JAMES ROLLINS - SANDSTORM

The curator knelt on the floor of the tomb. She had spread out the same map as before. A straight blue line led from the first tomb on the coast to this one in the mountains. Now a second line, this one in red, branched away, heading northeast, crossing out of the mountains and into a great blank expanse of the desert, the Rub‘ al-Khali, the vast Empty Quarter of Arabia.

Safia shook her head, running a finger along the line out into the sands. “It makes no sense. It could be anywhere.”

Cassandra stared down at the map for several breaths. They were looking for a lost city in the desert. It had to be somewhere along that line, but where? The line crossed through the center of the vast expanse. It could be anywhere.

“We’re still missing something,” Safia said, leaning back on her heels. She rubbed her temples.

Kane’s radio buzzed, interrupting them. He spoke into his throat mike. “How many?” A long pause. “Okay, just keep a bloody close eye on them. Keep them away. Let me know if anything changes.”

Cassandra eyed him as he finished.

He shrugged. “Those sand rats we saw on the side of the road have returned. They’re setting up camp where we spotted them earlier.”

Cassandra noted the concern in Safia’s face. The woman feared for her countrymen’s safety. Good. “Order your men to shoot anyone who gets close.”

Safia tensed at her words.

Cassandra pointed to the map. “The sooner we solve this mystery, the sooner we’re out of here.” That should light a fire under the curator.

Safia stared sullenly at the map. “There must be some distance marker built into the artifact. Something we missed. A way to determine how far down this red line we must travel.”

Safia closed her eyes, rocking a bit. Then she suddenly stopped.

“What?” Cassandra asked.

“The spear,” she said, glancing to the door. “I noticed striations along its shaft, marks scored into it. I thought them merely decoration. But back in the ancient past, measurements were often recorded as notches on a stick.”

“So you think the number of marks could signify a distance?”

Safia nodded and began to stand. “I have to count them.”

Cassandra distrusted the woman. It would be easy to lie and lead them astray. She needed accuracy. “Kane, go out and count the number of marks.”

He grimaced but obeyed, slapping on his sodden ball cap.

After he left, Cassandra crouched by the map. “This has to be the final location. First the coast, then the mountain, now the desert.”

Safia shrugged. “You’re probably right. The number three is significant to ancient faiths. Whether it’s the trinity of the Christian God-the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit-or the ancient celestial trinity: the moon, the sun, and the morning star.”

Kane appeared in the doorway, shaking rain from his cap. “Sixty-nine.”

“Are you sure?”

He scowled at her. “Yes, I’m bloody damned sure.”

“Sixty-nine,” Safia said. “That has to be right.”

“Why?” Cassandra asked, turning her attention back to the curator as she bent over the map.

“Six and nine,” Safia explained to the map. “Multiples of three. Just like we were talking about. Sequential, too. A very magical number.”

“And here I always thought ‘sixty-nine’ meant something else,” Kane said.

Seemingly deaf to the man, Safia continued to work, measuring with a protractor and tapping a calculator. Cassandra watched over her.

“This is sixty-nine miles along the red line.” Safia circled the spot. “It ends up here in the desert.”

Cassandra knelt down, took the protractor, and rechecked her measurements. She stared at the red circle, noting the longitude and latitude in her head. “So this may be the location of the lost city?”

Safia nodded. She continued to stare at the map. “As best I can tell.”

Cassandra’s brow crinkled, sensing the woman was keeping something from her. She could almost see the woman calculating something in her head.

She grabbed Safia’s wrist. “What are you holding back-”

A shot rang out nearby, clipping away any further words.

It could be a misfire. It could be one of the bedouin shooting off his rifle. But Cassandra knew better. She swung around. “Painter…”

PAINTER’S FIRSTshot went wild as he fell backward out the mosque’s doorway and onto the porch. A corner of a wall blasted away in a shower of plaster. Inside, the leopards parted, vanishing into the shadows of the mosque.

Painter flung himself to the side, sheltering behind the half wall of the porch. Stupid. He shouldn’t have shot. He had reacted out of instinct, self-preservation. That wasn’t like him. But some terror beyond the leopards had gripped him, as if something had jangled the deepest root of his brain.

And now he had given away the element of surprise.

“Painter!” The shout came from the direction of the tomb.

It was Cassandra.

Painter dared not move. Leopards prowled on the inside, Cassandra on the outside. The lady or the tiger? In this case, both meant death.

“I know you came for the woman!” Cassandra shouted into the rain. A rumble of thunder punctuated her words.

Painter remained quiet. Cassandra couldn’t know for sure in which direction his gunshot had come from. Sound traveled oddly among these mountainous hills. He imagined her hiding in the tomb, calling out from the doorway. She dared not move into the open. She knew he was armed, but she didn’t know where he was.

How could he use that to his advantage?

“If you don’t show yourself-arms up, hands empty-in the next ten seconds, I’m going to shoot the prisoner.”

He had to think quickly. To reveal himself now would only mean his death, along with Safia’s.

“I knew you’d come, Crowe! Did you really think that I’d believe you were heading to the border of Yemen?”

Painter flinched. He had sent out the e-mail only hours ago, planted with false information, delivered through a secure server to his boss. It had been a test balloon. As he feared, word had reached Cassandra intact. A sense of despair settled over him. That could only mean one thing. The betrayal of Sigma started at the very top.

Sean McKnight…his own boss…

Was that why Sean had paired him with Cassandra to begin with?

It seemed impossible.

Painter closed his eyes and took a deep breath, sensing his isolation.

He was now alone out here, cut off. He had no one to contact, no one to trust. Oddly, this thought only helped energize him. He felt a giddy sense of freedom. He had to rely on himself and his immediate resources.

That would have to be enough.

Painter reached into his ditty bag and palmed the radio transmitter.

Thunder growled, throatier, guttural. Rain fell harder.

“Five seconds, Crowe.”

All the time in the world…

He stabbed the transmitter’s button and rolled toward the stairs.

FROM SEVENTYyards away, Omaha jolted as the twin explosions rocketed the two SUVs into the air, as bright as lightning strikes. The dark night went brilliant. The concussion squeezed his ears, thundered in his rib cage.

It was Painter’s signal. He had secured Safia.

A moment ago, Omaha had heard a single gunshot, terrifying him. Now flames and debris rained down across the parking lot. Men lay sprawled in the dirt. Two were on fire, bathed in burning gasoline.

It was time to move.

“Now!” Omaha shouted, but his yell sounded tinny in his own ears.

Still, rifle fire spat out of the forest to either side of Omaha. Additionally, a few flashes of muzzle fire sparked from a high shoulder that overlooked the parking lot, coming from a pair of Bait Kathir snipers.