Drummond’s lips compressed in annoyance, and the muzzle of his gun started to travel toward Matt’s thigh. “Now.”

Matt held it tight in both hands. “You won’t be able to understand it. It will be useless to you,” he said quickly.

“Really? Then you won’t mind giving it up.” He pointed the gun muzzle at Matt’s groin. “This is going to hurt me a lot more than you.” He flashed his smile. “I’m kidding of course, this is only going to hurt you.” He leveled the gun.

The throwing blade entered the back of Drummond’s hand, but didn’t pass right through the meat as it hit the metal of the gun. He howled in shock and dropped the weapon. Kroen spun, but before he could fire, Adira’s leg lashed out, kicking the gun up to discharge harmlessly into the roof.

She dived for the Book, her hand flashing out to it, and her palm slapping down on its cover, just as Kroen brought one of his pile-driver hands down on her back between her shoulder blades.

The two Egyptians went to launch themselves at Adira, but were immediately set upon by Abrams and Andy. Matt joined in, leaping onto the back of one man and pummeling his head. Tania pressed herself against the wall, apparently unsure which of their attackers to target.

The major quickly knocked his opponent down, and then kicked him unconscious. He turned to help Matt and Andy, who struggled. Andy took a kick to the chest and flew back to hit the wall hard and sit slumped and unmoving. Matt then took a backhanded blow to the chin and was knocked against the table, where he sat dazed for a moment. Abrams then traded blows with the last Egyptian, standing toe to toe.

Drummond grimaced, and wrapped a rapidly reddening handkerchief around his palm. He spat his words. “Quickly Kroen, kill her.”

As if it were a dream, Matt watched the mad dance that Adira and Kroen performed in the light of the doorway. The big man outweighed the Metsada agent by one-fifty pounds at least, and in his hands he had produced two ancient-looking curved blades, that looked like a combination of Macedonian Kopis blade and boning knife.

Matt was once again amazed at how the big man moved – fast, fluid, and professionally, the knives apparently part of his body. He knew his art.

But so did Adira. Her black spike knives had materialized in her hands, and she parried, blocked and ducked as Kroen’s trunk-like arms swung and thrust.

The giant jabbed with one arm, while spinning and thrusting with the other – he was blindingly fast and caught Adira on the bicep, opening a line of red. But even before the big man could recover from his extended arm thrust, Adira had slid down, and jammed one of her eight-inch spikes deep into his inner thigh.

She ripped it free, and her target, the large femoral artery, spurted like a tap.

Kroen fought on, but already the carpet beneath him was becoming sodden. He lunged again, becoming more furious, possibly knowing that his biggest advantage, his great strength, was leaking away. He was an imposing figure, huge and maddened, but though he would have had no trouble disposing of any other adversary, the person he fought that day had been trained in a dozen different fighting techniques, many of them designed to combat and kill bigger foes.