But King had no time to reply. The flying mantis descended toward him. Adapting to its prey, this mantis was going to attack from the air! But it didn’t attack. Instead, as the hum of its clear wings grew intense, the insect rose up and over the eight-foot wall.
“No!” King shouted. “Bowers, run!”
But it was too late. As the giant predator descended on the other side of the wall, Bowers let out a scream. The shrill sound turned to a wet gargle. Silence followed, then the sound of something tearing, followed by more silence. King had seen the mantis in action and knew what happened. Bowers had been impaled, pinned to the ground, and then left. The mantis was still on the hunt.
King ran to the left, entering the maze. Before he reached the first turn, he heard the telltale clack of the mantis walking on stone, but he couldn’t tell where it was coming from.
King tore around the corner, weaving his way through the chaotic ruins. An opening in the wall to his right opened up into a courtyard. Bowers lay in the center of the space, his eyes glossy, his body surrounded by a pool of dark red blood. King pushed forward and spilled from a hallway into what had once been a kitchen. He leaped over the three stone stairs that descended into the room and then over the three-foot foundation to exit on the other side.
As he ran past an open doorway, he caught sight of an aberration in the wall. Then he was struck in the side and sent sailing. He slammed into a wall, tearing ancient bricks away as he attempted to stop his descent. But the wall was old and weak. He toppled over, landing on his back.
Loud clicks filled the air as the agitated insect wiggle-walked into the hallway. King pushed away, sliding on his back. But there wasn’t far to go. The hall ended at a ten-foot-tall dead end just a few feet behind him. He got to his feet, hoping to dodge the mantis’s strike, and then? He had no idea.
A loud whistle caught his attention. Looking beyond the mantis, he saw Queen, XM25 aimed straight for the mantis’s back. But the high-caliber rounds would pierce the mantis and strike him as well. “Down!” she shouted.
King hit the deck hard.
The mantis struck.
The roar of automatic gunfire filled the air.
Pain lanced through King’s body, but being impaled by a score of daggers didn’t hurt as much as King thought it would. He looked up to find a bullet-ridden mantis standing above him. Its back was arched back in death. The spikes lining its forearm had merely grazed his leg, opening a shallow cut. King dodged to the side as the massive insect toppled over. He fell forward as he ducked the flailing limbs of the dead mantis. He landed hard and rolled onto his back. With the beast immobilized, he lay still, breathing hard. Anger coursed through him.
“You okay?” Queen asked, looking down at him.
“It killed Bowers,” he said. “He was a good man.”
A gloved hand reached down to help King up. “Good men die every day,” Alexander said.
King ignored his outstretched hand and took Queen’s instead. She pulled him fast. He turned to Alexander. “Not on my watch.”
Bishop arrived a moment later, KA-BAR knife drawn and ready to use. Seeing the dead insect, he sheathed the knife. “What is it?”
“A breadcrumb,” King replied. “They were here.” He pulled the ruined insulin pump from his pant pocket. “She was here.”
And with all the mantises now dead, he turned his attention to the problem still at hand. “Did I hear Knight correctly? The tower isn’t here?”
Bishop shook his head. “It’s not.”
“Shit,” King muttered, rolling his neck as it tensed. If they didn’t find Fiona and soon …
Bishop’s strong hand on his shoulder stopped his rising anger. “But I think we have someone who can point us in the right direction.”
SEVENTY-TWO
RAHIM RIFFLED THROUGH a stack of paper, looking for a map he keenly remembered but had no idea if it still existed. The four large, serious men and one woman standing behind him, arms crossed, faces grim, fueled his urgent search.
They had found him right where they left him, standing by the river. When he heard the gunfire begin he ducked down and hid at the side of the road. Not knowing what the conflict was about or who it was between, he wanted to look as innocent and nonthreatening as possible. So he waited.
But when they did find him, all of the politeness and patience was gone. They needed an answer to a single question and they wanted it now. There was no threat included with the question, but Rahim could feel the tension from the one they called King.
He searched a new box and opened a journal. Recognizing the handwriting of the man he’d assisted for three years gave him some relief. He was on the right track. “I think this is the right box,” he said.
King sat down next to him and spoke in Arabic. “I don’t understand. Most people believe the Tower of Babel is here in Babylon, that it might even be the reason for the city’s name. Why would someone think it was in Turkey?”
As he flipped through the stack of pages inside the box, Rahim said, “Photos. From NASA. They showed evidence of a large, ancient construction project. But where you’d expect to see exactly what was built, there was only a mountain. Furthermore, a reinterpretation of ancient texts also lends credibility to the theory. The Targum Yonathan, an Aramaic version of the biblical accounts, states that the tower was in the ‘land of Shinar,’ which is now the Pontus region of Turkey, near the Black Sea.”
King turned to Knight. Check in with Deep Blue. See if we can get satellite imagery for the Pontus region of Turkey.”
“Will do,” Knight said before exiting.
“Furthermore, many academics believe that this region is also the birthplace of most modern languages. Texts and verbal traditions can be traced back to Pontus.” Rahim saw a folded map marked in red pen. He recognized it and yanked it out of the box. He smiled wide as he unfolded it. “Here it is!”
He laid the map out. It was a modern map of Turkey, but had been written on in Arabic and a small location—a mountain—had been circled in red. Next to it was Arabic text: 
which translated as Tower of Babel.
“This is a mountain,” King said. “There are no sands to bury a ziggurat. Wouldn’t there be some evidence of it on the surface?”
Rahim pointed out the mountain’s rounded, flat top. “At some point in the distant past this mountain was a volcano. It’s possible the tower was buried, or destroyed, in an eruption.”
“Buried beneath a pyroclastic flow,” King said. “Like Pompeii.”
“Exactly,” Rahim said.
“Is it possible Ridley figured all this out?” King asked, looking at Alexander.
“When he determined that the Tower of Babel was not here, assuming this theory was published, he would pursue it,” Alexander replied.
“Has the theory been published?” King asked Rahim in Arabic.
“It’s not widely known,” the man said, “but I do believe it has been published several times since our search here ended.” He became nervous and fidgeted with his hands.
King noticed. “What is it?”
“You said a name,” the nervous Iraqi said. “Ridley.”
King, Queen, Bishop, and Alexander tensed. “Yes,” King said.
“The man who funded our search here. His name was Richard Ridley.”
King nearly fell over. Ridley had been searching for Babel before he was even on their radar, before the mess with Hydra. And after all his searching, he’d found what he was looking for. “How deeply was he involved?”