“Srulie?” Masada pushed Ness away and listened intently. The hostages were screaming. She ran to where a section of the casement wall had long collapsed and looked down over the edge, where the Roman’s earthen ramp emerged from the dark, reaching halfway up. To the right, the outer wall of rooms curved with the rim of the mountaintop toward the hostage room, out of sight, where the sheer cliff dropped as much as a hundred-story building to the distant bottom.

“Hey!” Ness chased her back to the chopper. “Get behind-”

“It was Srulie’s voice!” She grabbed one of the steel cables, still attached to the helicopter, and unfurled it over the edge.

Ness grabbed her arm. “It’s a trick.”

She pulled on the gloves.

“This Arab is too clever. We know all about him.”

She clenched a small flashlight between her teeth and rolled over the side.

“Stop! That’s an order!”

Masada loosened her grip and slid down fast, the cable whistling as it rushed through her gloves. Below her, the Roman ramp rose rapidly through the twilight. Tightening her grip, she slowed her descent, the gloves hot against her palms.

She hit the dirt, let go of the cable, and ran down the ramp. Finally reaching the desert floor, she aimed the flashlight and ran along the base of the mountain, glancing up to orient herself. The sheer rock above turned reddish with first light. She kept running, hoping not to find anything.

But she did.

He was lying at the foot of the cliff, white face framed in dark hair, eyes open, looking at her. She ran to him, dropped to her knees. His eyes didn’t move.