Scorpia Rising

much as splinter. The windowpanes didn’t crack.
    “The door’s armor plated!” Smithers shouted out. “And the windows are bulletproof glass. They’re not going to shoot their way in.”
    “Can they cut their way in?” Alex asked.
    “Yes. But they’d need—”
    Smithers stopped. Alex had already seen it on the screens. Two of the men had run forward, both wearing body armor, their heads protected by welding masks. They carried with them an oxyacetylene torch with a cutting head capable of reaching temperatures up to 3500˚C. While the others fell back, the team knelt in front of the door, and a moment later there was a burst of harsh blue flame as they fired up the torch. Almost at once, Alex smelled burning. The inside of the door began to change color as it was attacked by the fierce heat, and a moment later a tiny tongue of flame burst through and began to move, curving around the handle and the lock.
    “Well, they’re certainly well prepared,” Smithers muttered. He sounded more irritated than afraid.
    “Can you hold them off?” Alex asked.
    “Unfortunately not. This is only a grade-three safe house. Now, if we were in Jerusalem or Baghdad, that would be a different matter.”
    Alex caught sight of a man swinging his arm. He was halfway down the garden, captured on one of the screens. For a crazy moment, Alex thought he was playing catch . . . then he understood. It wasn’t a ball. It was a grenade. It hit the roof and exploded. The whole house shook, sending the chandelier into a furious, jingling dance. Dust and broken plaster rained down and smoke billowed down the main staircase. Meanwhile, the oxyacetylene torch was making steady progress. The hissing flame had already moved a quarter of the way around the lock.
    “I think we’re going to have to make a run for it,” Smithers said.
    “Run?” It wasn’t a word that Alex would ever have associated with Smithers. A fast waddle would surely be the best he could manage. And anyway, how were they going to get out?
    “There’s a back way.” Smithers must have known what he was thinking. “Don’t you worry about me,” he added. “The main thing is that you not get hurt.” He searched out another button on the remote control. Outside, the fountains stopped, and even as the last drops of water splashed down, they released a cloud of yellow smoke instead. The gunmen began to stagger across the lawn, covering their eyes and coughing. “Tear gas!” Smithers explained. “Shame this isn’t England or I could have had them with my exploding gnomes.”
    Despite the defenses, the men had almost cut through the front door. The circle of burned-out metal was nearly complete. Smithers hurried back through the hall and into the kitchen and to Alex’s astonishment headed straight for the fridge. Surely this wasn’t the time for a snack! But when Smithers threw open the door, the food and the shelves had disappeared. Instead there was a stainless steel tunnel leading straight to the street. Behind them, Alex heard the front door crash open.
    “After you!” Smithers cried.
    Alex went first. It was a tight squeeze for Smithers, but he followed right behind and a few seconds later they were out in the street. Smithers still had the remote control. He pressed one last button and began to move away as fast as his legs would take him.
    There was an explosion inside the house. Then another. Alex heard the screams of some of the men and wondered what exactly had blown up. The sofas? The toilet? With Smithers it could be anything.
    It seemed to Alex that their best plan would be to disappear as quickly as possible into the crowd before reinforcements arrived—but that wasn’t going to be easy. For a start, the streets were too quiet. And anyway they had already been spotted. Alex heard a van screech to a halt. The back doors were thrown open and five more men came bundling out. Alex didn’t have time to see if they were armed too . . . nor did he have to look. There was a gunshot and a bullet spat into the brickwork close to his head. A few children had been playing soccer but they scattered instantly. An old man with a donkey and cart stood trembling with wide eyes, unsure what to do. Alex could hear the sirens of approaching police cars. They must have been alerted by the first grenade. But it was impossible to tell how near they were or, given the Cairo traffic, how quickly they might arrive.
    Alex and Smithers ran around a corner, past the