting. "Well?"

Fuming, Moffitt reached for his Webley with his left hand and drew it out. He did it as slowly as possible, hoping that if he stalled he would come up with something, but all he could think was, You really didn't think this through. Troy was right.

He hated it when that happened. He held his Webley out and away from him with two fingers, letting it dangle from his unsteady grasp. "All right, Diamond," he said. "I'm dropping it. Let Hitch go."

And even though he didn't have a stopwatch, he could have sworn that at the exact moment he let go of his Webley, at the exact moment Diamond's Luger whipped up and the trigger was pulled, Hitch slammed shoulder-first into the Arab from behind and sent them both sprawling.

The shot went wild; Moffitt could hear it whine past his ear and instinctively he threw himself to the ground. He made a wild grab for his Webley but it struck the back of his hand rather painfully and spun away. Cursing inwardly, Moffitt started to scramble upright but flattened out again when Diamond fired off another shot. It pinged off the crumbling outer wall of the ruins, and Moffitt leapt to his feet.

"Run, Hitch!" he yelled, and the private, for once in his life, obeyed without hesitation. His hands were tied but he shoved himself upright, delivered a swift and slightly inaccurate kick to Diamond's head as the Arab still floundered in the sand, and took off like a shot. He dashed towards Moffitt, who looked frantically for his Webley but was unable to find it. It must have been buried in all this sand I kicked up. Blast, blast, blast!

Diamond was getting to his feet now. He was wiping the sand from his face, aiming the Luger level to Hitch's back—

"Tully, you bloody idiot," Moffitt hollered, "why don't you fire?"

In answer came a dancing line of bullets that fell just a few feet shy of Diamond's feet. The Arab flinched as his own finger pulled the trigger, and later Moffitt would bet his pension that flinch was the only thing that saved Hitch's life. The private lurched as the bullet struck him in the shoulder and spun from the impact, hitting the ground hard. He lay there in a crumpled heap, and for the moment Moffitt forgot about his Webley. He fell to his knees beside the private, looking for the blood that he found all too easily, giving his shoulder a fierce shake.

"Hitch," he snapped. "Hitch, are you all right?"

"Ow," came the petulant answer. "Would ya stop shakin' me so hard? What's goin' on anyway?"

"Come on, get up," Moffitt hissed urgently in reply. Currently Diamond was sending potshots Tully's way; the Kentuckian had him occupied dodging flying .45s as he searched for the Arab's range. But it wouldn't last forever. Tully would have to change clips, and in that lull Diamond would kill Moffitt and Hitch as easy as breathing. "We've got to move. Can you stand?"

"Stand? I can fly. Gemme outta here." Hitch scrambled to his feet, and Moffitt sent him packing. Then the Brit turned his attention on Diamond.

According to Moffitt's previous experience, Lugers held a grand total of 8 cartridges. Unless Diamond had a drum magazine hidden somewhere on his person, was changing clips at an alarming rate, or divine intervention was keeping his gun loaded, there was no way he could have kept up such a harrowing duel with a Thompson. But he was. He had taken partial shelter behind the moldering outer wall of the ruins, darting out of cover to exchange shots with Tully. The Kentuckian's frustration was evident in the short, ferocious blasts of return fire that chewed up the weather-beaten stone as he tried to hit the dodging Arab. And where was Troy?

Moffitt had no time to think about that. He was too busy trying to figure out what to do. He didn't have a gun—he didn't even know where the bloody thing was—but he had to act somehow, and the wasted moments were slipping by almost too fast to count. This was Diamond—the man who had caused Moffitt so much pain and grief and fury—mere yards away, having dragged them all out into the desert for some manic scheme of his. He was going to pay for it, Moffitt would make sure of that. But how?

Then he knew. It wasn't often he took a page out of Troy's book, wasn't often he threw common sense and caution to the winds in favor of a slim, scarce chance that all their lives would hinge on, but he did it now. "Diamond!" the Brit yelled out before he could tell himself he knew better. "Diamond, is this how you fight? Hiding behind a gun? Hiding behind a gun like you hid behind a whip?"

Diamond flinched as if he'd been struck, and his head snapped back to face Moffitt, his dark eyes fixed on the Brit's face. He didn't return Tully's next volley, and the Kentuckian, sensing something new was afoot, didn't fire again. The Arab said nothing, but Moffitt could see the incredulity in his swarthy face. He hadn't expected something like that. Then again, neither had Moffitt. But he soldiered on.

"Oh, yes," he continued. "You're very brave when your enemy is bound hand and foot, aren't you? I'm sure any fighter worth his salt would be the same. But then, you're not much of a fighter yourself, Diamond. Not much of a soldier. You aren't enough of a man to know the meaning of the word!"

Oblivious to the Tommy gun trained on his head, Diamond straightened up with a slow, ethereal grace. "Not enough of a man?" he repeated. His voice had taken an odd, icy quality that vibrated with some indescribable emotion. It was soft, muted, but throbbed with undeniable power. "Not enough of a man?" Something snapped in his eyes then, some thread so stretched and thin that Moffitt could see when he slipped over the unstable edge from sanity into something darker. His voice rose to a screech. "I am more of a man than you will ever be, blue-blooded Englishman!" He threw the Luger aside; it cracked against the crumbling wall and was lost in the sand. Moffitt barely had time to register the sound before Diamond had lunged at him.