SANDSTORM sf-1

  At last, he slammed the door and latched it closed. Leaning his back against the door, he spit sand from his mouth and rubbed his eyes, clearing his eyebrows and lashes of grit.

  Gunfire peppered the side of the carriage, stinging his back with their rattling impacts. He shoved away. The fun never stops around here.

  He hurried to the driver’s compartment and slid into the seat. He tossed the laptop onto the other seat. The sandstorm swirled beyond the windshield, a permanent midnight. He flipped on the lights. Visibility stretched for a whole two yards. Not bad.

  He kicked the gear into reverse and headed out of Dodge.

  He retreated straight back. If anything was back there, he’d simply have to trust that the armored behemoth could bull through it.

  More gunfire chased him, like kids throwing stones.

  He fled, noting when he cleared the charred remains of Shisur. He escaped into the desert, shooting backward. Eventually he’d think about forward gears. But backward worked fine for now.

  As he glanced to the windshield, he noted twin glows bloom in the darkness, out in the city.

  Pursuit.

  5:00 P.M.

  AS THEothers took a brief rest, Omaha stared at the queen’s palace. The structure had managed to escape the initial bombardment. Maybe they could make a stand here, up in its tower.

  He shook his head.

  Fanciful, but impractical. Their only hope was to keep moving. But they were running out of city. Not much lay above and beyond the palace. A few streets and low buildings.

  He glanced over the lower city. Sporadic gunfire still flared, but it was both less frequent and closer. The Rahim’s defense was wearing thin, the line being overwhelmed.

  Omaha knew they were doomed. He had never considered himself a pessimist, just a pragmatist. Still, he glanced at Safia. With his last breath, he would keep her safe.

  Kara stepped beside him. “Omaha…”

  He looked at her. She never called him Omaha. Her face was exhausted, lined by fear, eyes hollow. Like him, she sensed their end.

  Kara nodded to Safia. Her voice was a sigh. “What the hell are you waiting for? Bloody Christ…” She stepped away to the courtyard wall, slumped against it, and sank to a seat.

  Omaha remembered her earlier words. She still loves you.

  From steps away, he watched Safia. She knelt beside a child, holding both the girl’s small hands between her own. Her face shone in the glow overhead. Madonna and child.

  He moved closer…then closer again. Kara’s words inside his head: Life is hard. Love doesn’t have to be.

  Safia didn’t look up, but she still spoke. “These are my mother’s hands,” she said so quietly, so calmly, defying their situation. She stared at the child. “All these women. My mother still lives through them. An entire life. From babe to elder. A full life. Not one cut short.”

  Omaha dropped to one knee. He stared into her face as she studied the child. She simply took his breath away. Literally.

  “Safia,” he said softly.

  She turned to him, eyes shining.

  He met her gaze. “Marry me.”

  She blinked. “What…?”

  “I love you. I always have.”

  She turned. “Omaha, it’s not that simple…”

  He touched her chin gently with a finger, and turned her face back to his. He waited for her eyes to find him. “That’s just it. Yes, it is.”

  She attempted to shift away.

  He would not let her escape this time. He leaned closer. “I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes shone a bit brighter, not from happiness but from the threat of tears. “You left me.”

  “I know. I didn’t know what to do. But it was a boy who left you.” He lowered his hand, gently taking hers. “It is a man on his knees now.”

  She stared into his eyes, wavering.

  Movement over her shoulder caught his eye. Figures pushed out of the dark around the corner of the palace. Men. A dozen.

  Omaha leaped to his feet, scrambling to push Safia behind him.

  Out of the shadows, a familiar figure strode forth.

  “Barak…” Omaha scrambled to comprehend. The giant of an Arab had been missing since before the attack.

  More men followed behind Barak, in desert cloaks. They were led by a man with a crutch under one arm.

  Captain al-Haffi.

  The leader of the Desert Phantoms waved to the men behind him. Sharif was among them, as hale as when Omaha had last seen him, out at Job’s tomb. He had survived the firefight without a scratch. Sharif and the men dispersed down the streets, strapped with rifles, grenades, and RPG launchers.

  Omaha stared after them.

  He didn’t know what was going on, but Cassandra was in for a surprise.

  5:05 P.M.

  ALL THATwas left was the cleanup.

  Cassandra kept one foot on the pontoon of her boat. She listened to the open channel as various teams swept the city in quadrants, clearing away pockets of resistance. She clutched her electronic tracker, fingers digging. She knew exactly where Safia was within the city.

  Cassandra allowed the curator to scurry like a mouse while her crew mopped behind her, wearing through her resistance. Cassandra still wanted the bitch alive. Especially with Painter now on the run.

  She had to resist screaming her frustration.

  She would have the balls of every man topside if Painter escaped.

  She took a deep shuddering breath. There was nothing she could do down here. She had to secure this place, root out its secrets, which meant capturing Safia alive. And with Safia in hand, Cassandra would have a card to play against Painter. A pretty little ace in the hole.

  An explosion drew her attention back to the city. She was surprised her men needed to employ another grenade. She watched an RPG sail into the air.

  She blinked at its trajectory.

  Fuck…

  She leaped from her perch and sprinted down the shoreline. Her rubber soles gave her good purchase on the rough glass. She dove behind a sheltering pile of debris as the grenade struck the pontoon boat.

  The explosion deafened her, making her ears ache, even stinging her eyes. Glass and water sprayed high. She rolled up and away as broken glass rained down. She covered her head with her arms. Jagged pieces fell around her, dancing off other glass, slicing skin and clothes, stinging like a rain of fire.

  After the deadly shower ceased, she stared up at the city. Had someone commandeered one of her team’s launchers? Another two RPGs flew by.

  New automatic fire flared from a dozen places.

  What the hell was going on?

  5:07 P.M.

  AS THEexplosions echoed away and gunfire chattered, Safia watched Captain al-Haffi clump forward on his crutch. The shock of his arrival still held everyone speechless.

  The captain’s eyes settled on Lu’lu. He dropped his crutch and lowered himself to one knee. He spoke in Arabic, but in a dialect few had heard spoken aloud. Safia had to strain her ears to recognize the words of the singsong speech.

  “Your Highness, please forgive your servant for arriving so late.”

  He bowed his head.

  The hodja was as mystified as anyone else by his arrival and posturing.

  Omaha stepped to Safia’s side. “He’s speaking Shahran.”

  Safia’s mind spun. The Shahra were the mountain clan that traced their lineage to King Shaddad, the first ruler of Ubar…or rather the consort of its first queen.

  Barak spoke, hearing Omaha. “We are all of the Shahra clan.”

  Captain al-Haffi rose to his feet. Another man returned his crutch.

  Safia realized what she had just witnessed: the formal acknowledgment of the king’s line to its queen.

  Captain al-Haffi motioned them to follow, speaking again in English. “I had thought to get you clear, but all I can offer is shelter. We must hope my men and your women can hold the marauders off. Come.”

  He led the way back around the pa
lace. Everyone followed.

  Omaha paced next to Barak. “You are Shahra?”

  The man nodded.

  “So that’s why you knew about that back door out of the mountains, through that graveyard. You said only the Shahra knew of that path.”

  “The Vale of Remembrance,” Barak intoned more formally. “The graves of our ancestors, back to the exodus from Ubar.”

  Captain al-Haffi hobbled alongside Lu’lu. Kara helped her from the other side, continuing their conversation. “Is that why you all volunteered for the mission? Because of its ties to Ubar.”

  The captain bowed his head. “I apologize for the ruse, Lady Kensington. But the Shahra do not reveal their secrets to outsiders. That is not our way. We are as much guardians of this place as the Rahim. We were given this burden by the last queen of Ubar, just before our two lines parted ways. As she divided the keys, so she divided the royal lines, each with its own secrets.”

  Safia stared between the two, the houses of Ubar joined again.

  “What secret was left with you?” Omaha asked him.

  “The old path into Ubar. The one walked by the first queen. We were forbidden to open it until Ubar was tread again.”

  “A back door,” Omaha said.

  Safia should have known. The queen who sealed Ubar after the horrible tragedy here was too meticulous. She had contingency plans stacked atop contingency plans, spreading them across both lines.

  “So there’s a way out of here?” Omaha asked.

  “Yes, to the surface. But there is no escape there. The sandstorm rages, which makes crossing atop Ubar’s dome dangerous. It was what took us so long to get here, once we learned from Barak that the gate had been breached.”

  “Well, better late than never,” Danny said behind them.

  “Yes, but now a new storm strikes the area, rising from the south. It will be death to walk those sands.”

  “So we’re still trapped,” Omaha said.

  “Until the storm abates. We must simply hold out until that time.”

  With that sobering thought, they crisscrossed a few more streets in silence, finally reaching the back cavern wall. It looked solid, but Captain al-Haffi continued forward. Then Safia spotted it. A straight fracture in the glass wall. It angled inward, making it difficult to spot.

  Captain al-Haffi led them to the crack. “The surface lies a hundred and fifty steps up. The passage can act as a shelter for the children and women.”

  “And a trap if we can’t hold off Cassandra. She still outnumbers us and outguns us.”

  Captain al-Haffi stared across the group. “My men could use help. Anybody who can hold a gun.”

  Safia watched Danny and Coral accept weapons from a stash inside the crack. Even Clay stepped forward and held out his hand.

  Her student caught her surprised look. “I really want that A,” was all he said as he stepped away. His eyes shone with terror, but he did not back down.

  Omaha went last. “I already have a pistol. But I could use a second.”

  Captain al-Haffi handed him an M-16.

  “But this’ll do.”

  Safia stepped up as he moved away. “Omaha…” She had never acknowledged what he had said back by the palace. Had his words been a deathbed confession, knowing they were doomed?

  He smiled at her. “You don’t have to say anything. I made my stand. I haven’t earned your response yet.” He moved away. “But I hope at least you’ll let me try.”

  Safia shoved up to him and put her arm around his neck and held him tight. She spoke into his ear. “I do love you…I just don’t know…” She couldn’t finish the statement. It hung there between them.

  He squeezed her anyway. “I do. And I’ll wait until you do, too.”

  An argument forced them apart. Words between Kara and Captain al-Haffi.

  “I will not let you fight, Lady Kensington.”

  “I am perfectly able to shoot a gun.”

  “Then take a gun with you to the stairs. You may need it.”

  Kara fumed, but the captain was right. The last stand might come to a fight on the stairs.

  Captain al-Haffi placed a hand on her shoulder. “I owe your family a debt. Let me pay it this day.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kara said.

  He bowed his head; his voice grew mournful and shamed. “This is not the first time I’ve lent my services to your family. When I was a young man, a boy really, I volunteered to help you and your father.”

  Kara’s frown deepened.

  Captain al-Haffi lifted his face to hers. “My first name is Habib.”

  Kara gasped and stumbled back a step. “The guide on the day of the hunt. That was you.”

  “I was to attend your father because of his interest in Ubar. But I failed. Fear kept me from following you and your father that day into the forbidden sands. Only when I saw that you intended to enter the nisnases did I come after you, but it was too late. So I collected you from the sands and returned you to Thumrait. I did not know what else to do.”

  Kara appeared dumbstruck. Safia stared between them. Everything had come full circle…back to these same sands.

  “So let me protect you now…as I failed to do in the past.”

  Kara could only nod. Captain al-Haffi moved away. Kara called after him. “You were only a boy.”

  “Now I’m a man.” He turned to follow the others back down to the city.

  Safia heard an echo of Omaha’s words.

  The hodja stared among those remaining. “It is not over yet.” With those cryptic words, she entered the cleft. “We must walk the path of the old queen.”

  21

  Storm Watch

  DECEMBER 4, 5:30 P.M.

  SHISUR

  THEY WEREstill on his tail.

  Painter saw the glow of his pursuers back in the sandstorm. He lumbered forward, eking out as much speed as possible, which was approximately thirty miles per hour. And in the current teeth of this storm, this was a high-speed chase.

  He checked both side mirrors. One truck tracked on each side. He caught the barest glimpse of his hunters: two loaded flatbed trucks. Despite their loads, they moved faster than he could, but they also had to compensate for the terrain. He, on the other hand, aimed the twenty-ton tractor in one direction, trundling over anything in his path, riding up one dune and down another.

  Sand obliterated all sight lines. If this were a blizzard, it would be described as a whiteout.

  Painter had set the tractor’s cruise control. He checked its other features. It had a radar dish, but he didn’t know how to operate it. He did find the radio. His initial plan had been to travel as close to Thumrait Air Base as necessary and contact the Omani Royal Air Force. Someone would listen. If he had any hope of rescuing the others, he had to blow his cover and alert the government here.

  But the trucks had set him on a course away from the base, deeper into the storm. He had no chance to swing around. The other trucks were too fast.

  As he climbed a monstrous dune, an explosion thundered on his left side. Shrapnel and a wave of sand struck that side like a bitch-slap from God Himself.

  An RPG.

  For a moment, an awful grating sound tore at the treads.

  Painter winced, but the tractor rode through it, grinding away whatever had clogged its gears. It moved up the long slope.

  Another explosion, this time directly behind him. The noise was deafening, but the armor plating proved its mettle…or in this case, its poly-carbonate steel and Kevlar. Let them take potshots at him. The wind and storm would surely throw off their aim, and the tractor’s armor would do the rest.

  Then he felt a sickening lurch.

  The tractor’s treads still spun, but Painter’s speed slowed. The M4 began to slide. He suddenly realized what his hunters’ bombing had intended-not to take out the twenty-ton tractor, but to make it lose its footing.

  They were bombing the slope, triggering an avalanche. The whole slope was sliding backwar
d, taking the tractor with it. He switched off the cruise, popped the clutch, and kicked to a lower gear. He slammed the accelerator, trying to regain traction in the slippery slope.

  No luck. He just churned himself into the loose sand.

  Painter braked the tractor, fishtailing the back end, then hit reverse. He fled with the sand now, swimming with the riptide in the avalanche. He turned the tractor until he was parallel with the slope, the tractor tilting dangerously. He had to take care not to roll it.

  He pushed the gear into neutral, braked, then back into first. The tractor moved forward again, now surfing down the slope, running along its flank, finding good traction and speed. He raced down to the bottom. The trucks gave chase, but they ran into the toppling sand and had to slow down.

  Painter reached the end of the dune and cut around the corner.

  He was done running from these fuckers.

  He positioned the tractor to run straight, then reset the cruise.

  Letting go of the wheel, he made sure the tractor continued its course. He then retreated quickly to the back. He found his own launcher. He loaded one of the rocket-propelled grenades, balanced the long tube on his shoulder, and crossed to the back hatch of the tractor.

  He kicked the door open. Sand blew in, but not too fiercely as he was traveling into the wind. He stared out behind him. He waited until he spotted two glows, rounding the last dune, coming at him again.

  “Come to Papa,” he mumbled, and aimed.

  He set the crosshairs and pulled the trigger. The launcher exploded with a whoosh. He felt the backwash of heated air as the grenade rocketed away.

  He watched the red fire of its trail, a shooting star.

  The hunters spotted it, too. Painter saw them both wheel to either side. Too late. At least for one of them. The grenade exploded. Painter enjoyed seeing one of the glows shoved high into the air and explode into a fiery ball, shining brightly in the darkness. It crashed back into the sands.