JAMES ROLLINS - SANDSTORM

“Fine. Took a jolt, ruined a nice blouse, but she’ll be up and around.”

She closed her eyes with relief. Thank God… She couldn’t have handled another death. Not after Ryan. She took several more breaths.

“Are you all right?” the American asked, staring up at her.

“Yes. But, Dr. Crowe-”

“Call me Painter…I think we’ve passed formalities here.”

“It seems I owe you my life for the second time this night.”

“That’s what you get for hanging around with me.” Though she couldn’t see it, she could imagine his wry smile.

“That’s not very funny.”

“It will be later.” He crossed and recovered the thief’s gun from the floor.

That reminded Safia. “The one you were shooting at. It was a woman. ”

He continued his study of the weapon. “I know…”

Painter inspected the weapon in his hand. It was a Sig Sauer, 45mm, with a Hogue rubberized grip. It couldn’t be… He held his breath as he turned the weapon on its side. The thumb catch for the magazine release was on the right side. A custom feature for that rare left-handed shooter.

He knew this gun. He knew the shooter.

He stared up at the path of shattered glass.

Cassandra.

KARA METhim at the foot of the steps leading up to the open door of the Learjet. She stood, blocking the way and pointing a stiff finger at the focus of her anger.

Her voice sharpened. “I want it stated clearly, Dr. Crowe, that you have no authority once you board this jet. You may have wrangled your way into this expedition, but it certainly wasn’t by my invitation.”

“I got that from the warm reception your pack of corporate lawyers gave me,” the American answered, hitching his duffel higher on his shoulder. “Who would’ve guessed so many suits could put up such a determined fight?”

“Little good it did. You’re still here.”

He offered a crooked smile as response, then shrugged.

As before, he offered no explanation as to why the U.S. government wanted him and his partner to accompany the expedition into Oman. But insurmountable blocks had appeared: financial, legal, even diplomatic. All this was further complicated by the media circus surrounding the attempted theft.

Kara had always considered her influence to be significant-but it paled beside the pressure placed upon the expedition by Washington. The United States had significant interests in Oman. She’d spent three weeks trying to find a way around their roadblocks, but the trip was hung up unless she cooperated.

Still, that didn’t mean she hadn’t won concessions.

“From here on out,” she said firmly, “you will be under our leadership.”

“Understood.”

The single word irritated Kara further. With no choice, she stepped aside.

He stood his ground on the tarmac. “It doesn’t have to be this way. We aren’t at cross-purposes here, Lady Kensington. We both seek the same thing.”

She pinched her brows. “And what might that be?”

“Answers…answers to mysteries.” He stared at her with those piercing blue eyes, unreadable, yet not cold. For the first time, she noted how handsome he was. Not model handsome, more a weary masculinity that he carried easily. He wore his hair lanky, a five-o’clock shadow at six in the morning. She could smell his aftershave, musky with a trace of balsam. Or was that just him?

Kara kept her face fixed, her voice flatlined. “And what mystery are you seeking to answer, Dr. Crowe?”

He did not blink. “I might ask the same of you, Lady Kensington. What mystery do you seek? It’s surely something more than academic interest in old tombs.”

Kara’s frown deepened, eyes flashing. Presidents of multinational corporations withered under such inspection. Painter Crowe remained unfazed.

He finally stepped forward and mounted the Lear’s stairs-but not before adding one last cryptic comment. “It seems we both have secrets we wish to keep…at least for now.”

She watched him climb.

Painter Crowe was followed by his companion: Dr. Coral Novak. She was tall, firmly toned, wearing a snug gray suit. She carried a matching duffel of personal items. The scientists’ trunks and equipment had already been loaded. The woman’s eyes searched down the length of the jet, studious.

Kara’s frown tracked them as they disappeared inside. Though they claimed to be merely physicists contracted by the U.S. government, she recognized the stamp of the military all over them: the wiry athleticism, the hard eyes, the sharp creases in their suits. They moved together, in unison, casually, one on point, the other watching their backs. They probably weren’t even aware of it.

And then there was the battle in the museum to consider. Kara had heard the detailed report: the murder of Ryan Fleming, the attempted theft of the iron heart. If not for this pair’s intervention, all would have been lost. Despite Dr. Crowe’s clear dissembling, Kara owed him-and for more than just the security of the artifact. She stared across the tarmac as the terminal door swung open.

Safia hurried toward the Lear, dragging a piece of luggage behind her. If the two Americans hadn’t been present in the museum, Safia surely would not have survived.

Still, her friend had not passed the night unscathed. The terror, the bloodshed, the death had broken something in Safia. Her protests against joining the expedition had ended. Safia seemed reticent to talk about her change of mind. Her only explanation was a terse response: It no longer matters.

Safia crossed to the jet. “Am I the last one here?”

“Everyone’s aboard.” Kara reached toward her luggage.

Safia snapped down the tote’s handle and lifted it herself. “I have it.”

Kara didn’t argue. She knew what the luggage contained. The iron heart, nestled in a molded, rubberized cocoon. Safia refused to let anyone near it-not to protect it, but as if it was a burden she must bear. Its blood debt was hers alone. Her discovery, her responsibility.

Guilt shadowed her friend like a mourning shroud. Ryan Fleming had been her friend. Murdered before her eyes. All for a chunk of iron, something Safia had unearthed.

Kara sighed as she followed Safia up the stairs.

It was Tel Aviv all over again.

No one could console Safia then…and now was no different.

Kara stopped at the top of the stairs and glanced one last time over toward the misty heights of London in the distance as the sun crested the Thames. She searched her heart for some sense of loss. But all she found was sand. This was not her true home. It never had been.

She turned her back on London and climbed inside the jet.

A man in uniform leaned out the cockpit door. “Ma’am, we have clearance from the tower. Ready when you are.”

She nodded. “Very good, Benjamin.”

She stepped into the main cabin as the door was secured behind her. The Lear had been customized to suit her needs. The cabin’s interior was furnished in leather and burled walnut, describing four intimate seating groups. Fresh flowers sprouted from Waterford crystal vases secured to seatside tables. A long mahogany bar, an antique out of Liverpool, stood stocked near the rear of the cabin. Beyond the bar, a set of folding doors marked the entry to Kara’s private study and bedroom.