They collided with teeth-rattling force, the Arab's shoulder slamming into Moffitt's chest and knocking the breath out of him. They hit the ground hard, rolling from the impact. Diamond ended up on top, but for the moment he didn't seem to know what to do with himself. Moffitt threw him off and scrambled to his knees as the Arab regained his footing and swung hard at the Brit. Moffitt dodged the punch and buried his fist in Diamond's stomach, following up with a second hit to his jaw when the breath was knocked out of him. He grabbed the Arab by the collar and half-shoved, half-tossed him back. Diamond landed, sprawling, in the sand, and Moffitt gave him no time to collect himself before going at him again.
Diamond was small, slender, and wiry; no match in strength for Moffitt himself. But he was fast, and he played dirty. He leapt out of the way and delivered a swift kick to the back of Moffitt's knee; the Brit's leg buckled and he crashed to the ground. Before he could even push himself to his knees the Arab's boot connected with his skull with a sharp crack—he saw stars and his vision warped black for a few moments before the pain set in. It hurt so badly he couldn't move. He just lay there in the scorching sand, feeling his heart pounding in his ears and waiting desperately for the agony to subside. Each second of vulnerability, each second he couldn't see for the warping sparks before his eyes or move for the immobilizing throbbing inside his skull, was another second Diamond could kill him. But no matter how long he lay there—it felt like hours, for all he knew—nothing happened.
Where is he? And where was Troy, for that matter? Or Tully, or Hitch, or anyone? Was he going to have to figure all this out himself? Well, Jack, you did get yourself into this mess. It's only fair you get yourself out again.
With an effort he hauled himself to his knees, shaking his head to clear the woozy feeling from it. His temple ached where Diamond's boot had struck it, but he had no time for that. Because he saw Diamond through the haze of his vision, and the Arab was running back for the ruins, slipping in the loose sand in his haste to return to the ruins—and the Luger.
"No!" yelled Moffitt, and staggered to his feet. Their short scrabble had thrown them farther from the ruins than he'd thought; Diamond had yet to reach the outer wall. Moffitt started after him, still reeling, shoes slithering over the sand in his haste. He was determined to keep Diamond from reaching that gun, because if he did Moffitt wouldn't have a chance—Moffitt didn't have a chance now—it would take a miracle for him to reach Diamond in time—
Then the ruins exploded with an earth-shattering blast, and from then on, Moffitt believed in miracles. Flames and ragged chunks of stone flew in all directions and smoke belched out in a thick dark cloud. The noise was so overwhelmingly close Moffitt's eardrums burned, the concussion so strong his bones rattled. He hit the ground, instinctively curling himself into as small a target as possible as debris began to rain down around him. He peered out from under his arm to see Diamond sprawled out in the sand, cringing, while fire licked up the blasted-out sides of the ruins, and the smoke still billowed out in choking waves. He was going nowhere for the time being.
After the initial shock had subsided, Moffitt began to wonder what had caused such an almighty eruption in the first place. He didn't have the faintest idea. The air was heavy with the acrid stench of the burning ruins, but there was no more danger of falling debris. Moffitt started to untangle himself and stand, feeling the reverberation of the blast still echoing through his unsteady limbs. A few yards away, Diamond was still cowering face-down on the ground. He appeared, for all practical purposes, to be shaking. Warily, Moffitt approached him, prepared for some kind of a trick. But the Arab didn't look up as he drew nearer.
"Diamond," Moffitt called to him. There was no response. "Diamond," he said again, growing puzzled. Had the man been injured? Simply frightened? Moffitt nudged his arm with one foot. At his touch the Arab yelped and flinched back. Moffitt too flinched back, in surprise, and as Diamond scrabbled around in the sand to lie on his back they stared at each other.
Where was the sadistic maniac that Moffitt had seen during his and Dietrich's imprisonment? Where was the ferocious vengeance, the wild recklessness that had possessed him only a few moments before? As Diamond's eyes locked with his, he saw nothing in that swarthy face but blank fear. And he realized, then, what a young face it was. Why, he could be little more than a child, Moffitt thought. And he could have been—except for his eyes. They were huge, dark, filled not only with that same warped, broken light that had always been there but also with. . .tears.
"Englishman," Diamond whispered, and there was the desperation of a terrified little boy in his hoarse voice. "Englishman, please—" He was reaching up now, reaching up with a trembling, slim hand as if for help, as if to beg. "Please, let me live, Englishman, let me live—"
Moffitt didn't know what to do. He only stared down at the Arab, half-repulsed, half-fascinated, and tried to wrap his mind around this drastic, violent change of personality. "Look here," he began. "I, er—I don't—"
Then those dark eyes changed again, and Moffitt could see the fear evaporate into something inhuman. That hand lashed out, and with a sharp yank jerked Moffitt's ankle out from under him. He stumbled, and in the moment it took him to loose his footing, Diamond found his. The Arab was up and dashing across the sand, not towards the still-burning ruins but out across the sun-bronzed desert, into the wilderness of dunes and killing heat where he knew how to hide. Moffitt lunged upright, but the Arab was running too fast for him to catch. But he knew, he knew as sure as he was standing there, that he couldn't let Diamond go free. Not after all the man had done, all the misery he had created, with the whole godforsaken desert laid out before him and a whole world of suffering left for him to cause—
Something caught his eye then, something sleek and matte black and glinting with the deadly shine of gunmetal. He went for it like a hawk to its prey, snatching it up out of the sand. It was his Webley. And all six shots were unfired.
Diamond was still running, fast growing smaller as the distance between him and Moffitt unreeled. But the Brit swung up the revolver, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.
His aim had never been truer. The Arab stumbled, the impact of the shot sending him tumbling forward. He fell to his knees, but hauled himself upright again. Dark blood was blossoming over the tattered sandy back of his jacket. Moffitt fired again—and again—and again—once for every vicious strike of that bloodthirsty whip, once for all the times Diamond had laughed and threatened death and only followed with more pain, more humiliation—
It was only when the revolver clicked scoldingly, when he felt someone pulling hard at his arm, calling his name again and again, that he realized it was over. The Webley was empty. And Troy was looking into his face, surely searching for signs of the madness that had overtaken his friend.
"He's dead, Moffitt," the American said. His voice was firm, but gentle, as if speaking to a frightened animal. "He's dead."
Moffitt blinked at him. Then he looked at the empty Webley. Then at the pathetic, crumpled body that lay in the blood-spattered sand where it had fallen. Fallen after six shots in the back.
What a coward you are, Jack.
"Moffitt, are you all right?" Troy was still talking in that wary, calming voice. Moffitt looked at him once more.
"I shot him because he was running," he said, hearing his flat voice echoing mechanically in his ears. "He was running away. I couldn't let that happen." He glanced down at the Webley. "I. . .couldn't."
It was a poor explanation. But Troy didn't seem to mind. "The man was a coward, Moffitt," he said reasonably. "Just what kinda death do you think he deserved?"
Moffitt kept staring at the Webley. He couldn't make himself let go of it, even though it was empty and unless he started hitting people with the thing it wasn't a threat to anyone any longer. Least of all that dead Arab out there, whose life had ended as miserably as he had lived it. Perhaps Troy is right, Moffitt thought.
He put the Webley in its holster.
"Hitch all right?" he asked in his best unbothered voice. Troy considered him for a moment, then nodded.
"Fine. Yourself?"
"Fine." Moffitt cleared his throat. "Where were you?" He tried to keep the faint resentment from his voice. "I could have used a little help earlier."
"Had to help Hitch get back over the dune. Then I went for the jeep, tried to get it in a better position to cover you." The American put his hands on his hips, looked at the smoldering ruins. "Guess I didn't need to."
Ah, yes. There was still that. Where had the source of that inexplicable, perfectly-timed explosion come from? Moffitt looked over at the ruins with their dark pillar of smoke still spreading up into the blinding blue sky. "I. . .don't suppose you have any idea what happened?"
Troy considered that, too. "Forgotten ammo dump?" he finally suggested, but he didn't sound terribly sure of himself.
"Sarge! Sarge, look up there!"
It was Tully, half-running, half-tripping down the steep, rocky slope. The right sleeve of his jacket was streaked with blood from what must have been one of Diamond's luckier shots, but he didn't seem too bothered by it. He was pointing with his good arm, pointing farther along the slope, where distant shapes silhouetted at its peak against the horizon. The distinct hulk of a tank; a halftrack; a smaller, more compact vehicle. A tall, slim figure standing separate from all the rest, lifting field glasses to his eyes. Moffitt could have sworn the muzzle of the Panzer III was still smoking.
"He's got a sense of timin', doesn't he?" Tully asked the two sergeants as he neared them. He looked rather satisfied. A matchstick was tucked safely away at the corner of his mouth.
Dietrich lowered the field glasses and clasped his hands behind his back. Even from such a long distance they could feel easily enough his piercing dark gaze fixed on them. They stood there, Allies and German, and watched each other in silence.
"Well?" Moffitt finally said impatiently. "Is he going to capture us or not?"
"One way to find out," Troy replied evenly. He took off his slouch hat, and with his arm outstretched waved it slowly through the air in one long arc down to the holster at his hip. And even though Moffitt was too far away to be sure, and it was probably ridiculous, and he was probably imagining things, he could have sworn he saw. . .
. . .Dietrich nodded. And then he turned, and stalked over the rocky ground to his waiting Kübelwagen. The sound of the engines was audible over the thin, crisp air as they revved to life. Then the Germans were gone. And Moffitt was thoroughly confused.