I pretend to reach for the third symbol. “And…”
Aiming my elbow at what I hope is Claude’s jaw, I snap it back.
Pain instantly rattles up my arm as the sound of bone connecting with bone cracks between my ears. My captor yelps at the contact, and then something thumps loudly against the ground.
Turning to take stock of my handiwork, I find Claude sprawled out on the floor, unconscious, the gun limp in his hand. A red mark on the side of his face has already started to form. He must’ve hit his head when he fell, too, because there’s no possible way I knocked him out with a blow to the jaw.
Whatever the reason, I’m grateful.
“Serves you right, you fascist son of a bitch,” I mutter.
Leaning over him, I fight the urge to spit on him and kick the Nazi while he’s down. Instead, I wrench my switchblade from his other hand and retract the blade before placing it back inside my pocket. The familiar weight there reassures me. I take the gun as well, setting the oil lamp down to remove my pack from my shoulders and place it on top, easily within reach. Despite knowing how to shoot them, I’ve never much liked guns. But he’s going to wake up at some point. And when he does, it’s better ifI’mthe one with the semi-automatic pistol.
Lastly, I fish the car keys and matchbook out of his pants pocket and place them in my own. He doesn’t stir.
Facing the wall again, I make a decision: I’m going to finish the combination. There’s no reason to have traveled all thisway and not get what I came—and nearlydied—for. Especially considering I’m holding all the cards now.
I do agree with Claude on one thing, though; I’m absolutely going to demand hazard pay from the museum for my troubles.
Unless, of course, the museum itself is behind all this.A problem for another time.
My breath trembles while reciting the final line aloud: “To see the world’s eye turn the old god’s fate.”
I shift the eye of Horus onto its side so the tips point vertically, and the final click sounds in the wall—
It’s only now I remember the chamber is supposed to be filled with water.
Before I can leap out of the way from the gallons of ancient liquid I imagine bursting from the entrance, the ground beneath me gives way.
Ascream wrenches from my throat as I fall through a trap door.
The terror gripping my chest turns out to be short-lived, however: a second later, my boots slam into solid ground—followed by the oil lamp crashing beside me. The glass shatters on impact, snuffing out the flame.
Plunged into near-darkness, my left foot finds the ground solidly. My right isn’t so lucky; I land on the ball of that foot, the forward motion forcing my knee to the hard ground. I cry out at the sudden pain cutting into my bone.That’s going to leave a mark.
Struggling to my feet, I peer up at the opening I fell through. All I can see in the small bit of natural light left is granite dust and sand soaking the air around me. I breathe in the particles without meaning to and sputter.
The air clears in time for me to watch the trap door swing closed, leaving me in suffocating blackness.
My stomach drops:I’m trapped.
“Goddammit,” I swear. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
Taking a moment to settle my nerves, I concentrate on evening my breath and reminding myself I can get out of this.This isn’t the first time you’ve been trapped in a tomb, and it won’t be the last.I’ll find another way out of here somehow. All I need to do is focus.
“Why did it have to be anundergroundcenotaph?” I ask the darkness. “Why couldn’t it have been like Karnak? God, I wish I was at Karnak.”
I never should’ve cursed the sun.
Setting my bag down in front of me, I dig around inside blindly, hoping to come across the flashlight that I convinced myself earlier I packed. But the only metal thing I feel is Claude’s Luger. Panic rises up inside my chest.
“Shit.Shit.”
Then I remember:the matches.
Slinging my pack back over my shoulders, I reach into my pocket and procure the matchbook. I pluck one out, feeling for the rough striker on the bottom. With trembling hands, I scratch the match against it half a dozen times before it finally sparks to life.
“Thank you, John Walker,” I breathe.
