Nick turned to Selena. "I think we've found our hijackers."

  "This isn't good," Selena said.

  "Hey, Jack," Eddie called. "This one looks like he might be the leader. He's better dressed than the others. Got a suit on."

  "Go through his pockets. See if he's got any ID."

  "Got it. I'm going to roll him over."

  Selena called over to him. "You should wait for forensics to..."

  The trailer vanished in a burst of white light and overwhelming sound. Nick sensed something coming toward him.

  Everything went black.

  6

  Nick drifted. He was lying somewhere, surrounded by light. There was something he was trying to remember. He couldn't pull it in. Sometimes it seemed like someone was talking to him, but he couldn't make out the words. He felt light, free, as if his body wasn't there. That wasn't right. How could he not have a body?

  He thought about that for a while, became aware of someone talking again. Telling him something he didn't want to hear. Something nagged at him, like an itch he couldn't scratch. Then he was moving, slow at first, then faster, being pulled somewhere he didn't want to go. He couldn't stop it, couldn't control it. He felt a hard jolt, like hitting the ground after a jump. The light disappeared. He felt thick, heavy.

  He tried to open his eyes and failed. He tried again and they came open. Above him was a white ceiling He was lying in a hospital bed. An IV fed into his right arm. He hurt all over. Someone was nearby.

  "Nick. Thank God."

  Nick turned his head.

  "Steph," he croaked. His voice was raw, raspy.

  Stephanie picked up a glass of water with a bendable straw and held the straw to his lips.

  "Here. Just a little."

  He sipped. His throat and mouth were dry as desert sand. The water was liquid nectar.

  "Where am I?"

  "Houston. Methodist Hospital. You had us worried for a while."

  His mind worked at it. He remembered standing with Selena while the FBI looked inside the trailer. Then, nothing.

  "What happened?"

  "The trailer was booby-trapped," Stephanie said. "It blew up."

  Selena.

  Adrenaline surged through him. A monitor next to his bed began beeping.

  "Selena?"

  Stephanie put a hand on his arm.

  "She's all right. The explosion knocked both of you down. You came off worse than she did. She got away with cuts and bruises. You were hit in the head by a piece of the trailer. It caused massive bleeding. They had to open your skull to let the pressure out."

  He had a terrible headache. It felt as though someone had stuck a spike in his head.

  "That explains the headache."

  A nurse came into the room.

  "Mister Carter. You're awake."

  She looked at the monitor, checked his IV feed, looked at Stephanie.

  "Are you his wife?" she asked.

  "No, a friend."

  "I'm afraid you have to leave," the nurse said. "He needs rest."

  Stephanie got up from her chair.

  "Don't worry about anything, Nick. I'll be back later."

  "Okay..."

  The next time he woke, Selena was sitting next to the bed. Her face was marked with cuts and bandages.

  "There you are," she said. "How are you feeling?"

  "Like I got hit by a truck."

  "You did. A piece of one anyway. You should see yourself. With that bandage around your head you look like a mummy. You also have some really colorful bruises."

  "I'm getting really tired of being hit in the head with something."

  "Good thing you've got a head like a rock."

  "I'm not sure how I should take that. What happened to the others?"

  A shadow flickered across Selena's face.

  "Sorenson's dead. So is the guy who went into the truck, along with two other agents. Three more were critically injured. Whoever planted that bomb knew what he was doing."

  "Have you noticed how many times we've said that?"

  "Said what?"

  "That somebody knew what they were doing. If the hijackers were the ones in that truck, who killed them? Who's behind this?"

  "We're back to the big question, aren't we?"

  "Bigger question right now is where are those bombs?"

  "If we get the answer to that one, we'll know the answer to the other."

  "I have to get out of here," Nick said.

  "Soon, Nick. Not yet."

  Someone was standing behind Selena. Nick couldn't see his face.

  "Who's that behind you?"

  Selena turned around. "What are you talking about? There's no one else here."

  The figure was gone.

  "I thought I saw someone. But I don't see him now."

  "You're tired, Nick. I'm going to leave and let you rest."

  "Are you here, in the hospital?"

  "No, I'm staying in a hotel nearby. I'm going to hang out until you're ready to go home. It will only be a few days."

  "The kids need you."

  "Anna is taking care of the kids. I told her we'd been in a car accident. Someone has to keep an eye on you. It might as well be me."

  7

  Dzhamal Abdulayev sat in the passenger seat and watched the Missouri countryside roll past, thinking how different this vast American land was from home. He rubbed a hand across his newly shaven face. Americans had become suspicious of men who looked like him. He'd been instructed to shave as part of his cover. The feel of naked skin on his face was a strange sensation. In his wildest dreams, he would never have thought he'd cross into Paradise without his beard.

  The journey to Paradise was near, of that he was certain. Dzhamal had no illusions about surviving this mission. The truck and the bomb were headed for the city of Chicago. Why Chicago had been chosen as the target was not his concern. Dzhamal assumed there were good reasons. The reasons didn't matter. When the bomb detonated his time on earth would be over and he would be a martyr, welcomed into Paradise, favored by Allah.

  They were traveling on the interstate, headed east toward St. Louis. Dzhamal's friend Akhmad was driving, keeping a few miles under the speed limit of 70.

  The two of them had joined the rebellion at the same time and become friends as they went through training together. The friendship had lasted, and now here they were. In the heartland of the enemy, chosen to strike a blow against the Americans who had encouraged and betrayed them.

  The sun was shining, it was a fine day. There'd been no problems with the vehicle. Traffic was moderate. They were already halfway across Missouri. The next stop was St. Louis, where a room had been reserved for them in a motel outside of the city. The day after that they would arrive in Chicago, go to ground, and wait for instructions.

  "What a strange country this is," Akhmad said. "It's so green and lush. Not like home."

  They were passing a farm where several cows grazed in a pasture.

  "Look at those fat cows," he said. "One of those could provide an income for my family for years. How did these Americans become so rich?"

  "By exploiting everyone they could," Dzhamal said. "They are a greedy people."

  They passed a sign welcoming them to the town of Rollo.

  "If I didn't know better, I would think Allah had blessed them," Akhmad said.

  "They are all doomed to hell, you know that. They can't take their cows with them into the flames."

  The truck came around a long, sweeping curve.

  Red and blue lights began flashing in Akhmad's mirror. A police car had appeared out of nowhere, right behind them.

  "Police! Where did he come from? What shall I do?"

  "Remember what Ruslan said. Pull over to the side of the road. Use your turn signal."

  Akhmad used the signal, pulled to the side of the road and stopped. He left the engine running. The police car sat behind them, lights flashing.

  "What's he doing? Why doesn't he get out of the car?"

  "He will. He's probably checking the license plate number. Stay calm."

  A minute later, a state trooper got out of his car and walked up to the truck. He wore a flat brimmed gray hat and a gray-blue uniform. A black belt crossed his chest. A shiny black holster held his gun on his right hip.

  Akhmad rolled down his window.

  "Yes, officer. Is there a problem?"

  "Sir, are you aware that you were speeding?"

  "Speeding? I was going under the speed limit, maybe 65, no more."

  "The speed limit here is 60 miles per hour. I clocked you at 68. May I see your license and registration, please?"

  Akhmad pulled down the sun visor, where the registration of the truck was held under a rubber band. He took the phony license from his wallet and handed it over with the registration to the cop. Dzhamal pretended to be disinterested.

  The trooper looked at the Texas license then at Akhmad, comparing the picture with the man. He looked at the registration.

  "You're from Dallas?"

  "Yes, sir. My father owns a store there."

  "What kind of store?"

  "Furniture. He buys furniture. We sell it all over the country."

  Beads of perspiration began to appear on Akhmad's forehead.

  The cop noticed the sweat. He noticed the different skin tones on the driver's face.

  He's just shaved a beard.

  "What's in the truck?"

  "Furniture. Like I said, my father sells it. We're going to Chicago."

  "Sir, you seem a little nervous. Is something the matter?"

  "No, nothing's the matter."

  It had been a long time since trooper Costello had been a rookie. He knew the signs when someone was lying or trying to hide something. Alarms were going off in the back of his mind. He unsnapped the strap on his holster, kept his hand on the butt of his pistol and backed away a step.

  Costello didn't know about the stolen bombs. At roll call the sergeant had told everyone to be on the lookout for anything suspicious involving a truck twenty feet long or bigger that might be carrying drugs. The cover story fed to police all over the country was that a large heroin shipment was coming up from Mexico. This truck fit the description, and the driver was acting as if something was wrong.

  "Sir, would you mind getting out of the truck and showing me the load?"

  Akhmad and Dzhamal looked at each other.

  "Do as he says," Dzhamal said, softly.

  Akhmad got out of the truck and walked around to the back. Costello kept a few feet away. His hand never left his gun. Akhmad opened the rollup door on the back of the truck. Used chairs, tables, and bookshelves were piled to the top of the space.

  "Sir, please stand to the side."

  Akhmad waved his hand. "As you can see, furniture."

  With his left hand, the trooper took a heavy flashlight from his belt and shone the beam into the interior of the truck. The light reflected from something metal. It didn't look like a file cabinet or a chair.

  "Sir, what have you got in there besides furniture?"

  By now Akhmad was sweating.

  "Nothing. There's nothing in there except furniture. Please, can we go?"

  "Why are you sweating, sir?"

  "I don't know. It's hot."

  A light breeze was blowing. It was a pleasant day.

  "Sir, I'd like you to unload some of the furniture so I can see what else is in there. Can you do that for me?"

  "This is much work to me."

  Akhmad's English was starting to break down under stress.

  In the cab, Dzhamal listened to the conversation.

  You know what to do if the truck is going to be searched.

  Ruslan's words pounded in his head. He started to get out of the cab.

  "You in the cab, stay where you are," the cop called.

  "Okay."

  Dzhamal pulled the door shut. He heard the cop tell Akhmad to start moving furniture out of the truck. He knew what he had to do. He reached under the dash until he felt the detonator.

  He began to recite the Shahada.

  "There is no God but God...Mohammed is his messenger..."

  Dzhamal pressed the button. Twenty kilos of Semtex exploded under the bomb. The truck and its load ceased to exist. Officer Costello, Akhmad, and Dzhamal were almost vaporized. The metal surrounding the warhead shattered.

  A cloud of deadly plutonium drifted over the peaceful Missouri countryside.

  End of Sample

  Acknowledgements

  I'd like to acknowledge all the anonymous people who fill the Internet with information. I often search for historical details, climate and geography notes, and pictures of places I have not personally experienced. Hats off to all of you.

  I was named after Alexander the great and have always been fascinated by him. For The Lair of Anubis, Wikipedia was enormously helpful in pinpointing specific details about Alexander's life and times. The link below leads to the principal site on Alexander the Great.

  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_the_Great

  Someone went to a great deal of trouble to organize and present this information. Whoever you are, thank you.

  If you're interested in the life of Alexander, this is a good place to start for information and a broad overview of who he was, where he came from, and what he accomplished. A flawed and brilliant man, brought down by his own success and recklessness.

  Thanks to Neil Jackson, who keeps creating great covers. He always comes up with something interesting.

  My wife Gayle, for too many reasons to list. Only someone who lives with a writer can understand how difficult that can be from time to time.

  Last, but definitely not least, you, the reader. You are why I do this. Thank you.

  About the Author

  Alex Lukeman writes action/adventure thrillers. He's a former Marine and psychotherapist and is the author of the award-winning books The Tesla Secret and High Alert. He likes riding old, fast motorcycles and playing guitar, usually not at the same time. You can email him at alex@alexlukeman.com. He loves hearing from readers and promises he will get back to you.

  *****

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  Did you love The Lair of Anubis? Then you should read High Alert by Alex Lukeman!

  When an American missile submarine is sunk in the Sea of Japan, it's the opening move in a madman's devious plan to plunge the world into war. A day later, the Chinese ambassador to Washington is assassinated. Meanwhile, the unstable leader of North Korea prepares to attack America with a terrible weapon.

  The U.S. President calls in the Project, a deep black ops unit that goes places and does things others can't or won't do. They've had tough assignments before: but this time they're up against an unknown enemy, a man bent on vengeance against all of humanity. He won't rest until the world is turned into a radioactive hell… and when it comes to the Project, it's personal.

  Can the Project team find him before he unleashes nuclear Armageddon?

 

 

  Alex Lukeman, The Lair of Anubis

 

 

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