She closed her eyes and kneaded her forehead with her palms, pausing the therapeutic massage shortly after starting it. The lighting inside the museum was all wrong. It flickered as if it were lit by flames. Zahra kept her face covered but opened her fingers far enough apart to see that she was in deep shit.
Zahra lowered her hands and blinked against the heat. “Oh. My. God.”
She followed the burning ceiling down to the gaping hole in the building where the front doors should have been. The explosion… The Scales of Anubis had set off a bomb. It’s what had sent Zahra into La-La Land, and it’s what had caused the damage she now found herself gawking at.
The revelation helped clear Zahra’s thoughts. She scooted forward on her butt and dismounted the platform containing the remains of the quartered Maasai tribesman. Zahra had smashed through the man and sent his arms and legs in different directions.
Smart move, she thought.
The bombing would make the heist look more like a typical terrorist attack rather than a robbery — not that anyone, outside a chosen few, would know what was stolen. The Kane family canopic jar wasn’t museum property. Only a couple of people even knew of its existence.
Multiple murders had also occurred, along with a kidnapping. And forget the irreplaceable destruction caused by the blast. She looked around the Great Court and spotted a dozen-plus invaluable artifacts either in pieces, or on fire.
Or both.
Zahra knew she needed to get out while she still could. So far, the ceiling had held up, though quite a few of the triangles had cracked or flat-out shattered. Regardless, Zahra didn’t know how long it would be until the rest of them came down. She shambled forward, avoiding the pooled blood that encompassed the freshest body. Odai had died where he had fallen. Zahra circled around his corpse and headed for the front of the room. The heavy doors had been peeled open like a banana. Steel, glass, and concrete and marble rubble were strewn about, covering nearly all of the floor. It was an obstacle course that Zahra wasn’t prepared for, and one she would have never imagined tackling.
I can’t believe this happened, she thought, understanding one thing.
It was her fault. If the jar hadn’t been on the premises, then the museum would have been spared.
Bernie too.
She tried to look back toward the old man but couldn’t see through the billowing, abusive miasma. Zahra tucked her nose and mouth into the crook of her right elbow and coughed. The air was getting more unbreathable as she closed in on the entrance. She pushed forward, squinting against the sting of the intense heat and smoke.
The gift shop and diner stationed just inside the front doors were now nonexistent. Their wares, like some of the historical pieces behind her, were unrecognizable.
Tears streaked down her filthy cheeks. Zahra had no idea what she looked like, nor did she care. She was alive — that was better than everyone still in here could boast. Stepping through the ruined entryway, she said a prayer, thanking whoever was listening for allowing her to survive the heinous attack.
As soon as Zahra left the high temperature of the fiery museum and was struck by the cool breeze swirling about outside, her mind swirled, and she fell to her knees.
Zahra collapsed atop the front steps. Her forward momentum caused her to roll down them like a limp, beat-to-hell Raggedy Ann doll. She flopped onto the sidewalk, landing face-up on her back. She was so out of it that even the nip of the autumn air didn’t stir her.
But the wail of faraway sirens did.
As she had just done inside the museum, Zahra snapped awake and sat up. She only made it halfway up before she was run over by a wave of nauseating vertigo. There was too much pain to move, and the world was still spinning way too fast to try.
The sirens grew louder, and they had multiplied significantly in a short time. Zahra could have just as easily stayed put and sought medical attention, but she didn’t — she couldn’t. Police would question her and delay her ability to respond to the attack. Baahir and Grant didn’t have that kind of time, and if her brother’s assessment of the situation was accurate, the entire world was at stake.
Get. Your ass. Moving.
Slowly, carefully, Zahra pushed herself to her feet. She wobbled and headed west, following the sidewalk to the corner of Great Russell and Bloomsbury. Just as she turned north, she glanced back to see the first of several police cars arrive on the scene. Zahra hurried around the corner, feeling a little like Dr. Richard Kimble.
She knew she should have at least clued in the authorities as to who was responsible for the blast, but she couldn’t. If the Ayads found out it was Zahra who ratted them out, then Baahir and Grant would be goners.
Emergency vehicles weren’t too far behind the police.
Zahra kept her head down and fast-walked up Bloomsbury Street. Her car wasn’t too much further ahead. Some nights, Zahra and Dina, and even Grant, would walk home. None of them lived all that far away from work.
Suddenly, another wave of dizziness propelled Zahra to the ground. She tripped on nothing and went down hard. Hacking deeply, Zahra was unable to catch her breath. Instead, she crawled out of sight and slumped into a row of shrubs. Even if she did get to her car, it wouldn’t be safe for her to drive.
Zahra sighed. There was only one person close enough to the museum that would come to her aid at this time. Pulling out her phone, she dialed the number.
“Z? You okay, love?
“Hey — um, no, I’m not okay.”
She heard rustling on the other end. “What’s wrong, Zahra?”
A police car whizzed by Zahra’s cover.
“I need your help.”
Chapter 29
Baahir
Even given the early morning hour, The Pharaoh's Lounge was hopping. People from all walks of life were enjoying the atmosphere. While on the surface, the patrons didn’t look like they had much in common, they did in one way. Money. Everyone here was extremely wealthy, and by the looks of it, not all of them had made their fortune legitimately. Baahir recognized a number of faces. Two local politicians, one famous television star from London, and a Grammy Award-winning singer from America. The cornucopia of higher-ups was currently gracing Baahir with their presence in the upstairs private bar.
Khaliq Ayad’s private bar.
The fact that these particular people were granted permission to be here told Baahir all he needed to know about them.
They were all scum.
And they were all members of the Scales of Anubis, he thought, shocked by the revelation. Khaliq had recruited far outside those typically associated with violent, zealot-filled organizations. Only half of the people here were even locals! That’s what scared Baahir the most. Khaliq’s group spanned more than just specific pockets in Egypt. What started out as an ancient society centering around a singular bloodline had morphed into a global, serpentine entity.
He could almost hear Khaliq as he gave his pitch to join his group.
Think of it as a business opportunity you can ill-afford to miss!
“Dr. Hassan.” Baahir was thrust out of his daydream and found Khaliq standing over him. “Are you comfortable?”
Considering the events of the last few hours, yes, Baahir was very comfortable. He had been looked after — fed superb, award-winning cuisine, was clothed in an exquisite suit, and his injuries had been treated with the utmost of care. Whatever Khaliq had in store for him, he wanted the Egyptologist to be healthy for it. The plush leather chair Baahir now sat in probably cost more than Baahir had accrued in the last month. Everything inside The Pharaoh's Lounge — forget the treasures within the private bar — was expensive and immaculate. Even the exclusive upstairs retreat held at least a dozen pieces that any museum on planet Earth would have loved to have had on hand.