But then a flash of red, a rush of heat, and six men leading their team up ahead disappeared in a blast of fire, rocks and collapsing sandstone. Screams and shouts. The others rushed ahead to help their buried comrades. Temple was yelling, pulling them back, barking that it was a trap, they’d been seen-
And then Orlando’s ears stopped ringing long enough to hear the mocking laughter at his back, accompanying the knife pressed against his throat.
The Eye dragged Orlando back, using his body as a shield as the Americans turned their weapons toward him, but the commander held up a hand to hold their fire.
“Let the mountain claim you!” the Eye yelled as he backed around a corner with his captive. He nodded to one his men, who paused long enough to ensure the forces were following—then pressed a button on a remote.
Orlando whimpered as another explosion rocked the tunnel, this time spitting out dust and rocky debris right past them.
The Eye nodded, satisfied, then continued hauling Orlando off, towards a passage they had skipped on the way down. “Your friends are dead. Or at the least, buried and running out of air. You’re alone now.”
Orlando grunted, choking for breath around the crushing grip of the big arm around his throat. But he managed to get a word out. “Phoebe?”
“Ah, the other bird has flown.” The Eye’s voice faltered. “Somewhere out of my reach, but only for the moment. Somewhere… never mind.” His eye blinked and lines of concern formed on his brow, then smoothed away. “But I have you now, and soon your song will join the Hummingbird’s.”
“I’m not helping you do anything.” Orlando forced his mouth to work. “You’ve got no leverage. Can’t threaten my elderly relatives to make me comply, so why don’t you just suck it, dickhead?”
In the flickering dark, the jeweled eye patch glinted and the lone eye narrowed into a feline slit that regarded him like a helpless, wounded mole. “I know you, Orlando Natch. I’ve spied you ever since your plane approached. Saw who you are, what you are.” His smile broadened and sickly yellow and brown teeth emerged from cracked lips. Orlando winced against the smell.
“Shouldn’t go snooping, you know.”
“Shut up and move, Mr. Natch. You’ll help, or when I find your precious girlfriend, and I will find her, I’ll make you wish you had.”
Orlando winced as something prodded his ribs, and then he stumbled forward, lurching to remain in balance. For a fleeting second he thought he could make a break for it, but then he was shoved ahead, flanked by four other foul-smelling soldiers, and marched toward the Hummingbird.
Her real name was Aria. And her father—Brian Greenmeyer, formerly of St. Louis, except for the past fifteen years ostensibly trying to spread the Word of God to the impoverished Afghan villagers—was in fact a deep-cover CIA agent. So deep he even fell in love, married and fathered a girl of exceptional talents. And found himself devoted to a people whose peaceful and practical existence in the face of such harsh conditions had led him to be the perfect agent. He still gave out the occasional report on Taliban and Al Qaeda activities, and ran courier information and gathered what intelligence he could from unsavory types that nonetheless trusted him, but his foremost mission in the past seven years had been to protect his daughter. To protect Aria.
Protect her from both the radical Muslims who would either kill her or use her for their own protection, and from the U.S. government. Brian knew about the history of the military’s involvement with psychics, and how they had often been treated as strategic assets, not as people.
He wouldn’t let that happen to her. But his options had run out. He had contacted Commander Temple, his old friend, weeks ago, after he had learned that the Eye was closing in on them in Kabul. Told Temple they were going into hiding—but for how long?
And now, his legs were broken and useless. Barely given enough food and water to stay conscious. He could scarcely think, and every minute he was awake, he could only writhe in agony in his chains, unable even to reach the cage where they’d imprisoned Aria.
The Hummingbird.
He smiled. The name fit. Some of her friends back in Kabul called her that because she liked to dart around, flapping her arms, and seemed to move faster than any kid should. Brian met her big blue eyes and he couldn’t help but smile, even as his heart cracked inside.
“I’m sorry, honey. I know I said I’d protect you.”
“Don’t worry, father. You did it. Brought the good guys here. They’re coming for me.”
Good guys? He shrugged. “Not so sure about that, baby, but I do think they’re better than who’s got us now.”
“They are. And they’ve brought others with them. Two people, like me. They’ll help me, you’ll see. But first, it’s time.” She brought her hands up, two fingers outstretched on each, and pressed them to her temples under the tangled strands of auburn.
“Time?”
“To leave the Eye without his protection. Time to drop the shield.”
“But—”
“It’s so she can find me. Get ready, father.”
He pulled himself up to his elbows, wincing in agony, gasping. Turned his body so he could drag himself to the wall of this tiny cul-de-sac. He glanced around the room, his mind clearing suddenly with a rush of adrenalin. He saw the oil lamp. A bunch of old rags. The water jug and bowl for their toilets. And his boots, there in the corner. Long laces still on them.
Perhaps he could rig a trap, trip the guards on their return, break the lamp and set one on fire, but then-
He was still useless to move, would never make it out, much less crawl to Aria’s cage to free her. But if someone else was coming, someone who could help…
“Sit tight, honey. Just try to see. Tell me who’s coming first. Everything you can see, every detail.”
The Hummingbird nodded rapidly as her fingers grasped the bars of her cage. And she closed her eyes and smiled.
“The Eye… he’s almost here…”
“Open your eyes,” the old man whispered. Which Phoebe thought was odd, since her eyes were already open. But she tried to obey him anyway. It seemed the right thing to do, the friendly thing for one who had just saved her life.
Her eyes opened, and she had the sudden impression that everything before this instant had been a dream, one that would quickly fade.
One second Phoebe had the impression of standing in thin air, over the precipice looking down at the fabled city below her dangling feet and thinking: this can’t be real; and the next, she was floating in space over a cratered lunar surface. The cold vastness of the void at her back, winking stars in all directions. Below…
Striated lines, deep gouges in the pock-marked gray-blue surface. A deep impact crater so deep it seemed it must reach the center and punch through.
Phobos, said the old man’s voice in her head.
And the moon turned, revolved as if in a sped-up move-frame, and a bright red glow filled her eyes, and she turned and caught her breath, dazzled at the immense, seething crimson planet looming into view. And below, directly below her feet now, lined up with the Phobos crater…
A familiar section of the planet, just north of the equator. Her mind’s eye expanded and the view enlarged and there, looking back at her—
The Face.
And more… emerging from the red sands… Enormous hands, a chest thrust outward. Two legs, the toes of massive feet. An entire statue shaking free of its dusty prison. The head was tilted back so the face was thrust toward the heavens, the eyes looking up. One arm was at its side, the other reaching, reaching… up… to her…