Lara Croft and the Last Seed
Tomb Raider fiction by Sarah Crisman
Scrisman@juno.com

To my dearest readers,

A long time has gone by since I have put finger to word processor and written a Tomb Raider story. I actually had resolved to make ‘Horror of Colney Heath’ my final TR work for a good long time, as my writing interests have taken turns of their own.
But then, things changed, as they so often do in life. Luis Cunha, webmaster of ‘The Croft Times,’ (http://www.cubeit.com/ctimes) and Bowen Greenwood, webmaster of ‘Tales of Beauty and Power,’ (http://network.ctimes.net/tales) both asked permission to post my stories on their sites, since the Tomb Raider Archive (http://trarchive.ctimes.net) was down for so long. I agreed, and once again, I discovered the mail flooding in from people who read my various stories about Lara Croft, asking questions, many of which I answered, some of which I couldn’t. But seemingly the most common question amidst the flow was: “When am I going to see another story by you?”
This question was normally answered with the rather brief phrase, “Not for a very, very long time.” It saddened me to say this, but as I had said before, it was my intention to leave Michael and Lara a year if not more to catch their breaths after the update to ‘Horror.’
Yet the imagination is a restless thing…it does not let me sleep at night without story ideas popping up. And just as Lara would not be content to sit idly and just watch the world go by, so is it impossible for me to sit idly and not write for a group that has shown, time and time again, that they do want more, and that Lara Croft is more than just a series of computer generated pixels on a monitor somewhere. Lara Croft, as ridiculous as some things may sound, has become a real person to people all over the world. And just as in real life, even computer personalities need other people to tell their stories. Thus, for better or for worse, I have chosen to be one of the many to spin the yarns.
So, once again, I give you the next story in the seemingly unending tidal wave of stories this genre has experienced so far. Whether it is memorable to you, saved on a floppy disk somewhere, or deleted off your hard drive after it is read, I have no control over. But just remember this: you asked for it. (The immortal words of the djinn echo in my mind: “Be careful what you wish for…”)

All my love, hopes, and dreams,
Sarah J
-June 6, 1998

* * * * * * * *
Dedications

There are several people I need to send words of thanks to before I get to the story. Feel free to ignore this section if you want to, but I feel these people both need and deserve recognition. First and foremost, a thank you to Rob Wheeler of the Tomb Raider Archive. Without him and his belief in me by posting my first story, I would not be writing this tale today. Secondly, a thanks to Luis Cunha of The Croft Times, who wrote me asking for my stuff. Third, to Bowen Greenwood, from Tales of Beauty and Power, for helping me see the light and the knowledge that this story should be written.
Another thank you must be extended to Tom Hesche and Tina Kreisler. Through their efforts, ‘The Horror of Colney Heath’ was translated into German, illustrated lightly, and published in the German fanzine, ‘XXeL,’ making it, as far as I know, the first TR fanfic to be translated into another language and offered in printed form afterwards. Anyone interested in obtaining a copy can find it in zipped, Adobe PDF format on the Croft Times. For subscription information, you should write to Tom. His e-mail address is Schattenjaeger@t-online.de. If you speak German, excellent. J If you speak English, that’s OK too, since he is excellent with that as well.
I must also thank every other fellow Tomb Raider fanfic author out there: you guys and gals carry on the tradition, and inspire others of us, both young and old, to contribute to this field. A special thanks to C.Mage for being my partner in crime a couple times.
And lastly, I can’t possibly name you all without making this document about the size of a set of encyclopedias, but a gigantic, heart-centered ‘thank you’ to every single person who has ever sent me e-mail in regards to my writings. Many people do not realize it, but when an author releases something he or she has written for free, comments from the readers could be called his or her salary. So I urge everyone who reads a fanfic to take just a minute or two more of your time to send the author a letter. And if the author doesn’t provide an e-mail address, then send it to the webmaster of the page you got the story from, and I’m sure he or she can pass it along. And who knows? You might just find a new pen pal… ;-)
NOTICE: This story is a work of fiction. Lara Croft, her likeness, and the Tomb Raider games are all © and ™ of Core Design and EIDOS Interactive. There is no challenge to these copyrights intended by this story, as it is a non-sanctioned, unofficial work of my own.
This story makes reference to things in regards to Christianity that could be seen as offensive by some readers. I assure you that I intend no disrespect to the Bible, Christianity, or to any religions by what I have written here, and such inclusions should be taken from a purely fictional standpoint.
This story also contains adult language, violence, and probably some other things that some people may find objectionable. If such things would go against your better judgment, please read no further.

Part 1

“After this I had a vision of an open door to heaven, and I heard the trumpet-like voice that had spoken to me before saying, ‘Come up here and I will show you what must happen afterwards.’”
-Revelations 4:1

{The desert, Tuesday morning}

“If the damn heat doesn’t get me, then the boredom will.” The man making this statement was tall and bronze-skinned, the result of countless hours spent in environments such as this. He was clad in a white shirt that was soaked down the back from sweat, a pair of khaki shorts, and wore a very heavily used pair of sandals on his feet. The sunglasses over his eyes had fogged up slightly from the moisture evaporating off his skin, despite the baseball cap that shaded his face from the harsh desert sun. He carried an unfolded map in his hand that he was staring at intently along with two other men, one lighter skinned than himself, and a second with darker olive skin. Several places on the map were marked with big red question marks, and about half of those had been crossed out with large, black Xs. The fact that this made the current map of Saudi Arabia the man held resemble some poor excuse for a child’s treasure map was not lost on the senior members of the team.
“Look at it this way, Grant,” the light skinned man said. He was dressed in a powder blue, short-sleeved Oxford shirt and long, dark pants. His loafers, while ideal for office work, were not the best choice of footwear in the shifting sands of the desert. He was dropping sweat in gallons as he talked, and the back of his neck was slowly turning red with sunburn. “There are only so many places we can look around out here. The British Royal Museum is paying for it whether we find anything or not, and you’re not among the people doing the actual digging, so take some comfort in that, eh?”
“This is true,” the olive-skinned man nodded. “My men will dig until you cease paying them, but there is nothing to be done if you pull out now, my friend.”
“Thank you, Omar,” Grant said sarcastically, wiping his brow. “That’s what I needed to know right now.” He turned to his lighter-skinned companion. “And, Harold, I am quite aware that we have insufficient funds to excavate the entire desert in a search for artifacts. Attempting to do so would be a foolish squandering of resources. But when you’ve been in the business as long as I have, you rapidly learn that sometimes, the places the ‘experts’ select as the ‘best’ locations may not always be the best.”
Harold flushed, perhaps from the heat, perhaps in annoyance. “If you don’t want this job and these sites, Grant, I can always put someone else on it.”
“Do you intend to fire me, Harold?” Grant asked, marking a note on the map in light pencil.
“No,” Harold replied, “but the fellows back home don’t like me to return with a report that says the head researcher out here thinks he’s digging in the wrong places.”
“Would it be possible, Harold, that just one time I could actually use the title of ‘Chief Archaeologist’ that they conferred upon me two and a half months ago to actually make a decision as to where I want to explore?” Grant asked.
Harold laughed.
“I fail to see what you find so amusing out here in this God-forsaken wasteland, Harold,” Grant growled.
“This land has not been forsaken,” Omar interjected. “Life teems and thrives out here, Mr. Grant. Just because you do not see it does not mean it is not here.”
“Forgive me,” Grant raised his hand in supplication. “That was a mistake.”
Omar nodded.
“Sorry, Grant,” Harold said. “It’s just that right then, you reminded me of a different member of our staff. I’m beginning to wonder if all you Chief Archaeologists have taken lessons from her or something.”
“Speaking of your other staff member,” Grant said, “I’m surprised you didn’t ask her out here to have a part in this. After that whole fiasco with the Ark and all…”
Harold shrugged. “Who says we didn’t? But as you well know, anyone is entitled to turn down a request to do pure exploratory work in the field. We know we can always get others if our primary doesn’t go for the job, or isn’t available.”
“OK, fine Harold, you win,” Grant said. “Go on back and make your report on our progress. But could you do me one more favor?”
“Any more favors will cost you something,” Harold smirked. “There’s only so much I can pull on my own.”
“Fine,” Grant agreed. “How does a cold beer sound?”
Omar pretended not to hear this last question, and instead, turned his head downwards, regarding the map in his hand with a slight frown.
“Right about now, anything that isn’t sand sounds downright wonderful to me, Grant.”
Grant turned to Omar. “Tell your men to all take a break for a bit. They can use the rest.”
Omar nodded and gave a slight bow. “At once, sir.” He walked towards the string of diggers several yards away, and Grant took Harold over to the small trailer on the outskirts of the dig area. He took a keyring from his pocket, selected one from the lot, and slid it into the lock. It gave way with a small click, and they walked into the slightly cooler vehicle.
A table inside the trailer had been set up with numerous bins on it containing various bits of pottery and other such items. Such an area was standard fare at almost all excavation sites these days. While they would have made a new archaeologist giddy to a point of near-hysteria with excitement, Grant had been in the field too long to even really consider them finds at all.
“Um, don’t touch that please,” he told Harold, who had made a move to pick up a still-intact earthenware pot.
Harold stepped away from the pot and sat on the small swivel chair in front of the table while Grant walked to the refrigerator and removed two bottles from the door shelf. “I don’t know what you mean, saying you haven’t found anything interesting,” he said, examining the finds with his eyes from a safe distance. “Most of these things look fairly old.”
“Old, yes,” Grant shrugged, popping the cap off one of the bottles and handing it to Harold. “But worth very little as far as historical value. We’ve been uncovering stuff like this for the last twenty years we’ve been sending teams out here. We know all about the tools they ate with, the bowls they ate out of, and their particular brand of pottery. Trust me, they’re not that magnificent.”
“You’re jaded,” Harold scoffed, lifting the brown-tinted container to his lips. “And isn’t this stuff illegal out here?” he asked, raising the bottle slightly to inspect the label.
“You of all people should know that with a direct supply drop by helicopter, I can get my hands on just about anything.” Grant hesitated, pondering what Harold had said. “And maybe I am jaded,” he continued with a slight nod. “But this field work is almost like sex, Harold. I mean, you can only do the foreplay for so long before you start wanting the real thing. And sometimes needing it. We can find pottery shards for the next fifty years, and not really learn anything new. But something big…something no one has ever seen before…that’s what really gives you a sense of accomplishment. And that’s what I live for out here.” His small speech concluded, Grant lifted his bottle to his lips and took a long swig.
“Alright, alright. If you want to mess with local customs and regulations, that’s your ass, not mine. I never saw this stuff. Now, what’s this about a favor you wanted to ask me for?”
Grant swallowed the foam in his mouth and stared Harold in the eyes. “I want you to ask the Board of Directors something for me, Harold.”
“What’s that?”
“I want permission to…well…deviate from the preset digging pattern.”
“Now, Grant, you and I are good friends, but really-“
“Listen to me, Harold,” Grant interrupted. “I wouldn’t ask you about this if I didn’t feel like it would help things tremendously. I know I got put out here to sort of supervise and that’s all, but I want a little bit of say in where this team I’m heading up is going to work.”
“Look, I understand your feelings, but I really don’t know if I can…I mean…the Board doesn’t like being told by people that they’re wrong…and you know that.”
Grant nodded. “I haven’t forgotten the convention two years ago. But that was a mistake back then, Harold. I didn’t have anything to back up my points. But now…well, I’ve got something.”
“What then?” Harold asked. “Come on, and tell me what it is, show it to me, because if I can take something concrete back to them and stick it right in their bloody faces, then maybe-“
“It’s not anything tangible,” Grant interrupted again.
Harold sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Look, digging in what seems to be the right place may work sometimes,” Grant started, “but who really knows anything about this place out here? I mean, really, the Dead Sea scrolls weren’t found by whole groups of people digging for nine hours a day in the scorching sand, Harold, they were found by some shepherd who decided to poke his head into a hillside cave. Nobody told him to look there, he just did because he was curious. And that’s what I want the permission to do. I want the permission to be curious again. Because they’ve crushed it back there in their stuffy offices, smoking their cigars, and drinking their wine, and dining with the rich and famous. I became what I am today because I’m curious, not because I want to follow the orders of someone who’s lived in a comfortable twenty-five degrees centigrade all his life.”
Harold digested this for a moment, then made his reply. “Alright, Grant. I hear what you’re saying…”
“Besides, something is telling me to do this,” Grant interrupted.
Something telling you indeed… “This kind of thing will be rejected outright by the Board, you know. But I think I can find a way around it,” Harold continued, pretending not to hear the other man.
“What’s that?” Grant asked, his eyes lighting up.
“The suits back home expect every place out here that they’ve marked off to be checked for something, as I’m sure you know. But they never said how much of your force you have to devote to it. So I say for one day, maybe two, divide your team in half. You can take some workers and go exploring where you want to, and leave Omar back there, in charge of the others while they follow the regular digging patterns.”
“One or two days?” Grant asked, clearly less than enthusiastic about the prospect. “That’s hardly enough time to get set up, much less-”
“I can’t let you do it for any longer than that,” Harold countered. “The Board of Directors knows about how much work these people out here are capable of, and if they see something that is significantly lower than the average, they’ll get suspicious. But one or two days won’t hurt that too much. I know it sounds like so little, but you know that if I try and present this to them now, it’ll just get shot down. You can always request another return dig when you get back if you think you’ll find something out here. Besides, you said you were running a little ahead of schedule. This will get you back on track.” He stood up and emptied the contests of his bottle into his mouth, then pulled the back of his hand across his lips. “Look…I’m trusting you to keep this quiet and stick to the numbers, Grant. Because if you spend any longer out there this time around, not only will your butt be in the sling, but I’ll have people crawling up my hind end, through my intestines, and out my mouth for the next year for not keeping a closer watch on you. I’ve shown you a way of getting out and exploring a little. Please, for your sake and mine, don’t blow this.”
Grant took another swallow of the beer, then sighed slowly. “You’re right, Harold. You’re right. I promise you I won’t go over two days. And…thank you.”
“You’re welcome. See that you don’t.” Harold stood up and extended his hand. “Well, as fun as this conversation has been, Grant, I need to get back to the car. I’m sure my driver is wondering whether or not I passed out from heat exhaustion yet, and you need to get back to your work.”
“Thanks again, Harold.” Grant held the door open for the other man, and helped him out.
“Remember,” Harold warned, “two days.” He grimaced as the heat wave washed over him again.
Grant nodded. “I’ll cut you in if I find anything worthwhile.”
“Right.” Harold smiled as he walked away from the trailer and pulled a cellular phone from his pocket. He punched in a rapid series of numbers, and put the receiver up to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Hello, John. It’s Harold. I’m coming back to the car now. I had something to discuss with Dr. Grant.”
“Very good, sir,” John said on the other end. “I was beginning to get worried. One can only listen to so many stories of desert savages before one begins to get a bit concerned, you understand.”
“Well, calm your nerves, old chap,” Harold grinned. “I think the only thing that happened to me out here was losing about ten kilograms of sweat.”
“Your wife will appreciate the loss of weight, if I do say so myself, sir.”
“Depends on where it was lost from,” Harold countered.
John laughed, and Harold broke the connection, continuing to trudge through the blowing sand back to his vehicle.

* * * * *

{Friday evening}

Grant and Omar sat together in the trailer, sifting through what they had found in the last few days of digging, cataloguing and tagging items, then packing them for shipment.
“You have found some very nice pieces, my friend,” Omar commented, holding up a small, carved bracelet.
Grant grunted something, gulped down a glass of cool water from the sink, and returned to the table. “What did you say?”
“I said you have found many good things,” Omar said again. “I should think your museum will be very pleased with these findings.”
“I haven’t found anything,” Grant mumbled.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” Omar asked.
“You heard me,” Grant snapped. “I haven’t found one damn thing out here.”
Omar gave him a slight grin, having gotten used to Grant’s pessimism over the last several years of working with him. “Then, my friend, perhaps you are telling me that these pieces are all a part of my imagination? I hope you do not think of my intellect as being that small.”
“No, it’s not that at all,” Grant said with a sigh. “What I mean is I personally haven’t found anything out here except sand. Your men do all the digging and all the finding while I just sort of stand around, with my hands in my pockets, nodding my head and giving orders.”
“That is the way it has been these last five years or so,” Omar nodded. “Think nothing of it. My men are more than happy to work for what they are paid.”
“We’re speaking two separate languages here,” Grant said with a half-smile. He snapped an ice cube from his glass and sucked it for a second before dropping it back in. “Yes, there are some nice finds on this table. But they weren’t really found by me. I’m not exploring, I’m not digging, and thus I’m not having much fun. The museum tells me where to go, and what to do once I get there. I’m sick of it.”
“You are considering quitting your job?” Omar asked in surprise.
Grant laughed. “Not on your life. What else do you think I’d do for a living? I’m a curious bastard, Omar. If I weren’t digging out here, it would just be someone else’s backyard. I’m actually looking for your cooperation on something.”
“I am listening.”
“Next week, we’re scheduled to move to another dig site,” Grant said.
“I have read the schedule,” Omar nodded. “Do you plan to deviate?”
“Not exactly,” Grant said. “But…in a way. At that time, I want to take ten of the men we have on the project right now and go work somewhere else.”
“I take it that this is not on the itinerary, then,” Omar smiled.
“You might say that.”
“Then what do you expect to find?”
Grant thought for a moment. “Omar, if I were younger, I’d tell you I was going to find the most fantastic treasure the world had ever seen. A gorgeous Sand Ruby, or a deposit of hidden treasure buried out there by a greedy merchant, and forgotten about through time. But I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“You are not the only one, my friend,” Omar said with a laugh.
Grant joined him. “Rub it in, why don’t you?”
His tone grew more serious. “Anyway, ever since they found the Ark and the Grail, there hasn’t been too much to really stir up the archaeological community. So I’ll be honest, Omar. I don’t expect to find anything at all. But it will make me feel good to know that at least I looked.”
Omar nodded. “So what shall I do while you are away on your Jihad?”
“You give this way too much importance,” Grant said. “You’ll naturally be in charge of your men for those two days. Just keep them somewhere close to schedule, and everything should go well.”
“I am honored that you place your trust in me, my friend,” Omar said with a slight bow. “I will tell my men about this in the morning. I am certain you can count on their support.”
“Thank you, Omar,” Grant said, clearly relieved. He took his seat at the table again, and picked up the pen and notebook. A yawn escaped his lips, and he cast a glance at his watch. “I’d say, in that case, we have quite a bit more work to be done tonight.”
Omar nodded, carefully picking up a small chipped earthenware bowl. “When do you guess this was made then?”

* * * * *

{One week later, early afternoon}

The selection of workers who were to go with Grant had taken the better part of the morning. There was no sense of competition between the men, thankfully, which meant that they should be fairly well behaved no matter who was in charge.
Grant unrolled the map with the question marks and Xs on it, pointed to a spot that was circled in blue pen, and showed it to Omar. “I decided to look here,” Grant said. “The opposite side of a cliff that got excavated a couple years back. There’re several caves that go in quite a ways. I figure it’s the best place for me to look if I want to even hope of finding anything out here.”
“That is an excellent spot to have picked,” Omar said. “I am certain Allah will smile upon you today.”
“You just won’t give up on that religion stuff, will you?” Grant asked.
“No, my friend,” Omar said, just a bit stiffly. “And you should not either.”
“I’ll start believing when I have proof,” Grant laughed.
“When you have proof,” Omar reprimanded, “it will be too late.”
“Whatever,” Grant shrugged. “Either way, it’ll just have to wait.” He unhooked a radio from his belt and handed the device to his companion. “Here. Just use this to call me if you have any trouble.”
“You do the same,” Omar said. “And if you find anything…”
“You’ll be the first to know,” Grant grinned. “Now, unless I want all the treasure to get spoiled, I’d best get a move on.” He hefted a small rucksack over his shoulder, and motioned to his men to follow.
Omar turned to his workers. “Alright, men, let’s not disappoint Dr. Grant.”

* * * * *

The sound and the feel of the pick investigating the wall of the cavern were sweet music to Grant. Almost forgot what this felt like, he mused, swinging the sharp instrument against the rock, and watching the chips fly as it struck home. The others were all deeper inside the cave, looking for themselves with their lanterns, but Grant had decided he would search the entrance. It seemed as though something was calling to him to dig here, but he thought nothing of it. He had never been a spiritual man, and now was not the time he would pick to start believing.
The echo of the singing voices from further in lifted his heart as well, and even though his muscles protested, he chiseled into the wall slightly deeper.
His thoughts turned to his first days as an assistant in the archaeology field, no more important to the Doctor in charge than the person who lugged around the heavy water jugs to serve the football players back in England; someone a little handy to have around, but someone who could easily be replaced because his job required no real technical skills. And even though his memories of that time were slightly clouded, he could still remember the fascination he felt perfectly every time someone discovered a fossil in a rock wall, a piece of jewelry inside the ruins of an ancient, lost city, or stone-age weapons buried in a swath of ice dozens of feet thick. Back then, he was only carrying the tools, but some day, he had vowed, he would be the one using those pieces of equipment, turning the ground into his own sort of personal artistic display of finesse and flair.
Several strenuous minutes later, Grant sank to the floor. Somehow, I don’t remember it being this hard. He set the pick down, and knelt on the ground for a moment to catch both his breath and his strength, which seemed to be in a contest with one another to see which one could run away from him faster.
The cave entrance was fairly small, and Grant could easily stretch his legs across the walkway and touch the wall on the other side. He did so as he sat down, and leaned his back against the rock. It felt cool against his sun-scorched skin and clothing, and a small sigh of contentment made its way out of his mouth unconsciously. A swig from his water bottle made the sigh much clearer.
His left boot brushed against some loose stones, and they clattered to the ground around his leg.
Curious, Grant popped his flashlight off his belt, twisted it on, and regarded the rocks in front of him.
They were old, all right, but not nearly as old as the cave itself. And they didn’t fit in either. The other rocks on the floor around him were all rough and grainy. But these stones…
He picked one up and looked it over closely. It was smooth on one side, as though it had been washed by water for a long time. But the other stones from around the area showed no sign of ever being near cascading water. He strained his ears, trying to listen for the tell-tale sound of a running stream somewhere, but he heard nothing save for the songs of his workers further on inside the cavern and the clanking sounds their digging tools made.
He stood up and walked out of the cave, squinting into the now-setting sun. There was a depression below him in the valley. It didn’t take his mind long to extrapolate that there probably was an oasis down there at one time. That would explain the presence of the smooth stones. But who would carry them up here? And for what purpose? As a landmark? As a gravesite?
He hurried back inside, and began brushing them out of the way. Every one he handled was flat on at least one side. Heart pounding, he pulled the last of the flat rocks out of his way, and was faced with a miniature mound of dried earth.
It defied every part of his rational mind; earth had no place in this arid climate. And yet, here it was, actually carried and placed here by someone. But thousands of years ago, who knows what this place was actually like? Someone could have farmed out here for all we know. He took a small hammer and chisel out from his pack, and, holding the flashlight between his teeth, began the work of slowly cracking the dried mud and clay that was in front of him.
After the first significant hole had been made, the rest peeled away like an old eggshell. Trying to control his pounding heart, which told him to move as quickly as he could, he slowly, almost painfully, removed layer after layer of the earth. Something had been buried here, all right, and whoever was responsible for it did not want it to be found by casual accident.
But Grant was nothing if not persistent, and finally, his hands broke into openness. He flashed the beam of light into the rather sizable hole he had made, and caught his breath.
“Jesus Christ,” Grant exhaled. It was the most religious thing he had ever uttered in his life.

* * * * *

{Base camp, 11:25 p.m.}

Omar was getting concerned. It was already very dark outside, and Grant had not yet returned from the dig site. It wasn’t very far away, but the desert was large, and he was afraid that perhaps Grant had gotten lost. His attempts at using the radio had also failed. No one answered the call on any of the channels or frequencies that he had tried.
If he is not back in another hour, I will have to go out and find him myself, Omar resolved. He took a sip from the water bottle, enjoying the feeling the liquid gave as it soothed his parched throat.
A crackle from the radio at his side almost caused him to spill the precious fluid all over the ground. But after he got over the initial shock, he pulled the radio out of his pocket and put it to his lips. “Grant, this is Omar. Are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” Grant said, his voice sounding prickly through the small speaker. It was very fast-paced, excited.
“Is everything going well?”
“’Going well’ is an understatement, Omar,” Grant’s tinny British accent informed him. “We’ve found something very interesting out here.”
“You have?” Omar asked. “What is it?”
“Well, I’m not sure,” Grant admitted. “I was hoping you’d come out here and have a look. I’ve asked everyone here, but none of them can tell me what it is. Maybe you can.”
“Have you left the site at all?” Omar asked.
“No, we’re still here looking for more of it. Well, them, actually…”
“I see,” Omar replied. “I will be there as soon as I can.”
“You’ll love this one, I promise you,” Grant said.
“I hope I do.” Omar turned the radio off, thankful to have finally gotten some word on Grant’s whereabouts, then set off for the second dig site.
It didn’t take him long to find it. Grant had several lamps set up around one of the caves, and as soon as he saw the beam of Omar’s flashlight, he started calling out loudly.
“You really should get to bed,” Omar said as soon as he got close enough to see Grant clearly. “It is very late.”
“It is?” Grant asked. “I hadn’t looked at the local sundial lately.”
Omar ignored his friend’s sarcasm. “Now, what has you so excited, my friend?”
Grant pointed to several narrow clay tubes on the ground next to him. “We found the last of these around seven o’clock tonight. Their ends had been packed with dried mud, and wrapped with animal hides. When we opened them, these had been rolled up and stuffed inside…” His hand carefully scooped up one of the sheets of papyrus that was laid out on the ground before him. “I was hoping you could read it.”
Omar squinted at the writing in the light. “It is rather faded, but I do not think that is the reason I cannot read it.”
“Well, what language would you say this is written in?” Grant asked.
“A very old one,” Omar replied. “And one that is perhaps very long since dead.”
Grant whistled. “That old, huh? What language, Omar?”
“Aramaic perhaps.”
“Well, no wonder I couldn’t read it,” he mused. “Ancient Greek is about as far back as I go. I don’t suppose you know anyone who can?”
He shook his head. “It is not as widely studied as many other languages,” he confessed.
“I have a suspicion of who could though,” Grant said. “And I’m sure the Museum knows where she’s at right now.”

* * * * *

The stench of the jungle crept into her nose as Lara Croft, dwarfed by the large statues that rose around her, made her way into the small, forested cave. Smells of mold, mildew, and dank, rotting things assaulted her senses, and the ground underfoot was slippery as well. Her flashlight beam cut through the inky darkness like a razor as she inspected the walls, the floor, the ceiling, and the air in front of her for traps. Snares laid by the once-prolific residents of this region in Chile had the reputation of taking more than one explorer’s life by force. She suppressed the shiver that wanted to race up her spine, and instead locked her eyes on the floor in front of her, searching intently for cracks or depressions, either of which could signify the presence of a trap somewhere.
The passage came to a stop against the wall of the cavern, and Lara halted as well. This doesn’t make any sense… “Who on earth builds a dead end into a cave?” she asked the air around her. Of course, no one answered.
“Alright, you bloody natives, where did you hide the switch?” Lara groaned. She glanced down at her flashlight. “This just won’t do…it’s too dark.” Reaching into her hip pocket, she produced a flare, which she slammed against the rock wall, and tossed to the ground. After sputtering for a few seconds, the bright, flickering magnesium torch turned the room into a glowing, brilliant chamber. With a dead end wall.
Lara switched off her flashlight and slid it through the loop on her belt. “The one time I had to run off before Michael got his head off the pillow, and it’s the one time I could actually use his help…” she muttered. She walked towards the wall, and ran her hands across it. There were no cracks or bumps of any kind; nothing to indicate that it had been made by human hands. Its surface was virtually unmarred by the dents or chips of time. It was absolutely perfect.
Too perfect. Lara growled at it. She tapped over it with her fist and her boot, and it sounded sturdy in all places. So much for the theory of a secret door…I wonder if the guide had any idea what he was talking about when he led me out here?
She turned to take out her frustration on the wall beside her, then stopped and stared down. Wait a minute…that shouldn’t be here… Her eyes were looking at the small, jagged edge of a shadow that snaked along the lower part of the wall next to her. The thin diagonal black line would have been invisible in the glow of her flashlight, but under the full exposure of the flare, it was easily seen. What on earth…? She knelt down next to the wall, stared at it, and suddenly it came to her. “Brilliant,” she smiled to herself. “Absolutely brilliant.”
A close inspection of the shadow showed that it was caused by the edge of a stone jutting slightly out from the wall. But the insides of this stone, and the wall behind it, had been hollowed out, the rock blocking this fact from view from every angle except the one she was currently at. She examined the space with her flashlight thoroughly before she stuck her hand inside, and tugged on the small metal rod that lay within.
Silently, as though recently polished and oiled, the entire surface behind her slid across the corridor and into the wall on the opposite side of the chamber. The level of ingenuity these native tribes had…their workings baffle the greatest architects and engineers of the world, and yet they worked without modern tools, without blueprints…utterly incredible. The corridor ahead of her stretched on, tempting her to come inside. The darkness beyond pleaded for her to enter its clutches. The hopes and ideas of discovery urged her forward. And thus, Lara did what any sensible adventurer in her situation would have done: she drew her guns and entered.
The next trap that Lara discovered had already been triggered by the most dangerous adversary in the world: time. The root that had been the tripwire for the massive sharpened stick embedded in the wall next to her had long since rotted and broken under the tension. Thankful for small favors, she eased herself under the spear and continued on her way.
A short time later, she emerged into the center of what appeared to be a storeroom. The pots she opened were full of rotting grain and greenery, proof that the natives had been fairly proficient farmers. The spider that scurried out of one of the piles caused her to jump back suddenly, but she ignored it as it scampered away from her, down the cavern the way she had come. She continued her wanderings for several more minutes until her light illuminated what she had been looking for: a positively massive emerald. Said to be the largest one in the world, it was set in the forehead of a gigantic statue that was at least two meters tall.
Lara found a handhold and pulled herself up, and was preparing to find another one, when she heard the slight slithering sound, and found herself face to face with a gigantic snake, coiled up on the outstretched palm of the statue. She froze instantly, but the reptile reared back to strike, leaving Lara with no alternative but to-

“Lara, telephone call!” Michael’s unmistakable voice reverberated throughout the house, sneaking into every nook and cranny in an attempt to locate its intended target.
Jumping slightly at the interruption, Lara opened her eyes, and the scene from last week that had been playing out in her mind faded gradually into nothingness. “Take a message,” she shouted back from her laptop. “I’m in the middle of my paper.” She was laying in her bed, legs crossed, with the computer resting on her upper thighs. Around her, various notebooks were spread out on the blankets with notes, figures, and drawings on each one.
There was a pause, then: “It’s the Museum, and they say you’ll be in danger of unemployment if you ignore them this time.”
Lara growled silently to herself, saved her document, then picked up the extension in her room, scattering a pile of notes onto the floor, and frowned at the handset as though the person on the other end could see her displeasure. “This is Lara.”
“Hello, Lara. Sorry to bother you.” The voice on the other side was wiry and seemed a bit uptight. It took her all of about one second to place it.
She pursed her lips. “Not a problem, Collin. I was just working on the last few pages of my report concerning the Chilean site and the emerald.”
“Well, drop what you’re doing and listen to this,” Collin said.
Lara was shocked. Collin was a stickling bastard for details and such, and tardiness was something he was neither known for, nor appreciative of. And yet he had just told her to delay her work. Something was not right here… “OK, you have my attention. Is there some problem?”
“Not a problem, just more of a question, really,” Collin said.
“Well, out with it.”
“You can read Aramaic, right?” he asked.
Lara furrowed her brow. Why on Earth… “Not with any degree of proficiency,” she said. “I mean, the occasional word here and there. With a decent dictionary, I could probably make out a few sentences. Why?”
“Good enough for what I need,” Collin replied. “I want you on the first flight out to Saudi Arabia ASAP.”
Lara almost dropped the phone. “Collin, are you honestly expecting me to believe that you are telling me to be late with a report?”
“Pinch yourself if you have to, but just trust me on this: you won’t be sorry.”
“I don’t understand about the Aramaic though,” Lara mused. “There have to be dozens of others who can read it better than I could who work around there. The University, at least?”
“Well, one would think so,” Collin said. “But the only ones who claim to know how are either all out at other sites, or away in Italy at that bloody religious conference about the latest book of the bible up for consideration by the church. And the only professor who had the slightest inkling as to what I was talking about said he couldn’t go because there isn’t a suitable substitute teacher for his class lecture on some archaic Sumarian whatnot this week.”
“So…naturally, you’re pretty desperate then?” Lara asked with a grin, savoring the look she was certain was on Collin’s face.
“Lara, just name your price so I can get the flight booked, please?”
“Get ready to take out that second mortgage, Collin.”
“Oh, for the love of…look, just get on the plane, alright? I’ll fax over the day and time later on this afternoon, and we’ll talk about the financial aspect after you’ve come back. Deal?”
“Fine, fine, deal. I’ll go, if for no other reason than see what gave you such high blood pressure.”
“Lara, I owe you for this one. Thank you so much!” Collin hung up the phone before she had the chance to answer.
“I wonder what’s gotten into him?” Lara muttered to herself as he put the phone back on the cradle.
The door exploded open, causing a horrendous gust of air to tear through the unprepared room. It picked up every page of Lara’s carefully placed notes and scattered them across every other surface in sight.
Lara turned eyes that were daggers upon the intruder. “No, really, Michael, that’s quite alright. I honestly wanted to spend the next three hours sorting my notes back into numerical order again, and the room was looking a bit too tidy, wasn’t it?”
He shrank back with a wince. “Sorry, Lara…”
“What have I told you about coming in here when I’m writing?” Lara asked, jumping up to grab the page that had hung itself cutely on the light fixture.
“Er…you said not to…”
“And why, pray tell, do you think I said that?” Her hand grabbed the page and pulled it into her arms.
“So your stuff wouldn’t get all out of place?” Michael asked.
“At last, the intelligence shows itself.” Lara harrumphed, then proceeded to chase the rest of her scattered notes around the room.
“Um…if I may say so…” Michael started.
“You may not,” Lara cut him off. She stuck a handful of the papers on the bed, then went after the others.
“I’m sorry, Lara. I got excited, that’s all…”
She was prepared to read him the riot act all over again when she looked up at him. His face showed general sorrow and shame at what he knew he had done, and she had to turn her frown into somewhat of a smirk. “Don’t worry about it. Heavens only knows how often I burst in on my father when he asked me not to disturb him for something that was foolish.”
Michael grinned. “Well, whatever they called you about, I’d say it was hardly foolish, judging from his tone and the way he insisted on speaking to you. What’s going on?”
“Well,” Lara said, sitting down on the bed again, “do you remember Collin Forester?”
“Yeah, that really tall, really skinny, really uptight guy you introduced me to at the last dinner you insisted that I dress up for?” Michael was not known for his fondness of dressing up in fancy pants and shirts, and loathed the idea of neckties almost as much.
“That’s the one,” Lara confirmed. She had, knowing of Michael’s intense dislike of such things, naturally invited him along to a dinner party a few weeks ago. He figured she had done it because she wanted company; Lara had actually done it because she wanted to aggravate him by having him dress up in something besides jeans or shorts for once.
“Was that him on the phone?” Michael asked, wincing inside at the prospect of possibly having to don a suit for a second time in one month.
Lara nodded, enjoying the pained look on his face before continuing. “He wants me to fly out to Saudi Arabia.”
“Saudi Arabia?” Michael raised an eyebrow. “Saudi Arabia?” he asked again in a tone usually reserved for inquiring about places one had never heard of before.
“Yes, that’s right. Some sort of gibberish about needing someone who can read Aramaic for something or other. Dr. Grant must have found something interesting out there after all.”
“Who’s this Dr. Grant?” Michael asked, a bit too hastily.
“Well, don’t you get jealous easily?” Lara giggled. “Dr. Grant is a fellow archaeologist for the Museum. We are friends by association and job only, I promise you.”
“I’m not jealous!” Michael countered. “It was a simple question. You read too much into things.”
“Can we discuss psychology at another time? Right now, it seems as though we are going to meet the locals elsewhere.”
“We?” Michael asked.
“Of course, silly. You didn’t think I was going to leave you here, alone, in my house, did you? Heavens only knows what kind of wild parties you might have while I was gone. I’d be lucky if I came back and the entire building wasn’t burned to cinders.”
“My cooking isn’t that bad…”
“Anyhow, is your passport in good order?”
“Would you let me keep it any other way?”
“Wonderful.” Lara tilted her head, listening to something. “Ah…That sounds like the fax. Let’s go find out when we leave.”
Lara bounded out of the room, with Michael skidding after her, and ran down the stairs to the fax machine, where she grabbed the page it had just finished spitting out.
She scanned the text quickly, then looked up at Michael.
“Well? When do we leave?” he asked her hurriedly.
She handed him the paper, then walked down the hall towards her room.
“Where’re you going?” he shouted after her. Then he looked at the paper.

Lara:
Available flight times unacceptable. Will fly you out there via personal jet. Please be at the airport in two hours for takeoff.

Collin

“Packing, apparently,” he murmured in response to his question. He hurried down the hall after her to grab up a bag of stuff as quickly as he could.
He watched her as she pulled articles out of her closet, seemingly at random, and tossed them into a suitcase that had been piled on top of her notes. Long pants, long sleeved shirts, socks, spare boots…
“Lara, have you gone bonkers?” he asked her. “This is the desert, not Siberia.”
“Women in the Middle East do not dress like Westerners,” Lara replied. “Shorts and a tank top would get me into trouble. I’m supposed to blend in.”
“Yeah, you’re gonna be blended, alright. Lara…this is a foreign archaeological site. They probably see this sort of thing all the time. I doubt anybody’s gonna care.”
“And just who do you think does all the digging out there?” Lara countered. “Not to mention the fact that we’ll have to go through an airport. I don’t like getting detained for avoidable reasons.”
“You have a point,” Michael acknowledged.
“And why should you be concerned, anyway?” Lara asked. “You don’t have to worry about changing your attire.”
“Well, I was just thinking to myself about how much I’ll miss seeing your legs.”
“Michael!”

* * * * *

{Saudi Arabian Airport, 10:00 a.m.}

Lara exited the plane, dressed in a long, brown cover, which gave the impression that she was a nun. Michael followed her down the staircase, slightly slower, holding his stomach with one hand and clutching the railing very tightly with the other.
“Lara…of all the flights I’ve ever taken in my life, that one has got to be the worst of them.”
From inside her shawl, Lara looked over at him. “That was a nice plane,” she argued. “A personal jet flight, non-stop with a mid-air refueling, to Saudi Arabia is not something everyone gets to do in his or her life time.”
“Our pilot was a sadist,” he argued. “I’m certain he deliberately hit that turbulence. Not to mention the fact that the food didn’t agree with me at all. I mean baked beans on toast? Do you have a stomach or a smelting pit for a digestive system?”
Lara turned her head so he couldn’t see her smiling, but he knew she was anyway.
“Meanwhile, you are relaxing in the comfort of a La-Z-Boy chair that was nailed to the deck, and I’m spending more time in the bathroom than out of it. You could at least have a little respect and sympathy for what I’ve been through.”
“I can’t help the fact that you got airsick.”
“And that landing…who on earth teaches these people how to fly, anyway? Someone obviously thought we were on a trampoline, because-”
“Just shush. It’s over. Live with it.”
“It isn’t going to let me forget for the next few hours,” he hissed back at her.
“Ergo, I’m not going to be able to forget about it either, right?” Lara rolled her eyes. Perhaps taking him along had been a mistake after all…
“Excuse me.” The voice belonged to a man in a suit, wearing dark glasses. As they approached, he removed them and looked them over again. “Sorry to intrude, but you are Lara Croft, correct?”
“That’s right,” Lara answered. “Who might you be?”
“Harold Lauder,” the man replied. “I’m the one who reports on Dr. Grant from out here in the oppressive heat that seems to pass for weather on this side of the globe.”
“Oh, yes,” Lara nodded. “Collin said you’d meet us here.” She gave Harold a confused glance. “I have to admit, I thought you’d be dressed a little more sensibly though.”
“You know our employers, Ms. Croft,” Harold shrugged. “If you aren’t doing physical labour in the field, you’ve got to follow the dress code.”
Lara smiled. “That’s one of the reasons I never wanted a desk job, Mr. Lauder.”
“Harold, if you please,” Harold said. “I despise ‘Mr. Lauder.’ It makes me sound like some sort of volume control device.” He looked at Michael. “Ah, this must be your friend Collin told me about.” He extended his hand. “And you are, sir?”
“Sick,” Michael replied, relishing the slight gulp Harold gave as he shook hands. “From the flight,” he appended, and Harold relaxed.
“Do ignore him,” Lara ordered. “He’s come along to complain, and not much else.”
“Then at least give me a name so I know how to tell him to be quiet,” Harold grinned.
“I’m Michael,” he replied, smiling at Harold. “Nice to see someone here who has a sense of humor.”
“Well,” Harold said with a small gesture of his hand, “now that the introductions are over with, shall we go to the dig? I took the luxury of having my chauffeur tell the airline to forward your bags to your hotel room, so you won’t have to deal with that awful mess.”
“Yes, let’s be on our way,” Lara replied. “I want to see what’s got Collin so uptight.”
“This way, then,” Harold motioned. Lara and Michael fell into step behind him, and they walked to the waiting vehicle.
Michael’s eyebrows went up as soon as he laid eyes on their transportation. “That’s a Rolls-Royce! What on earth are you doing with one of these out here?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Harold shrugged, “but I think the performance factor and traction control are the main reason. Not to mention the fact that it’s practically weatherproof. They make for a very easy ride. I do find it difficult to think that the museum financed this though…” He opened the rear door for them. “Please, step inside, and watch your heads.”
They entered the car, and Harold shut the door behind them before sliding into the front seat and nodding to the driver. “Take us to the site, John.”
“With pleasure, sir,” John acknowledged, placing the car into drive, and heading down the narrow road that led to the outskirts of the dig area.

Michael was looking around the dig area in awe. This place had everything! A trailer with air conditioning, a refrigerator, cold running water from a tap, a satellite phone system, a computer terminal…everything. “This is so cool,” he murmured to himself. He looked over at Lara, who was doing a rather convincing imitation of a local woman. “Lara, why on Earth did you turn this down? This place is so awesome!”
“Because,” Lara replied, tying a scarf around her head, “the weather out here is quite nasty. It hasn’t gotten really hot yet, Michael.” Her gaze was distracted by the tan-skinned man who walked out of the trailer.
The man stopped, looked around, saw Lara, and did a double take before he ran over to her, hand extended. “Dr. Croft? A pleasure to see you again! I’m Tim Grant.”
She took his proffered hand and shook it softly. “Now, really, do we have to be so professional out here?” she said with a mock scowl. “We’re not enemies, after all.” She smiled. “And the pleasure is all mine, Dr. Grant.”
“Now who’s being professional?” Grant grinned. “If I can call you Lara, then you can call me Tim, deal?”
“Very well. Deal.”
Harold looked at Michael and blinked. “I suppose it just comes natural to some people…”
“Guess so,” Michael agreed.
“What’s with the fancy get-up?” Grant asked. “Someone tell you we were in the middle of a cold spell?”
“I’m trying to keep the authorities off my back,” Lara said. “And be inconspicuous.”
“Ah, hell,” Grant dismissed her with a wave of his hand, “these Arabs don’t care what you look like. Besides, in that get-up, you might well get arrested on suspicions of major drug violations.”
“Indeed, we do not mind,” Omar said with a small laugh as he approached the group. “Though I must applaud your style of dress, Dr. Croft.” He looked at Grant with a slight frown, then back to her. “Contrary to the beliefs of my colleague, it is highly appropriate.”
“Hey, who’re all these people?” Michael asked Harold, as Lara, Omar, and Grant all continued their flurry of introductions.
“Well, the first man, as I’m sure you heard, is Dr. Timothy Grant, one of our chief archaeologists. He’s been out here several years in a row now, so he’s gotten to know some of the locals quite well, but this is his first time in an overseer position. The Arab over there is named Omar. None of us English speakers can pronounce his last name, so he just goes by Omar. Grant recruited him and his men as diggers the first time he came out here, and he’s not used anyone else since. Anyone else you see over there is just a worker of some sort. And you obviously know Lara.”
“We’ve, um, kept in contact the last few months or so.” Michael stammered. Now would probably not be the best time to lay out my life’s story…
“Anyway,” Grant was saying, “I’m sure you didn’t fly all the way out here just to have tea and biscuits and exchange formalities. Would you like to see what it is that we’ve found?”
“Naturally,” Lara said.
“This way, then.” Grant led the small trail of himself, Omar, Lara, Michael, and Harold over into the trailer. The items that had been on the table only days before were packed securely into boxes that were stacked in a corner. Now, the tubes and papyrus scrolls had taken their place. Magnifying lenses and tweezers were scattered on the table as well as a box of surgical gloves. Grant snapped on a pair of the latex gloves, and gently lifted the first scroll off the table.
“These were found in a small cave on the opposite side of a mountain about a half kilometer off to the east,” he explained as Lara, Michael, and Harold moved closer. “We haven’t even been able to guess at their age, mostly because we can’t read what they say.” He motioned Lara closer, and she plucked a pair of gloves onto her hands. “Any ideas?”
Lara picked up a different scroll by the corners, lifting the edge up slightly, and took a magnifying glass in her other hand. Bending down, she studied the characters on the scroll for a decent length of time before she stood up slowly.
“So you can read them!” Grant declared. “What do they say?”
“I can’t read anything,” Lara said flatly.
Michael frowned, but no one noticed him, as all eyes were on Lara. She sounded almost…hostile? What’s got her so stirred up?
“You can’t?” Grant asked. He looked over at Harold, clearly confused. “But I thought they said that you-“
“I said I can’t read a word of it,” Lara interrupted.
“OK, OK,” Grant said, holding up his hands. “That’s fine. I’m sorry to bother you then. Well, even though you can’t read it, do you have any guesses as to what language it may be?”
“None whatsoever,” Lara replied with a shake of her head. She turned to Michael. “Well, I think we’re finished here. Are you ready to go home?”
“Already?” Michael frowned. “It’s a bit hasty, don’t you think?”
“Not in the least,” Lara replied. “It’s Dr. Grant’s dig, and his find. They called me in to see if I could read something, and I can’t understand it. That’s all there is to it.” She turned to Grant. “I apologize, but I can’t help you.”
“No need to say you’re sorry,” Grant said, still confused at the woman’s mood swing. “I mean, if you can’t read them, then you can’t. We’re certain to find somebody who can.”
Lara nodded absently, mumbled something to herself that sounded like, “Not bloody likely,” then, taking Michael’s arm, she turned and walked out of the trailer.
Omar was the first to speak after the door slammed. “Something has upset her greatly, I fear.”
“I have to agree with you there,” Harold said.
“Ah, forget about it,” Grant said. “So she can’t read it and it got her upset? Big deal. Somebody somewhere has to be able to read them. We’ll get these translated in no time. Right, Harold?”
“Um…Right, Grant,” Harold nodded nervously. “Just…er…send them back with your shipment as planned, and we’ll get right to work on it.” He turned and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Grant asked.
“Well, Lara and Michael need transportation back to the airstrip,” Harold said. “John drove them out here, after all.”
“And John can drive them back,” Grant smiled. “Come on, Harold, lighten up! We’ve discovered something really big here, and you’re partly to blame! Celebrate! Your name’s going to go down in the bloody history books!”
Harold opened his mouth to protest, then decided against it. Whatever had upset Lara was really none of his business. And Grant was right…if he hadn’t suggested the two-day outing, the scrolls wouldn’t have been found in the first place. “Well then, what are we waiting for?” Harold smiled. “Bring out the cigars!”
Omar cleared his throat, then excused himself from their presence.
After he shut the door, Grant and Harold shared a hearty laugh.

* * * * *

“Lara,” Michael said as they walked away from the trailer. He watched as she pulled the shawl off her head, and began twisting her long hair into a ponytail. “Hey, Lara.”
She ignored him, and removed a rubber band from her pocket. She fixed the loop in place, wrapped it several times around the ends of the long thread of hair, then took another one and began doing the same thing further up the strand.
“Lara!” Michael insisted, walking up next to her and grabbing her arm.
“What?” she asked back tersely, whirling to face him. The anger on her face was quite clear.
“Yeah, that’s my question,” he said. “What? As in, ‘What the hell has gotten into you?’”
“I’m frustrated that I couldn’t understand what was written on the scrolls,” Lara replied with a huff, disconnecting herself from his grip, and marching away.
“Oh, please,” Michael countered, jogging to catch up. “Something in there really pissed you off. Now what was it?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“Hey! Will you get a grip? Just chill out for a minute, huh? I know it’s a bit warm out, but give it a rest, eh?”
“I have a perfect grasp of the subject at hand, thank you very much,” she declared.
“Then will you at least tell me why you felt the need to lie to those people back there?” Michael asked, pointing back towards the trailer.
“What makes you think I was lying to them?” Lara’s eyes narrowed to slits and regarded Michael the way they always regarded someone when she was trying to ascertain just how much he or she knew.
“You were reading that scroll,” Michael declared.
“I already told you I couldn’t understand-“
“And I’m saying that’s horse shit,” Michael interrupted. “Lara, I’ve been around you long enough to know the difference between what you look like when you’re just staring at something and when you’re actually reading. You understood something that was on those scrolls, and I want to know what.”
They reached the car, and Lara waved to the driver. John unlocked the back door, and they stepped inside the cool Rolls Royce, and strapped themselves in. “Listen, we’ll discuss this later on.”
“Ms. Croft, I am so terribly sorry to interrupt, but might you tell me where Mr. Lauder is?” John asked from the front seat. “I was under the impression that he would be returning with you.”
“Harold stayed with Dr. Grant to look at the findings,” Lara replied. “He told us to ask you to take us back to the airport, if you would.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Croft.” John smiled, eased the car into gear, and placed his foot lightly on the gas pedal.

* * * * *

{Saudi Arabian Airport, Noon}

“I’m sorry, Ms. Croft, but there is no record of a return flight back to England scheduled for later on today,” the man at the main counter said.
“Could you check again for me?” Lara asked. “It’s very important that I get back home tonight.”
The attendant punched a few keys on the computer again, then shrugged at her. “As I said before, Ms. Croft, nothing has been posted concerning your return trip.”
“Collin was probably expecting you to stay out here a bit longer than an hour, Lara,” Michael said. “He more than likely scheduled the return trip for tomorrow.”
“Could you check tomorrow’s schedule for me then, please?” Lara asked.
“Certainly,” the man nodded. His fingers flew across the keyboard, and his eyes scanned the list. He paged through it, then looked at her again. “I’m afraid there’s nothing listed for tomorrow either.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Lara argued. “This is a personal jet in the service of the British Museum, not just a regular commercial flight. They should have their flight times locked in already, or ready to be locked in on my authority.”
“I have looked already, Ms. Croft, and I don’t see any flight information. In fact, the computer shows nothing directly concerning your country for the entire week. So, until I get a revised schedule from my manager, I am afraid that there is nothing further I can do for you.”
Lara tried very hard to be as nice as possible as she said, “Very well then, sorry to bother you,” but it didn’t come off very amicable at all.
“Look, let’s just go to the hotel,” Michael suggested as they turned and walked away from the counter. “Harold said our bags were forwarded there, so we can change clothes and just get some rest. You can always call the airport later, right?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Lara sighed. “Let’s see if John will take us there.”

* * * * *

“Change of plans, Ms. Croft?” their chauffeur asked as they stepped into the back seat once again.
“Slightly,” Lara replied. “It appears that our plane has not registered a proper departure time with the airport. Ergo, we’re not going home anytime soon.”
“My sincerest regards, Ms. Croft.”
“No, that’s quite alright. Would you please take us to our hotel?”
“I would be delighted,” John replied. “Would you like for me to take the short route, or the scenic one?”
“What’s the difference?” Michael asked.
“One sees a great deal more sand with the latter,” John answered.
“Short route then, if you please,” Lara said. “I have seen just about all the sand I care to see for one day.”
“I heartily agree with you, Ms. Croft,” John nodded. “Very well…to the Busnia Hotel then.” He eased the vehicle into gear, and slid into the flow of traffic with all the poise of the professional driver that he was.

* * * * *

“Names please?” asked the desk clerk, a short, thin, olive-skinned native with a very thick accent, as they approached.
“Lara Croft,” she replied. “I had a reservation for one room.”
The desk clerk tapped a few buttons on his computer, scanned down the list on the screen, then looked up. “Are you certain this is the correct hotel, Ms. Croft?”
“Positive,” Lara nodded. “The reservation was placed by the British Museum. Try looking under the name of Collin Forester.”
More tapping on the keys, and another confused look. “I have no registrations under that name either.”
“Can you do a search of all the names starting with ‘C’?” Lara asked. “Perhaps it was misspelled.”
Another minute went by, but the response was still the same. “You do not seem to be registered here, Ms. Croft. Do you have the confirmation papers with you?”
“There were no confirmation papers,” Lara said. “This was a reservation made earlier this morning via telephone from Great Britain.”
“Without the confirmation papers, there is nothing more I can do for you,” the clerk said with a helpless shrug. “I am truly sorry.”
“Look, wait a moment,” Lara said. “Our luggage was supposed to have been delivered here from the airport earlier today. Have you gotten any suitcases or bags that are unclaimed?”
The clerk called over the bellboy and had a brief discussion in Arabic with him, then looked at Lara. “He says that every luggage drop has been accounted for.”
“May I speak with the Manager then?” Lara asked.
“He is out for the day in a meeting,” the clerk replied with a shake of his head. “I can leave him a message to contact you, if you would like, when he is through tonight.”
“Never mind that,” Lara said. “I don’t have a phone with me. We’ll get this sorted out eventually.” She turned and walked away from the desk, and out into the hot sun, then looked at Michael, who tagged along behind her a few feet. “Michael, this is not good.”
“You’re telling me?” Michael asked. “My favorite ‘Garfield’ tee-shirt was in my suitcase.”
“I’m not talking about the luggage,” Lara said. “I’m talking about all the trouble that has decided to throw itself into our laps.”
“Come to think of it, that is a bit peculiar,” Michael nodded. He frowned as he thought. “Lara, stuff like this just doesn’t happen twice in one day…”
“Why am I suddenly getting a very bad feeling about being here?” Lara asked.
“Maybe because being here is not a good idea?” he said. “I mean, is it just me, or does this entire thing just scream, ‘Set up,’ to you too?”
“Wait a minute,” Lara said. “Let’s just calm down and approach this rationally. Perhaps all this really is just what it looks like: an accident. I’ve still got money in my pockets, and we have our carry-on bags. We can just get a room at a motel somewhere close by, and check back here and at the airport later.”
“Um…One problem with that, Lara,” Michael said, looking up and down the street.
“What might that be?” Lara asked.
“We left our bags in the car, and the car isn’t here anymore.”
“What?!?” Lara scanned both sides of the road, and looked up and down as far as she could see, but Michael was correct. The Rolls Royce, John, and their handbags had all disappeared.

* * * * *

“This is a hotel room?” Michael’s question stabbed at the heart of the matter, forgoing any other non-vital issues for the time being. His dubious tone of voice was fueled by the utter lack of substance to the small, cramped space. A small double bed was pressed up against the back wall. A table with one chair stood in front of the window. The walls were undecorated. There were no signs of any air conditioning vents, and the heat in the room was stifling, even though the dark, thick, ugly brown curtains that hung limply from the rod close to the window mostly blocked the sun. He felt himself break out into a worse sweat than the one he already had from hiking to this place, and it put him in an even sourer mood. “You know, at least back in the States, the term ‘hotel’ is normally reserved for a place that is actually worth paying money to sleep in.” He sat down on the bed, and his worst fears were confirmed…a rock would have been more comfortable. “Someone must have misinterpreted you…this is a rattletrap.”
“Well, unless you can cough up money enough to stay in the Riyadh Hilton, I suggest you just put your mind to living with it,” Lara snorted.
“You’re the wealthy one around here,” Michael countered, continuing to stare at the room. “No TV, no air conditioning, no smoke detector…Lara, please tell me this place at least has running water?”
She stepped in front of him and crossed over to the small sink that stood next to a closed door. At least the bathroom is closed off… She turned the handle, and the faucet sputtered, sending out a few coughs of a dark brown liquid. The smell of sulfur filled the room, and Lara shut the water off, her hand squeezing her nose shut to keep from vomiting. “Ugh!”
“Pardon me for suggesting it, Ms. Saudi Arabian Hotel Expert, but let’s just go get our money back and try somewhere else?”
“The sign on the check-in desk said, ‘No Refunds,’” Lara sighed. “I can see why.”
“Better check the bathroom for a corpse while you’re at it,” Michael said with a half-hearted laugh. “And to think I always used to wonder why these people were killing each other all the time…”
Dreading what she might find, Lara twisted the knob on the door next to her, and swung it open. A horrendous stink assaulted her olfactory senses, causing her eyes to water. It was not hard to discover where this stench came from: scum-laden water festered new organisms inside the toilet where the previous guest (which had stayed there at least a month ago, Lara decided) had forgotten to flush.
“God damn that is sick!” Michael ran over to the main door and shoved it open in an effort to air out the room.
She shoved the mildewed shower curtain aside and noticed your standard garden-variety fungus growing on the sides of the tub. The entire inside of the porcelain basin was encrusted with rust and heavy mineral deposits. A thick, black film encased the drain cover.
If it hadn’t required breathing, Lara would possibly have screamed something quite obscene at that point. Instead, she held her mouth and nose closed, and staggered out to the second floor walkway where Michael was already stationed. “For once, Michael, I have to agree with you when you said ‘this place sucks.’”
Michael almost smiled. Listening to a refined British lady like Lara attempting to fake an American accent was amusing, to say the least.
Lara’s eyes saw the figure of a local teenage boy, all dressed in white, pushing a small trash can on wheels down the hall towards them, and she raised her hand.
The boy stopped in front of their room and asked them something neither one could understand.
“We need room service,” Lara said.
The boy gave her a blank look.
“Room…service…” Michael tried.
The boy raised his arms in the universal gesture of not understanding. “No English,” he said.
“Alright,” Lara sighed. “What languages do you speak? Parlez-vous Francais? Habla Espanol? Nihongo ga hanashimasu ka? Sprechen Sie Deutsche?”
“Lara…this isn’t helping things,” Michael groaned.
The boy shook his head, said something to them again, and went back to pushing his trash can.
Lara took a small handful of coins out of her pocket, and jangled them. Instantly, the boy returned and bowed in front of her. “Room service,” Lara said slowly, then prompted him to repeat it. “Clean room,” she said, again prompting him to reply. “Tell your manager.”
Nodding rapidly, the boy took the money from her hand, stuffed it into a pocket, and dashed down the walk, his sandals clacking on the ground as he rushed away from them.
“Lara…” Michael began.
“I do not want to hear one peep out of you,” Lara interrupted. “Everyone knows that music and money are two universal languages on this planet. And I didn’t feel like singing right now.”
“Thank God for small favors…” Michael ducked into the room before Lara could slap him.

The cleaning staff arrived, and brought with them air freshners, bleach, and scrubbing brushes and sponges of all sizes. After about half an hour, they departed, and the room looked quite a bit better than it had before they had gotten there. The smell of cactus flowers wafted through the air now, and Lara inhaled it deeply, enjoying the sensation. Casting her eyes upon the new shower curtain, cleaned up stall, and polished water spout, an idea struck her. “Michael, I am going to take a nice long shower.”
“You can’t be serious,” Michael replied.
“And just why can’t I?”
“What do you plan to change into afterwards? Because unless you stuffed your shirt when I wasn’t looking, all our other clothes were either back in the car or in our apparently nonexistent luggage.”
Lara paused. He had a point. “Well, in that case, I’ll simply wash my clothes with me while I’m in the shower then.”
“Come on, quit fooling around,” Michael said. “Even with all the heat in here, it’ll still take those things at least an hour if not more to dry, thanks to all the humidity.”
A wry grin spread across Lara’s face. “Then you are hardly one to complain now, are you?”
“OK, OK, fine, but I get to take one after you do,” he smiled. “Try and leave some cold water, alright?”
She blew him a kiss from across the room, then stepped into the bathroom. Michael heard the sound of running water after a few moments, and proceeded to listen as she moved around in the shower. Sounds like she’s having fun at least…
A knock on the door startled him, and he got up. “Who is it?” he called towards the door.
“Room service,” the voice on the other side answered.
“You already cleaned in here,” Michael argued.
“Not cleaners,” the voice replied.
What’s up with this? Michael slid the lock off the door and opened it, turning his head around to face the bathroom as he did so. “Lara, did you order-“
The sharp, searing pain that exploded up his chest, caused by the taser gun which had been forced between his ribs, was all that he felt as he was tossed across the room by the blast. He blacked out, and crash-landed on the floor in a crumpled heap.
“Michael, did you say something?” Lara called from the bathroom.
Two heavy thuds on the floor marked the approach of a positively enormous man, who grabbed Michael by the collar and hoisted him into the air.
“Michael? What’s going on out there?” Lara called.
She jumped out of the tub, and grabbed the closest towel to her, wrapping it around her body as she moved towards the door, and yanked it open. She dashed out into the main room just in time to see the large man toss Michael over his shoulder and move out the door. “What on earth…?”
Totally focused on the man carrying Michael out the door, she failed to notice the other, smaller man, who had hidden next to the wall. It was this error on her part that allowed the butt of the shotgun to make contact with the side of her head, and send her hurtling against the small side table. Badly winded, she slumped to the floor like a rag doll. The second man walked out the door, and locked it behind him.

* * * * *

Head pounding, and heart racing, Michael opened his eyes a small crack. Jesus…where am I? He managed to make out a small doorway on the far side of the room, and thick stone walls around him. Nothing else was clear, since he was in almost total darkness. His hands were tied behind him to the chair he was seated in, and the knots were well made. No matter how hard he twisted or squirmed, he couldn’t make any of them loosen even a fraction.
I remember…somebody knocking on a door…I opened it, and this person stuck a small black thing in my chest… He winced as he realized how painful breathing was at the moment.
His head snapped up at the sound of the door opening, and he saw two people walk inside. The light wasn’t good enough to see either of their faces, and they were not speaking in English, but he was certain one of them looked familiar. “Hey,” he said as loudly as he could, “what’s going on here?”
“He is awake,” the first one said.
“Mmmm,” nodded the second. “So it would seem.”
Damn, that voice is familiar… “You deaf? I asked where I am. What is this, some prison or something?”
“We will ask the questions, and you will give the answers, boy,” the first figure said.
“Like hell!” Michael blurted, not even realizing what he was saying. “You can’t hold me here like this! I’m an American citizen!”
Before he could tell what was happening, the first man walked next to him, shoved something against his side, and he let out a yelp as an electric charge stabbed him. “That was the lowest setting,” he was informed. “A mere fraction of what you were hit with before. Now, I suggest you cooperate.”
“Fine,” Michael said when he found his breath again. “What the hell do you want?”
“We want to know everything you know about Paradise.”
Michael frowned. “Are you people insane? What do you mean, ‘Paradise,’?”
“That is the term you English-speakers use for it, am I correct?” the first one asked. “It is ‘Paradise,’ yes? You know, a lovely story about a man and a woman who commit a sin and are thrown out by their God into this world?”
“If that’s what you want to know, then I’d suggest you go out and buy a copy of the book of Genesis,” Michael said. “It’ll tell you all about it.”
The small black object touched him again, and he jumped, though no charge came out.
“Smart-mouthed answers are not your best course of action,” the figure snarled in his ear. “We want to know, so we want you to talk. Tell everything, and leave nothing out.”
OK…what the hell. “Well, uh…according to biblical tradition, God creates the world in six days. And when he creates the world, he populates it with all kinds of animals, then makes a man, and sets them all down in the Garden of Eden.”
The first figure grabbed Michael’s hair, pulled it back, and then held a knife to his throat. “If you are playing games on purpose, I make the suggestion that you stop at once!”
“You wanted to know about the Garden of Eden,” Michael squeaked. “So I’m telling you about the Garden.”
“Calm down,” the second person with the familiar voice urged the first. “Perhaps the boy does not understand the question.”
“Very well. I shall ask again. You were trying to find Paradise. What did you discover?”
“Trying to find Paradise?” Michael asked. “Look, you can’t find Paradise around here! It was just a story some people made up to explain how the world got made…I mean, there isn’t any Garden of Eden or anything!”
“You were looking for Paradise!” the first one shrieked loudly. “Now tell me why, and tell me what you know, or I shall cut the knowledge out from your brain myself!”
“I…I…I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about…” Michael found himself whimpering. “I’m not trying to find any Garden…all I want is to go home…I just want to get back to Lara…and go home…”
The figure reared back to strike Michael, but the second one stopped him. “He’s telling the truth.”
There was a loud, heated argument in some Arabic language that Michael couldn’t understand, but he gathered that the first figure did not believe that he was being honest, and wanted to do nasty things to him because of it.
They were interrupted when a third person poked his head in the door, and spoke something quickly.
The two figures turned to look at the third man. The one with the familiar voice issued an order, and the third man saluted and disappeared out the door again. The first two then followed him without so much as a backward glance in Michael’s direction. The door crashed closed, and there was the sound of it being locked from the other side.
The shock of the entire situation finally settling upon him, Michael began to sob softly to himself.

* * * * *

“Well, what I don’t understand,” Harold was saying to Grant as they relaxed in the trailer, “is why on Earth Omar always works for you? There have to be literally dozens of other teams coming out here all times of the year, but as soon as you show up, Omar’s team drops any current contractors and joins up with your group.”
Grant laughed. “Fearsome loyalty?” he tried.
“It’s not funny,” Harold said. “I want to know why, Grant. And I want to know because the Museum wants to know. They’re the ones writing the checks, after all. They have a right to know.”
“Nah, they just think they have a right to know,” Grant corrected the shorter man. “Big difference.”
“Fine. Fine,” Harold snorted. “Off the record then.”
“Harold, nothing with you is ever off the record.”
“Will you be serious for one bloody moment? All I want to know is why, Grant, and I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
“Well, maybe I think it is.”
“Grant…surely you’re not smuggling something out to these people…” Harold’s face turned pale as a thought dawned on him. “You aren’t providing them with weapons, are you?” He turned even whiter. “Or promises of weapons which you could not keep?”
Grant rolled his eyes. “Harold, I’m just a digger. I’m not some arms dealer, and I assure you, what I give Omar is 100% legal around here.”
“Well, that rules out drugs, tobacco, and alcohol,” Harold reflected, counting them off with his fingers. “Are you selling slaves out here, Grant?”
“God, you’re not gonna leave me alone until I tell you, are you?” Grant asked, getting up and going to the sink. He grabbed a glass from the near-by cupboard and held it under the tap for a moment, filling it up to the rim. He returned to the table, set the glass in the middle, and stared Harold straight in the eye. “Fine. You want your answer? Want to know what I’m giving them? There you are.”
“You didn’t tell me anything,” Harold argued.
Grant only pointed to the water glass in front of them.
“You give them a glass of water?” Harold was quite confused now.
“Not the glass of water,” Grant groaned. “Just the water itself.”
“Water?” Harold asked.
Grant nodded.
“Water?” Harold asked again. “Water…what’s so bloody important about water? I know this is a desert, but first of all, why are you giving them water, and second of all, why couldn’t you just come out and tell me?”
“Harold, you really are an office man,” Grant laughed. “Have a look around outside, my friend. Where are the rivers? The streams? The lakes? What do you see out there, Harold? And you’d better say ‘sand’ because if you don’t, then I’ll have you committed.”
“Fine. There’s a lot of sand out there. But you still didn’t answer my question.”
“Harold, have you ever noticed where Omar and his men go at night?”
“Yes, they head away to the south. Why?”
“Take a look at your map.” Grant pointed at the large Saudi Arabia topographic map pinned to the wall next to them. “What do you see to the south of here?”
Harold squinted. “Nothing…where the hell do they go? Some city not on the map?”
“Something like that,” Grant said. “You see, Harold, Omar and his workers don’t live in any city around here. They’re nomads. They move from place to place, taking their livestock and their families with them. To Omar and his people, water, especially vast quantities of it in a pure state, is far more precious than even gold. Doing work for other archaeologists gets them some meager money they can use to purchase water and other necessities in the towns. But the water from around here isn’t refined, it isn’t filtered, and it tastes like shit. But whenever I come out here, I make certain I requisition lots of water. Far more water than I could ever need. Because when Omar and his men collect their paychecks at the end of the month, they get whatever water I’ve got left. And believe me, to wanderers who want as little to do with the city as possible, that much water is literally a godsend.”
“Well, it’s very charitable of you,” Harold nodded. “But why all the secrecy?”
“Selfish reasons,” Grant said. “After all, if you were a rival archaeologist, and wanted to take the best workers, and you knew that the way to get them was to overload yourself with good ol’ H2O, you’d do it wouldn’t you? Then, where would I be, as a fellow explorer, except out of luck?”
“Bloody hell…” Harold muttered. “I always figured you were running some kind of racket out here, Grant. And all you’re doing is giving away something that’s free anyway?”
“That’s the sum of it, I swear.”
“I’ll be damned, Grant…you’re a bloody genius!”
“No autographs, please.”
“You’re also too egotistical.”
“That’s your opinion, at any rate,” Grant said. “And, not to end this discussion prematurely, but wasn’t John supposed to come and retrieve you several hours ago?”
Harold glanced at his watch. “Jesus…why didn’t you tell me it was this late? And where on Earth is John?” He pulled the phone out of his pocket and punched in the number. The phone rang and rang, but no one answered. Harold closed the phone, and frowned in concern. “John never goes anywhere without that phone…”
“Well, apparently he did tonight,” Grant said, redundantly. “Look, don’t worry about it. This trailer has a bunk bed. You can stay here tonight. It’s late anyway.”
“Thanks…” Harold said, a little unsure of himself.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Grant said, moving over to one of the compartments in the wall, and folding it down to reveal a small bedroll with a pillow and sheet. “But I’ll tell you right now…if you snore, you’ll get a cactus shoved some place where it won’t feel good.”
“I,” Harold began, sticking out his chin with indignation, and raising himself up to his full height, which was still not all that big, “do not snore!”

* * * * *

Lara blinked once, twice, three times, then opened her eyes and lifted her hand to the back of her head. She moaned, rubbing her temples in an effort to make the throbbing pain go away. What on earth… Still waking up, she played the last scene trough her head over and over again, attempting to figure out some explanation as to why Michael had been kidnapped, and why she was still alive. Absolutely nothing today was making sense…she had no guns, no luggage, no change of clothes, and no friends out here. And the scrolls… Thinking about those made her head hurt even worse.
While she was in the shower, she had decided to attempt to steal the scrolls from Dr. Grant’s camp while everyone else was asleep, even though such conduct could potentially get her thrown out of the entire field of archaeology forever. Of course, at that time, she had counted on having Michael with her. And she had no idea where he was… “God damn it,” Lara swore icily as she got to her feet, picked her still-damp clothing up off the floor, and slid into it gingerly. There was no way of locating him now…
Her eyes flashed across the room, and stopped on the bed, where someone had laid down a small cellular phone. Curious, she picked it up, and flipped it open. The battery confirmed a full charge remaining. The serial number had been filed off it, though, and there were no other identification marks that she could see. Someone had made a very costly error… She punched in numbers rapidly, in hopes of contacting the Museum back in England, but as she entered the last number, the phone emitted a terrible squawking sound, and the digital words, ‘Out of range’ slid across the front panel.
No good…there probably isn’t any support for it outside this city…I should have known better… She slid the phone into her pocket, and decided that her first course of action was to go to the local police force. They could surely get the name of the owner of the phone, and perhaps discover where he or she lived.
That thought was erased from her head as she noticed that whoever had broken in before had walked off with her handbag. This is not a good thing… Without the articles in her purse, she was nobody. No passport, no driver’s license, no identification of any kind… I can’t even go the police without getting myself arrested in the process!
She sat down on the bed in dejection. Everything I am, everything I have here, and everyone I know is being taken away from me, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it… A small tear edged out of the corner of her eye, left a small trail of wetness as it slid down her cheek, lingered on the edge of her chin, then dropped to the carpet. “Michael…” she whispered softly, “please be OK…”

* * * * *

Timothy Grant never believed in hiring guards or protecting his trailer in any other ways. In his mind, guards were too easily bribed, and other forms of security just made life more difficult, and sometimes dangerous, for the people who had to be around it twenty four hours a day. Had he been somewhere slightly cooler, he would have brought a dog. But with this being the desert, it just didn’t seem right to subject an animal to such treatment, and Grant had vetoed the option of a guard dog, even one bred for harsh weather conditions.
Security systems had likewise been cast down. Grant saw them as unnecessary expenses and limitations on the dig. Good strong locks on the trailer were all he asked for. Those and a long-range radio and phone line so he could contact anyone he needed to at a moment’s notice. And a handgun, in case things got too out of hand.
Besides being an annoyance to everyone involved, Grant had argued, the security systems made it seem like he didn’t trust the men he worked with. The people who he hired to work for him didn’t have alarms on their homes. They didn’t have motion detectors and huge floodlights with backup generators. What they had was trust. And out in a region like this, Grant reasoned, trust went much farther than any other security measures. He trusted Omar, and Omar trusted his men, therefore, Grant trusted Omar’s men. And he had no reasons not to. Over the times he had been here, Omar and his group had never let him down.
Grant had no idea what a terrible mistake he had made.

* * * * *

The sands of the desert shifted slightly in the calm, tranquil breeze that blew across the horizon. Dunes in the distance seemed to shimmer as the heat, trapped within them by the afternoon sun, escaped into the atmosphere to be cast down upon them within another few hours. With the onset of night time, most movement in the arid climate had ceased, save for the few predators who stalked the sands in search of unwary prey to bring back to their lairs.
A small desert scorpion scuttled silently across the grains, eyes intent on the prey in front of it. Moving with the grace of a hunter, it seemed to tiptoe towards the lightly armored beetle before it that smelled so much like supper.
A few more steps and the scorpion would have his meal. His twin clawed forearms reached upwards, opening slightly, and the large tail lifted itself above the animal’s head. The stinger glinted softly in the unwavering light of the moon.
A hideous crunch behind the beetle caused it to scurry away rapidly. It didn’t bother to look back. If it had, one has to wonder what it would have made of the large, dark object that had brought itself down upon the body of the animal that had been stalking it. The size alone was impressive…the scorpion never had a chance at all.
The object that had sent the scorpion on to its next life was a thick, black boot. It was attached to a leg that was covered in a light brown desert camouflage. The leg, in turn, was a permanent part of a muscular man who led a group of similarly garbed followers across the otherwise-deserted sands.
The sole of the boot was so thick that the owner did not even feel it crush the scorpion into the gritty sands beneath it. IR goggles swung over his eyes, the man suddenly stopped and dropped to a crouch. He gestured to the men behind him to do the same, and they followed suit.
Satisfied that he had located their target, the point man set his Hungarian-manufactured AMD-65 submachinegun on the ground, and tweaked one of the dials on his IR goggles until he achieved the desired affect, and looked up at the trailer again.
For the most part, it was cool, but in one section, two distinctly separate heat signatures were registering. Apparently, their target had a companion with him. But the temperatures indicated those of a sleeping human. This was going to be easier than expected…
Another gesture from the point man, and the group rose as one. Two broke off from the main body of eight and formed a perimeter defense, just as they had planned back at headquarters. The point man became the rear guard and observer as the other five silently made their way over to the trailer.

Grant’s eyes snapped open as he heard the deafening crash of someone or something breaking through the door to the trailer, and his hand darted under the pillow. Within moments, he had retrieved the HP-35 semi-auto that he used as personal security, and sat up.
“What on Earth…?” he heard Harold ask below him.
The jagged staccato of submachinegun fire ripping into the roof caused him to lose his grip on the pistol, and it fell to the floor with a clank.
Hands closed around his arms and yanked him from the bed. He landed hard on the floor, and looked up into the faces of his assailants. “Who-?”
“Be silent,” one of them ordered in a very thick, Arabian accent. “Get dressed.” He looked over at Harold who had been pulled to his feet. “You as well.”
Hands up and always in view, Grant slowly slid into his shorts and donned his boots. “What’s going on?”
“I said to be silent!” the first man repeated. He snapped the British pistol up off the floor and placed it into an empty side-holster. “You will come with us.”
“Where?” Harold asked, struggling to pull his pants on.
“Ask no questions!” the man ordered. “Be silent, and comply.”
So much for this being a peaceful dig, Grant thought icily to himself. What the hell had he stirred up around here? First Lara Croft gets all upset about those scrolls, then the trailer gets hijacked by these bloody hired guns…
He watched as the others of the group grabbed up the boxes of findings from the corners of the trailer and carried them slowly out the door, while two other men ransacked the rest of the interior, snatching anything and everything that looked important, including his radio and sat-phone.
With the barrel of the gun pressed against his back, Grant walked slowly out the door as well. The sounds of an engine were barely audible as an all-terrain vehicle pulled up next to the trailer, followed by a second one a few seconds later.
He and Harold were herded into the back of the first one, while the second one was filled with the boxes and other items from the trailer.
The last man out of the trailer attached an explosive device to the door, pressed a button causing a light to begin flashing steadily, and then closed the door.
Grant and Harold, hands tied behind their backs, bouncing in the all-terrain vehicles as they sped away, both heard the resounding roar as the trailer went up in flames. They’ll come for me, Grant told himself silently. The Museum will investigate…they’ll get us out of this somehow. It was a thought Grant clung to in desperation. It was so necessary in his mind. So important for him to believe.
And so utterly futile.

* * * * *

Michael looked up as the massive metal door opened, hoping against hope for a rescuer to arrive and untie him. He had no idea how long he’d been down here now, in the dark. His watch had been confiscated, and little good it would have done him anyway, with his wrists bound up and tied over the back of the chair.
They had come back twice already, asking their strange questions, and not believing him when he told them he didn’t have any idea what they were talking about. And it appeared as though they were going to have another go at it.
The sounds of shuffling feet on the floor of the room, and the angry words in Arabic and English confused him, however. Normally, they were quiet…maddeningly quiet. It angered him that these people just dismissed his words…that they ignored his pleas for release. If he had any idea of a lie to tell them to get them away from him, he would have told it ages ago. You can only bluff if you’ve got cards, one of his friends had told him one time. And right now, he was holding a great big hand of nothing.
There was a tremendous squabble at the door, two forms entered rather rapidly, and disappeared into the shadows on the other side as the huge portal closed with a resounding clang.
“How many times do you wanna hear the same damn story?” Michael shouted at the people he knew were watching him. “How many different ways are there to say, ‘I don’t know’?”
“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” The voice was very irate, laced with fear. Not the tone a captor would be using at all…
“Who’s there?” a second voice asked.
Michael blinked in the darkness. “Dr. Grant? Harold?”
“Who is that? I can’t see a damn thing in here…”
“It’s Michael…Lara’s friend!”
Dr. Grant and Harold made their way slowly over to Michael, and once within site, he saw their hands were likewise bound behind them. “How’d you luck out and get the chair?” Grant asked wryly.
“It’s not nearly as much fun after sitting in it for several hours at a time,” Michael replied. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“These savages kidnapped us from the dig site, stole all the things Dr. Grant discovered, and then destroyed his trailer,” Harold said. “We got dragged down here, tied up, and tossed rather unceremoniously into this room. What the blazes is going on? Where’s Lara? Is she here too?”
“I don’t have any idea,” Michael admitted. “We were in a hotel together when a group of people broke in, shot me with a stun-gun, and the next thing I knew, I was down here being asked questions about Paradise.”
“Paradise?” Grant frowned in the darkness. “What kind of Paradise?”
“The Judeo-Christian interpretation of it from the book of Genesis, as far as I know,” Michael said. “Adam and Eve, the creation story, the Garden of Eden…all that. They seem to think I know something about where to find it, and keep insisting that Lara and I were looking for it…” His voice tapered off as a very, very bad thought took root in his brain. “Dr. Grant…did you get any of those scrolls translated?”
“No, none at all. They hadn’t gotten back yet. Why?”
“Lara and I both visited your dig site…you and Harold worked there…and somebody had to have reported on your findings. This is all connected now. God, I’m an idiot for not thinking about that sooner…”
“Are you saying there was an information leak?” Harold asked incredulously.
“There had to be,” Michael replied. “And I think I know who.” He paused. “I hate to tell you this, Harold, but I think John might be your weak link.”
“My chauffeur?” Harold asked in loud disbelief. “What on Earth could possibly plant such an insane notion like that into your head?”
“Because one minute, he was there in the car, waiting for us to check into our hotel, and the next minute, he was gone, along with our carry-on bags. Our plane flight back never got scheduled. Our hotel wasn’t reserved like it was supposed to be. Our luggage disappeared. And John was right there the whole time…”
“Oh my God…” Harold turned unnoticeably white in the darkness.
“So John turned us in…” Grant said, thinking.
“There’s no other reason I can think of to explain his behavior,” Michael agreed. “It had to be him.”
“That bastard!” Harold ranted, slamming his foot into the wall harshly. There was a haunting moment as his voice echoed about the quiet room.
“Something about all this doesn’t add up,” Grant argued.
“Like the fact that we’ve been buried in some bloody hole in the ground?” Harold asked.
“No,” Grant shook his head. “But something’s not right about this whole thing. And as long as Lara is out there, and not in here with us, I think there’s a good chance she’ll be able to figure this all out.”
“Now, no offense meant to a person who cannot be here to defend herself, but she’s just a girl,” Harold stated. “I mean, come now! You saw the people who broke into the trailer, Grant. Be sensible for once in your life! One girl cannot possibly go up against a group like that and expect to leave in one piece!”
“You don’t know Lara,” Michael said softly. Though he knew Harold was almost 100% correct. Lara was in a country where she did not speak the language, had very little currency, and no weapons of any kind. That didn’t stop her from surviving that plane crash though… If anyone was going to do it, it was going to be Lara. She’d get them all out of this.
“I’m not talking about a rescue attempt,” Grant said with a wave of his hand.
Harold’s eyes went even wider. “You’re not?” His voice had shot up at least two octaves.
“Of course not,” Grant replied. “As of right now, I do not expect any of us to walk away from this. Sorry to be a pessimist, but those are the facts, pure and simple. These are professional terrorists, and I get the sneaking suspicion that the only reason we are being kept alive is so they can attempt to discover how much information we hold. And believe me, once a terrorist the likes of these learns that we don’t know enough, all our lives are forfeit.”
“But I thought you said Lara would get us all out,” Harold began.
“I said she could try and figure this all out,” Grant corrected. “She knows what we found. I’m positive she knows that Michael over there is missing by now. And the first place I would go, if I were in her shoes, is out to our trailer. Which, as you will no doubt recall, was rather rudely repossessed by the people out there.”
“She’ll come looking for him,” Harold objected, pointing to Michael. “They’re good friends.”
“She may look, but I doubt she’ll find,” Grant argued. “Judging from the distance we drove and walked, I’d say were a good thirty meters under the ground in the center of one of the largest desert areas in this part of the globe. Unless the people who demolished the trailer left a trail of clues, which I highly doubt they did, Lara could search this area for ten years with a fine-tooth comb and not find this place.”
“The tire tracks,” Harold argued. “She can follow them!”
“Not a chance,” Michael shook his head. “Not with the way the sand blows and shifts around.”
“Will somebody please try and have a little hope here?” Harold whined. “I’m not the one bloody trying to give up and throw in the damn towel!”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty of hope,” Grant said.
“Hope my ass,” Harold snorted.
“I hope that Lara will figure out what this is all about, and I hope that if she doesn’t, that she’ll get the hell out of this place, and not worry about coming back for us. Ever.”
“That’s not hope!” Harold screamed. His voice had become the high-pitched, frantic voice of a person teetering on the very edge of panic. “That’s a death wish!”
“Shut up!” Michael ordered. “Listen to me very carefully, Harold, because I don’t want to hear anymore of this crap. Our only hope of getting out of this is for Lara to figure out what the hell these people want, give it to them, and then hope to hell that they release us. But until then, crying and panicking won’t do us one damn bit of good. Trust me. It’s about all I’ve been doing for the past several hours, and as you can see, I’m still in the same damn chair, in the same damn dark room breathing the same damn stale air. I stopped crying because I realized it wasn’t getting me anywhere, and because I was sick of listening to it. So do me a favor, and don’t start.”
Harold’s mouth bobbed up and down in the darkness several times before he wiped the wetness from his eyes, cleared his throat, and sat down calmly. “Right. Quite right, Michael. But we need a plan. I think we should try and make a plan. Grant, do you have any ideas?”
“Only one,” Grant answered. “We wait.”
Harold sank against the wall in defeat once again. “Right,” he said, very softly. “We wait.”

After an undetermined amount of time had passed, the door opened loudly, shaking Harold awake, and causing Michael and Grant to shield their eyes against the light which came it. Even though it was provided by only a dim bulb outside the door, it was far brighter than anything else presently in the room.
“Lara?” Michael asked, hopefully.
The figure that stepped through the door brandishing the automatic weapon paused, then said, “You will follow me.”
“Where are we going?” Harold asked.
“Stand up and follow,” the man ordered again. He walked over to Michael, yanked him out of the chair, and prodded him along with the butt of his rifle. “All of you.”
Grant and Harold wordlessly rose from the floor and preceded the man out the door, not bothering to argue that ‘following’ usually meant walking behind the person you were told to follow.
“Where’re you taking us?” Michael asked.
The guard did not reply, instead urging them on down the corridor at a faster pace.
Several twists and turns later, they reached a staircase, and two others had joined the guard. The first man shouldered his weapon and unlocked the door at the top of the stairs, and threw it wide. Bright sunlight cascaded out of the hole and down into the structure below ground.
“They’re taking us outside,” Grant whispered.
The rear guards prodded their prisoners with the barrels of their guns, and they trotted up the staircase before them, and out into the terribly bright light of the early morning sun. One lone figure stood up in the sunlight. A second one was bound and tied in a sitting position close to the standing one.
Grant, Michael, and Harold were guided over to the seated figure and ordered down. Michael felt a strong, sharp knife slice away his bonds and he quickly began to rub his wrists as the rope fell away behind him. He noticed Harold and Grant doing the same. The bound figure got the same treatment, and another guard collected up the scraps of rope and tossed them into a sack, which he then hurled into a nearby fire.
Michael squinted at the two indistinct shapes of people, but the intensity of the light coupled with the distance and the fact he had been underground long enough to get rather exceptional night vision undid his best efforts at recognizing either of them.
“Welcome, honoured guests,” the standing figure spoke.
Despite the heat, Michael shivered. It was the same person who had been at the first interrogation. And he had now placed the voice.
“The phone please.” The figure held out an open hand, and a cellular phone was dropped into it. “The game is afoot. Sad to say, our key player hasn’t a clue about this fact. She is about to get informed.” He punched in a series of numbers on the pad, then waited as the connection was made.

* * * * *

Lara Croft, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, hair a tangled, unkempt mess, eyes soaked from crying, laid on the mattress in the hotel room, finally having fallen into a fitful sleep. The best course of action she could take seemed to be simply waiting for something to happen. A ransom note, another kidnapping, anything. She didn’t dare go out into public dressed the way she was, at least not for very long. And even after the pain in her head subsided, there was still pain elsewhere that would not go away. A pain that refused to relinquish the hold it had over her, a pain that caused her conscience great distress. Michael had been kidnapped, right under her nose, and she had been helpless to stop it. She hadn’t felt such utter lack of control since the plane crash. Like the chartered flight, everything around her had been spiraling downwards, heading for a fearsome collision. And now, she had hit. And she had cried, just the same as she had two years ago after she had taken shelter in that cave in the mountains.
And like the time of long ago that seemed so far away, and yet so very, very near, Lara had fallen asleep, the tears playing out a silent lullaby next to her.
Her dreams were not good ones. Her subconscious mind attempted to digest and make sense of what she had seen in the trailer earlier: the scrolls, the text upon them, the badly faded letters barely legible to her…and yet, she had understood. Somehow…she had comprehended. And the writing frightened her terribly. Don’t let them translate them all…please…
Begging her dreams, naturally, was no good. The dream turned to a nightmare. Michael, buried away in the ground somewhere (dead?) while men rolled a gigantic stone away from a mountainside that had been blocked to entry for eons, and gained access to the most carefully hidden treasure in the world. Far more powerful than the Grail, more magnificent than the Ark of the Covenant, more valuable than the entire collections of every museum in the world combined, the treasure within was something not meant for humans. It was sealed for a reason, and Lara screamed and screamed silently as, one by one, the men went inside to defile what they had found.
There came, from everywhere at once, a terribly loud ringing sound. Lara glanced around in her dream, but could find no source for the noise. It paused, then resumed once again. Confusion gripped her as well. What had they found inside? What was happening? She hurried towards the gaping opening that seemed to draw her forwards into the dark innards of the Earth, a grinning orifice that laughed as she entered. Laughed because she was so weak, laughed because she could do nothing, laughed because she was, once again, truly helpless in her life.
The ringing sounded again, dangerously close this time, and Lara covered her ears with her hands, and screamed as loudly as she could to drown out the noise.

Hands still over her ears, and still screaming, Lara sat up in the bed. She closed her mouth quickly, and held a hand over her heart. That ringing noise…
It sounded again, and she looked at the small night table beside the bed. The cellular phone rested there, a small green light blinking serenely on it, indicating an incoming call.
Rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes, Lara pondered her options. Should she answer it? Who could be calling it? And why? What if it was rigged to explode when answered?
Or, her mind argued, what if it tells you where Michael is? What if, by not answering the phone, you cause him to be killed? Dare you take that chance?
Slowly, Lara reached for the phone as it rang again. She picked it up, held it softly in her trembling hand, and then opened it up and placed it to her ear. “Hello?”
The only sound that greeted her was the dial tone.

* * * * *

The figure standing in the sun stared at the phone in his hand. It had rung seven times now, and was going to go on to an eighth if it was not answered. Turning to the man next to him, he growled, “<I thought you said you left the phone in her room!>“
“<I placed it there myself,>” the man replied in Arabic. “<She is certain to hear it. It was fully charged.>”
The figure hung up the phone with a press of a button and started to retract the antenna. Then, suddenly, as though having second thoughts, the figure pressed the re-dial button.

* * * * *

Lara looked at the dead phone in her hand, comprehending what had happened. How long had the phone rung in her dream before she had finally woken up and come to the decision to answer it? What have I done…? She closed the phone up again.
When it rang the second time, she was so startled that she dropped it to the floor. Gingerly, she picked it up and waited for it to ring again before opening it up once again and putting it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Ah, Lara! Jolly good to hear your voice again, if I do say so myself.”
Lara’s mind reeled away from reality as the voice spoke. There was no logical or rational reason in the world why the person on the other end would be contacting her via this phone, except one. And as the final word left the speaker’s lips, Lara shuddered. There was no mistaking it. Not now.
She had no idea what to say, so she decided to speak the first thing that came to her mind. “I wish I could say the same for you, Collin.”

Part 2

“The angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; for behold, I proclaim to you good news of great joy that will be for all the people’.”
--Luke 2:10

Collin tsked into the phone. “Oh, Lara, this just will not do. You should be happy to hear from me. I come to you bearing good news! Great tidings, indeed!”
“Good news for whom?” Lara asked sharply.
“Why, for the entire world, naturally,” Collin replied. “Because the dawning of a new age is upon us!”
“Great,” Lara muttered, “another religious nut. Fraker’s Mental Health Institute is always looking for new patrons.”
“Oh,” Collin said, mock pain flying across his face, and the back of his hand striking his forehead in pretend shock. “Oh, how venomous her words! They hurt me, they do!”
“If you have a point, Collin, then I suggest you make it, and quickly.”
Collin straightened up, his face resumed a serious expression. “Dear me, dear me, the young child threatens me. Now, since you have made your suggestion, allow me to make mine. I suggest that you close your mouth and listen to what I have to say, because I am holding four hostages here that are fairly good friends of yours.”
“You’re bluffing,” Lara said, totally unconvincingly.
“Am I?” Collin decided to play along. “Oh dear. Yes, the heat must be getting to me. I know there is no possible way there could be real people out here. And certainly not people such as Doctor Timothy Grant, Mr. Harold Lauder, Mr. Michael Crisman, and our best friend in the whole wide world, John the chauffeur.” He lightly kicked the man beside him. “Oh yes, and John does so apologize for leaving you while you were having your little chit-chat with the hotel clerk. But, you see, several of my associates needed to borrow his vehicle, and naturally, who would turn down a fine chauffeur to boot?”
Lara turned white, and was glad she was sitting down. “I…I don’t believe you’ve got them all,” she said, weakly. “Let me speak to Michael.”
“Very well,” Collin said with a grin. He motioned to the man closest to Michael, who hauled the young man to his feet and stood him upright as Collin marched over and placed the phone to his ear. “Say hello, Michael.”
“Lara, it’s me,” Michael said.
“Michael? Where are you?”
Collins snatched the phone away before Michael could answer. “Now, now, not fair asking questions of a person who isn’t in a position to answer, Lara.”
“Collin, let him go. He doesn’t know anything.”
“What an interesting notion. I may just consider it. However, if you want me to release him, you had best do what I tell you to.”
“What might that be?” Lara asked.
“Outside your hotel room, on the street, there is a large black automobile. I want you to go outside, get into the car, and hang up the phone. Several of my most sincere compatriots are waiting inside to bring you out here to me.”
Lara parted the curtains slightly, and glanced to the street below. Sure enough, a large black sedan was parked in front. Lounging around it were two very mean looking, olive skinned men dressed in business suits. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t think your associates are very sincere,” Lara said.
“Oh, I assure you, they are quite sincere,” Collins replied. “I know they are sincere men because I, myself, am a sincere man. Sincerity tends to attract itself. In fact, I’m so sincere, that I’m willing to show you just how sincere I can be. I have four captives here, Lara. And before you go down and get into that automobile, I will execute one of them in a very sincere manner.”
“Wait a minute!” Lara screamed. “I’ll get into your bloody car!”
“Sorry, too late,” Collin said. “A pity, Lara, but I expect you’ll find a corpse greeting you when you arrive. Do try and be punctual. Cheerio, then.”
The connection broke, and Lara found herself once again holding the phone in her hand. The dial tone on the other end was oppressively loud in her ear, and wordlessly she closed it. Stupid, stupid, stupid…How could I let all of this just happen to me? A thin ray of hope surged through her. Collin has always been the nervous type. He may have been bluffing, trying to get me out there. He can talk fine, but will he carry it out? But the gamble was too dangerous. He was holding Michael hostage; that she knew for certain. The others though? It would explain a great many things, especially if John was just an innocent bystander here.
A thousand courses of action flooded her mind at once. Call the museum. How? You don’t have a pence on you, and this phone won’t get out of the region, much less make an international call. Investigate the dig site. How? You don’t have a vehicle, and by car, it’s a twenty-minute drive through the desert. And you don’t know the exact way there, either. By the time you found it, what could you do? It wouldn’t get Michael and the other hostages anything. Notify the police, tell the hotel owner, try and find Omar…all these were shot down by her mind as well. None of them could work. It was a no-win scenario. The police would only arrest her, the hotel owner couldn’t do a thing, and she had no idea where Omar lived.
Her hand drew back the curtain again and looked one more time at the men below her. One of them checked his watch, and as he brought his arm up, Lara caught the faintest glimpse of a shoulder holster and the black metal of a pistol grip. She exhaled loudly in anger. Just as the entire day before, every decision she was making had been funneled for her. No matter what she did, she always ended up in the same place.
Realizing that there was no other conceivable course of action to take, Lara gathered up her wits, opened the door, shut it behind her, and walked down the small staircase to the waiting men by the car.
“Who are you?” the first one asked.
“My name is Lara,” she replied. “Collin said you’d be waiting for me here.”
“<About time she showed up,>” the man said to his partner. He turned back to Lara. “Stand face against the car, put your hands on the roof, and spread your legs slightly.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lara asked, taken aback.
“We need to make sure you aren’t armed.”
“I can assure you I’m not,” Lara huffed. “There’s no need to-“
The man interrupted her by grabbing her shoulders, spinning her around, and slamming her against the car, knocking the wind out of her. He forced his foot between her two, and pushed, separating her legs. His elbow rested lightly on the back of her neck while his other hand checked her wrists, shoulder blades, underarms, pockets, and everywhere else for anything concealed.
Lara endured the probing search with as much dignity as she could muster, thankful for the fact that the thugs were only searching and not probing or dawdling anywhere. True professionals…
The elbow removed itself from her neck, and a hand turned her around. “<She’s clean,>” the man informed his partner. “Now, into the car, if you please.”
Straightening out her clothing, Lara stepped into the back seat.
The section between the back seat and the front had been filled in with a thick, bulletproof Plexiglas. A thin, repeating hexagonal wire pattern frame offered support from the center.
Without warning, the seat belt slammed across her chest, and buckled itself, pressing her against the seat. Hurriedly, she scrabbled at the attachment point for the release lever while the first man, who was behind the wheel of the car, gave a laugh.
“No good hunting for the catch,” he informed her through a small speaker that sat in the roof. “Everything is controlled from up here. Only we can unlock your door and your belt. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”
Frustrated beyond belief, Lara pounded the seat beside her in anger, then settled back to wait. Again, the image of the funnel presented itself…no options were available, save those thrust directly into her face by the opposing forces.
As the car moved through the relatively light Saudi Arabian traffic, Lara reflected on Collin’s last words… A pity, Lara, but I expect you’ll find a corpse greeting you when you arrive…

As the phone went dead in his hands, Collin smiled a thin, wry grin, and turned to the four prisoners. Looking them up and down, it wasn’t hard to smell their sheer terror. The boy was outright trembling, and the three men weren’t doing such a hot job of hiding it either. And after hearing what I said to Lara, they should be afraid.
The only problem now was actually carrying through with the threat. He hadn’t meant to make it, actually. But the part of him that wanted to get her out here had spoken before he could catch it, and now he was in a bit of a dilemma. If he left them all alone, as he had previously planned before Lara’s stronger side had argued with him, Lara would arrive and see he was weak. Not something that would be in my favor…
But on the other hand, if he did kill one of them, the chips could fall the other way. Lara doesn’t know what I intend to do yet…if I make good on this threat, it could throw her completely off the handle. Other people might get hurt, and plans could be changed. Damn it, Collin, you’re such an idiot sometimes…
The guards watching the four captives looked at one another nervously, shifting their feet, or switching their weapons from hand to hand. Each one waited to see if their boss would actually go along with it…waited to see if Collin Forester would give the order to execute one of their hostages.
No matter what I do, it screws up plans, Collin complained to himself. Might as well show Lara that I mean business though. Otherwise, she’ll walk all over me like she tried to do before. And I can’t have that. He shut his eyes tightly and clenched his teeth.

Michael would have gulped if he had any saliva to swallow. His dry mouth only provided him with the ability to make a scratchy sound with his throat however. Collin seemed to be rather upset at the decision to kill someone…good. That meant he wasn’t totally sure of himself. That could probably be used as an advantage somehow…Assuming I’m not on the receiving end of a bullet…
Collin looked up at his men suddenly. “<Kill one of them.>”
The men looked back and forth at one another, trying to ascertain whom the order was directed at.
“I don’t care who!” Collin spat at them in English. “Do it!” He pointed at one of the guards at random. “You!”
The man glanced at his automatic weapon, blinked once, then brought it to bear on the group of four. He walked back and forth in front of them, eyes darting from one prisoner to the next, as if searching for some excuse, any excuse at all, to pull the trigger.
His eyes settled on Michael.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit… Michael’s heart was pounding faster and faster. It was getting difficult to breathe, and the sun suddenly seemed ten times hotter than it had before. The guard with the gun was walking towards him now, and he felt his knees give way. He stood here, quivering, crying, shut his eyes, and still heard the footsteps coming closer, closer towards him across the sands. Unconsciously, Michael began to recite a prayer from his early school days, the words sliding off his lips softly. Always thought I’d buy it helping Lara get some ancient artifact or something…not like this…
And still, the footsteps came closer.

John acted without thinking, or even realizing what he was doing. His left foot moved forward, then his right foot stepped in front of his left. The pattern continued as he slowly made his way towards the advancing guard. It’s my fault they were put in this position in the first place…the oldest of the group should always be the first to go, in any case. His brain pouring rationalizations to the rest of his body, John came to rest in front f Michael, and in front of the guard. “I daresay you’ve never heard the phrase, ‘Pick on someone your own size’?”
The man merely shoved John aside, flicked the safety on his weapon off, and pointed the gun at Michael’s chest. Time, for Michael, slowed to a crawl as he watched the motions in a strangely detached sense.
“Hold it!” Collin shouted loudly.
The guard halted, his finger a mere centimeter from the trigger, and turned to face Collin. “<You said to kill one of them!>”
“<It was a test,>” Collin snorted back. “<And not that one. If we do anything to him, we don’t have our bargaining chip anymore.>”
“<Whatever you want.>” The guard sauntered back into place, but sneered at Michael with a murderous glance all the same.
Michael’s legs gave out, and he sat down on the ground hard. Grant and Harold rushed over to him and knelt down. From the color of his face, it was clear that if Michael had had any food in his stomach, it wouldn’t be there anymore.
He swallowed, then sat up and looked at Collin. “T-thought you said you were gonna k-kill one of us?” he asked, voice quavering.
Collin laughed. “Oh yes, that. Well, I had to make sure Lara got out here, didn’t I?” The amusement on his face hid the inner argument he was having with himself about not killing one of them. “Yes, yes, well, don’t you worry. If there’s a time and a place for death around here, I’m sure we’ll encounter it sooner or later. Until then…” He paused, looked each one of them in the eyes, then continued. “…We wait.”

It didn’t take long for the vehicle carrying Lara to arrive on the scene. The slick, black automobile pulled up to a halt a few meters away from the group. It took the driver and front passenger only seconds to exit the car, swoop around to the back doors, remove their weapons, and escort their other passenger from the cool interior of the sedan into the heat of the desert.
“Lara!” Michael shouted, causing her to look over his direction.
Thank God… Lara’s mind breathed a small sigh of relief. She spotted Dr. Grant, Harold, and John as well. Looks like Collin was bluffing after all…
“Hello there, luv.” Collin placed himself at Lara’s side and presented her with his most ingratiating smile. “I do hope they weren’t too rough on you.”
“They had a jolly good time searching me for concealed weaponry,” Lara growled at him. “Since you plotted all this, you should have known I came out here unarmed.”
“You insult my intelligence,” Collin smirked. “Lara, Lara, Lara…whatever shall I do with you? I know how smart you are. It would have been just my luck if you would have stepped out of the auto and placed a bullet into my head.”
“You have no idea,” Lara agreed.
“However,” Collin continued, ignoring her anger, “I do believe that you didn’t come all the way out here to exchange harsh words with me. Yes, I know you feel let down because I didn’t keep my promises. And I am sorry to disappoint you. But you four, for the time being, are worth more to me alive than dead.”
“Collin, what are you doing out here?” Lara asked.
Collin held up a warning finger. “Patience, luv.”
“And don’t call me that.”
“You won’t have to wait much longer,” Collin told her. “But enough of this stupid heat. Let’s get back inside where it’s cool. Dramatics is one thing, but continuous theatrical nonsense is another thing entirely.” Turning to one of his guards, he gave the order for them to follow him down into the opening under the sand. They did so, shoving the prisoners ahead of them through the doorway. The last man to enter closed and locked the doors behind them, and darkness fell quickly.
Lights pulsed on as flickering bulbs sparked to life along the walls, causing eerie shadows to