PROLOGUE

“How could this be?” marveled the wide-eyed Nubian, removing the protective mask covering his nose and mouth so his partner could hear. His disbelief conspired with a heavy accent to deny his words a natural cadence.

The mesmerized American’s eyes beamed through his goggles, mimicking the flashlight pointed at the limestone tunnel descending before them. Despite physical exhaustion and the pungent odor from the toxic white layers of guano coating the cave’s interior, the discovery of the tunnel had renewed his energy while clarifying both the risk and magnitude of their unique journey.

“There’s no record of any of this.” The stunned Nubian was still processing the hour-long trek from the watery mouth of the subterranean cave complex that brought them to this unexpected discovery. “I’ve worked at headquarters for over twelve years and no one has ever mentioned any of this exists.”

“Never got my memo either,” chided his older partner. His sarcasm prompted the younger man to nod in acknowledgment. It was no secret among those in the field that the Supreme Council of Antiquities, the government body responsible for managing Egypt’s rich cultural heritage, sites, and artifacts, was more interested in playing international politics than uncovering ancient truths.

Their focus shifted back to the dark, uncharted path in front of them. While ancient, the tunnel appeared carved by the hand of man. Through the darkness, it appeared to descend all the way to the Earth’s core.

The Nubian swallowed. “We could die down there,” he said quietly.

The senior peered into the unknown with a knowing smile. “Yes, my friend, we certainly could.” He extracted a small knife from the inside pocket of his wetsuit to mark the wall near the mouth of the passage. For most of his adult life, he’d suspected it would one day come to this, and for him, there was no need to hesitate or consider his mortality. He had made his decision long ago. He also knew that, though his fellow explorer was half his age and had a pregnant wife waiting for him at home, his partner was a kindred spirit, well willing to pay the ultimate price for confirming that the unknown was truly the sacred destination of mankind, that the quest for humanity’s true potential went far beyond any trivial concerns for individual safety.

“Yes,” the American repeated, preparing to reposition the oxygen mask dangling about his neck. “One wrong move and we’re both history.”

As the Nubian reached for his own mask, the elder explorer caught the young man’s arm and stared into his quarter-sized eyes. “But a few right moves and history will never be the same.”

ONE

The soul takers would leave empty-handed. It was as simple as that.

The old man made up his mind as if he were the only one in the room possessing any control over the decision. For a split second, he’d even been amused by the irony, as his stance had, in fact, empowered him. Regardless of what happened, they would not get what they’d come for and that would be the end of it. No more crying, no more pleading, only silence. He longed for the silence. The thought almost comforted him. He was winning.

Then the misery returned, sharp, excruciating. His body was being ripped open with a searing and penetrating precision, the pain simultaneously exploding from his neck and groin as blood ceased to circulate in both regions. He attempted another high-pitched squeal but the razor-like cord around his neck and genitals tightened violently, cutting off breath and sound. His ears ached, his eyes bulged. The mounting pressure in his head pushed a foamy red substance from the corners of his wide-open mouth that trickled down his neck, mixing with sweat to coat the thin collar of his once-white undershirt. Though his genitals burned, the pain was secondary to the throbbing, excruciating mass that had become his head. The old man was convinced it was now five times larger than it had ever been, a growing, reddish-brown monstrosity juggling about with large, bluish-green veins protruding from all sides. His eyes screamed at his onlookers as if to warn them the mass was about to explode.

The man with the piercing green eyes glanced at his watch and spoke calmly. “Outta time, Throat. There’s nothing here. Hard drive’s erased and he ain’t talkin. Let’s close shop.”

Slightly releasing the cord tormenting his gurgling victim, the wiry killer shot an icy glare at his partner then looked around the large study. It was far from ordinary, yet not unlike what he’d seen at the old mansion. Similar to the shadowy location where he met the group funding his services, the professor’s home office appeared as some sort of tribute to the nighttime sky and to ancient Africa, Egypt in particular. Alongside history and math degrees from the University of North Carolina, the walls of the two-story residence were adorned with framed drawings of majestic dark-skinned Pharaohs in regal dress, miniature models of pyramids, and numerous expensive-looking African artifacts. In the middle of the study, a high-powered telescope pointed toward a sizable window. Next to the window, a map of the nighttime sky with labeled constellations neighbored a chart of the zodiac. On several ceiling-high bookcases, numerous classics shared shelf space with foreign titles, colorful symbols animating their spines.

Oddly enough, though his employers made crystal clear their desire to silence the old man and locate the file they believed to be in his possession, they were just as precise in instructing Throat not to damage any of the items in the professor’s home. And for all of his ruthlessness and frustration, and his strong desire to turn the place upside down in a last-ditch effort to locate the file, Throat was not about to ruin the best meal ticket he’d ever had.

“Alright,” the thin, muscular assassin grumbled at his partner, turning his attention back to his elderly prey. He dropped the cord from his sore hands and stepped back from his gasping victim. “Old man, this must be your lucky day. Your pain is over.”

As Throat turned away, precious air began to flow back into the professor’s screaming lungs. He raised his chin toward the ceiling in an effort to maximize the oxygen coming in. Thank God, I can breathe!

The professor never saw Throat smoothly pull the six-inch, double-edged combat dagger from its concealed belt-level sheath, pivot in a tight circle, and slice his jugular in one effortless motion.