Jake Ransom and the Howling Sphinx

The best journeys are those taken with friends at your side. This second trip into Pangaea was no exception. First, I must acknowledge my entire critique group, whose tireless effort made this book shine: Penny Hill, Steve and Judy Prey, Dave and Will Murray, Caroline Williams, Chris Crowe, Chris Smith, Josh Harris, John Keese, Lee Garrett, Denny Grayson, Leonard Little, Kathy L'Ecluse, Scott Smith, and Sally Barnes. There is not a better group of nitpickers, tech experts, and reviewers out there. Beyond the group, Carolyn McCray—who is a great writer herself—and David Sylvian—who thanklessly slaves behind the curtains—made a hard year easier and helped this book come to be. And finally, a special thanks to everyone at Harper-Collins, especially my editor, Barbara Lalicki, both for her infinite patience and for her brilliant skill at storytelling. And I'd be remiss not to thank two other people who have been with me every step of the way: my agents Russ Galen and Danny Baror. And as always, I must stress that any and all errors of fact or detail in this book fall squarely on my own shoulders.

No man could survive such a storm for long.

Clouds of red sand blasted out of the Sahara Desert and swept across Egypt. The storm darkened the sun and grew so vast that it could be seen from orbiting satellites. And it was no better on the ground. For those unlucky enough to be caught in the storm, the winds scoured any exposed skin like coarse sandpaper.

But the old man had been summoned and knew he had to obey.

Professor Nassor Khouri was a senior curator of the Cairo Museum and the leading expert on the Old Kingdom of Egypt. The curator hunched against the stinging sand. His sun-leathered face was covered by a scarf, his eyes hidden behind goggles.

As he hiked through the Valley of the Kings, he could barely see past his own nose, but he knew the way. Every Egyptian scholar did. Egyptian pharaohs had been buried
in this maze of limestone hills and sandy gullies for millennia, including the famous boy-king, Tutankhamen.

But Nassor's destination lay much farther out, beyond where most archaeologists searched. He fought the storm, moving deeper down the valley toward a new excavation. To anyone looking, it appeared to be nothing more than a well being dug, a project to help bring water to the parched land. Permits, uniforms, and equipment all bore a black griffin, the familiar logo of the company that funded this excavation.

Bledsworth Sundries and Industries, Inc.

The corporation financed many such charitable enterprises throughout the region. But Nassor knew the true goal of this particular project and had been paid well to keep it secret.

And now he had been summoned.

Had the corporation found what it sought?

Surely that was impossible
.…

Despite the hot breath of the sandstorm, Nassor shivered as he reached the dig site. All the laborers had fled the storm, leaving the place dark and empty. Nassor crossed a maze of abandoned mining gear and piles of work gear to reach the hole in the hillside framed by timber and sealed with a steel door.

He punched a code into a security keypad, and the door swung open. He hesitated at the threshold. Even with the storm howling at his back, he balked at entering
the tunnel. The passageway dove steeply downward, lit by flaming torches set into notches in the walls.

Swallowing back his fear, Nassor ducked inside. A gust of wind sucked the door closed behind him with a loud clang. Startled, he hurried forward.

The quicker I'm done here, the sooner I can get home
.

As the way led deeper, the walls changed from raw limestone to stone blocks. Ancient steps appeared and led downward yet again. Deeper and deeper. Nassor kept to the torch-lit path as the walls squeezed tighter on either side, as if trying to push him back. But he had no choice. With sweat trickling down his back, he had to keep going.

At last, the tunnel emptied into a cavernous space. It was a vast domed chamber, the walls scribed with hieroglyphs. Other passageways led out from the room, but Nassor's eyes were drawn to the black statues that lined the walls. They were perfect renditions of ancient Egyptian warriors, dating back to the Old Kingdom. Each man was unique in shape and size, but they all had one feature in common: their faces were masks of terror. Their horrified gazes all focused on the head of a stone serpent in the center of the room.

It stood as tall as Nassor. From the flare of the hood behind its head, it was plainly meant to be a cobra. But this cobra had
three
eyes: two carved out of limestone and a third that rested atop its skull. This last one reflected the firelight, glowing bloodred. It was a fist-sized gem cut
into the shape of an oval orb.

Nassor approached in disbelief.

A harsh voice stopped him. It came from the tunnel on the far side of the cavern. The speaker remained hidden in the shadows. Only his words scratched out of the darkness.

“You know what it is …”

Nassor recognized that voice. It had summoned him to this secret meeting. The voice came from the man who had bought Nassor's silence by paying for his dying wife's medical treatment. The money had saved her life. Nassor had never regretted the pact he had made.

Not until this moment.

Since the beginning, Nassor had been certain that what the man had sought was pure myth, an object out of dark legend. What harm was there in letting the man dig in a place no one valued, to hunt for an artifact that few believed was real? He never thought the Bledsworth
corporation would succeed in finding it.

“You recognize the eye …”