The Lost Temple by Tom Harper Read Free Book Online

pillars supporting the gun platform on the roof. They gleamed in the darkness, flickering with the reflections of light from the battle outside, while the drafty chamber echoed like a drum with the thump of the Bren gun above. Grant jammed Cargill’s peaked cap over his tousled hair, touched the Webley that was now buckled securely round his waist, then shinned up the wooden ladder bolted to the wall.
    The gunner on the roof could hardly have heard Grant, but he must have noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye. He eased off the trigger and glanced round.
    “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Grant bellowed, in his best regimental English. “Keep those Yids pinned down.”
    The voice, and the familiar silhouette of the officer’s cap, was all the reassurance the gunner needed. He couched the Bren gun against his shoulder and let off another furious volley. It gave Grant all the time he needed. He crossed the roof and with one well-aimed kick sent the gunner rolling across the wooden floor in agony. Two more deft punches and the hapless gunner lay sprawled out, unconscious.
    Grant pulled off the man’s belt and used it to tie his wrists behind his back. That done, he returned to the Bren gun, shifted it round and loosed a long stream of bullets in the vague direction of the British troops. He grinned as he saw confusion overwhelm them. Some of the more alert soldiers sent a few shots back toward him, cracking splinters off the stone battlements, but most of them seemed in complete disarray. Over by the prison block, meanwhile, the shooting was tailing off as the Irgun used the distraction to make good their escape.
    Grant squeezed off a final burst, then picked up the Bren gun—taking care to avoid touching the scalding barrel—and staggered across to the far wall. He heaved it into thedry moat. By the time anyone found it there, Grant hoped he’d be long gone.
     
    There were only half a dozen fighters left in the trench. A couple more lay dead on the ground, but most seemed to have escaped. Grant made his way to the black-bereted commander. “Just in time,” he grunted. He broke off to slap another magazine into his machine pistol. “We need to get to the boat.” He turned to his right and handed the gun to the fighter beside him. “Keep those English pinned down until we’re over the wall.”
    The fighter’s arms sagged as he took the weight, but the determination in his young face was unbending.
    Grant’s eyes widened. “Ephraim?”
    The boy hoisted the gun on to the earthen parapet and squinted down the barrel with fierce concentration. Grant turned to the commander. “You can’t leave him here.”
    “We need someone to hold off the British until we’re away.”
    “I’ll do it,” Grant said, without even thinking.
    The commander shrugged. “Do what you want, English. They hang you if you stay.”
    “They’ll hang the boy if I go.”
    Ephraim shook his head and gave a white-toothed grin. “They cannot—I am too young. By the time I am old enough to hang, Israel will be free.”
    “You’d better hope so.”
    Grant looked down at the boy, his floppy hair and his bright eyes shining with a desire to strike at the hated colonizers. Maybe Grant had looked the same at that age, the day he stepped on to the quay at Port Elizabeth with nothing but a suitcase to his name. Part of him—the young man who had run away to South Africa—wanted to stay with the boy and live his heroic dreams. But another, colder part knew what he had to do.
    Grant reached out and ruffled Ephraim’s hair. “Keep moving around,” he told him. “It’ll make them think there’s more of you.”
    Ephraim smiled, then leaned over the weapon and squeezed the trigger. The gun almost leaped out of his hands, before he slowly wrestled it under control.
    The Irgun commander tugged Grant’s sleeve. “We have to go.”
    They ran along the base of the wall. Grant felt horribly exposed, but Ephraim’s ragged