Icarus Adrift

By

Christopher Cartwright

Copyright 2025 by Christopher Cartwright

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter One

Atlantic Ocean – Present Day

Sam Reilly gripped the edge of the bridge to brace himself.

The Tahila groaned beneath the pressure of the waves as the Atlantic heaved and surged around her. Rain slammed against the reinforced hull like a barrage of stones, and the wind screamed through the rigging high above the bridge. Spray lashed over the bow, the sky a roiling mass of black and gray as the hurricane bore down.

Three days earlier, they had sailed out of Chesapeake Bay, steering away from the storm’s projected path. Matthew had reasoned it was safer to head into the open sea than remain near the coast, where the storm surge could box them in.

But nature didn’t play fair.

The hurricane had turned, circling like a predator, doubling back across its own trajectory, and now it hunted them in the deep. Swells rose like moving mountains, thirty – maybe forty – feet high. The Tahila climbed each one and dropped into the troughs with a bone-rattling crash, the entire ship shuddering beneath Sam’s boots.

Matthew stood at the electronic helm at the heart of the Tahila, his jaw set with a determined, yet equally sardonic grin, reminding Sam of an old pirate battling a storm to save his ship’s life. Sam tried to read the man’s grim expression. The man’s eyes were wide and alert, there was a tinge of genuine fear, but above all that, Sam couldn’t help but see a certain amount of joy in the man’s steely gray eyes. The skipper had spent his life battling the elements, but for the first time in many years, he was now up against a worthy opponent…

Keeping the Tahila afloat, was going to take all of his skills. 

The storm was everywhere. The horizon was gone. The world was water, motion, and thunder.

Then the proximity alarm began to wail.

A sharp, metallic tone pierced the air inside the command center – too fast, too close. Sam spun toward the main display.

Red warning lights blinked.

“Collision warning,” Tom muttered, eyes narrowing. “But there’s nothing on radar.”

“No transponder signal. No AIS. No heat signature.” Elise’s voice crackled from the console. “Nothing out there.”

Sam and Tom exchanged a glance, then moved together toward the forward hatch.

The moment Sam opened it the wind nearly tore it from his grip. He leaned into the gust, squinting through the torrent. Lightning forked across the sky – and for an instant, the entire sea lit up like polished obsidian.

Then he saw it.

A shape. Large, dark, low in the water – barely discernible among the chaos. But wrong. Wrong. Not a ship. Not a container. Not a wreck.

A house.

Sam blinked hard and stepped out farther, gripping the steel railing. Another bolt of lightning illuminated the scene in eerie clarity.

It was a two or possibly three story house, tilted to one side, bobbing between the swells like some haunted derelict torn from a shoreline. Its walls were intact, glass windows unbroken, the pitched roof solid despite the storm. Waves crashed against it, water rolling across its porch as if it belonged there.

Tom lifted the searchlight mounted to the deck and aimed it toward the drifting structure. The beam cut through the rain, jittering with the ship’s motion until it landed on a second-story window.

Behind the glass –

A face.

A woman.

She stood frozen behind the pane, hair plastered to her cheeks, hands pressed flat against the glass. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, locked on the Tahila.

A silent plea in the heart of a storm.

A soul adrift in the impossible.

Sam's breath caught. “There’s someone inside.”

Tom’s voice was low. “That’s a house, Sam. Out here. In the middle of the Atlantic.”

Lightning split the sky again.

Thunder cracked like cannon fire.

The Tahila pitched forward as another monstrous wave rose to meet them, but Sam didn’t look away.

The storm had chased them to the end of the world and now it had delivered something straight from a nightmare.

The house rode the waves as if it had been waiting for them.

Sam grabbed a life ring and a rope.

“What are you doing, Sam?”

Sam looked at the woman staring out at them through the window in the attic. “That woman’s going to die trapped there…”

“You can’t help her!” Tom argued.

Sam’s mouth was set with a grim line. “No, I can’t sit back and watch her die.”

Chapter Two

Sam knew he was about to do something very, very dumb.

If he gave it another second thought, he would know that if he survived, Amira was going to kill him for doing it.

The wind howled like a living thing, rattling the reinforced hull of the Tahila as she rose and fell with the towering Atlantic waves. Rain lashed across Sam’s face like needles. He squinted through the spray, watching as the house – the house – lifted and dropped in rhythm with the ship. One wave apart. Then two. On every third or fourth swell, the distance between them narrowed.

He tied the rope tightly around his waist and shoved the other end into Tom’s hands.

“Hold tight.”

Tom’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He seemed to collect himself immediately, turning toward the open hatchway, he yelled, “Veyron! Genevieve! Get up here with a tow rope… Sam’s about to do something incredibly stupid!”

Sam exchanged a quick glance with Tom, who was already tying off his end of the rope on a small cleat on the edge of the Tahila’s deck. The swell had brought both ships – could you call a floating house a ship? – within eight feet of each other.

It was the closest they had come together since Sam had reached the deck.

He nodded once, and then, before Tom could prevent him, he sprinted across the slick deck, boots slamming against the steel, and launched himself into the air. For a second, he was weightless above the madness of the ocean – and then he crashed down hard on the partially submerged roof, sliding and clawing until he reached a handhold.

Sam landed hard on the slanted, slick surface of the semi-submerged roof, his boots skidding across the wet shingles as the storm howled around him. The impact jarred his knees, but he kept moving, crawling on hands and elbows toward the nearest second-story window. Sea spray lashed at his face, stinging his eyes and flooding his mouth with salt. The roof shifted beneath him like a living thing – heaving, groaning, tilting dangerously as another massive swell passed underneath.

He reached the window just as the house lurched, bowing steeply toward the water. Sam’s stomach dropped. His body slid – gravity pulling him toward the raging sea below. Then, instinct took over. His hand shot upward and caught a narrow metal bar protruding from the eaves above the window – maybe part of an old antenna mount. His arm jerked violently, nearly wrenching from its socket, but he held on.

His heart thundered in his ears, louder even than the wind. For a few seconds, all he could hear was the ragged thump of his pulse and the roar of the waves crashing below. His legs dangled off the edge of the roof, but the bar held. He swung one knee back onto the slippery surface, clawed for grip, and hauled himself back toward the window, breathing hard.

Another swell rolled beneath the house – less steep this time – and the roof leveled just enough for him to flatten against it, chest heaving, fingers trembling from the near miss. The storm showed no sign of mercy.

Sam braced his boots against the slick shingles as another wave rolled beneath the floating house, tilting the roof just enough to make his balance shift. Rain lashed his back, and the rope in his hands strained with the drag of tension from the Tahila. He pulled steadily, hand over hand, the thinner lead rope hissing through the sea spray – until the weight shifted and he felt the resistance grow heavier.

The thick tow line had arrived.

He wrapped it twice around his forearm, gritting his teeth as he hauled it up the remaining few feet. At last, the heavy-duty rope – sodden, coarse, and salt-streaked – slapped against the rooftop.

Sam didn’t hesitate.

He turned toward the chimney at the apex of the house – a solid, modern structure made of smooth cement render over a reinforced stainless steel flue. It rose nearly four feet above the roofline, sleek and square-edged, its surface dotted with rain and fine cracks of salt residue.

He gripped it and gave a test shake.

Nothing moved. No creak. No flex. The chimney felt like it had been poured straight into the house’s bones.

“It will have to do,” he said to himself.

Working quickly, Sam looped the tow line around the chimney base, threading it low and tight to where the cement met the roof. He tied off the line using a double half hitch and then an extra wrap for insurance, his fingers working fast despite the wet and cold.

He gave the line a final tug.

It held.

The house and the Tahila were tethered now – two improbable vessels adrift together in the middle of the Atlantic.

The storm roared around him – lightning flickering across the clouds, the sky crackling with fury. The rain had a bitter, metallic taste, like old copper. The sea smelled of brine and ozone and distant chaos.

He hauled himself to the second-story window, gripping the frame as the house tilted and bucked. Behind the glass, a woman stood watching him, her face pale, framed by dark, wet hair. She raised one hand and pointed downward, mouthing something.

Sam looked at the glass. He withdrew a small, sharp knife from his cargo pants. The blade was sheathed. It wasn’t very big, but he always kept it on him when he was working with ropes, so he could cut a line if he needed to or if someone got entangle.

He turned the knife around so that he could use the stainless steel hilt to crack open the large window. It was big enough that the woman would be able to climb out, and then, when the floating house and the Tahila drifted closer together, Sam and the mysterious woman could jump back on board the Tahila, cut the rope, and motor away to safety.

The woman approached the window.

Sam steadied himself against the slant of the roof as another wave rolled beneath the floating house, sending a fresh spray of seawater into his face. Rain stung his skin. The storm howled overhead. He knelt just outside the second-story window, soaked and breathless, gripping the knife in his right hand. He turned it in his palm, raising the hilt and preparing to strike the glass—when a sudden movement caught his eye.

The woman had appeared.

She stepped up to the window from inside, her face pale in the flickering light. She looked to be in her mid-fifties – still striking, with a strong, defined jaw and gray eyes that held both sharpness and weariness. Thin, almost black eyebrows arched over her eyes, and between them, a deep groove had formed, as if concern had been carved into her face over years rather than days.

Her expression now was filled with that of concern… and another emotion that Sam couldn’t quite place. She wore a summer dress – light fabric with soft pastel tones. It seemed almost absurd in the context of the storm, like she’d stepped from another world and forgotten to change. In one hand, she held a half-full glass of red wine, the stem gripped lightly, the liquid sloshing gently as the house rocked.

Sam shouted over the wind, “Back away from the window!”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t seem to understand.

Sam reversed the knife, tapped the back of the hilt against the glass – soft at first, then again, a little harder. Trying to show her what he intended. He gestured for her to step back.

But she simply watched him, her head tilted slightly, gray eyes focused and unwavering. Then, she shook her head, once.

Firmly.

As though to say: You could do that all day… but it won’t work.

Sam frowned.

He hit the window harder. Then harder. Again.

The knife hilt bounced uselessly off the surface. No cracks. Not even a spiderweb. Just a dull, hollow thunk.

He paused, breathing heavily now, soaked to the bone and starting to understand.

The window wasn’t glass. Not normal glass, anyway. Some kind of reinforced Perspex. Maybe not quite bulletproof, but not far off it. Sam ran his eyes across the roof and the rest of the visible parts of the adrift house. Everything looked normal, but now he was realizing the entire thing wasn’t at all what it seemed.

Sam lowered the knife, his breath fogging briefly against the smooth, impenetrable surface of the window. The woman inside had stepped back, watching him with calm resignation, as if she had long since accepted the strange logic of the world around her.

He turned his gaze away and let his eyes scan across the roof.

At first glance, it looked ordinary – just a stylish, steeply pitched rooftop with rows of dark gray shingles arranged in neat symmetry. But the longer he looked, the more he realized that nothing about it was what it seemed. The shingles weren’t slate or ceramic. They had a dull, metallic sheen, the kind that caught the light differently with each shift of the storm clouds. Sam reached out and touched one.

Cool. Dense. Seamless.

They felt like some kind of space-age composite – not just waterproof, but impervious. No erosion. No chipping. Not even a fleck of damage despite the hurricane raging around them. Every element of the roof had been engineered, not just constructed. It was ornamental only in the way a stealth bomber was sleek – form disguised as function.

Perched on the slanted rooftop, his breath still fogging from the failed attempt to break the window, Sam shifted his weight and scanned the rest of the structure, rain streaming down his face. The house rocked beneath him with the rhythm of the Atlantic swells, rising and falling like a beast breathing in its sleep.

His eyes drifted toward the far end of the roof.

There, barely visible through the storm’s haze and veils of spray, was an array of solar panels –sleek, dark, and angled with mathematical precision. Unlike the fragile-looking ornamental shingles beneath his boots, the panels gleamed with a sheen that told him everything he needed to know. These weren’t just for show. They were industrial-grade, hurricane-resistant, likely triple-layer laminated and embedded in a steel mounting rail. Built not only to survive this kind of weather – but to thrive in it.

Sam narrowed his eyes, rain blurring his vision. Even now, battered by wind and rain, the panels showed no sign of damage. No cracked glass. No missing brackets. Not even a single bolt out of place.

His eyes tracked back to the window, now beaded with rain and sea spray. The pane was thick, without any of the faint warping glass usually revealed under pressure. Whatever it was made from, it was stronger than glass. Likely bullet-resistant. Possibly shatterproof. The frame was sealed flush to the structure, watertight by design.

That’s when the realization clicked into place.

The house wasn’t just afloat – it had been engineered to prevent water from getting inside – most likely some sort of flood mitigation design that got pulled into the ocean.

Sam stepped back slightly and imagined the shape beneath the surface. Eighty percent of its bulk would be hidden under the waves, just like an iceberg. It would need a dense base – probably concrete or some heavy ballast chamber – low enough to keep it upright in rough seas. Like a keel in a sailing ship.

And with that weight below, combined with the airtight shell of the upper levels – those impenetrable windows and the composite roof – the structure would maintain buoyancy.

Sam lowered the knife slightly, finally catching on to what the woman had been trying to tell him all along.

She gestured downward, her free hand rising to indicate the sea beneath them.

Then mouthed the words slowly and deliberately. “You have to enter from underwater… there’s an open garage.”

Sam nodded once, understanding.

He slipped the knife back into its sheath, drew three steadying breaths, and prepared to dive.

Chapter Three

Sam glanced back toward the Tahila.

Through the rain and spray, he spotted Tom and Veyron on the aft deck, silhouettes against the shimmering light of the ship’s floodlamps. The thick rope connecting the two vessels stretched taut between them, dipping and rising with the swell. Tom had let out more than a hundred feet of line, letting the heavier floating house drift just far enough to avoid colliding with the Tahila’s hull. Any closer, and the sheer mass of the structure might have crushed her – or pulled them both under.

Sam raised his arms and gestured clearly, pointing to the water, then down… miming a dive. He saw Tom’s confused expression at first, a quick shake of the head. Then understanding bloomed on his face, followed immediately by frantic waving, trying to stop him. Too dangerous. Too deep. Too unstable.

Sam ignored him.

He slid carefully down the slanted, semi-submerged roof, water rushing over his boots as another wave slapped against the base of the house. The rain chilled him, but adrenaline kept him focused. He reached into the side pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out a compact wrist flashlight. With ease experience, he strapped it tight – just like he did before entering tight cave systems.

Sam looked at the dark water. “I wish I had a dive mask.”

But there was no time for that now.

He inhaled several – quick, deep breaths to flood his blood with oxygen and blow off any excess carbon dioxide – and plunged into the Atlantic.

The cold was immediate and stunning. Darkness enveloped him almost at once as the surface light dimmed and the ocean swallowed him whole. He kicked hard, blinking against the burn of saltwater in his eyes.

Just ahead, he spotted a faint outline: a maintenance ladder, bolted into the side of the house. The top rung just barely breached the flooded rooftop. He grabbed it with one hand and pulled himself downward, descending headfirst along the structure's edge. Each rung was slick, but solid. He moved quickly, methodically.

The building shifted beneath him, swaying slightly in the current. Every swell rocked the house, a sluggish rolling motion that threatened to pin him against the wall or throw him off entirely. It was like swimming down the side of a moving whale.

As the pressure increased, he swallowed to equalize his ears, the familiar pop echoing in his head. The ambient light vanished almost completely, swallowed by depth and storm churn.

He flicked on the flashlight.

The narrow beam pierced the gloom… and there it was.

The garage, at the very bottom of the structure. The roller door was partially torn open, twisted on one side, leaving a narrow gap just wide enough to squeeze through. Sam paused for half a second, then kicked forward and slipped into the darkness.

Inside, the beam of light revealed gleaming metal.

A black Mercedes G-Wagon, shimmering like some surreal monument beneath the waves. But what struck Sam was the position – the vehicle was almost perpendicular to the garage door, yet it had previously, clearly slammed against the interior wall, crushing part of the garage door from the inside.

The storm hadn’t done the damage.

Something – or someone – inside had tried to escape.

He swam past the wreckage and through an open internal door, kicking through what had once been a pristine living space. The decor was high-end – sleek lines, floating shelves, glass tables –now all gently swaying in the water, curtains drifting like seaweed. Tiny fish darted in and out of what had once been a luxury designer lounge.

Then he spotted the staircase.

He kicked toward it, hand skimming the banister as he swam upward through the submerged stairwell, climbing through the structure floor by floor. The building swayed around him, groaning as it shifted in the ocean’s grip.

Another flight.

Then another.

And finally –

His head broke the surface.

Sam gasped, drawing in a chest full of warm, humid air. He grabbed the nearest railing and held on as the house rocked. Above him, the faint creak of movement. Somewhere in the next room, the woman was waiting.

He pulled himself onto the landing and sat there for a moment, soaked, panting, eyes wide as he looked around the watertight third story.

Sam lay there a moment, letting the seawater pour from his clothes and lungs. The interior was dim, lit only by the pulsing flashes from the storm outside. Thunder rumbled like distant artillery. After a few seconds, Sam sat up, blinking. The room was sleek, modern – elegant. Polished concrete floors, glass balustrades, chrome fittings. The top floor was sealed and watertight, like the superstructure of a submersible house. Expensive. Engineered. Possibly even deliberately.

Etched into the wall, large and prominent was an image.

It was a depiction of a young man plummeting from the sky, arms flung wide, wings in tatters as the sun blazed above him.

Icarus.

He recognized the symbol from Greek mythology.

Sam’s breathing slowed.

Footsteps echoed on the wet floor behind him.

He turned as a figure stepped from the shadows.

She was beautiful. Long dark hair, high cheekbones, and intelligent blue-green eyes that held just enough sorrow to make them dangerous. She wore a floral summer’s dress but carried herself like someone who lived in this house, not merely survived inside it. If he had to guess, she was somewhere roughly between mid-fifties and sixty years old.

“Hello, Sam Reilly.” The woman made an enigmatic and knowing smile as she met his gaze. “I wondered how long it would take you to show up…”

Chapter Four

“I’m Lisa Green,” the woman introduced herself.

“Nice to meet,” Sam said, a puzzled grin on his lips. “Um… I’m sorry, do I know you?”

She shook her head, and her lips parted in a mischievous grin, revealing a nice set of teeth. “No. I don’t think so.”

Sam pressed his lips together. “And yet you recognized me at a glance?”

“Not really, to honest.” The woman laughed. “It was just a lucky guess.”

“Some guess.”

“It would appear so.”

“Seriously?” Sam asked. “There are thousands of names in the world, and you just happened to guess mine?”

“Technically, the odds were in my favor.”

“Oh really?” Sam’s brow knitted together. “How so?”

“Adam Gray, my business partner wanted to bring you in on a project we were working on.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Sam suppressed a grin. “Lisa Green and Adam Gray… seriously, you went into business together?”

“I wouldn’t read too much into it if I were you.”

“Right,” Sam said. “You’ve heard about what I do?”

“Not really.”

Sam’s lips shifted into a bemused smile. “So what do you know about me, other than the fact I was the most likely person to come to your rescue in the middle of the Atlantic?”

“Nothing at all.”

“And yet you were expecting me?”

“My business partner said that he’d read about some of the projects you’ve been involved in and thought it was time to bring you in to help with the expertise required on a very specific project we’re working on.”

“Only it didn’t happen?”

“No. He was about to but something came up…”

“What was that?”

She pressed her lips together. “Hurricane Idalia.”

Chapter Five

Sam recalled Hurricane Idalia. It was one of the biggest hurricanes to make landfall in Florida in a number of years.

He tilted his head, as though something just occurred to him.

“But Idalia was more than two years ago…”

A massive wave hit the floating house.

Sam braced as water flowed over the exterior ceiling and windows, and for a split-second he worried the entire house was going to be enveloped and swallowed whole by the ocean.

“That’s right. Idalia was just over two years and three months now.” Lisa smiled warmly. “Here, I made you a cup of coffee.”

Sam grinned.

They were on a modern house, floating in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean…

During a massive storm.

And now, a woman he’s never met… was offering him a warm cup of coffee. “Pardon?”

“Coffee. I thought it might help and warm you up.” The woman glanced out the window at the violent tempest outside. “It looks like we might be here a while.”

“You’ve been out here for two and a bit years?” Sam asked, incredulously.

“Not by choice, dear.”

Sam touched the side of the house. It felt like touching stone. “This thing is solid out here on the sea, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I don’t like to invoke the wrath of the gods, but I daresay, unlike the Titanic, the Icarus is unsinkable.”

Sam tilted his head slightly, studying Lisa as she spoke. There was something unusual about the way she had referred to the house, as though it were more than just a structure floating aimlessly in the Atlantic.

“Icarus?” Sam repeated, a curious expression crossing his face. “As in the Greek myth?”

Lisa smiled faintly and nodded. “Uh-huh. That’s the one.”

He leaned against the nearest wall, his brow furrowing. “Interesting name for a house. What’s the story?”

She exhaled softly, her gaze drifting toward the wide glass windows, where the endless ocean shimmered under a thin veil of cloud. “Well, you know the myth of Icarus – Daedalus’ son, who flew too close to the sun on wings of wax? It’s a story about ambition without caution, about what happens when hubris gets in the way of wisdom.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at her off the cuff explanation of Icarus. People often went to university for years to understand ancient Greek mythology with such clarity.

“I wanted a reminder of that,” Lisa continued. “So, when I founded my AI tech start-up, I called it Icarus. Not because I planned to fail, but because I wanted to remember the danger of overreaching. The entire AI system – the mainframe, the processors, all of it – is built into this house. The house itself was designed around Icarus’ needs, using the cold seawater as a cooling system for the supercomputer running inside these walls. That’s why I built it on the coast of Florida.”

She let out a resigned sigh. “The engineers told me the house would be safe from hurricanes, and I suppose they were right – just not in the way I’d hoped.”

Sam’s lips curved into a dry grin. “So you named your house after a flawed Greek craftsman?”

Lisa laughed, the sound carrying an edge of irony. “No, not quite. Icarus was never just about the house. But now… the lines are blurred. The AI and this building are so interconnected, they’re practically indistinguishable. These days, I just call the house Icarus. It feels… appropriate.”

Sam’s eyes lingered on her for a moment, the faintest flicker of admiration in his expression. “Appropriate,” he repeated quietly. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Sam stood at the wide glass window, his eyes fixed on the thick rope that tethered the Tahila to Icarus. The wind howled, driving sheets of rain sideways across the surface of the ocean. Each violent surge of the waves sent a shudder through the house, and the tow rope strained under the weight, the fibers creaking audibly with each pull. One good snap, and it would be gone. Worse still, if the rope held and Icarus was thrown against the Tahila, the motor yacht wouldn’t stand a chance. It would be crushed like a toy with the first hard collision.

Sam lifted the satellite phone, dialing Tom’s number with damp fingers.

The line clicked and Tom’s voice came through, sharp and familiar. “You’re alive, despite your best efforts to get yourself killed.”

Sam allowed himself a wry smile. “So it would seem,” he replied. “How are you all doing over there?”

“We’re okay,” Tom said, though the tension in his voice gave him away. “But Matthew’s really quite keen to get us out of here. Are you almost ready to make the transfer back here with your mysterious woman?”

Sam’s gaze drifted back to the raging sea between the two vessels.

The gap was a death trap now – wild water and jagged, unpredictable motion. No. There was no way he would attempt that crossing again, not in this weather, and not with Lisa.

“Look,” Sam said firmly. “Tell Matthew to cut the tow rope and get the Tahila out of harm’s way.”

There was a short silence on the line. “You’re not coming back over?”

“No. We’ll ride out the storm here,” Sam said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Once it’s safe, we’ll cross over to you.”

Tom hesitated before speaking again. “Do you think the house will stay afloat that long?”

Sam looked around Icarus, his eyes tracing the reinforced walls and watertight seals, then back out at the towering waves slamming against its base. He didn’t know. The engineers had promised this place could withstand a Category 5 hurricane – they just didn’t realize it would be ripped from its foundations on the coastal seabed and dragged out to sea.

Sam squared his jaw. “I think we’ll be safer riding this storm out on board Icarus…”

Chapter Six

Matilda sat at the very stern of the Tahila, legs stretched out in front of her along the narrow, gently sloping passageway that ran the full length of the ship’s interior. The dim emergency lighting flickered slightly as the storm tossed the vessel. She wrapped one arm around the steel support beam behind her and the other around Excalibur, the golden retriever puppy curled in her lap, his fur warm and silky against her arms.

His purple eyes blinked up at her with innocent curiosity, the kind that made her forget, if only for a moment, that there was danger outside.

Farther up the passageway, Caliburn stood just outside the Mission Room. He didn’t move, but his big brown eyes followed them, slow and steady. His head tilted slightly, the corners of his mouth drawn down in a look of quiet canine disapproval. If he could have spoken, Matilda knew he would have said something wise and boring like this is a terrible idea.

Too late.

The Tahila climbed a massive wave and then dropped – hard and fast. The deck beneath her seemed to vanish.

Matilda held tight to the support beam, grinning wide. “Here we go!”

A second later, she let go.

She and Excalibur launched.

They slid down the smooth flooring, Excalibur’s paws splayed comically as the ship’s pitch turned the hallway into a perfect, wave-powered slide. Matilda screamed – part terror, mostly delight – laughing uncontrollably as they flew past the Mission Room, past the galley, down the gently lit tunnel of the ship.

They crashed gently into the padded bulkhead just inside the bridge, where Matthew was gripping the helm, eyes locked on the console, his jaw tight as he fought the controls.

Matilda picked herself up quickly, Excalibur shaking out his ears beside her. She glanced at Matthew.

“Again!” she cried, and turned to run.

She bolted back up the corrido, but this time, didn’t get far.

Her mother stood there with a worried expression on her face.

Amira.

Matilda stopped in her tracks.

Her mom’s hands rested low on her belly now, her pregnancy starting to show in earnest. She looked tired – more than tired. Her skin was pale, lips pressed tight, and her eyes… her eyes weren’t watching Matilda.

They were watching something inside herself.

Matilda blinked. “Mom?”

Amira’s gaze flicked to her, then to Caliburn, who had come to stand sagely at her side, ever the sentinel.

It was a strange moment – no anger, no scolding. Just a deep, weary breath as Amira’s hand settled protectively over her belly.

“At least the kids are having fun,” she said softly to Caliburn..

But something in her voice didn’t sound like her at all.

Matilda stepped closer. “What’s wrong?”

Her mother looked down at her, her eyes glassy, distant. “The Tahila’s had to drop its tow rope and separate from that strange floating house.”

Matilda nodded. “I overheard Matthew and Tom discussing it.”

“Your dad’s had to stay on board that mysterious floating house.”

“I know. I heard that too. Tom didn’t sound happy about it.”

Her mom said, “If I’m honest, I’m not all too keen on it.”

Matilda drew a breath and sighed. “Oh, that’s all this is about. I thought something was seriously wrong.”

“It is,” her mom replied. “Your dad’s gone to rescue some mysterious stranger on an even more mysterious floating house in the middle of the Atlantic… and now Matthew’s had to leave Sam until the storm abates.”

Matilda nodded with the maturity of someone much older than her five-year-old self, and then said, “I’m not worried.”

Her mom suppressed a grin. “Really?”

“No. Every kid I know – and admittedly, I don’t know that many – think their dads have these super powers, and can do anything they put their mind to. It’s all make believe of course. But in my case, my dad really is a super hero.” She placed a reassuring arm around her mom. “Just you watch, dad’s going to come out of this one fine…”

Matilda looked at her mom.

She’d never seen her so worked up over something. “Okay.” A crease formed between her brows. She wished there was something she could do for her mom to make her feel better.

Matilda hugged her in silence.

Her mom finally lifted her eyes, and her face dropped. “You know your dad’s going to be all right?”

“Yeah, I know,” Matilda replied, dutifully.

“No,” her mom met her eye, her mouth set with determination. “I’m serious. He’s going to make it through this thing…”

A secret smile touched Matilda’s lips. There was something knowing about it. A sort of maturity beyond her years. She said, “I know mom.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do.”

“Really?”

“It’s dad.” Matilda laughed. “I mean, it’s just a little rain and a bit of wind. Nothing dad can’t handle…”

“He’s trapped on a house that shouldn’t even float!” Her mom pressed her lips together. “And he’s in the middle of the ocean in a terrible storm…”

Matilda patted Excalibur and lifted the small puppy onto her mom’s lap, as though patting Excalibur might comfort her mom, too. “It’s okay. You know dad can swim, right?”

“Yes, dear… but it’s a very big storm.”

Matilda grinned. “That’s okay. Dad’s a very good swimmer.”

Chapter Seven

Sam glanced out the single window from the pitched roof.

He watched the Tahila leave and hoped he wasn’t making the worst mistake of his life…

Lisa handed Sam a soft white towel, her eyes flicking briefly to the puddle forming beneath him on the polished floor. “Here,” she said, holding out a set of dry clothes. They were gray track pants and a loose sweatshirt, both of which looked far too big to have been hers.

“Thanks,” Sam said, raising an eyebrow, and Lisa seemed to catch the question forming on his face.

“These were Adam’s,” she explained with a casual shrug. “He used to live here almost as much as I did.” Her tone was neutral, but something unreadable lingered behind her words. She gestured down the hallway. “There’s a bathroom if you want to get changed, while I light the fire.”

Sam nodded. “Thanks.”

The bathroom was unlike anything he’d expected. It was larger than any bathroom he had ever owned, with sleek marble tiles that gleamed under recessed lighting. A massive freestanding bathtub, carved from a single block of white marble, dominated one side of the room. To his surprise, it was filled with still water, as if waiting for someone. He pushed the thought aside, dried himself with the plush towel, and slipped into the track pants and sweatshirt. The clothes were a little loose but warm and comfortable.

When he returned a few minutes later, the fireplace was already alive, the flames crackling and casting a soft golden glow across the living space. Lisa was crouched by the hearth, arranging a few more pieces of firewood, her face glowing in the flickering light.

Sam sank into a chair by the fire, leaning forward to soak in the warmth. His damp hair steamed slightly in the heat, and for a moment, the storm raging outside felt far away.

Lisa glanced at the pile of wet clothes in his arms and gestured with a nod. “I’ll throw these in the dryer for you.”

Sam smiled faintly. “You have a dryer?”

She gave him a look. “Don’t you in your house?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, “but I wasn’t exactly expecting you to still have power out here.”

Lisa’s lips curved into a small smile. “Icarus has an array of solar panels and a house battery,” she said. “We have all the creature comforts – except, of course, dry land.”

Sam chuckled softly at that, leaning back in the chair as the warmth of the fire finally began to settle deep into his bones.

Sam looked around at the extreme wealth that he imagined poured into the luxurious mansion that housed Icarus. Whatever she’d been working on, it must have been quite profitable.

Lisa seemed to catch his eye again. “What is it?”

“Nothing. I was just curious what Icarus was working on.”

“We were working on Icarus. Training the linguistic neural pathways that would eventually form the core of its AI processing plant.”

“Sure. There’s many AI startups these days. Looking around, I think it’s fair to say whatever you and your partner were working on, it must have been successful.”

“It did okay,” she admitted.

“Only out of curiosity, what were you working on?”

Lisa drew a breath. “Have you ever heard of the Well of Ra?”

Chapter Eight

The Well of Ra

Sam sat back in the deep leather armchair, cradling a steaming mug of coffee in both hands. The fire crackled in the wide stone hearth, its warmth fighting off the chill that had settled into Icarus during the storm. Outside, waves slapped softly against the walls, the storm’s rage now reduced to a muted hiss on the windows.

Lisa sat opposite him, legs folded beneath her, her own mug balanced carefully on her knee. The flickering light of the fire threw sharp highlights across her face, accentuating the tension in her features. She had the look of someone who’d been holding a secret for too long.

“You’ve heard of the Well of Ra?” she asked, her green-blue eyes locked on him.

Sam shook his head. “Not beyond the mythology. Something about the Egyptians worshipping Ra as the source of life, right?”

Lisa nodded slowly. “That’s the story everyone knows. But Ra wasn’t just a sun god to them. He was power – literal, tangible power. The Well of Ra was real, Sam. It was an ancient machine, a solar forge, capable of pulling energy from cosmic rays and focusing it into one place. With it, they could create gold from base materials.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me they were performing nuclear fusion three thousand years ago?”

“Not exactly fusion,” Lisa said, shaking her head. “More like… focused transmutation. Imagine a magnifying glass concentrating sunlight, only this was magnified a thousand times through crystalline chambers buried deep underground. The obelisks were keys – cosmic tuning forks. Each one was carved with subtle inscriptions and angles designed to resonate with a specific celestial alignment. When all of them are ‘locked’ into place – either physically or mathematically – the Well can be activated.”

Sam took a slow sip of coffee, watching her carefully. “And what happens when it’s activated?”

Lisa stared into the fire for a long moment. “Gold is created, yes. But the process requires so much raw energy that it unleashes something else. A cosmic blast – pure radiation, focused like a beam weapon. It’s powerful enough to obliterate anything in its path. Entire landscapes, maybe even cities.”

“Is that why the Egyptians buried it?”

She nodded. “They realized what they’d built was too dangerous. So they sealed it away, scattered the obelisks, and hid the knowledge in pieces so no one could ever find it again. Except… Adam and I did.”

Sam set his mug down on the table beside him. “You’re saying Icarus helped you figure it out?”

Lisa smiled faintly, but there was no pride in it. “At first, we just used Icarus as a test case. We wanted to see if an AI could decode lost languages faster than any human researcher. It worked. Icarus started finding patterns in the hieroglyphics carved on obelisks all over the world – patterns no human mind had ever noticed. The more we fed it data, the more it pieced together a map. At first, it felt like a game – a proof of concept. But then…”

Her voice trailed off.

“Then what?” Sam prompted.

“Then Icarus started telling us what would happen if the Well was reactivated. It calculated the energy output, the likely trajectory of the blast, the destruction it would cause. Adam didn’t care. He saw only the gold, the wealth, the power. But me…” She exhaled sharply and looked up at him. “I realized this wasn’t something that could ever fall into the wrong hands.”

Sam studied her face. “And now Adam is trying to find the last obelisk?”

“Yes,” Lisa said. “If he locks all of them into place, he can open the Well. And if that happens –”

“It’ll be a disaster,” Sam finished for her.

Lisa’s eyes burned with a mix of determination and fear. She leaned forward, her voice quiet but unshakable.

“That’s why we need to reach the last of the obelisks before Adam does.”

Chapter Nine

Sam leaned forward in his chair, the warmth of the fire flickering across his face. His mug of coffee rested on his knee, untouched, as he studied Lisa. The storm outside had settled to a dull rumble, but the way her green-blue eyes caught the firelight made it feel like there was still a tempest in the room.

“How did you even come to hear of the Well of Ra?” Sam asked, his voice low, as though the very name carried weight.

Lisa cradled her mug with both hands, staring into the flames as if they held the memory. “It started with the Rosetta Stone,” she said. “We were training Icarus – feeding it every known inscription, fragment, and photograph we could get. But we didn’t just want translations. We wanted it to find patterns, anomalies – things humans might overlook. And it did.”

Sam tilted his head slightly. “Anomalies?”

She nodded. “The Rosetta Stone has been studied for centuries, but Icarus found something no one had ever noticed before – microscopic variations in the depth and spacing of the hieroglyphics. Almost like a watermark or a hidden signature. When Icarus mapped the anomalies, they formed a secondary inscription – one deliberately carved into the stone for those with the means to see it.”

Sam leaned back, absorbing this. “And what did it say?”

Lisa’s gaze lifted to meet his. “It referenced a temple buried under the sands of Heliopolis. It spoke of something called the ‘Well of Ra.’ The phrase we kept seeing was: ‘It can make the sky bleed gold.’ At first, we thought it was just poetry, a metaphor for the sun. We didn’t realize it was something far more literal.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “So when did you start connecting this to the obelisks?”

“That came later,” Lisa said. She set her mug down on the table and leaned forward, her voice tightening with focus. “We began scanning other obelisks, just to see if similar anomalies existed. They did. And not just decorative carvings – patterns of numbers, celestial markers. Icarus began aligning them like pieces of a puzzle, cross-referencing their original positions in Egypt with astronomical charts. What emerged was a kind of cosmic map.”

“A map to the Well of Ra?” Sam asked.

“Yes,” Lisa said. “The obelisks were never just monuments – they were keys. Each one is mathematically aligned with a particular constellation or solar event. When all the keys are aligned, the Well of Ra can be triggered. That’s when we realized this wasn’t just myth. It was a machine. A dangerous one.”

Sam took a long sip of his coffee, his mind racing. “And Adam?”

Lisa’s lips tightened. “He sees only the gold – the potential wealth. He doesn’t care what happens to the rest of the world if it’s activated.” She reached for her mug again, her expression hardening. She said, “That’s why we need to reach the last of the obelisks before Adam does.”

Sam blinked, his brow furrowing as he tried to piece it all together. “But all of these obelisks,” he said slowly, “they’ve been moved over the past several hundred years. Even if they were once aligned with the stars, that alignment is gone. There’s no way they can activate anything now.”

Lisa’s expression darkened. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her coffee forgotten on the table. “No, Sam. You’re missing the point.”

He frowned. “The point?”

“This wasn’t a random scattering of monuments. This wasn’t just history happening to them,” she said, her voice sharpening like a blade. “Someone’s been planning this for thousands of years, through hundreds of generations. The relocations weren’t accidents or acts of diplomacy. They were part of a larger design.”

Sam felt the weight of her words sink in. “What are you saying?”

Lisa’s lips pressed together into a grim, thin line. Her green-blue eyes glinted in the firelight, resolute. “I’m saying that all these so-called ‘gifts’ from Egypt to Rome, Paris, London, New York –they weren’t gifts of friendship or goodwill. They were moves in a game we never knew existed. Someone, maybe a secret order or lineage, has been quietly orchestrating the global placement of these obelisks, locking in the ancient keys one by one.”

Sam stared at her, the crackle of the fire the only sound between them. “You’re telling me this entire thing… has been waiting to happen?”

Lisa nodded once, the faintest tremor in her jaw. “And now, after all this time, we’re only one step away. All it will take is someone to activate the final obelisk. Then the Well of Ra will run free.”

Chapter Ten

Lisa’s eyes welled with tears.

Sam said, “I’m sorry, are you all right?”

“Yes, it’s not the story. One of my contact lenses has been giving me trouble. I normally replace them every thirty days, but it’s been a little hard lately to get to an optometrist.”

“I’ll bet,” Sam agreed.

Sam seemed to study her for a moment. “I’m sorry, you’re really sure we haven’t met before?”

“I don’t think so,” she replied, her voice soothing.

“I just thought I saw recognition in your eyes when you saw me, and I feel this sort of connection. You remind me of someone, that’s all.”

Lisa gave a reassuring smile. “No, I only recognized you because I assumed Adam Gray would have paid a fortune to have you find me.”

“Find you?” Sam asked.

She shrugged. “Well, not really me… Icarus to be exact.”

“What exactly is Icarus?”

“It’s a computer program I created…”

“And Adam?” Sam asked. “Is he your husband?”

“No, just my business partner. I knew he would stop at nothing to get Icarus back.” Lisa frowned. “Wait… Adam didn’t send you?”

“I’ve never heard of Adam Gray before tonight, much let alone that he’s sent me somewhere…” Sam paused. Something catching in his throat. “Does Adam happen to own a small, black submarine?”

“Yes, that would be him.”

“Ah, then my crew have met him… he attacked my ship a few weeks ago. Someone said something about wanting me to find something… the psychopath made the mistake of threatening my wife.”

A crease formed above her brow. “Yes, that would be Adam. He’s not a bad guy, but he’s willing to do anything to achieve his goals.”

Sam paused. “Wait… how long have you been stuck adrift out here?”

Lisa gave a forlorn smile. “Well, it happened during hurricane Idalia.”

Sam frowned. “Hurricane Idalia was more than two years ago…”

Lisa nodded. “Uh-huh, that sounds about right.”

“And you’ve been out here on your own, all that time?”

“Yes.”

“That must be one hell of a story.”

“It’s less exciting than you might think it to be.”

“I doubt it.”

“Would you like to hear it?” Lisa asked. “I mean, judging by the storm, I think we might just have the time…”

Sam smiled. “Sure, I’d love to here.”

Lisa grinned. “Very good, I’ll put the kettle back on. Are you hungry?”

“No, I’m fine. But help yourself.” Sam looked at the open fireplace. “How do you get firewood delivered out here?”

She laughed. “When the seas are calm, I collect driftwood and dry it for the fire.”

Sam looked at her. “So tell me, how did you get stuck out in the middle of the Atlantic?”

Lisa’s eyes clouded over, and he could see her mind turned to the past. She suppressed a defiant grin, and said, “It started, as so many stories start… with one hell of a fight…”

Chapter Eleven

Lafayette Blue Springs State Park – Florida

The electric black Mercedes G-Wagon thundered down the rain-slicked road, its wide tires flinging up twin sprays of water in its wake. Lisa Green sat tall behind the wheel, her knuckles white on the leather-clad steering wheel. Her mouth was set in a hard, unwavering line – no room for fear, no patience for second-guessing. Her green-blue eyes were sharp, focused, the color of Caribbean surf on a clear day – though today they shimmered with a steel resolve.

As the G-Wagon roared past Lafayette Blue Springs State Park, Lisa cast a glance to her right. The springs, usually radiant with a surreal, genie-blue glow, were now dark, their surface churning. Ominous. The aquifer-fed pools that had once felt like doorways into another world – where she and Adam had spent countless weekends cave diving – now looked like portals to something much more hostile.

Just like what she was about to face.

She followed the Suwannee River southeast, the storm clouds ahead rolling low and fast, the sky bruised and roiling with dread. She had to reach Icarus. Nothing else mattered. Not the barricades. Not the police. Not even her own safety. The house was more than a home – it was a legacy, a dream rendered in concrete, titanium, and code.

At Mayo, she caught sight of a line of cars stretching endlessly northward – families evacuating, headlights piercing the gloom, some trailers swaying precariously in the gusting wind. At the base of the traffic jam, two police cruisers had blocked the southern route.

Lisa slowed only slightly.

A police officer stepped in front of her, palm outstretched, drenched in rain.

“You can’t go through there, ma’am,” he said.

Lisa rolled down her ballistic-resistant window just a crack. “I have an animal at my house. A dog. You need to let me through.”

The officer shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You should’ve gotten out hours ago. Any pets should have been evacuated yesterday. I can’t let you risk your life for a dog.”

Lisa’s jaw clenched. She gave him a tight nod, rolled the window back up, and without a moment’s pause, gunned the accelerator.

The Mercedes was powered by four separate electric engines, and it lurched forward with a jolt. The officer jumped back, eyes wide, diving clear as the G-Wagon smashed through the rear quarter panel of one of the patrol cars, sending shards of plastic and steel spinning across the road.

Horns blared. Tires squealed. But Lisa didn’t slow.

The G-Wagon tore down Florida 51, barreling southbound against a sea of oncoming traffic. Headlights flashed at her, horns blared, drivers leaned out of windows yelling warnings or curses. One car skidded slightly to avoid her, but Lisa held the center line with icy precision. Her windshield wipers worked furiously, barely keeping up with the sheets of rain now hammering down. The sound of the engine growling through the storm was like a war drum beneath her feet.

She pressed harder.

The sky darkened.

The air grew thick and heavy.

And then she saw it – Keaton Beach.

The road narrowed as she entered the private estate, the storm surge already lapping across the edges of the asphalt. At the end of the strip, rising above the sea like a monument to defiance, stood Icarus.

A three-story modern fortress of glass, steel, and stone. Elevated well above the waterline, the house sat atop reinforced concrete pylons, with a single, narrow driveway that arched like a bridge over the shallows. It looked like an island – a lighthouse for the digital age.

Lisa pulled up to the garage and pressed the remote clipped to the visor. The large steel door hummed open, revealing the glowing interior of the lower floor.

She drove inside.

The G-Wagon’s tires hissed against the polished concrete as she brought it to a halt. She shifted into park, killed the engine – do you still refer to an electric motor as an engine? – and pressed the close button for the garage. The door descended smoothly behind her, sealing her in, and she felt her ears gently pop as it created an airtight seal.

Lisa opened the driver’s door and stepped out into the dry, insulated calm of the house. She stood there a moment, breathing heavily, listening to the storm rage just beyond the walls, and watched the garage door settle into place with a final, resonant thud.

She was inside.

She had made it.

Now all she had to do was survive.

Chapter Twelve

Keaton Beach Florida

The house stood like a mirage at the edge of Keaton Beach.

It was an architectural marvel raised entirely above the shallow, churning waters of the Gulf. It was anchored on twelve thick concrete pylons that plunged deep into the seabed, each one sheathed in polished titanium to resist both salt corrosion and time. Those pillars weren’t just structural; they housed an internal system of coolant channels that siphoned seawater upward to chill the battery of supercomputers humming within the building's core.

A narrow, elevated driveway connected the house to the mainland – just wide enough for a single car to cross. The drive was now partially submerged by the rising tide, giving the illusion that the house had already parted ways with the land. Designed to withstand even a Category 5 hurricane, the structure had no eaves to catch the wind, no fragile glass railings to shatter. Everything was sealed, reinforced, and hardened – right down to the watertight doors and impact-resistant panoramic windows.

From the kitchen’s floor-to-ceiling glass walls, Lisa Green watched the storm gather.

She stood barefoot on the polished stone floor, a half-finished mug of black coffee cooling beside her, one hand resting on the countertop as the other curled lightly around her waist. The wind had picked up hours ago, whispering at first – then roaring. Now it howled, carrying sea spray across the long stretch of shallows and smashing it against the southern windows in bursts of salt and sound. The air outside shimmered with heat and electricity, turbulent and wrong, the horizon lost behind a slate-gray curtain.

Above the water, thick cumulonimbus clouds stacked like an angry mountain range. A distant flash lit their bellies from within, followed by the low, unsettling growl of thunder. She could feel the vibration through the floor. The wind had taken on a pulse, and the ocean responded with rolling swells, slamming the pylons like drums.

She should have left. Days ago. She knew it. But something in her – pride, maybe – had said no. This was the safest place for miles. The engineers had said it themselves. "If it’s not safe here, it’s not safe anywhere."

That had to be true. It had to be.

Lisa’s reflection in the glass merged with the chaotic sky outside.

She knew that most men considered her to be quite striking with her high cheekbones and dark auburn hair tied back into a practical twist. Her pale blue-green eyes – sharp and calculating –followed the advancing storm without blinking. Faint laugh lines curved around the corners of her mouth, evidence of a life once filled with joy and mischief. But today, those lines were taut, almost erased beneath the weight of what she was driving toward.

Her life’s work was built into this house.

And now it was her lifeboat.

She pressed her palm flat against the cool glass. The wind shrieked louder than ever, and the first true lash of rain hit sideways across the window like a slap. Her lips moved but made no sound.

Hold together, she thought. Just hold together.

Outside, Hurricane Idalia was coming for her.

Chapter Thirteen

It was 7:45 a.m., but the world outside had already gone dark. The sky was a churning mass of black and gunmetal, and the storm’s fury blotted out the sun like an eclipse. Lisa stood motionless in the kitchen, staring into the abyss. The storm was here.

A violent gust slammed into the structure, rattling the windows with such force that for a moment she thought one might shatter. She moved quickly, heart hammering, and activated the emergency lockdown sequence. With a low mechanical hum, the panoramic windows sealed themselves – thick steel shutters sliding into place, each locking with a heavy finality that echoed through the house like the closing of a vault.

Lisa stood in the silence that followed, broken only by the muffled roar of the hurricane battering the house. She looked around the great room – the sleek lines, the modern minimalism, the recessed lighting that now flickered overhead. Every element had been designed to survive what nature could throw at it. She prayed it had been enough.

Then came the water.

She watched through the last sliver of exposed glass as the sea surged, crawling higher with terrifying speed. Within minutes, the bottom level of the house was completely submerged. The concrete pylons still held – for now – but the sensation of being surrounded by an ocean that no longer obeyed its boundaries left a sickening feeling in her gut.

A massive wave struck the house. The impact thundered through the structure like a bomb, followed by another, and then another. Lisa stumbled backward, catching herself on the kitchen island. The floor trembled beneath her bare feet, not just from the wave, but from something deeper… something wrong.

The wind howled like a demon, shrieking around the house with a pitch that bordered on inhuman. Salt spray forced its way into every crevice. Then came a sound that froze her blood: a groan, deep and metallic, reverberating through the walls and floor like the dying breath of something ancient and powerful.

It grew – twisting upward into a long, wraithlike screech.

Lisa spun toward the nearest window just as the reinforced flooring beneath her shuddered violently. One of the massive metal struts anchoring the house to its cement moorings had come loose. Then another. The sensors flickered red across the wall-mounted monitor as the structure registered the failure.

“No…” she whispered.

And then, something gave.

The house jerked sideways. Not much. But enough for Lisa to know that they were no longer anchored. The pylons had snapped free from the seabed. Icarus, was adrift – caught in the wild fury of Hurricane Idalia. Floating. Rising. Swaying with unnatural weightlessness as it became one with the storm.

Lisa wasn’t at the helm.

She wasn’t the designer.

Not anymore.

She was just a passenger now.

Icarus was adrift.

And then, her cell phone began to ring…

Chapter Fourteen

All she could do was hold on.

Waves crashed over the house like the fists of an angry god, pounding against its reinforced shell with unrelenting force. Icarus pitched upward as another massive swell struck, then dropped sickeningly, tilting forward and sideways in violent, unpredictable jerks. The sound was deafening –wind howling like a freight train, seawater slamming against the structure, and the eerie, deep groan of metal and concrete flexing under stress.

Lisa clung to the built-in couch, her chest heaving, her green-blue eyes wide in the dim emergency lighting. The storm outside had consumed the world; she could see almost nothing through the few porthole-thick windows still uncovered – just the occasional flash of lightning, followed by the glimpse of churning black water that now reached well above the base of the second floor.

The house, for all its brilliance, was being tossed like a toy in a storm that had long since stopped caring about human arrogance.

And yet, it was holding.

To her amazement, Icarus remained bone dry inside. The internal pumps hummed quietly in the floor panels, keeping pressure stabilized. The computer array – built into the heart of the structure – remained silent but alive, temperature-controlled by seawater rushing through the dedicated cooling conduits buried in the structure’s pylons… or what remained of them.

Her cell phone kept ringing, muffled slightly by the chaos but insistent. She reached into the pocket of her soaked jeans and pulled it out, shielding it with her hand. Adam Gray. Of course it was him.

Even now.

She was just about to answer – her thumb hovering over the green icon – when a wave larger than the last exploded across the roof, engulfing the entire upper level. A thunderclap boomed overhead as the house tilted violently to the left. The phone slipped from her hand and slid across the polished stone floor, clattering loudly as it ricocheted off a chair and vanished behind the kitchen island.

The house creaked and moaned under the strain, but it didn’t buckle. Water hammered every surface, but none of it came in. Lisa rolled with the next lurch of the house, hitting the floor hard and sliding backward until her fingers caught the seam in the built-in couch. She clung to it with all her strength as another wave surged over the windows, muting the world into a bass-heavy echo chamber of wind, water, and impact.

The phone continued to ring.

Lisa let out a breathless laugh. Of course she hadn’t set up voicemail. She hated the very idea. If it was important, people could text. Everyone knew that. Voicemail was for robocalls and spam. Not this. Not him.

Still rocking, the house twisted under her like a boat in a maelstrom, but she fought her way across the room – crawling low, using every inch of her strength to pull herself forward on the slick floor. Her soaked hair hung around her face in tangled strands. Her hands slipped twice before she found the edge of the island. She reached around, grabbed the still-ringing phone, and finally hit Answer.

The line crackled for a second as the wind howled somewhere beyond the frame of the call. Lisa pulled the phone to her ear and, with a sardonic grin curling one corner of her mouth, said through the chaos, “Hello, Adam... I just want you to know that you lost and I won.”

Chapter Fifteen

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Adam said, his voice ice cold.

Lisa grinned sardonically. “Yes, well it looks like you might have missed your chance.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Lisa… you’ve come a long way… but not far enough that I won’t find you, and when I do, your life is over…”

“Yeah, well, it looks like Idalia is going to that job for you…”

Adam swore. “Wait… you’re at Icarus!”

“I told you I didn’t like to lose!”

“But there was an evacuation order. There’s talks of Idalia reaching a category three or four hurricane.” Adam’s voice turned soft, as though suddenly, he no longer wanted her to die. “Icarus is the worst possible place for you to be right now!”

Lisa glanced out the window.

Well, he got that part right. Staying on Icarus was definitely a mistake.

It was nearly pitch black in the raging hurricane. “If I had to guess, I’d say we’re closer to a four than a three, but what do I know?”

“Damnit, Lisa! You need to get out of there!”

“Yeah, it might be a little late for that.”

A moment later, the cell phone cut out…

Lisa’s smiled formed a grim line. “Well Icarus… if we make it out here alive… I swear to you, we’re going to beat Adam Gray to the Well of Ra.”

Chapter Sixteen

The storm did not pass quickly.

It raged for twenty-four hours, unbroken and merciless, a ceaseless assault of wind and water that turned the Gulf into a roiling void of darkness. Icarus, for all its brilliance and design, was now at the mercy of the sea – a drifting fortress, untethered and tossed about like flotsam.

Each wave hurled the house skyward before dropping it with bone-jarring force. There were moments when the impact made the reinforced walls vibrate with a low, terrifying hum – the resonance of survival being tested.

Outside, the black sea heaved and crashed, and then came the sound of splintering wood.

Lisa had felt the sudden jolt – sharp, violent, like a collision – and heard the distinct crack of something being obliterated. Through a streaked porthole, she caught the fleeting glimpse of a half-submerged fishing boat, spinning helplessly in the storm, before Icarus plowed through it, breaking the vessel apart like kindling. A mast snapped cleanly, another vessel capsized and vanished beneath the surface, no match for the sheer bulk of the concrete leviathan she called home.

She could do nothing. She wasn’t in control anymore.

Fighting nausea and fear, she had pulled the cushions from the built-in couch, staggered across the rocking floor, and crawled into the hollowed-out kitchen island. It had never been filled – just a massive empty cube surrounded by cabinetry. She padded the interior with cushions, creating a crude cocoon, her back against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around her knees.

Time lost meaning.

She was jostled constantly, every creak and groan from the superstructure above reminding her that Icarus was still alive, but only just. Waves crashed overhead in irregular rhythms. Winds shrieked. Somewhere out there, lightning danced like a strobe light behind her eyelids. But inside the island, she was sheltered, braced, waiting.

At some point – how long she didn’t know – exhaustion had taken her. The terror dulled, the chaos outside became part of her breathing, and her mind had slipped into darkness.

She woke to silence.

Not absolute – there was still the soft hiss of water lapping gently against the hull, the low hum of residual systems within the house – but compared to the storm’s fury, it was as if the world had gone still.

Lisa blinked in the dim light, groggy and disoriented. Her body ached from the cramped shelter, her muscles stiff and sore. She pushed open the cabinet door slowly, cautiously, expecting to hear another crash of thunder, another roar of wind.

But instead sunlight.

The pale glow poured into the kitchen like something sacred. She climbed out slowly, her bare feet touching the cool stone floor. The air smelled faintly of salt and ozone.

She walked to the window and pulled back the storm shutter, squinting.

There, arcing gracefully over the horizon, was a rainbow.

Strikingly beautiful.

It cast shimmering reflections across the endless surface of the sea, broken only by the occasional ripple of gentle swells. The sky was washed in pale golds and blues, the kind of post-storm light that made everything look momentarily unreal – like a painting not yet dry.

Lisa stepped closer to the glass.

She turned slowly, eyes scanning the horizon.

There was nothing.

No coastline.

No boats.

No birds.

Just water in every direction.

Her brows furrowed as she stared at the vast, surreal calm stretching endlessly around her.

Icarus was adrift.

Completely.

Utterly.

And she was all alone.

Chapter Seventeen

Lisa stood in the wide, open living space, her bare feet pressing against the smooth stone floor, as if expecting to feel a sway or a list. But Icarus was floating with uncanny stability. The hurricane’s fury had passed, leaving behind an ocean so calm it looked like glass. It was a jarring contrast to the chaos of the previous twenty-four hours – a silence so complete it rang in her ears.

She turned in a slow circle, scanning the interior. Not a single window had cracked, not a single drop of seawater had seeped inside. Everything was intact and bone dry, as if the storm had been nothing but a bad dream. She had expected wreckage, chaos, a half-ruined shell of her masterpiece, but the house had endured.

It was never supposed to be a boat, though.

That thought nagged at her. She crossed to one of the tall windows and stared down at the gentle ripples lapping just below. What was keeping it upright? she wondered. Her mind conjured a mental image of the submerged structure: the massive concrete pylons that had once anchored the house to the seabed. Now, they must be hanging below her like heavy counterweights, acting as ballast, keeping the mansion steady on the waves.

Lisa picked up her cell phone from the countertop, wiping away the smudge of dried seawater from the storm. She pressed the power button, waiting for the familiar glow. The signal bars were gone, replaced by a lone SOS symbol. No reception. She tried anyway – Adam’s number, out of reflex – but the call failed immediately. The sound of the dead line made her chest tighten.

With nothing left to do, she walked the perimeter of the house. Each window offered the same disquieting view: nothing but endless blue water stretching to every horizon, glittering in the post-storm sunlight. Not a speck of land. Not a single boat or buoy. Just her and Icarus, alone in the middle of an infinite mirror.

She stopped at the southern window and pressed her fingertips to the glass, squinting at the far distance as though a shoreline might magically appear. Her green-blue eyes narrowed in thought.

How far had Icarus drifted?

The question settled in her stomach like a stone.

Chapter Eighteen

Lisa leaned against the kitchen counter, surveying her strange new reality.

Icarus, for all intents and purposes, was a luxurious floating mansion, as comfortable as any high-end tech founder’s retreat. The main living space was bright and spacious, the walls a minimalist blend of white and warm timber tones, punctuated by the sleek lines of modern art. A wide fireplace dominated the lounge area, with enough stacked firewood beside it to last an entire winter – not that she imagined needing it in the subtropical climate.

The solar panels stretched across the rooftop like black glass wings, glinting in the post-storm sun. They provided more power than she could realistically use, feeding into the banks of batteries that were humming quietly on the levels below. And Icarus’s rainwater system, fed by the hidden gutters, had filled the tanks to capacity during the storm. A single electric switch could block the intake during seawater contamination, but that wasn’t likely to be an issue for days.

Icarus was three stories tall, with the lower two levels serving as a fortress for the AI’s supercomputers, seawater cooling systems, and backup power cells. Her world was the top floor, which felt almost untouched by the storm – dry, polished, and serene.

The refrigerator was packed with fresh produce, milk, eggs, and a selection of artisan cheeses. In the pantry, there were tins stacked like soldiers, enough rice and pasta to last months, and a deep freezer filled with neatly packed frozen meats and seafood. She could survive here comfortably for a long time, but she didn’t want to. She expected to be rescued within hours. Surely someone was already looking for Icarus.

And yet, for all the advanced technology integrated into the house, there was no way to reach the outside world. Before Hurricane Idalia, Icarus had been tethered to the mainland via a high-speed fiber optic cable. Now, with that severed and her phone showing no bars, she was effectively cut off from civilization.

She sighed and decided there was no point worrying on an empty stomach.

The smell of sizzling bacon and butter filled the open-plan kitchen as she fried eggs sunny-side up, adding mushrooms and a drizzle of hollandaise sauce – something she would never ordinarily spend time cooking just for herself. The smell mingled with the briny scent of the sea air seeping in through a half-open window. Beyond the glass, the ocean shimmered with an almost unreal turquoise clarity, stretching endlessly beneath a sun now high in the sky.

She carried her plate to the dining area and sat with her back to the fireplace, eating slowly while watching the calm, glittering water. It was strange – serene, almost – after the chaos of the storm.

By early afternoon, Lisa found herself pacing near the panoramic windows. Her eyes caught a shape in the distance…

Land!

She squinted, pressing her forehead against the glass. Part of an island rose from the horizon –low and flat, fringed with pale white sand and the dark green of scrubby vegetation. The water around it was the color of molten sapphire, clear enough that she could almost imagine the coral reefs lurking just below the surface.

Something about its shape triggered an uneasy familiarity.

She tried to map it against memory.

Where have I seen that? Then the realization struck.

It resembled the outer islands of the Turks and Caicos.

Her stomach tightened.

How could Icarus have drifted that far?

She crossed to the opposite side of the house, scanning the other horizon. Nothing but blue, in every direction. She pictured the map of the region in her mind, tracing where she might drift next, where a current might push her toward a safe shore.

But the longer she stood there, watching the still water and the distant blur of land, the truth began to settle in.

There weren’t many islands out here.

And soon, there wouldn’t be any.

Icarus was adrift, sliding silently into the Atlantic Ocean – alone, unstoppable, and utterly unencountered.

Chapter Nineteen

Lisa had stopped counting the days.

The horizon never changed, and the only rhythm to life on Icarus was the one she imposed on herself. Each morning, as the sun lifted over the endless expanse of the Atlantic, she began her rounds – checking the systems that kept her alive. The rainwater tanks were her first stop, the gauge readings glowing softly on the wall panel. After the storm, she had blocked the plug on the oversized spa bath, filling it to the brim with fresh water. It looked less like a luxury feature now and more like a survival reservoir – a backup plan if the primary tanks ever failed.

Firewood for the living room’s wide fireplace was next. She liked knowing it was stacked neatly, enough to burn through several months of cold Atlantic nights if needed. Finally, she checked the solar battery readings – power was never an issue. The rooftop panels, combined with Icarus’s built-in energy storage, gave her more electricity than she could use.

Lisa pushed open one of the large sliding windows with a soft hiss, the seals breaking their airtight hold. The salty Atlantic air rushed in, cool and sharp, filling the room with the scent of brine and the faint metallic tang of seawater. She climbed out onto the roof, pausing for a moment to take in the sheer scale of it. The top of Icarus wasn’t like an ordinary roof – it felt more like walking onto the polished floor of a basketball court, wide and flat, its surface stretching out in all directions.

From the walk-in wardrobe, she had retrieved her caving gear – a coiled climbing rope, her harness, and a small bag of knots and carabiners she always kept packed for expeditions with Adam. She slipped into the harness, tightened the straps around her hips and thighs, and anchored the rope to a steel bolt just inside the window. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency as she tied a French prussic knot to the line, clipping herself in.

She tested the rope’s tension, leaning back slightly until she felt it catch and lock. Satisfied, she set off across the roof.

Most of the surface was occupied by sleek black solar panels, their mirrored faces catching the sun and reflecting patches of blinding light. She stepped carefully along the narrow sections between the panels, her boots making muted thuds against the composite shingles that covered the remaining surface. The wind tugged at her hair, and far below, the ocean lapped rhythmically at the house’s outer walls.

Lisa reached the far edge, where a ladder had been bolted to the structure, leading down to the sealed garage level. She crouched, gripping the cold steel rails, and began her descent. The ladder was long – three full stories down – and she could feel the sway of the house against the mild current as she moved.

The garage’s watertight roller door, designed to withstand storm surges and flooding, was set back six feet into the main frame of the house. The recessed alcove had acted like a net during the storm, catching flotsam that had drifted against Icarus’s walls. Broken branches, chunks of driftwood, and other unidentifiable pieces of debris were piled haphazardly in the shallow pool of water below.

Lisa crouched down and began collecting the wood, pulling each piece free and stacking them onto the base of the ladder. It was slow, wet, dirty work, but every fragment mattered. Once dried, they would burn clean in the fireplace – fuel for long nights when the air grew cold and the Atlantic winds howled through the empty horizon.

When her arms were full, she climbed back up, carrying the wet driftwood with her and laying it out on the deck to dry in the sun. She cast a glance out at the open sea. It stretched endlessly in all directions, bright and calm now, betraying no hint of the storm that had once tried to swallow her whole. Lisa tightened the rope at her waist and prepared to make another trip down the ladder. There was still more wood to retrieve.

After the routine checks, Lisa moved to her study. It was a stark space, almost spartan by design. A single oak desk, worn smooth from use, dominated the room. Atop it sat her ultra-thin workstation, connected directly into Icarus’s AI core – a humming, unseen intelligence housed in the lower levels of the house. Two monitors stretched across the desk’s surface, displaying high-resolution scans of ancient stone inscriptions and 3D models of obelisks rotating slowly on screen. A single chair, her black leather notebook, and a cold mug of coffee from breakfast completed the workspace.

Outside, gulls and small seabirds occasionally landed on the roof, resting from their long flights over the ocean. The tapping of their claws against the glass sometimes startled her during her work, a reminder that life existed beyond the walls of Icarus, no matter how isolated she felt.

Once these tasks were done, she turned to what truly mattered: the decoding of the obelisks.

Her study was a spartan place, stripped of distraction. A heavy oak desk sat near the panoramic windows, its surface neat except for her slim workstation, two wide monitors, and a black leather notebook filled with scrawled equations, sketches, and half-mad ideas. Outside, small seabirds sometimes landed on the roof, their claws tapping faintly against the glass as if to remind her the world was still alive. She would glance up, momentarily startled, then return to her work, as if tethered to the glow of her screens.

On the left monitor, Cleopatra’s Needle in London rotated in high-resolution detail. Icarus had built a 3D model from thousands of laser scans, reconstructing every chip and weathered mark. Lisa had spent weeks studying its surface until the AI revealed the hidden geometry beneath the hieroglyphs – microscopic shifts in the angles of the carvings that formed a mathematical activation sequence. When aligned with the correct longitude and solar angle, the obelisk became something more than a monument. It became a key.

The right monitor displayed its twin in New York, standing in Central Park. This one was more damaged, modern restorations having filled in cracks that once held vital clues. To decipher its code, Lisa had fed Icarus every ancient rubbing and early photograph she could find. Piece by piece, Icarus reconstructed the original surface, until at last the pattern emerged. Another key, unlocked.

Her gaze drifted to the second monitor, where the Luxor Obelisk in Paris stood in simulated sunlight. She had cracked its code two weeks earlier, but the memory of that breakthrough still left her uneasy. The obelisk, once the proud sentinel of Luxor Temple, had been moved halfway across the world, yet its purpose remained. It was as though every relocation had been part of a centuries-long game – a deliberate scattering of keys by hands that knew their power.

There were others still waiting. The Lateran Obelisk in Rome, towering above Piazza San Giovanni, guarded its secrets stubbornly, its inscriptions faint and almost erased by time. The Vatican Obelisk, now standing sentinel in St. Peter’s Square, presented a challenge not of complexity but of distortion – centuries of movement had shifted its orientation. Then there was the Obelisk of Theodosius in Istanbul, a survivor of wars and empires, its inscriptions worn smooth by wind and history.

Every one of them was part of the puzzle, part of the mechanism that could awaken the Well of Ra.

Lisa rubbed at her temples and leaned closer to the monitor displaying the Luxor Obelisk. Something in the lower sequence of glyphs caught her attention. She adjusted the settings, zooming in until Icarus highlighted a faint series of carvings that almost looked accidental – yet they weren’t. The AI’s pattern recognition software flashed a red notification.

Her pulse quickened as she stared at the screen. It wasn’t just a clue. It was confirmation.

That’s it, she thought. Another key, unlocked.

She sat back slowly, letting the firelight behind her cast long shadows over the room. If she could see it, Adam could too. And Adam didn’t have Icarus to slow him down – not anymore. He was clever, dangerous, and obsessed.

Lisa’s eyes narrowed as she muttered under her breath, “That’s one more down. I just hope it hasn’t been this easy for him.”

Chapter Twenty

Lisa stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, toothbrush still in hand. The bristles were streaked with red. She spat into the sink and saw the faint swirl of blood against the white porcelain. Her heart gave a sudden, hard thump.

She ran her tongue over her gums.

They were sore and noticeably swollen.

It had been well over a year now. All the fresh food was long gone. The refrigerator, once full of crisp greens and bright fruits, now stored only meat and long-lasting staples. The deep freezer still offered enough protein to keep her alive, and the water supply was steady, but her body was starving for vitamin C.

Her gaze slid to the empty vitamin C bottle on the counter. She picked it up and shook it –empty, not even a dusting of powder left. She had tried to ration the tablets after the last of the vegetables had spoiled, but even her careful discipline had only delayed the inevitable.

A tight knot of fear coiled in her stomach.

Scurvy.

She imagined the stories of early sailors, men whose bodies broke down during the long crossings to the Americas. Some had called it “the sailor’s curse.” Or was it beriberi? She couldn’t remember. Either way, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that her body was paying the price now.

She pressed both palms against the cool marble countertop, forcing herself to breathe. “There has to be a solution,” she murmured aloud.

Hydroponics? If she had seeds, maybe. But there were no seeds on board, and that dream died with the last shriveled sprigs of rosemary she’d thrown out months ago.

She turned to Icarus.

The AI’s core was usually in standby to save power, but she had enough reserves to run daily queries. She powered it up, the system humming like a waking beast. “Icarus,” she said, her voice steady despite the panic she felt, “I need a source of vitamin C. Something I can get here, now.”

The screen flickered as the AI processed. Then, in its calm, measured tone, it answered:

“Seaweed.”

Lisa frowned. “Seaweed?”

“Edible seaweed contains vitamin C and other essential nutrients. After prolonged exposure in one location, marine growth is likely to be present along the waterline.”

Her heart leapt. It made sense. Icarus had been adrift for over a year, floating like an island. If she was lucky, the walls of the house beneath the surface might be coated with the green salvation she needed.

She moved fast, gathering her climbing harness and rope, just as she always did when stepping outside. This time, she added a dive mask from the emergency kit. The routine was second nature now – she clipped the rope to the steel bolt inside the window, checked the French prussic knot, and slipped out onto the roof. The ocean breeze was brisk, carrying the scent of salt and open water.

Descending the ladder, she could feel her pulse quicken with anticipation. The house creaked faintly against the lazy roll of the Atlantic as she reached the final rung.

Taking a deep breath, Lisa crouched on the ladder’s side rail and dipped her face beneath the surface.

The water was cool, and the world below glowed a muted green. Just as Icarus had predicted, a thick carpet of seaweed clung to the walls of the structure, waving gently with the current. It was rich and alive, an emerald elixir of life growing right there on the skin of her floating sanctuary.

She surfaced, gasping lightly, her eyes wide. Hope. For the first time in months, she felt it.

Lisa grabbed a handful and stared at it…

The question remained, was this the type of seaweed that was edible?

Chapter Twenty-One

Lisa braced herself on the ladder, the ocean swaying beneath her feet. Her hand skimmed the rough, slick surface of Icarus’s hull. The seaweed came away in long, tangled ribbons, green and glistening under the sunlight. She wrinkled her nose at its rubbery texture but forced herself to keep pulling, working methodically. Every strip was survival. Every handful she gathered could mean another day she wouldn’t spiral into the weakness and decay of scurvy.

She tied the clumps together with a short cord from her climbing harness and clipped them to her belt, freeing her hands to grab more. When she’d collected enough to fill both hands, she climbed back up the ladder slowly, the dripping seaweed slapping against her legs with each step.

Back on the roof, she unhooked the harness and carried the dripping mass into the kitchen. The smell hit her immediately – a briny, metallic tang, sharp and almost offensive. She set the pile in the sink and rinsed it with fresh water, watching sand and tiny shells spiral down the drain. The seaweed looked even less appetizing once clean, its slick surface clinging to her fingers like wet paper.

“I’m not going to die over something as stupid as taste,” she muttered to herself.

She lit the stove, placing a small pot of water on to boil. The house’s advanced systems had once been a symbol of luxury, but now they were lifelines, tools in a fight for survival. She tore the seaweed into strips, dropping them into the rolling boil. The kitchen filled with the earthy scent of the ocean, but after a few minutes, it mellowed into something almost edible.

She plated it simply – a pile of green strands, glossy and steaming. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was food. Her hand trembled as she picked up a strand, bringing it to her lips. It was salty, chewy, and tasted like the sea itself.

She chewed slowly, forcing herself past the initial revulsion. The texture wasn’t great, but it wasn’t unbearable either. A strange warmth settled in her chest, not just from the food but from the knowledge that she had found a solution.

When the first serving was gone, she rinsed her hands and leaned against the counter, breathing out a long sigh of relief. Her gums still ached, but this was a step – a lifeline.

She turned back to the sink, eyeing the rest of the seaweed she’d collected. “Looks like you’re my new diet,” she said quietly, her voice echoing off the kitchen walls.

Outside, a pair of seabirds landed on the roof, their cries sharp and high-pitched. Lisa glanced out the window, half-smiling despite the strange meal. For the first time in months, she felt she might make it through another year – if the sea, and whatever secrets it held, didn’t swallow her first.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Lisa’s strength had returned with surprising speed. Within weeks of adding seaweed to her diet, her gums had healed, and the dull ache in her joints had faded. She felt alive again – strong, capable, almost like her old self.

Fishing became her next focus.

She stood barefoot on the edge of the platform near the garage alcove, a sturdy rod braced against her hip, the line cutting deep into the dark water. The pole bent sharply, the reel screaming as whatever was hooked on the other end fought with brute force. Lisa gritted her teeth and dug her heels in.

“Come on, you monster,” she muttered, sweat beading on her forehead as she worked the rod in steady, careful movements. Whatever she had hooked, it was big – kingfish or maybe even a small tuna. The thrill of it surged through her veins as she cranked the reel, inch by inch, feeling every pulse of the creature’s struggle.

It broke the surface for a moment, thrashing violently, its scales flashing silver in the sunlight. Lisa’s pulse quickened. One more heave and she could bring it in. She crouched low, reaching for the net she had ready beside her.

And then she froze.

Something caught her eye on the horizon.

Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing against the glare of the sun. A dark shape loomed in the distance, faint but unmistakable – a cargo ship.

The fish was forgotten.

Lisa dropped the rod, the line slapping against the side of the house, and scrambled up the ladder to the roof. Her lungs burned as she climbed, three stories up, until she stood on the broad, flat surface of Icarus, waving both arms frantically.

“Hey! Here! Over here!” she shouted, though her voice was swallowed by the wind.

She had no idea if they could see her.

Heart pounding, she spun and sprinted back inside.

This was what she had planned for – the fire.

In the fireplace, she kept a small pile of kindling and dry wood, always ready to ignite at a moment’s notice. She struck the lighter, the flames catching instantly and growing with each breath she fed it.

From a small metal tin, she pulled a prepared mixture of powdered copper salts and chemicals scavenged from the house’s storage – a crude but effective signal. She threw it onto the fire, and a thick plume of colored smoke erupted, rising high into the sky in vivid hues of blue and green.

She raced back to the roof, shielding her eyes against the sun as she stared at the cargo ship. The smoke billowed upward, unmistakable against the pale blue sky. They had to see it. They couldn’t miss it.

But as the minutes dragged on, her excitement withered.

The ship continued on its path, a dark silhouette growing smaller and smaller until it blurred into the horizon. They hadn’t changed course. No one had seen her.

Lisa’s arms dropped to her sides. The smoke curled uselessly into the sky as she sank down onto the edge of the roof, watching the ocean swallow the only sign of life she’d seen in months.

She was alone again.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Lisa was ripped from her sleep by the violent lurch of Icarus.

The whole structure shifted beneath her as if something massive had struck the house. Her eyes shot open, heart pounding in the silence that followed.

Then came the bang – a metallic, hollow crack that resonated through the lower levels. She sat up, disoriented, mind racing. Did Icarus hit something? But a glance out of the nearest window revealed nothing but open sea, moonlight glinting across the calm swells.

Before she could think further, the house shuddered again, a sharper tilt this time. And then she heard it – water gushing in.

Her breath caught.

“The garage…” she muttered aloud. She knew instantly what had happened. The Mercedes G-Wagon – her trusted backup power source – must have rolled backward when the wave hit. The watertight garage door was designed to hold against external water pressure, not to be struck from the inside by two tons of metal.

Lisa scrambled into her clothes, grabbed her face mask, and raced down the spiral staircase two steps at a time. The sound of rushing water grew louder with every floor she descended. When she reached the garage, her stomach tightened at the sight before her.

The G-Wagon was jammed hard against the roller door, water swirling around its wheels, already ankle-deep on the garage floor. A narrow crack had formed in the door’s seam, and seawater was forcing its way in with a relentless hiss.

As Icarus swayed, the G-Wagon rolled forward slightly, then backward again with a sickening thud, slamming into the door like a battering ram.

“Damn it,” Lisa hissed, splashing forward through the icy water.

The Mercedes’ electric braking system must have failed – two years of salt-laden air had likely eaten away at its components. She yanked the driver’s door open and clambered inside, water dripping from her soaked clothes.

Her hand trembled as she hit the starter button. For a terrifying second, nothing happened. Then the dash lit up, and the quiet hum of its electric motor came alive. Relief flooded through her. Thank God I left the battery charged and plugged in.

She toggled the G-turn function on the console. The G-Wagon whirred, and the four electric wheels rotated independently, pivoting the heavy SUV in place like the treads of a tank. The tires churned water as they spun in perfect synchronization, the car rotating slowly but with deliberate force. She feathered the controls, turning it until the Mercedes was perpendicular to the roller door.

“Stay there,” she muttered, tapping the brakes. The G-Wagon held firm, wedged broadside against the walls of the garage. No matter how Icarus tilted now, it wouldn’t roll again.

Lisa climbed out, boots splashing. She turned to inspect the damaged door, her heart sinking as she studied the narrow opening. The aluminum composite was dented inward, warped from the repeated impacts. She was still considering how to patch it when –

BANG!

A sharp, deafening crack split the air.

Lisa flinched as part of the roller door buckled and tore loose, collapsing inward. In an instant, a torrent of seawater roared into the garage, rising from ankle to knee-height in seconds.

“No, no, no!” she shouted, scrambling backward as the freezing water surged around her legs.

The garage was flooding fast.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Lisa froze, staring at the torrential flood of water pouring through the shattered garage door. For the briefest second, her mind went blank, overwhelmed by the sheer violence of it – the hiss and roar as the sea invaded her sanctuary. Then instinct kicked in, her thoughts racing for a solution.

There was none.

She couldn’t stop the water. The entire lower level was gone. The best she could do now was save the air pocket above, keeping Icarus afloat like the hollow hull of a ship.

Lisa spun on her heel and sprinted up the stairs, taking them three at a time as the cold seawater surged after her, shooting inside through every crack and seam below. It hit the walls in jets of foam, spraying upward as if chasing her, swallowing the ground floor in seconds.

Heart pounding, she reached the living level and skidded across the smooth floor, rushing from window to window. One by one, she slammed the thick latches shut, locking each massive pane with a solid, metallic clunk. Every seal was airtight – designed to withstand hurricanes – but now they were her lifeline, her only barrier between survival and drowning.

She paused for breath, leaning against the final window as the sound of water echoed from below, a relentless surge climbing higher. She turned to the stairwell, staring at the dark opening where the sea continued to invade her home. The water was already at the first landing, churning like a trapped animal.

How high would it rise?

Lisa’s throat tightened as she backed away from the stairs, watching the line of water crawl upward, step by step. Her pulse thundered in her ears. For a terrible moment, she imagined it would reach the ceiling, filling the entire house like an aquarium, trapping her inside with no way out. She pictured herself clawing at the glass, the air thinning around her.

The water reached halfway up the second flight of stairs. It paused there, sloshing violently against the walls as Icarus rocked. Lisa held her breath, counting every second, her hands trembling against the cold railing.

It stopped.

The waterline stabilized, held in place by the pressure of the sealed windows above. The upper living space remained dry, buoyant, safe… for now.

Lisa exhaled, the breath coming out as a ragged, shaky laugh. She sank onto the nearest chair, eyes fixed on the stairwell as though daring the water to climb any higher.

Chapter Twenty-Five

North Atlantic Vortex

The Icarus hadn’t sunk, but Lisa’s spirit had.

The once-pristine living space now carried the stale, damp scent of seawater. The flooded lower levels had become breeding grounds for mold, dark streaks creeping across walls and ceilings despite her desperate attempts to clean and bleach what she could. The air had taken on a salty, metallic heaviness, as though the ocean itself was slowly swallowing her home from the inside out.

Days blurred into one another. Weeks passed, indistinguishable except for the small scratches she carved into the oak desk to mark the time. The sun’s path became her only clock. She tracked it obsessively with her compass, charting how it rose and fell, trying to calculate direction. But it wasn’t direction she saw – it was circular drift, a slow, endless loop.

The realization hit her like a stone in her chest: She was trapped.

She remembered an article she had once read, years ago, about the North Atlantic garbage vortex, a swirling current where plastic, debris, and anything else that floated would become caught, spiraling endlessly. Now, she feared she was just another piece of flotsam, doomed to rotate forever in a watery prison.

The work on the remaining obelisk codes continued, but her motivation faltered. Each time Icarus’ monitors lit up with new data, she found herself staring at the screen, numb. What good would it be if she solved the puzzle first, if she uncovered every secret of the Well of Ra, but died nameless and forgotten out here while Adam triumphed on land?

The thought hollowed her out.

She rose and walked toward the wide window, pressing her palm to the cool glass. The sea beyond was deceptively calm, but her eyes caught movement on the far horizon. Dark storm clouds were gathering, swelling and curling like bruises across the sky.

A humorless laugh escaped her lips, soft and bitter. “Oh good,” she whispered.

The storm might finally end this, sparing her from the slow death of hunger, scurvy, or solitude. She pictured Icarus breaking apart, the ocean rushing in, the sky swallowing everything. And for the first time in months, the idea didn’t fill her with terror – just relief.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Lisa decided if she was going to die, she would do so with a trace of dignity, not in the tattered clothes she’d worn for days. She slipped into a light summer dress – a white one with soft, flowing fabric – and brushed her hair until it no longer clung in wet strands around her face. From the dwindling supplies in the wine rack, she uncorked one of the last bottles of red and poured a glass, holding it delicately despite the violent sway of Icarus.

The storm was building in ferocity. The house groaned with each colossal wave, its structure straining under the weight of the sea. Now that two-thirds of Icarus was filled with water, she was floating lower than ever, with only the apex of the windows and ceiling above the waterline. Every few minutes, a wave surged over the entire roof, the roaring crash of seawater deafening, leaving her breathless as she waited for the house to emerge again.

Each time, she expected it wouldn’t resurface – that this would be the final plunge, the moment the ocean claimed her sanctuary. But somehow, impossibly, Icarus endured.

Engineered to survive the worst the ocean could throw at her, Lisa thought bitterly. So was the Titanic.

The comparison lingered in her mind like a shadow as she sat near the wide window, the fire flickering weakly behind her, sipping the wine with slow, measured breaths. There was no point in panic now.

Then she saw it.

A shape out on the waves. At first, she thought it was debris – a ghostly remnant from some long-sunk ship. But no, it was moving too fast, too precise. Her heart gave a jolt as she rose to her feet and pressed her palm to the glass, squinting through the sheets of rain.

It was a sleek motor cruiser, its hull cutting through the waves like a blade, its deck swept continuously by the raging storm. For a moment, she wondered if it too was lost – adrift in this watery purgatory with her.

Then she saw movement.

Two men clambered out onto the slick, pitching deck, gripping the rails as they scanned the dark horizon. A flash of lightning illuminated everything in stark, white clarity, and for a moment, the storm froze like a photograph.

One of the men turned sharply, his gaze locking on Icarus. Even from this distance, Lisa could see the shock on his face, the unmistakable moment of recognition.

Her breath caught in her throat. Someone had seen her.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Icarus Adrift – Present Day

Sam met her gaze. “That’s one hell of a story…”

“Yeah,” she agreed.

“You did all this just to protect some sort of computer program?”

“Icarus isn’t just a computer program. It’s one of the most advanced large language models in existence.”

Sam looked at her blankly. “Meaning?”

“It’s a type of language AI system.”

“And that made it worth risking your life to protect?” Sam asked, a seemingly bemused expression on his face.

“No.” Lisa made a wry grin. “It makes it one of the most dangerous machines on earth and I was willing to risk my life to ensure it didn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

Sam nodded. “Okay. I don’t really know that much about the whole AI movement, but I watched enough of the Terminator movies during my childhood in the eighties to think twice about the benefit of taking one’s chance on AI.”

She laughed. “I think AI will destroy the human race, but not the way action films from the 1980s might have predicted.”

“How so?”

“No matter how well human AI might appear, it will never be human. Ergo, everything we do to bring it into every aspect of our lives – to make our lives easier – will simply diminish our own humanity. It will be insidious how it will creep into every aspect of our daily lives, little by little eating away at what makes us human.”

“A have chills down my spine, but do you want to give me an example?”

“Parents can now buy an AI baby basinet for their newborns. It monitors the baby’s vital signs, and then begins to rock the basinet at the perfect frequency to lull the child back to sleep, ensuring the parents can sleep through the night, all night, every night… instead of waking for their crying child.”

“Seems okay to me. Where do I buy one of these devices?”

Lisa’s eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

Sam shrugged. “Sorry, my wife’s pregnant… and I like sleep.”

“This is not the answer.”

“Really?”

“No. Picture this. An AI system, designed to keep a baby asleep sounds good. But what if the baby is waking up because it’s hungry, soiled itself, in pain, frightened, cold or hot, or simply wants the love and affection of its parents?” Lisa’s eyes flashed anger. “In one simple move, we’ve lost some of our most basic human needs.”

Sam swallowed. “Good point. Okay, I’ll scratch that off my Christmas wish list.”

“Humans deal with nuances. They’ve become experts at reading them over millions of years of evolution. AI only knows how to deal with algorithms – albeit, very good ones. One of the most dangerous aspects of AI is its ability to make us think its human, until it’s too late. By the time we’ve allowed it to ingratiate every aspect of our lives, we’ll learn that we’ve sold our humanity in the name of convenience and money.”

“Interesting.” Sam looked at the fire burning bright. “It’s a good thing you’re an engineer, because you might want to work on your sales pitch for your product.”

“I’m mathematician actually. Sales were definitely never my strong point.”

“All the same, you must believe in AI if you’ve spent years developing it?”

“I like the math. It was only when it got too late, that I began to see what this entire movement was doing.”

“So you risked your life to protect Icarus?”

Lisa laughed. “No. Icarus is a different story. Icarus got lucky when we were training it on ancient texts. Now it’s the best AI model for Egyptian hieroglyphs.”

“And you think that makes it dangerous?”

Lisa nodded. “Absolutely deadly if Adam Gray gets control of Icarus.”

“And you think, after all this time, Gray is still searching for the Well of Ra?”

“He would be trying.” Her lips formed a determined grin. “But he would have needed Icarus to decipher the codes needed to lock in the obelisks.”

“He doesn’t have access to Icarus?”

“No. The heart of the program is kept here…”

“Here?” Sam’s lips formed a lopsided grin. “On board your house?”

“Uh-huh…” she nodded. “Like all AI systems, Icarus utilizes an enormous amount of energy to perform its extreme processing equations, which in turn, creates large amounts of energy. Think of all the big players large language models – Google, Facebook, Microsoft… they all use massive amounts of energy cooling their computer systems.”

“Okay. So what did you do with Icarus?”

“The main computer processing units are underground… well, underwater.”

“Those massive concrete things I thought were part of the foundation of your house are actually the casings to house the computers?”

“That’s right.”

“So, Gray has no way of accessing Icarus currently?”

“That’s right.”

Sam pressed his lips together. “Then, if you have Icarus, how do you think Gray is trying to locate the Well of Ra?”

“Adam is extremely smart. I mean, genius level smarts. If I had to guess…” Lisa smiled. “I would say he is is trying to break the Egyptian obelisk codes the old fashioned way…”

“Is there any chance he’s already done it?”

“None. I mean, he might actually be capable of it, but without Icarus, it’s going to take him a long time. People have been trying to decipher the Egyptian Capstones for nearly two thousand years.”

“Yeah, and I guess we would have heard about it by now if he had.” Sam frowned. “So where does that leave us?”

Lisa’s lips formed a grim line. “I was hoping, maybe you could help me – with Icarus – to beat him to the Well of Ra before its consequences become cataclysmic…”

Sam nodded. “Okay.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Sure, why not?” Sam said.

Lisa squeezed his hand with gratitude. “That’s great news. You just have to remember, the race between good and evil is on, and Adam has nearly a two year head start… so who knows how far he’s gotten?”

Sam agreed. “Tell me about this guy… Adam Gray. What’s he like?”

Her mouth formed a grim line. “He’s probably the smartest, most powerful, and dangerous man alive…”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Obelisk of Theodosius – Hippodrome of Constantinople, Istanbul

The small, black submarine glided silently across the dark waters of the Sea of Marmara, its low profile cutting through the waves like a predator stalking its prey. Night wrapped around it like a shroud, the only illumination coming from the faint shimmer of Istanbul’s lights on the horizon.

Adam Gray stood on the conning tower, the cold wind brushing against his face, whipping strands of his brown hair into disarray. He was of average height, his build wiry yet strong – a man who could look relaxed even when coiled like a spring. His light blue eyes caught every glint of light, sharp and calculating, and though there was an easy smile on his lips, it carried the weight of a man who had both wealth and blood on his hands. Adam Gray was good-looking, rich, and, in his mind, untouchable.

But tonight, he wasn’t smiling quite as easily.

The sting of failure still burned in him. The Tahila had slipped through his grasp near the eastern end of the Panama Canal barely two weeks ago. Sam Reilly’s interference had cost him dearly – Michael Chapman, one of his best hired mercenaries, an ex-UK elite forces operative, had died in the attempt. Chapman had been just another name on the payroll, yet Adam felt the loss like an old wound reopening. Reilly would pay for that. One day.

But tonight, his focus was elsewhere. He had finally abandoned all hope of finding Icarus and Lisa Green. It had been over two years since Hurricane Idalia swallowed the Florida coastline, and he had convinced himself that both the woman and her floating fortress now rested at the bottom of the Atlantic, forgotten.

Good riddance, he thought. The past had a way of weighing a man down.

The future – the Well of Ra – was where his path lay.

The outline of Istanbul rose ahead of them, magnificent and ghostly under the silver wash of moonlight. The Blue Mosque, its six minarets like black spears piercing the night sky, dominated the skyline, glowing faintly from its floodlit courtyards. The dome of Hagia Sophia, just beyond, seemed to hover like a crown above the ancient city. From this vantage point on the conning tower, the whole of Istanbul looked like a jewel strung between continents, a bridge of history between Europe and Asia.

The submarine slowed to a crawl, barely a whisper on the water, until it finally came to a standstill about a mile offshore.

Evan Baker, the sub’s pilot, emerged from the hatch beside Adam, climbing into the conning tower with the ease of a man who had spent more of his life underwater than above. His weathered face was half-lit by the glow of the city, and his tone carried the blunt confidence of experience.

“This is one of the most monitored waterways on the planet,” Evan said, glancing toward the strait. “Turkey’s Navy knows exactly what we’ve just done. I don’t know how you expect to get away with this.”

Adam turned to him, that easy grin returning, cool and calculated. “Relax. The Montreux Convention ensures freedom of passage for civilians. We’re a civilian vessel.”

Evan pressed his lips into a thin line. “Sure. Let’s just hope nobody tries to board us, because we’re armed better than any navy out there.”

“Nobody will board us.”

Evan leveled his gaze at Adam. “Are you sure about that?”

“Certain,” Adam said without hesitation. “We have a friend in the Turkish Navy. He owes me a favor.”

Evan chuckled grimly. “You’d better hope so.”

As if on cue, a Turkish naval vessel emerged from the shadows, its navigation lights cutting across the water as it turned directly toward them, engines growling with purposeful speed.

Evan shifted uneasily beside him. “Well, here we go. Let’s hope your friend doesn’t have second thoughts.”

Adam didn’t flinch. His smile widened. “Here comes my friend now.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Icarus – North Atlantic Vortex

While the storm slowly died down, Lisa brought Sam up to speed on what they knew so far about the obelisks and the rough location of the Well of Ra.

She had a small, hand-written booklet with all of her key notes.

Sam looked through it now, slowly gaining a better picture of Icarus had developed of the Well of Ra. The more he read, the more he knew finding it before Adam Gray was one of the most important tasks to save humanity.

As he scrolled through the notes two strange markings caught his attention.

“What are these?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know to be honest.” Lisa shook her head. “Maybe nothing. Possibly something incredible.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“I’m not sure I should.”

“Why?”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me,” Sam asked with a grin. “Where did you find them?”

“I didn’t.”

Sam’s brows creased. “No?”

“Icarus found them,” she said. “When I was trying to find anything that referenced the location of the Well of Ra Icarus repeatedly came up with a couple of interesting texts referring to the Celtic Prophecy and the Shield of Hercules.”

“They’re both related to the Well of Ra?”

“No,” she shook her head. “They’re completely different, but must have existed – or at least the legends and stories surrounding them – existed during the time the Egyptian were trying to conceal the Well of Ra.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah. But all the same, I don’t know what to make of them. Some of the stories, I’m doubting could possible have been true. Maybe they really are just myths. After all, even three thousand years ago, there must have been fiction writers, right?”

Sam held her gaze. “Maybe. Life would be boring if everything was factual and no one made up stories.”

“Exactly.”

Sam pressed his lips together. “But you don’t think that’s the case here?”

“I there’s a chance they might be real.” She made a self-deprecating smile. It was thinly veiled, and if Sam had to guess, he though Lisa was more excited about the two legends than she was letting on. “They’re just a bit fanciful and I’m not sure you would accept them as archeologically sound works.”

“You want to try me?” Sam smiled. “I’ve come across a few things somewhat unbelievable over the years…”

“Which one do you want to know about?”

“The Celtic Prophecy.” Sam tapped the underlined words in Lisa’s notepad. “Sounds ominous. Let’s hear what you know?”

Lisa leaned back, a flicker of unease in her eyes. “I’m not sure yet. Icarus uncovered pieces of it – something about Saint Columba, druidic symbols, and a goddess of war who brings conflict wherever she rises.”

“That could be any ancient script!” Sam said. “What makes you so frightened of this one?”

“It referenced the fall of some powerful nations.”

“Anything else?”

“A few, but all the leads are in my notes.”

“And the Shield of Hercules…” Sam said. “I’ve heard some things about it, but they’re fairly fanciful. The concept is probably based on some historical anomaly, but I’m sure there was plenty of hyperbole in the legend.”

“Maybe.” Lisa met his eye. “What have you heard about the Shield of Hercules?”

“They say that Hercules – who is often attributed as the son of Zeus, the king of the gods, and Alcmene, a mortal woman – couldn’t be hurt… but his wife, Deianira managed to pierce his chest with an arrow…”

Lisa said, “Go on.”

“When she wounded him, someone stole his blood. That blood was used to form some sort of internal shield used by all who drank his blood, making their skin impenetrable.”

“You’re right,” Lisa said. “You know what else Icarus found?”

“What?”

“Whoever drinks from the blood of Hercules, although their skin may become impenetrable, they will die shortly afterward… something about it changing their body’s ability to gain nutrients, and the body slowly withers and dies…”

“Oh great, so you get to be Hercules for a few days, but then you die…”

“Yeah, fascinating. But like I said, they were just passing things that Icarus discovered in ancient texts that caught my attention. Neither will help us find the Well of Ra.”

“If only there were someone we could talk for all those years back… someone who might have heard something about the Well of Ra?”

Sam thought about that for a moment. “Maybe there is? I might just know someone.”

“Who?” Lisa asked.

Sam grinned. “His name’s Merlin, and a long time ago… he had this fantasy that he might one day make the world a better place…”

Chapter Thirty

Merlin answered on the third ring.

“Hello young, Sam Reilly.”

“Hello, Merlin.”

Merlin said, “Now, when I gave you my cell phone number, and told you to call me if you need some advice, I didn’t expect you to use it so quickly.”

“Everyone on board the Tahila are still smarting that you up and left without saying goodbye!”

“Did you inform them I was very, very old. My time is short, and I intend to use it wisely, not necessarily by making those around me happy.”

Sam grinned. “What did you have on?”

“I play poker on Monday nights.”

“You’re kidding me!”

“I’m not.” Merlin laughed. “Anyway, the fact is, you have called me now. So you might as well ask me what you’ve called to ask me about.”

Without further preamble, Sam asked, “Have you ever heard of the Well of Ra?”

Merlin laughed. It was a deep, and boisterous laugh. “Oh I’ve heard all about it, but I don’t believe any of it.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” there was laughter in his voice. “Don’t believe all the legends you hear, Mr. Reilly… I assure you, many of them are just that – myths.”

“But you’ve heard of the Well of Ra?”

“Yes. There was a lot of talk during the Renaissance, when alchemists believed they could turn anything into gold. I’m glad it went out of favor around the time we were burning witches.”

“Right. So it’s not something the Master Builders got involved?”

“Master Builders?” Merlin laughed again. “Absolutely not. The ancient builders had better things to do with their time than utilize all their wealth and efforts into building a machine to make gold?”

“You’re right. It seems crazy.”

“I mean, can you even imagine building seven Obelisks in Heliopolis only to have them moved around the globe to trigger the stars… it sounds fanciful. If the Master Builders were involved in such a thing, it would have been for another purpose entirely.”

Sam’s heart began to thrum. “Like what?”

Merlin paused. “If I had to guess, it would be to re-engineer the population on earth. Perhaps wipe out most of them altogether or realign geopolitical parties?”

Something about what he’d just set triggered a memory of Sam. “I have to go Merlin.”

“Good luck with your adventures, young man…”

Chapter Thirty-One

The storm had finally passed, leaving the North Atlantic eerily calm, the surface of the water smooth and glistening like black glass. From the roof of Icarus, Sam watched as the Zodiac Medline RIB, the Tahila’s sleek and powerful replacement for their old Wajer 34 runabout, approached at speed. Its outboard engine purred like a predator cutting through the water. The RIB slowed as it neared, then eased alongside the floating house with a gentle bump, the crew tying off with practiced efficiency.

Sam’s grin widened when he saw Amira rise from her seat, her long hair tied back against the wind, her glowing skin radiant even under the pale sun. She was unmistakably more pregnant than when he’d last seen her – her belly visible beneath her fitted top, a soft curve of new life that made his chest swell with pride and longing.

Before anyone else could move, Amira was the first to climb. With the agility of someone who had spent half her life on the water, she stepped onto the roof of Icarus, her movements graceful and sure despite her condition. Sam leaned forward, reaching out to help her, but she hardly needed it.

Lisa opened one of the wide storm windows just as Sam crouched and swung himself through, landing on the polished floor with practiced ease. A moment later, Amira jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and kissing him fiercely, as though the weeks apart had been years.

Sam chuckled against her lips but didn’t stop her, his arms holding her tightly. She smelled like sea air and sunscreen, warm and familiar. For a few moments, the rest of the world simply ceased to exist.

When they finally broke apart, Sam glanced over Amira’s shoulder to see Lisa Green standing a few feet away, watching the reunion with raised eyebrows and an expression somewhere between amusement and curiosity.

Sam grinned sheepishly, his hand resting on Amira’s back. “Lisa,” he said, catching his breath, “may I introduce my wife, Amira.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

The safest place for Icarus was where it lay in the North Atlantic Vortex.

Towing it would be a logistical nightmare. Even the Tahila, powerful as she was, would struggle to move the massive floating structure through open seas. They would have needed specialist tugboats, and that kind of operation would draw attention. The last thing they wanted was for Adam Gray to catch even a whisper of Icarus’s survival.

Lisa had been firm on this point. Whatever happens, Adam cannot reach Icarus, she’d told them with quiet conviction. If he does, the consequences will be catastrophic.

And Sam believed her.

Lisa also made it clear that Adam likely had a significant head start. Two years was a long time, and even without Icarus’s AI capabilities, Adam Gray was resourceful and relentless.

It was decided that Elise and Veyron would stay behind on Icarus – partly to protect it, but also because Elise’s expertise with the AI system would prove vital in helping them remotely as they raced Adam toward the Well of Ra. The Zodiac RIB was left tied to Icarus, just in case the floating house finally succumbed to the elements and they needed a quick evacuation.

Sam stood on the deck of the Tahila as she powered away, his arm wrapped warmly around Amira’s waist. Her pregnancy was more pronounced now, a soft, growing curve beneath her hand as she rested it over his. It amazed him sometimes, how fast everything was moving – how much life could change in such a short time.

“I’d feel better if Hu were here to help Elise and Veyron guard the place,” Sam said, glancing over his shoulder at the shrinking silhouette of Icarus on the horizon.

Amira chuckled softly, leaning into him. “Where is Hu, anyway? I haven’t seen him since we left the Amazon. It’s like we… forgot about him!”

Sam shook his head with a grin. “Not at all. He met a backpacker in Iquitos and decided to go trekking through South America.”

Amira’s face lit with amusement. “Hu fell in love?”

“It would appear so,” Sam said with a smile. He gave her side a gentle squeeze. “Good for him. He deserves it.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Obelisk of Theodosius towered above Adam Gray like a sentinel of another age, rising nearly 82 feet into the night sky. Even in the dim light of Sultanahmet Square, it gleamed faintly, its rosy Aswan granite surface polished to a sheen that had defied the centuries. Each face of the monolith was carved with hieroglyphs, deep and precise, the symbols telling tales of divine power and pharaohs long dead. The stone was older than most of the city around it – older even than the Byzantine walls it now overshadowed.

Adam stood in silence, studying the structure, while his two companions flanked him like shadows.

Paul and Ren – both former Commandos Marine, France’s elite naval special forces – stood with the easy stillness of men trained to remain invisible until needed. Paul, the taller of the two, carried a subtle air of menace, his wiry frame coiled with muscle, while Ren, broader and quieter, scanned the perimeter with the disciplined vigilance of a soldier expecting trouble.

Adam gestured to the towering monolith. “You know what this is?” he asked, his voice low but carrying.

Paul shrugged slightly. “An obelisk, isn’t it?”

Adam’s lips curved into a small smile. “More than that. This is the Obelisk of Theodosius. It was originally carved during the reign of Thutmose III, in Egypt, over 3,000 years ago. It stood proudly at the Temple of Karnak in Luxor before it was brought here. In the 4th century AD, Emperor Theodosius I had it erected here in Constantinople, right in the Hippodrome where we stand now. It was a gift of power, a way of showing that Rome’s might could outshine even the Pharaohs.”

Ren glanced up at the towering structure, his voice almost reverent. “It looks… untouched.”

Adam nodded. “That’s the beauty of Egyptian engineering. These stones were meant to endure until the end of time. But what’s more impressive is what’s carved into it.”

He stepped closer, placing a hand lightly against the cool granite. His eyes traced the hieroglyphs, following their patterns not as a historian, but as a codebreaker. There was something in the symmetry, the rhythm of the lines – a hidden sequence, concealed in plain sight for millennia.

Adam’s light blue eyes narrowed as the pattern revealed itself. His mind raced, piecing together what he knew of the other obelisks, the codes that tied them together like the strands of a web. It was here. He could feel it.

He smiled to himself, sharp and cold. “It’s time,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Time to do what we came here to do.”

Paul and Ren exchanged a glance but didn’t ask questions. They’d learned that Adam’s plans were always two steps ahead of theirs – and that was why they were still alive.

Adam’s hand lingered on the ancient carvings, feeling the weight of history, power, and danger etched into the stone. The Well of Ra was waiting. And he was closer than anyone else dared to be.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Cleopatra's Needle – London

The Tahila glided steadily up the Thames, her powerful engines throttled back to a low hum as she navigated the river’s winding course through the heart of London. Sam stood at the helm, watching as the city unfolded around them, the water reflecting the muted glow of streetlights and the warm amber of passing bridges. The river snaked through the city like a dark, restless vein, carrying them past centuries of history—old brick warehouses now converted into luxury apartments, steel and glass skyscrapers looming in stark contrast to the timeless stone facades of Westminster.

As they passed under the Tower Bridge, its raised towers glowing softly against the night sky, Sam felt the odd juxtaposition of the modern yacht against the ancient city. The Tahila cut through the water effortlessly, her hull whispering against the current, as if even the Thames recognized her as something exceptional.

When they finally reached Victoria Embankment, Sam eased the vessel alongside the jetty with practiced precision. Ropes were thrown and tied off, and the Tahila’s engines settled into silence.

Lisa was the first to step off, her boots clicking against the weathered boards of the jetty. Sam followed with Amira at his side, his hand resting protectively on her back as she disembarked with practiced grace despite her growing pregnancy. Matilda, grinning with excitement, leapt down after them, while Caliburn trotted along at her heels, and Excalibur, the golden retriever pup, bounded forward in playful imitation of his father.

Tom and Genevieve climbed off next. Genevieve tilted her head toward the obelisk with mild curiosity. “Cleopatra’s Needle,” she said with a smile, glancing up. “You know, I’ve always wanted to see it. Now I have.” She then turned to Tom. “Shall we go see Les Misérables at the West End?”

“Let’s leave Lisa to decipher hieroglyphs and we’ll go enjoy London.”

“Have fun,” Sam said with a half-grin, watching them stroll off.

Sam turned to face Cleopatra’s Needle.

The obelisk towered 69 feet into the night air, its weathered granite surface catching the glow of the street lamps. Its sides were covered with intricate hieroglyphs, carved deep into the stone thousands of years ago, though centuries of London rain and soot had left them softened and darkened. The obelisk stood between two bronze sphinxes, their watchful gazes fixed on the Thames as though guarding some ancient secret.

Lisa paused in front of it, her eyes narrowing as she took in the carvings. “This obelisk was originally erected by Thutmose III around 1450 BCE,” she said, her voice steady and reverent. “It stood at Heliopolis in Egypt for over a thousand years before the Romans moved it to Alexandria, where it remained for the next 1800 years. In 1819, Muhammad Ali Pasha, the ruler of Egypt, gifted it to the United Kingdom. It took them decades to figure out how to transport it safely to London. It’s been here since 1878.”

Sam glanced at her, impressed as always by her command of history. “And you think this one’s connected?”

“They’re all connected,” Lisa replied, moving closer to the obelisk. She circled it slowly, running her fingers just above the surface, as if tracing invisible patterns with her eyes.

Sam waited, hands in his jacket pockets, watching her work. Finally, he asked, “Find anything?”

Lisa stopped, her gaze fixed on a particular section of the carvings. She didn’t turn around.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Adam’s already beaten us here…”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Flaminio Obelisk – Rome

The Flaminio Obelisk rose high above the Piazza del Popolo, a slender sentinel of red granite etched with the stories of an ancient empire. At 119 feet including its base, it was the tallest and most striking feature of the square, its surface covered with rows of hieroglyphs that told of divine power and the victories of Pharaoh Seti I and Ramesses II. The carvings, though worn by millennia of weather, still glimmered faintly in the lamplight, a language of secrets that only a few could ever hope to decipher.

Adam Gray stood at its base, his hands in his pockets, studying the monolith. He knew the history intimately: originally erected in Heliopolis, the obelisk had stood for centuries as a tribute to the sun god Ra before being brought to Rome by Emperor Augustus in 10 BCE. It had survived earthquakes, wars, and time itself to now dominate this square – a silent relic of a forgotten power.

Of all the thirteen ancient obelisks scattered around Rome, this was the only one that mattered to him. This was the one that held the final key to igniting the Well of Ra.

Adam and Ren had come prepared. Wearing high-visibility maintenance vests and with official-looking tools at their side, they moved with the calm confidence of city workers. Ren set up a temporary barricade of orange cones and tape around the obelisk, the kind of sight pedestrians barely noticed.

Adam smirked to himself.

Sometimes the easiest way to stay invisible is to stand right in plain sight.

He tilted his head back, squinting up at the hieroglyphs near the apex of the obelisk. He’d need to get close, far closer than the ground would allow. Even at his height, the uppermost glyphs – where the code was hidden – were out of reach.

The cherry picker Ren had acquired for the job stood ready. Adam climbed into the basket and adjusted the controls, the hydraulic lift groaning softly as it extended upward. Higher and higher he went, until the night air grew cool and the city noises felt distant. From this vantage point, the entire Piazza del Popolo sprawled beneath him, a patchwork of lights and movement.

He turned his focus to the stone. His light blue eyes scanned the hieroglyphs, searching for the subtle patterns that Icarus had once helped him detect – the repeating angles, the hidden sequence masked among symbols of gods and kings.

One by one, he checked each section, methodically working his way through the eighteen-point ancient code. It was slow, meticulous work, but Adam thrived on this kind of precision.

And then he felt it – the lock.

The code was complete.

The Flaminio Obelisk’s key was set.

He began lowering the cherry picker, satisfied with his work. But halfway down, a sharp voice shattered the quiet night.

“Stop where you are!”

Adam looked down. A police officer stood at the edge of the barricade, one hand resting on the butt of his holstered weapon.

Adam grinned, his teeth flashing in the lamplight. And sometimes, he thought, you get caught when you do things in plain sight.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Adam spread his hands, flashing a charming smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“What seems to be the problem, officer?”

The officer’s answer was to blow his whistle, sharp and shrill. Two more policemen appeared from the far side of the square, sprinting toward him.

Okay, Adam thought grimly, friendly isn’t going to work here.

Before he could react, Ren floored the accelerator of the truck. The cherry picker lurched violently forward, tires screeching as the heavy vehicle powered away from the obelisk. Adam swore loudly, gripping the railing as the basket swung like a pendulum. For a moment, he thought he was going to be thrown out.

The truck bounced hard over the uneven road, the engine roaring, while the police gave chase on foot. By the time two Alfa Romeo Giulias came sliding into the piazza, sirens wailing, Ren had already turned the corner.

Adam glanced down the narrow street ahead. If they were going to make it, he needed to disappear – fast. As the truck slowed to negotiate the next tight turn, Adam vaulted over the side, landing hard on the cobblestones and rolling onto the paved edge of the road. Pain shot through his shoulder, but he ignored it and got to his feet, sprinting away.

The officer with the whistle spotted him immediately and gestured sharply. Adam swore under his breath. So much for his clever plan of slipping away unnoticed. Now, he was the prime target.

He darted across a pedestrian crossing just as a red MV Agusta Superveloce rolled to a stop at the traffic light. Without hesitation, Adam grabbed the stunned motorcyclist by the leather jacket and yanked him off the bike.

“Nice bike,” Adam said with a grin.

The man shouted in protest, but Adam was already in the saddle. He twisted the throttle, the Superveloce’s engine snarling like a wild animal. With a sharp kick, he launched forward, blowing through the red light, weaving through oncoming traffic as horns blared around him.

Behind him, the two Alfa Romeo Giulias turned hard, tires screeching, and fell in pursuit. Their sirens wailed through the streets as Adam opened the throttle, the bike’s engine screaming at full power as he sped south along the River Tiber.

The Castel Sant’Angelo loomed ahead, its ancient cylindrical walls glowing golden under the floodlights. Adam cut past a line of startled pedestrians, the wind tearing at his jacket as he leaned into the turn. He roared past the Pantheon, its shadowy dome flashing by in a blur, the chase closing in behind him.

The Colosseum appeared in the distance, bathed in pale spotlights that highlighted its arches against the dark sky. Adam glanced in his side mirrors – the police cars were almost on top of him, one pulling to his left, the other to his right.

His light blue eyes narrowed.

With a burst of speed, Adam aimed for the entrance of the ancient Colosseum. The tourists gathered at the gates screamed and scattered as the motorcycle blasted through, echoing like a gunshot inside the stone amphitheater. The Superveloce’s tires skidded on the polished stone as Adam vaulted over a shallow step, threading through clusters of startled visitors who leapt out of his path.

“Out of the way!” he shouted, swerving past a young couple as he accelerated toward the opposite exit.

The Alfa Romeos skidded to a halt outside the ancient arches, unable to follow his path through the crowded ruin.

Adam didn’t look back. He shot out of the Colosseum like a bullet and veered south, the cool night air whipping past him. His route took him out of the city, the bike eating up the road toward Grotte di Nerone on the coast.

By the time he reached the rocky cliffs, more sirens were closing in from all sides. Either the same police had followed, or more units had been dispatched.

He was trapped.

Adam slowed for a heartbeat, scanning the cliff ahead and the flashing lights behind. The salty scent of the sea filled his lungs.

He revved the engine. Hard.

Then, with a sharp twist of the throttle, he raced straight toward the cliff edge, the Superveloce screaming as it launched off the rocky lip.

For a moment, he was airborne, the world suspended—then the bike crashed into the water, the impact sending a shockwave through his arms. Cold blackness swallowed him whole, but he didn’t panic.

Beneath the surface, waiting in thirty feet of water, was his submarine – his escape route, dark and silent like a predator.

Adam let go of the sinking motorcycle and swam toward the open hatch of the lockout trunk.

He fumbled in the dark for a regulator, put it in his mouth and drew a breath of cool air…

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Tahila cut through the last swells of the English Channel before gliding into its berth at Le Havre, the late morning sun casting a golden sheen over the harbor’s waters. From there, Sam, Amira, Matilda, and Lisa boarded the train bound for Paris. The rhythmic sway of the carriage and the hum of the rails beneath them were oddly soothing after the constant motion of the sea.

Sam leaned back in his seat, watching as Amira chatted easily with one of the food cart servers, her French flowing like music. Her eyes sparkled, her face animated as she gestured delicately, her laughter soft and warm. It reminded him of the first time he’d heard her speak her native language – a melody that made him feel both proud and hopelessly in love.

He turned his gaze out the window.

The French countryside unfolded in a blur of soft greens and golds – rolling fields divided by thin lines of hedges, clusters of whitewashed farmhouses with red tile roofs, and the occasional glimmer of a distant stream winding lazily through the fields. As they neared Paris, the scenery began to shift – roads widened, old stone villages gave way to suburbs, and hints of the city’s grandeur rose on the horizon.

When the train curved into the heart of the city, Sam saw it. The Eiffel Tower, rising out of the maze of rooftops like a monument to both history and dreams. The iron lattice caught the light, its intricate lines standing stark against the pale blue sky.

Beside him, Matilda’s mouth fell open in awe. Her wide eyes reflected the tower as if it were something out of a fairytale. “It’s… it’s like magic,” she whispered.

Sam smiled, unable to disagree. There was something about Paris that always felt timeless, like stepping into another world. He reached over, took Matilda’s small hand, and squeezed it gently.

He smiled. “Welcome to Paris.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Luxor Obelisk - Paris

The train hissed to a stop at Gare Saint-Lazare, the sound of brakes mixing with the hum of travelers spilling onto the platform. Sam stepped down first, offering his hand to Amira and Matilda as the warm air of Paris greeted them, laced with the distant scent of coffee and fresh pastries drifting from the station cafés. Lisa followed, her sharp eyes scanning the busy station, already calculating their path.

Outside, the streets were alive with the rhythm of Paris. The chatter of tourists mingled with the smooth hum of passing scooters and the occasional clink of coffee cups from sidewalk cafés. Sam caught the rich aroma of butter and yeast wafting from a nearby boulangerie – fresh croissants and baguettes, warm from the oven. It made his stomach growl.

They walked through the Rue de l’Arcade, past elegant Haussmann-style buildings with wrought-iron balconies and cream-colored facades. At one corner, the smell of crepes cooking on a hot griddle blended with the faint perfume of roasted chestnuts from a street vendor’s cart.

As they made their way toward Place de la Concorde, Sam noticed historic landmarks flashing by like scenes from a painting. They passed the Église de la Madeleine, its Greek temple façade with towering columns glowing under the late afternoon sun. Farther along, they caught glimpses of the Champs-Élysées, lined with chestnut trees and flanked by shops, where tourists meandered with cameras and ice creams in hand, soaking in the city’s romantic energy.

Lisa walked beside Sam, her voice carrying a reverence as she explained, “The Luxor Obelisk is over 3,000 years old. It once stood at the entrance of the Luxor Temple in Egypt, alongside its twin, which still remains there. In 1831, Muhammad Ali Pasha, the Ottoman viceroy of Egypt, gifted it to France. It took them years to bring it here and erect it in this square.”

Sam nodded, glancing at her. “France seems to have been collecting obelisks as if they were trophies.”

Lisa gave him a faint smile. “This one is the centerpiece. It’s the oldest monument in Paris –and it’s a key to the Well of Ra.”

When they finally reached Place de la Concorde, the Luxor Obelisk rose above them, dominating the square. Standing 75 feet high and weighing over 250 tons, its golden pyramidion gleamed in the sun. The hieroglyphs carved along its sides, though worn by centuries, remained clear and striking, chronicling the reign of Ramesses II. The obelisk seemed to hum with history, its presence commanding and mysterious.

Sam tilted his head back, following the lines of hieroglyphs as they disappeared skyward. The obelisk made him feel small, like a child standing before something eternal.

He exchanged a glance with Lisa. “What do you think?”

Lisa’s eyes narrowed as she studied the uppermost glyphs. “I think we’re going to need to find a way to get much closer up there.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Eiffel Tower – Paris

The elevator doors opened to the top platform of the Eiffel Tower, and Amira stepped out with Matilda close beside her. It had seemed calm on the ground, but up here the wind swept around them in sudden, playful gusts, tugging at her hair and Matilda’s jacket.

Matilda gripped the railing, leaning forward just enough to see the world below. Paris stretched out like a living map – the River Seine winding through the city like a silver ribbon, its bridges arching gracefully across the water. The rooftops of Paris gleamed in shades of cream and gray, interrupted by the spires of ancient churches and the golden dome of Les Invalides. To the north, Amira pointed out the faint silhouette of Sacré-Cœur atop Montmartre, while to the west the Arc de Triomphe stood as a proud sentinel at the end of the Champs-Élysées.

For a long while, they stood in silence, simply drinking it all in.

“Have you ever tried French hot chocolate?” Amira asked, brushing a strand of hair from her face as another gust of wind swept past.

Matilda turned to her, curious. “You mean like the hot chocolate we have at home?”

Amira laughed softly. “Not even close. This kind is so thick you need a spoon to eat it. It’s more like chocolate soup than a drink.”

Matilda’s eyes widened. “I’ve never tried that… but I’d love to!”

“Then that’s what we’ll do next,” Amira said warmly.

They took the elevator down to the lower platform, then descended the last levels via the iron steps, each footstep ringing softly on the metal lattice. By the time they reached the ground, Amira’s legs felt pleasantly tired, and the smell of roasted chestnuts and fresh crepes from nearby food stands filled the air.

They walked through the Champ de Mars, the wide park that stretched like a green carpet from the base of the tower. Children ran laughing between the trees, while couples sat on benches, some with picnic baskets, basking in the romantic glow of the late afternoon light.

As they strolled along the path, a man walking with a determined stride brushed past Amira, bumping her shoulder. She stopped abruptly, surprised.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the man said at once, his voice warm and polite.

Amira looked up, meeting his gaze. Blue eyes, sharp and clear, met hers. His hair was a wavy chestnut brown, tousled just enough to look effortlessly stylish, and his face carried the kind of movie-star good looks that caught her off guard.

She offered a small smile. “It’s fine, really. Don’t worry about it.”

But as the man gave a faint nod and moved on, Amira stood for a moment, watching his retreating back. There was something about him – something familiar, though she couldn’t quite place where she’d seen him before.

Chapter Forty

Adam apologized to the beautiful Parisian woman and her daughter.

He adjusted the cuff of his jacket as he left the park behind, weaving through the relaxed weekend crowd along the Champ de Mars. The warm Parisian sun bathed everything in a golden hue, the breeze carrying the scent of roasted chestnuts and sweet crepes from nearby vendors. Yet, as he walked, a faint distraction nagged at him – the beautiful woman and her daughter he had just brushed past.

Her face lingered in his mind like a photograph he couldn’t quite place. The glint of her eyes, the curve of her smile – it was oddly familiar, and the sensation unsettled him. Focus, he told himself. He had work to do.

Adam followed the streets north, past the Ecole Militaire, its grand façade standing as a solemn reminder of France’s military history. He cut across the broad expanse of the Esplanade des Invalides, the golden dome of Les Invalides gleaming under the sun like a beacon of wealth and power. The paths were lined with manicured trees, their shadows crisscrossing the gravel walkways, and tourists strolled leisurely, snapping photographs of everything from statues to the Eiffel Tower rising in the distance.

Crossing the Pont Alexandre III, Adam slowed for a moment. The bridge’s ornate lampposts and gilded statues glittered in the sunlight, and the River Seine beneath sparkled with the passage of sightseeing boats, their wakes rippling against the embankments. It was almost too beautiful, too calm, for the task at hand.

By the time he reached Place de la Concorde, the city seemed to open up around him. The Luxor Obelisk stood proudly at the center of the square, its 75-foot red granite shaft soaring above the fountains and the steady hum of traffic. The golden pyramidion at its peak flashed brilliantly in the sunlight, as though mocking the centuries that had passed since its carving.

Adam stopped and gazed up at it, letting his eyes trace the hieroglyphs etched deep into its ancient surface. Each symbol was a thread connecting back to Egypt, to power and secrets that few could ever understand. He felt the weight of the moment settling on his shoulders.

Still, in the back of his mind, the woman’s face haunted him. He clenched his jaw, shaking the thought away. It didn’t matter who she was. Not now.

His blue eyes narrowed, shifting back to the obelisk. He had a code to unlock, and the sunlit city around him was the perfect disguise.

Chapter Forty-One

The Luxor Obelisk rose above Place de la Concorde like a sentinel of time itself, its sharp, tapering shaft reaching 75 feet into the Parisian sky. The red granite surface, weathered but still striking, was carved with hieroglyphs depicting the reign and victories of Pharaoh Ramesses II, each symbol etched deep into the stone more than 3,000 years ago. Its shape was a perfect needle, narrowing to a golden pyramidion that flashed under the sunlight like fire.

Sam stood with Jean-Pierre Leclerc, the historical curator at the Louvre and an old friend from past adventures. Jean-Pierre’s tailored jacket and polished shoes looked out of place against the cordoned-off area, where two French police officers stood guard at the base of the obelisk, their watchful gazes keeping tourists at a distance.

Beside the obelisk was a cherry picker on loan from the Louvre, its mechanical arms extended to give Lisa a closer look at the ancient carvings high above the ground. She gave Sam a meaningful glance.

“See now,” Lisa murmured with a faint smirk, “this is why I needed your help.”

Sam grinned, stepping into the basket with her. “I’m starting to see that.”

As the cherry picker lifted them skyward, the bustle of Place de la Concorde fell away, replaced by the stillness of history looming above them. The hieroglyphs were clearer up here, crisp against the sunlit stone. Sam held the railing while Lisa leaned forward, her fingertips grazing the carvings with a reverence that bordered on obsession.

She ran her hand across several symbols, pausing now and again as though feeling for something beyond the surface. Sam caught the furtive glance she cast down at Jean-Pierre.

“Hope he doesn’t see you touching that,” Sam murmured.

“Let him try and stop me,” Lisa said under her breath, her eyes narrowing as she studied the patterns.

Sam watched her for a moment, sensing her frustration. “What do you think?”

Lisa exhaled sharply, her expression hardening. “It’s no good. Adam’s beaten us here. This key’s been activated too.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. Without a word, he pressed the lower button on the cherry picker’s control panel, and the basket began to descend with a soft mechanical whine. They were halfway down when a sudden crack of gunfire split the air.

A bullet struck the obelisk just inches from Lisa’s hand, chipping a fragment of ancient granite that fell spinning to the ground below.

“Down!” Sam barked, pulling Lisa down into the base of the basket as another shot rang out, ricocheting off the metal arm of the cherry picker. The echo of gunfire sent the tourists in the square screaming and scattering for cover.

Sam crouched low, gripping Lisa’s arm, his eyes darting across the rooftops. “Looks like someone doesn’t want us studying this obelisk,” he said grimly.

Chapter Forty-Two

Adam steadied his breath, squinting through the rifle’s sights. He had a clean line on Sam Reilly, or at least he thought he did – until the basket of the cherry picker shifted at the last second. His shot went wide, the bullet splintering a piece of ancient granite from the obelisk instead of hitting its intended target.

“Damn it,” Adam hissed, adjusting his aim for a second shot.

But before he could pull the trigger again, movement below caught his eye. The two French police officers stationed at the base of the obelisk were already reacting, their submachine guns snapping up with practiced precision. The sharp bark of return fire cracked through the Paris air, bullets tearing through the rooftop masonry around him.

Adam cursed his bad luck, rolling back behind the cover of a stone balustrade as dust and fragments exploded inches from his head.

There was no time to finish the job. He needed to move.

Adam vaulted over the rooftop’s low parapet, his boots landing on the sloped tiles of the adjacent building with a scrape that jarred his teeth. He sprinted, weaving between chimneys and air vents, the rifle slung across his back as he leapt from one rooftop to the next. Shouts and whistles rose from the square below, and he could hear the officers’ radio chatter echoing from their headsets.

Sliding down the edge of a roof, Adam caught the gutter pipe, swinging himself over to a narrow fire escape. He bounded down the metal steps two at a time, hitting the alleyway hard before breaking into a run.

The Seine wasn’t far. If he could get to the riverbank, he could disappear among the tourist boats and river traffic, slipping away before reinforcements arrived. He darted across a side street, ignoring the startled cries of pedestrians as he pushed through the crowd.

His eyes scanned ahead for a route. Get to the water, he told himself. Everything else can wait.

Chapter Forty-Three

Sam kept his finger firmly pressed on the lower button, the cherry picker’s motor humming steadily as the basket descended. His eyes scanned the rooftops, trying to catch sight of the shooter again. The moment the basket was close enough to the ground, Sam made his move.

He drew his Beretta in a fluid motion, leaping the last few feet and landing hard on the cobblestones. He barely felt the impact as he broke into a sprint, his instincts kicking in.

The square was chaos – tourists scattered in every direction, some ducking for cover while others pointed upward, shouting in French. Sam ignored the noise, his focus locked on the fleeting shadow darting across the far rooftop.

“That’s him,” Sam muttered, teeth clenched as he pushed through the crowd. His boots pounded against the stone pavement, every stride closing the distance to the alley that led away from the obelisk.

The man had fired on them in broad daylight. That meant he was desperate. Or worse, confident. Sam couldn’t let him slip away.

He sprinted past the two French police officers, who were already scrambling to take defensive positions around the obelisk. “I’m going after him!” Sam called out in French. One officer started to protest, but Sam was already gone, diving into the narrow side street that led toward the rooftops where the shooter had fled.

Chapter Forty-Four

The rich aroma of freshly baked croissants and the thick, velvety hot chocolate had wrapped Amira in a cocoon of peace, a rare moment where Paris felt like it belonged only to her and Matilda. The café terrace, nestled along a cobblestone street with old wrought-iron balconies overhead, was the kind of place she’d once dreamed of when she was a student in France.

Then, the sharp crack of gunfire shattered that tranquility.

Amira’s head snapped around just in time to see Sam, sprinting through the street like a man possessed, chasing the stranger. And not just any stranger – her breath caught in her throat – it was the good-looking man who had bumped into her earlier. His blue eyes and wavy brown hair burned into her memory.

The sound, the chaos, the sight of him – it all clicked.

A jolt of recognition surged through her.

The submarine. Panama Canal.

He was one of them. One of the men who had attacked them. Who had nearly taken her.

She set her cup down so fast it sloshed over the rim, standing up sharply. Matilda, halfway through another spoonful of molten chocolate, stared at her.

“Matilda,” Amira said firmly, “stay here and finish your hot chocolate.”

“But –” Matilda started, her eyes wide with worry.

“No arguments,” Amira said, her voice sharper than she intended. Something in her tone, something fierce, made Matilda close her mouth and nod reluctantly.

Amira’s eyes darted down the street. The stranger was fast – faster than Sam – and he was pulling away with every step. She could see the direction he was taking. If she cut through one of the narrow alleyways she remembered from her university days, she could get ahead of him.

She took off running, her boots striking the cobblestones as she wove through startled pedestrians. Paris was a second home, and every twist and turn of these historic streets was etched into her memory. She vaulted over a low step and ducked under a hanging flower box, her breath coming in controlled bursts as she cut diagonally through the tight alley.

She reached the corner just as she predicted, the narrow street a perfect choke point. Her eyes scanned quickly for anything she could use. A green street cleaner’s broom, left propped against a wall by a maintenance cart, caught her attention. She grabbed it without hesitation, gripping it like a staff.

Footsteps thundered closer – fast, heavy. She tightened her grip.

The stranger rounded the corner, his eyes widening in shock when he saw her.

With a sharp, practiced motion, Amira swung the wooden side of the broom low and hard, striking directly across his shins like a sword.

The man cried out, a guttural shout of pain, as his momentum failed him. He tumbled to the ground, rolling hard across the cobblestones with a grunt.

Chapter Forty-Five

Adam’s lungs burned, but adrenaline surged through him, powering every stride. He was pulling away – he could feel it. Sam Reilly might have been fast, but Adam was younger, sharper, and fueled by the thrill of knowing he was winning. Each slap of his boots against the cobblestones was a victory, each turn through the labyrinth of Parisian alleys a step closer to freedom.

Then, pain.

A sudden, searing agony shot through both his shins, as if lightning had struck them. His legs buckled, and he went down hard, rolling across the stones with a grunt that rattled his teeth.

Adam forced himself back to his feet, biting down against the pain. He glanced over his shoulder, and there she was – the woman from earlier, the one with the dark hair and striking features. The same woman he had bumped into near the Eiffel Tower café.

Recognition hit him like another blow. She’s the one from the Tahila. She must be Reilly’s wife.

Adam’s fingers tightened on his rifle. He leveled it at her, his breath ragged. But something stopped him. She stood there, broom in hand, her posture defiant, eyes unflinching. She was beautiful, yes – but there was more. Something about her raw courage stirred respect in him.

She just brought me down with a damned street sweeper’s broom.

For a fleeting moment, Adam found himself smiling despite the danger. He admired her guts. Killing her would feel… wrong.

A bullet cracked overhead, sparking off the wall next to him.

Sam Reilly was still behind him, gun in hand, relentless as ever.

The moment of hesitation shattered. Adam turned and bolted again, weaving through a tight lane that spilled out toward the Seine.

The riverside bustled with late-afternoon life. Couples strolled along the quay, while others lounged with wine bottles and paper bags of baguettes. Ahead, a young couple was stepping onto a private Venetian-style cruising yacht, its polished mahogany gleaming in the sun. The boat had a convertible roof and plush leather banquette seats, the epitome of Parisian luxury on water.

Adam didn’t slow. He leveled his rifle at them, the steel glinting under the light.

The man froze mid-step, his eyes wide. Then he raised his hands and stammered, “No, you’re right… you go first…”

The skipper jumped off the stern before Adam even said a word, hands raised in surrender.

Adam leapt aboard, slamming the throttle down. The yacht roared to life, lurching forward as the bow cut into the water. He spun the wheel sharply, sending ripples across the Seine as he powered downstream.

The cityscape slid by in a blur – Pont Neuf, the ancient bridges, the riverside cafés, and houseboats – while horns blared from sightseeing barges forced to veer out of his path. Adam didn’t care.

He had one destination in mind: Canal Saint-Martin.

The canal’s entrance loomed ahead, shadowed by the arched locks and tunnels that wound beneath the streets of Paris. He grinned as the boat surged toward it, knowing the network of narrow canals and echoing underground passages could swallow him up like a ghost.

Chapter Forty-Six

Sam wasn’t about to let Adam Gray vanish into the chaos of Paris. His boots hammered against the stone walkway that lined the Seine, his breath steady despite the sprint. He kept his eyes locked on the dark speck of the Venetian cruiser carving its way downriver.

I need a boat. Now.

About fifty feet ahead, Sam spotted salvation – a classic wooden speedboat idling near the embankment, its V8 engine purring softly as a small group of guests admired the glittering Eiffel Tower from the deck. The boat was just about to glide beneath the Pont de Bir-Hakeim, its iron arches silhouetted against the late afternoon sun.

Sam poured on the speed. As the boat slipped under the bridge, he planted his foot on the stone guardrail, pushed off, and launched himself into the air.

The drop was at least fifteen feet. He landed hard on the polished mahogany deck, his boots slamming against the wood with a heavy thud.

“Sorry!” Sam barked, quickly raising a hand as the startled guests screamed. “I need this boat!”

The skipper, a tall man in a captain’s cap, spun around, his hands raised in protest. He looked like he was about to argue – until his gaze fell on the Beretta in Sam’s hand.

Without a word, the man dived over the side of the boat with a splash, joining the two terrified passengers who quickly scrambled to the quay ladder.

Sam leapt behind the wheel, grabbed the throttle, and shoved it forward.

The V8 roared to life with a guttural growl, the raw power vibrating through the hull. The boat lurched forward, cutting a sharp wake behind it. As the remaining passengers clambered overboard, Sam guided the bow straight down the Seine, the wind tearing past his face.

The wooden hull cut through the water like a blade, the polished deck gleaming in the light as Paris blurred around him – the cafés, the historic bridges, the shimmering reflections of the Eiffel Tower growing smaller behind.

Ahead, Adam’s stolen Venetian cruiser tore toward the mouth of the Canal Saint-Martin. Sam gritted his teeth, gripping the wheel tighter. He wasn’t letting this man escape – not again.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Canal Saint Martin - Paris

Sam’s boat shot into the narrow mouth of the Canal Saint-Martin, the roar of the V8 engine bouncing violently off the stone walls. The canal’s famous underground tunnels enveloped him like a maze of shadows, the once-gentle ripples of the water now frothing in his wake.

The subterranean stretch of the canal was a relic of 19th-century engineering – a long, vaulted tunnel with curved, brick-lined ceilings that dripped with condensation. Weak pools of light filtered down through occasional openings, casting ghostly shafts of illumination across the dark water. Sam caught glimpses of rusted iron beams, moss-streaked walls, and ancient wooden timbers – reminders of the canal’s long history of moving goods in and out of Paris since Napoleon’s time.

The sound of his V8 echoed endlessly, a deep growl that rattled the enclosed space, mixing with the sharp splash of water displaced by his wake. The tunnel smelled of damp stone, oil, and centuries of stagnant water. Sam’s eyes adjusted quickly to the alternating dark and light, his hands gripping the wheel as he pushed the boat harder, skimming dangerously close to the walls.

Up ahead, he caught sight of Adam’s Venetian cruiser – the wake trailing it was erratic, its engine whining. Sam narrowed the gap with every second, the light at the end of the tunnel growing brighter until, suddenly, they shot out into daylight.

The Canal Saint-Martin emptied into the River Marne, where the water broadened into a calm but open stretch flanked by fields and scattered trees. It was rural here, a sharp contrast to the chaos of Paris just a few kilometers behind them.

Adam’s boat hit the shallow bank, skidding to a halt. Sam gunned his engine, watching as Adam leapt out of the Venetian cruiser, sprinting toward a small floatplane moored on the edge of the river.

The aircraft was a Cessna 206 Stationair on floats, its single propeller already spinning, throwing shimmering distortions into the sunlight. A pilot sat inside, waving frantically for Adam to hurry.

“Damn it,” Sam muttered, tightening his grip on the throttle.

Sam’s wooden boat surged forward, the hull lifting into an aquaplane, skimming the water with a hiss of speed. He was closing the distance fast, the bow aimed directly at the floatplane as Adam hauled himself onto the pontoon, clambering into the co-pilot’s seat.

The Cessna’s engine roared, the floats cutting through the river as the plane gathered speed for takeoff. Sam’s V8 screamed, its RPMs climbing, the wake churning violently behind him. He was within a few boat lengths when the Cessna lifted off the water, rising with a spray of mist and a deafening thrum of propeller blades.

Sam’s jaw tightened as he leaned over the wheel, pushing his boat as fast as it would go, but the plane was already airborne. He watched it rise over the fields, the sunlight glinting off its wings, and then bank sharply eastward.

“Damn you, Adam,” Sam growled under his breath, slamming his palm against the wheel as the floatplane disappeared into the sky.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Sam’s boat shot into the narrow mouth of the Canal Saint-Martin, the roar of the V8 engine bouncing violently off the stone walls. The canal’s famous underground tunnels enveloped him like a maze of shadows, the once-gentle ripples of the water now frothing in his wake.

The subterranean stretch of the canal was a relic of 19th-century engineering – a long, vaulted tunnel with curved, brick-lined ceilings that dripped with condensation. Weak pools of light filtered down through occasional openings, casting ghostly shafts of illumination across the dark water. Sam caught glimpses of rusted iron beams, moss-streaked walls, and ancient wooden timbers – reminders of the canal’s long history of moving goods in and out of Paris since Napoleon’s time.

The sound of his V8 echoed endlessly, a deep growl that rattled the enclosed space, mixing with the sharp splash of water displaced by his wake. The tunnel smelled of damp stone, oil, and centuries of stagnant water. Sam’s eyes adjusted quickly to the alternating dark and light, his hands gripping the wheel as he pushed the boat harder, skimming dangerously close to the walls.

Up ahead, he caught sight of Adam’s Venetian cruiser – the wake trailing it was erratic, its engine whining. Sam narrowed the gap with every second, the light at the end of the tunnel growing brighter until, suddenly, they shot out into daylight.

The Canal Saint-Martin emptied into the River Marne, where the water broadened into a calm but open stretch flanked by fields and scattered trees. It was rural here, a sharp contrast to the chaos of Paris just a few kilometers behind them.

Adam’s boat hit the shallow bank, skidding to a halt. Sam gunned his engine, watching as Adam leapt out of the Venetian cruiser, sprinting toward a small floatplane moored on the edge of the river.

The aircraft was a Cessna 206 Stationair on floats, its single propeller already spinning, throwing shimmering distortions into the sunlight. A pilot sat inside, waving frantically for Adam to hurry.

“Damn it,” Sam muttered, tightening his grip on the throttle.

Sam’s wooden boat surged forward, the hull lifting into an aquaplane, skimming the water with a hiss of speed. He was closing the distance fast, the bow aimed directly at the floatplane as Adam hauled himself onto the pontoon, clambering into the co-pilot’s seat.

The Cessna’s engine roared, the floats cutting through the river as the plane gathered speed for takeoff. Sam’s V8 screamed, its RPMs climbing, the wake churning violently behind him. He was within a few boat lengths when the Cessna lifted off the water, rising with a spray of mist and a deafening thrum of propeller blades.

Sam’s jaw tightened as he leaned over the wheel, pushing his boat as fast as it would go, but the plane was already airborne. He watched it rise over the fields, the sunlight glinting off its wings, and then bank sharply eastward.

“Damn you, Adam,” Sam growled under his breath, slamming his palm against the wheel as the floatplane disappeared into the sky.

Would you like me to continue with Sam contacting Lisa and Jean-Pierre over the radio to track where the floatplane is headed, knowing Adam is heading toward the next obelisk?

Chapter Forty-Nine

Sam’s heart was still pounding as he scanned the riverbank.

Adam’s floatplane was already a shrinking speck in the sky, but Sam wasn’t done yet. He needed air power – now. That’s when he spotted it: a sleek Bell Jet Ranger helicopter, its rotor blades beginning to spin lazily as it prepared for takeoff. A young couple, dressed in formal wedding attire, was about to board. The bride’s white dress rippled in the breeze from the rotor wash, and the groom’s arm wrapped protectively around her waist as they laughed with the pilot.

Sam didn’t hesitate. He ran toward them, his boots pounding along the grass.

“Sorry about this,” he called out, his voice firm but polite. “I need your helicopter.”

The groom blinked, momentarily stunned. “No way…”

Sam held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise!”

The pilot, a seasoned-looking man in his forties, frowned deeply. “You’re unbelievable. It’s their wedding day.”

Sam flashed a quick smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I congratulate you both and wish you many happy years… but that man up there” – he pointed to the fading floatplane –“just attacked my wife and insulted her. I can’t let that happen.”

The pilot shook his head. “I can’t help you.”

Sam sighed, his patience snapping. In one smooth motion, he drew his Beretta and leveled it at the pilot – not in anger, but with grim determination. “I’m really sorry about this,” he said, his voice steady, “but I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the aircraft.”

The pilot’s hand twitched toward the controls, as though he meant to shut the engine down.

“Leave it,” Sam ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The pilot muttered a curse under his breath but climbed out, the tension in his face clear.

Sam turned to the couple, his expression softening. “I’m sorry to ruin your moment. I’ll take good care of it – and I’ll make this right.”

The bride, a striking brunette with flowers pinned in her hair, smiled despite the chaos. She looked at her stunned husband and said, “See the lengths a good husband will go to protect his wife’s honor?”

The groom blinked. “That man just broke several laws… and stole our helicopter!”

The bride squealed with delight, leaning into him. “And you wouldn’t do that to protect my honor?”

The man’s face softened. “You’re right. Good luck!”

Sam was already strapping himself into the pilot’s seat, the Jet Ranger’s cockpit vibrating beneath him as the rotors gained speed. He shot the couple a quick grin. “Thanks. I’ll make it up to you.”

Then he pulled up on the collective, the Jet Ranger lifting smoothly into the air, its engine whine rising as he banked hard in pursuit of Adam’s plane.

Chapter Fifty

The Jet Ranger lifted effortlessly, and Sam banked the helicopter east, eyes locked on the floatplane cutting across the horizon. Its silver wings glinted in the sunlight as it climbed steadily, but the aircraft was slower than his helicopter. Sam tightened his grip on the cyclic, pushing the throttle hard, and the Jet Ranger surged forward.

Below him, the French countryside rolled past like a living canvas—patchwork fields of gold and green, dotted with rows of vineyards and ancient stone farmhouses. Thin lines of country roads wound between small villages with terracotta rooftops, their church spires reaching toward the sky. The Seine shimmered like a ribbon of silver behind him as he trailed Adam’s plane toward the coast.

The landscape began to flatten as they neared Normandy, the lush fields giving way to salt marshes and wide beaches. The English Channel glimmered in the distance, reflecting the sun in a dazzling white blaze. Sam’s Jet Ranger sliced through the salt-laden air, closing the gap on the floatplane as it descended toward the waves.

The floatplane landed with a splash, skimming the water before settling into the choppy surface. Sam hovered above it, angling the helicopter to keep his eyes on the cockpit. He pulled his Beretta from its holster, leaning slightly out of the side door.

“Let’s see how you like this,” Sam muttered, squeezing off two shots aimed toward the plane’s pilot. Bullets sparked against the aluminum body, forcing the pilot to duck.

Then the water erupted.

A submarine surfaced, its black hull tearing through the Channel waves like a leviathan. The conning tower rose, water cascading down its sleek surface. A man emerged from the hatch – rifle in hand – and in a split second, gunfire cracked through the air.

Sam cursed, jerking the cyclic as rounds zipped past the Jet Ranger’s skids. One bullet struck the helicopter’s side with a metallic ping, jolting him back into focus.

“Not today,” Sam growled, banking hard to the right. The Jet Ranger tilted sharply, rotor blades slicing through the wind as he broke away, climbing higher and out of the shooter’s range. He swung wide, watching the submarine and the floatplane below as they regrouped.

Sam’s mind raced. Adam’s not just running – he’s being picked up.

Chapter Fifty-One

The submarine bobbed gently on the surface of the English Channel, its black hull gleaming with rivulets of seawater as the conning tower cast a shadow over the deck. Inside the control room, Adam Gray sat hunched over a metal table, his light blue eyes fixed on the illuminated map spread before him. The hum of the engines and the low whir of the onboard computer system filled the confined space, but Adam’s mind was elsewhere – racing.

He turned to Ray Olson, the ex-CIA tech genius who had been with him since Panama. Olson’s fingers danced over the keyboard, his face lit by the glow of the monitor. The submarine’s onboard computer was connected to a military-grade satellite link, bouncing signals off the upper atmosphere while they remained surfaced.

“Tell me again,” Adam said, his voice low, deliberate. “How did Reilly find Lisa? How did he find Icarus?”

Olson adjusted his glasses, his eyes never leaving the screen. “I’ve been going through global CCTV logs, piecing together where the Tahila has been. Their yacht has stealth tech, so most systems miss it. But the ones I tapped into…” He paused, smirking. “Well, they don’t miss much.”

Adam leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “And?”

Olson pulled up a series of grainy images. “Last confirmed sighting—Chesapeake Bay, three weeks ago. Then nothing. Vanished. Like a ghost.”

Adam’s jaw tightened. “Go on.”

“Two weeks later…” Olson clicked through to another image, “…it shows up on the River Thames. London.” He tapped the screen with a finger. “They didn’t sail from Chesapeake Bay to the Thames without stopping – unless they were hiding something.”

Adam turned back to the map on the table. His fingers traced the rough triangle between Chesapeake Bay, the North Atlantic, and London.

There was a stretch of ocean between those points—an area he knew well from old shipping reports and salvage operations. A place notorious among sailors for strange drifts and shipwrecks.

He grinned. “The North Atlantic Vortex!”

“What?” Baker asked.

“A natural gyre in the Atlantic, where everything that floats ends up. The Atlantic’s version of the Pacific Garbage Patch.”

“Okay?”

“So, there was a big storm. A hurricane and the Tahila, like other vessels in the area were advised to go off shore where they could ride out the storm safely.” Adam squeezed his fist into a ball. “That’s it! I’m sure of it. They must have found Icarus out there… and then Lisa wrapped Sam around her small finger, and got his assistance to reach the Well of Ra.”

“Then, where is Icarus now?”

“The same place it’s been for the last two years!”

“What?” Baker asked. “You don’t think they’ve towed it somewhere?”

“It would be hard to tow. Lisa’s too smart. She would have realised as soon as large towing vessels were brought in, I would have heard about it. No, she’s left it in the North Atlantic Garbage Patch to hide with the rest of the junk.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Isn’t it obvious.” Adam grinned. “We’re going to the North Atlantic to find Icarus… it’s the only way we’ll ever locate the Well of Ra and beat Lisa Green at her own game!”

Chapter Fifty-Two

Florence, Italy

The Arno River shimmered in the afternoon sun, its gentle ripples reflecting the warm tones of the surrounding Renaissance architecture. Sam walked alongside Lisa, taking in the scene. The Ponte Vecchio, with its rows of jewelry shops perched precariously over the water, stood like a testament to Florence’s enduring charm. Beyond it, the Duomo di Firenze dominated the skyline, its massive red-tiled dome glowing under the Tuscan sun. The intricate marble façade of Santa Maria del Fiore seemed to change color with the shifting light, a beacon for the throngs of tourists moving through the city’s cobbled streets.

The streets were alive with a blend of languages – tourists snapping photos, artists selling paintings on corners, and the aroma of espresso and fresh pastries drifting from nearby cafés. Lisa pointed toward a quiet lane that led away from the crowds, toward the green hills rising just beyond the historic center.

They crossed into the Boboli Gardens, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. The noise of the city faded behind them, replaced by the soft rustle of cypress trees and the chirping of birds hidden in the hedges. Sam paused to take it in. The gardens spread out like a living tapestry – carefully manicured lawns bordered by geometric hedges, winding paths shaded by ancient oak and laurel trees, and fountains that gurgled softly under the afternoon light. Statues of Roman gods and mythological figures stood along the pathways, their stone faces weathered yet timeless.

“This place feels like walking into another century,” Sam murmured.

“Seventeenth-century Florence, to be exact,” Lisa replied with a faint smile, adjusting the strap of her satchel. “These gardens were designed for the Medici family. They loved leaving their mark on history.”

They continued upward along a gravel path until the Boboli Obelisk came into view. Rising from the center of a circular basin, the slender column of red granite stood proud against the sky. It was not as large as the obelisks in Rome or Paris, but its elegance made it stand out amidst the greenery. Ancient hieroglyphs spiraled along its length, their edges worn but still decipherable, while the obelisk itself was mounted on the backs of four gilded turtles – a curious yet captivating base.

Sam stopped and tilted his head back to take it in. “This one doesn’t look like it belongs here.”

Lisa smiled knowingly. “It doesn’t. It was brought here in the 18th century from the Villa Medici in Rome, but it’s older than Florence by a couple of thousand years. It’s an Egyptian original, like all the others scattered across Europe.”

Sam ran his hand along the smooth granite. “And you think this one is part of the same pattern?”

Lisa’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Icarus found references to it. Yes, this is definitely one of the keys.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

Sam stood a few paces back, scanning the gardens for any sign of Adam or his men. The Boboli Obelisk rose behind him, a slender column of reddish granite that reached nearly 20 feet into the sky. Its surface was etched with Egyptian hieroglyphs, faded yet still visible in the afternoon light –depictions of falcons with outstretched wings, the solar disk of Ra, and scenes of pharaohs offering tributes to the gods. The carvings were precise, their lines cut deep into the stone, whispering stories of a world far older than Florence itself.

Lisa was already busy at work. She had spotted a small, weathered ladder leaning in the nearby gardener’s shed. Without hesitation, she hauled it over and propped it against the obelisk. Sam glanced over at her, but she gave him only a quick nod, her focus already on the glyphs as she climbed.

He turned his attention back to the gardens. The tourists were oblivious—families strolling under the cypress trees, couples taking photos with the Medici statues, the sound of a distant fountain blending with the soft hum of conversation. But Sam’s instincts were on high alert. Somewhere out there, Adam Gray could be watching.

“Anything?” he asked, his voice low but sharp.

Lisa didn’t respond at first. She was running her fingers along the hieroglyphs, pausing at several points as if looking for something specific. A moment later, she climbed back down, her face set in grim determination.

“He’s beaten us here, too,” she said, her tone clipped. “Adam’s already activated this one. We need to reach Istanbul before he engages all the keys to the Well of Ra!”

Chapter Fifty-Four

The private jet touched down smoothly at Istanbul Airport, its engines winding down as Sam and Lisa disembarked into the warm, faintly humid air of the city. The smell of spices drifted even here, carried from the bustling markets miles away, and Sam couldn’t help but notice how Istanbul felt like a city balanced between two worlds – ancient and modern, East and West.

Their driver wound through the dense traffic of the city, past gleaming mosques with towering minarets, their domes shimmering in the late afternoon sun. The streets buzzed with life – vendors selling roasted chestnuts and simit bread, the aroma of cardamom coffee wafting from tiny cafés tucked into old stone alleys. The skyline was a blend of glass-fronted towers and centuries-old structures, each block whispering history.

As they neared the Hippodrome of Constantinople, Lisa’s voice took on an almost reverent tone. “This place has seen the rise and fall of empires, Sam. It’s been Roman, Byzantine, Ottoman. And now… we’re here chasing secrets that have outlasted them all.”

Sam nodded, glancing out at the open square. The Blue Mosque, with its cascading domes and slender minarets, rose on one side, while the ancient Hagia Sophia stood in all its grandeur nearby. Tourists moved like a slow tide, taking photos, whispering as though they knew this place was something more than just stone and history.

They walked the last stretch on foot, weaving through the crowd until the Obelisk of Theodosius came into view. It stood like a blade against the sky – 82 feet of solid pink granite, carved with rows of hieroglyphs so intricate that the afternoon light made the symbols almost glow. The obelisk had once stood in Luxor, Egypt, before being brought here by Emperor Theodosius I in the 4th century AD.

Sam tilted his head back, taking in the full weight of its presence. He thought of how many centuries it had seen – how many lives had passed beneath its shadow. He felt a strange hum of energy, as if the stone itself remembered the empires it had outlasted.

Lisa stood beside him, her gaze sharp and calculating. “It’s incredible,” she said softly, “but also dangerous. We’re standing in front of one of the keys, Sam. And Adam knows it.”

Sam exhaled slowly, his eyes never leaving the obelisk. The carvings climbed high above them, disappearing into the clear blue sky. For a moment, he felt as if the answers they sought were just out of reach, locked inside this ancient stone.

“Whatever secrets you’re hiding,” Sam murmured under his breath, “we’re going to find them.”

Chapter Fifty-Five

Obelisk of Theodosius – Hippodrome of Constantinople, Istanbul

Sam’s gaze narrowed as he approached the Obelisk of Theodosius. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Hippodrome, but it wasn’t the obelisk itself that caught his attention – it was the cherry picker parked at its base and the cluster of archeologists working at its upper sections under the watchful eyes of two armed police officers.

Sam frowned. That can’t be good.

He exchanged a quick glance with Lisa, who looked equally uneasy, before striding toward the scene. “Hello,” he said, his voice calm but carrying authority. “I’m Sam Reilly. This is Lisa Green. What’s going on?”

One of the archaeologists, a man in dusty khakis with a clipboard under his arm, stepped down from the platform and adjusted his glasses. “Mr. Reilly? We’ve had… an incident. Two days ago, someone came here – someone who knew exactly what they were doing. They attempted to tamper with the obelisk, perhaps to remove or mark something. We’re still trying to determine the damage.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. “Did you get a description?”

“Only that it was a man, tall, well-built, and fast. He got away before the police arrived. We’re still reviewing security footage.”

Sam took a step closer. “Lisa here is an archaeologist – one of the leading experts on this particular obelisk. If you’ll allow her to take a closer look, she might be able to tell you exactly what was done.”

The man hesitated, then nodded to the police officers. After a brief conversation in Turkish, they stepped aside, giving Lisa a wary but respectful nod.

“Be careful,” one officer said, gesturing to the lift.

Lisa didn’t need to be told twice. She climbed into the cherry picker basket, the hydraulic arm lifting her toward the sunlit hieroglyphs that ran up the obelisk’s ancient face. Sam stood below, arms crossed, watching her work as the minutes stretched on.

When Lisa finally descended, Sam knew the news wasn’t good. He didn’t even need to ask –her expression told the story. Her face was pale, lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes carried the weight of someone who’d just confirmed their worst fears.

Sam met her gaze. “What’s wrong?”

“This one has been activated too!”

“You think it was Adam?”

She nodded. “I’m certain it was. Who else would have known the codes?”

“How many more Obelisk are there left to protect?”

She frowned. “There was only one more Obelisk left to lock.”

“Where is it?” Sam asked.

“Cleopatra's Needle! New York.” Lisa frowned. “There’s just one problem.”

“What’s that?”

Lisa said, “Icarus was never able to break its ancient code.”

Chapter Fifty-Six

Icarus, North Atlantic Vortex

The water lapped gently against the reinforced windows of Icarus, a soft, rhythmic sound that had become a constant backdrop to life adrift in the North Atlantic Vortex. The house creaked occasionally as it shifted with the swell, the solar panels on the roof glinting faintly under a hazy afternoon sun. Elise sat cross-legged on the floor near the wide storm window, her laptop open, her attention divided between lines of code and the steady rise and fall of the waves.

The satellite phone – which she had propped up with its antenna pointing skyward – suddenly rang, the sharp tone echoing unnaturally in the quiet, isolated house. Elise jumped, then scrambled over to answer it.

“Hello?” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Elise, it’s Sam.” The familiar voice carried over the static. She smiled, but her stomach tightened when he added, “I’m patching Lisa through to you. There’s a problem with the code for Cleopatra’s Needle in New York. We need your help.”

The line clicked, and Lisa’s voice came through, urgent and focused.

“Elise, listen carefully,” Lisa began. “Adam has already tampered with at least two obelisks. Cleopatra’s Needle is next. I need you to start up Icarus and run the deciphering protocols for the glyph patterns we’ve been working on. The key might be buried in the ancient star alignment codes –we need to crack it before he does.”

Elise glanced over at the central console, the darkened monitors still and lifeless. “I’ll try,” she said, biting her lip. “But Icarus hasn’t been running full power in weeks. I’ve been conserving energy.”

“You’ll have enough,” Lisa assured her. “Start the main system. I’ll guide you through the input process.”

Elise stood, walking to the console, her bare feet making soft sounds against the polished floor. Outside, the water slid like liquid glass across the windows, reflecting flashes of the sun between the slow-moving swells. She pressed her palm against the activation panel, and the console’s black screens flickered to life, casting a pale glow across the interior.

“Okay, Icarus is awake,” Elise said into the phone, her voice steady despite her nerves. “I’ll do my best.”

“You always do,” Lisa replied, her voice softer now. “I’m counting on you.”

Elise took a deep breath and set her fingers on the keyboard, ready to bring Icarus back to life and face whatever secrets Cleopatra’s Needle might still hold.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Cleopatra’s Neeld – Central Park, New York

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees of Central Park, casting long dappled shadows over the pathways as Sam and Lisa strolled beneath the canopy. The sounds of New York were a strange mix here – a chorus of distant car horns, the murmur of conversations, the laughter of children, and the occasional bark of a dog chasing a frisbee.

Halfway through the park, the rich, savory scent of grilled meat stopped Sam in his tracks. “Hot dogs,” he said, a grin creeping onto his face. “When in New York…”

Lisa followed his gaze to Billy’s Hot Dog Cart, a small stand with a hand-painted sign and a thin trail of smoke curling up from the grill. The vendor, a burly man with a Yankees cap, was expertly flipping rows of sizzling franks.

They each ordered a classic New York hot dog. Billy loaded them up with everything – yellow mustard, tangy sauerkraut, sweet relish, diced onions, and a generous squirt of ketchup, finished off with a sprinkle of celery salt. The buns were warm and soft, lightly toasted from the cart’s griddle.

Sam took a bite, savoring the explosion of flavors – the sharp bite of the mustard against the sweetness of the relish, the snap of the sausage casing, and the warmth of the fresh bun. “God, I’d forgotten how good these are,” he said through a satisfied grin.

Lisa laughed, carefully taking a bite of hers as they found a bench overlooking the Conservatory Water, where a boy was guiding a wind-powered, motorized sailboat across the lake’s glassy surface. The little craft zipped forward under the boy’s remote control, cutting ripples across the otherwise calm water.

For a few moments, Sam let himself enjoy it all – the crunch of the hot dog, the hum of life in Central Park, the smell of freshly cut grass mingling with the scent of the city’s food carts.

When they finished, Sam tossed the empty paper wrappers into a nearby trash can, and they resumed their walk. They passed familiar sights – the musicians playing jazz under the shade of an elm tree, the distant clip-clop of a horse-drawn carriage, and the faint notes of a saxophone echoing across the open lawn.

Their destination loomed ahead: Cleopatra’s Needle.

The obelisk stood proudly in its quiet corner of the park, surrounded by a low stone platform. It rose 69 feet into the air, its weathered red granite surface etched with hieroglyphs that told the story of Thutmose III’s reign. Despite the passage of over 3,000 years, the symbols were still striking, their grooves catching the afternoon sun.

Sam stopped and tilted his head back, taking in the full height of the monument. “Hard to believe something this ancient ended up here,” he murmured.

Lisa nodded. “It’s one of three sisters. The other two are in London and Paris. Egypt gave this one to New York in 1881 as a gesture of friendship – after the United States helped modernize the Suez Canal. It took weeks to haul it through Manhattan to this spot.”

Sam looked at her, his brow furrowed. “And now it’s a key to the Well of Ra?”

Lisa’s gaze lingered on the glyphs, her expression grave. “Yes. And if Adam has already touched this one, we may be too late.”

“All right. Now what?”

Lisa said, “Now, we just need to find a way to get close enough to examine it.”

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Submarine – North Atlantic Vortex

The submarine hovered silently beneath Icarus, its black hull blending into the depths like a predator waiting to strike. In the control room, Adam Gray studied the sonar readout for the third time, the image unmistakable – a perfect outline of a building adrift on the water, with its flat roof and jutting edges casting back a ghostly echo.

“There,” Adam said, pointing at the screen. “That’s no wreck. That’s Icarus.”

Ren let out a low whistle. “Hard to believe this thing has survived all this time.”

Paul smirked. “Guess those engineers knew what they were doing.”

Adam considered surfacing, boarding the house outright, but the thought of a trap stopped him cold. If Sam Reilly had left even one of his crew aboard, a direct assault could blow their element of surprise. Besides, Icarus wasn’t what he needed now – he needed the information. If he could use Icarus to find the Well of Ra, Lisa Green and Sam would be irrelevant.

The three men moved with precision. SCUBA gear was strapped to their backs, and each carried a Heckler & Koch MP7, their compact black silhouettes deadly against the submarine’s dim lighting. Adam stepped into the lockout locker, his regulator already between his teeth, the cold rubber taste familiar and grounding.

He glanced at Ren, then Paul. Both gave sharp nods – they were ready.

Adam hit the fill button. The compartment groaned as water gushed in, enveloping them quickly. The chill of the Atlantic closed over his body as the water rose past his mask, pressing against his suit. The green light blinked on.

The hatch opened, revealing the cold, inky blue beyond.

They slipped silently out of the submarine, fins slicing through the water. The current tugged faintly at them as they ascended toward Icarus. Below the floating house, the water was alive with a thick, swaying jungle of seaweed that clung to its underside. It hung down like an underwater rainforest, trailing in tendrils and sheets of green, teeming with darting fish and tiny crabs.

Adam tightened his grip on his submachine gun, scanning the darkness with his flashlight. The narrow beam of light cut through the gloom, glinting off the tangled kelp.

The base of Icarus loomed overhead, the once-clean hull now coated in a layer of marine life –barnacles, mussels, and weeds swaying with the current. They moved toward the garage, the dark mouth of the structure visible ahead. The damage to the roller door was obvious now – a jagged break, twisted metal edges revealing the interior.

Adam swam inside, the light from his torch sweeping across the flooded stairwell. He led the way, gliding silently up the first two sets of submerged stairs. His bubbles drifted upward, breaking the surface as they reached the living quarters.

They emerged into the main living chambers, dripping water onto the polished floor. Adam pulled out his regulator, scanning the open-plan room. The place looked as though someone had just stepped out – plates on the table, a faint scent of recently cooked food still lingering in the air.

His brow furrowed. “Where did they go?”

He walked toward the wide windows, peering out at the rolling swells of the North Atlantic. That’s when he saw it – a small Zodiac RIB tied to the ladder at the house’s edge, bobbing lazily in the water.

Adam turned sharply to Paul and Ren, his expression dark and commanding.

“Find them!” he barked.

Both men nodded and moved to search, their wet boots thudding softly against the floorboards.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Sam scrolled through the contacts on his phone, his thumb pausing over a name he hadn’t called in far too long – Margaret Walsh. With a breath, he pressed the call button and lifted the phone to his ear. The line rang three times before a familiar voice answered.

“Hello, Sam,” Margaret said, her tone warm but edged with a touch of amusement.

“Hello, Madam Secretary,” Sam replied. “I need your help.”

“I thought you’d lost interest in me being in the series…” she said lightly.

Sam frowned, thrown. “The what, ma’am?”

“The series of beautiful women in your life,” she teased. “I figured my part might have ended after you got married. It certainly feels like a long time since we’ve spoken. Not that I’m disappointed you didn’t invite me to the wedding.”

Sam chuckled awkwardly. “I’m sorry… I thought –”

Margaret laughed, a rich, easy sound. “I’m only teasing you, Sam. Of course, I couldn’t attend your wedding. What’s the point of having someone like you working for me in secret if I show up in a fancy hat and toast your bride? That’s not exactly covert.”

Sam couldn’t help but grin. “Fair point.”

“So,” the Secretary of Defense continued, her tone shifting to business but retaining a note of warmth, “what do you need, Sam?”

Sam glanced up at the Cleopatra’s Needle, towering and silent against the pale sky, its hieroglyphs climbing high out of reach. He pressed his lips together. “I’m hoping you can solve my rather unique problem…”

Chapter Sixty

Sam stood near the base of Cleopatra’s Needle, the late afternoon light filtering through the trees of Central Park, casting mottled shadows across the weathered stone. The rumble of a large engine drew his attention as a massive fire truck rolled in along East Drive, its gleaming red body catching the sunlight. It was one of those specialized trucks with a long, extendable ladder and cherry picker designed for high-rise rescues.

The truck came to a halt beside the obelisk, air brakes hissing. A crew of firefighters climbed down, all of them giving Sam and Lisa curious glances. The fire captain, a tall man with a sooty helmet tucked under his arm, approached with a grin.

“We got a call from our boss’s boss,” the captain said, his tone dripping with curiosity. “Apparently, you need our help to study something on the obelisk?”

Sam nodded, offering a quick smile. “That would be great, thank you.”

The captain raised an eyebrow, then chuckled. “Oh man, either you’re currently working on some kind of ancient technology of national security importance, or you, my friend, are one very, very well-connected tourist.”

Sam’s grin widened. “Would you believe me if I told you it’s probably a bit of both?”

The captain laughed again, shaking his head. “Fair enough. Let’s get you up there.”

Sam stepped back as the crew swung into action, extending the cherry picker’s arm from the rear of the fire truck. The hydraulic lift groaned softly as it rose into the air, carrying Lisa in the basket toward the towering obelisk. She leaned out slightly, her hands brushing over the weathered hieroglyphs carved into the upper sections.

Sam watched her closely, his arms folded, his heart beating faster with anticipation. He knew that look – Lisa’s sharp, analytical mind was already scanning for any evidence, any clue that could prove whether Adam Gray had been here.

Halfway up the obelisk, Lisa’s posture stiffened. She ran her fingers across one of the symbols, her expression darkening. Even from where Sam stood below, he could see the sour twist of her lips, the tension in her shoulders.

Sam didn’t need to ask. He knew what that meant.

“They were here first,” he murmured under his breath.

Lisa’s eyes met his briefly as the basket lowered again, and in that fleeting look, Sam read everything – frustration, urgency, and the silent confirmation that they were already too late.

Lisa looked at him. “We need to reach the Well of Ra before Adam does!”

Sam nodded. “Do you have any idea where it is?

She nodded. “Yes, we found the location long ago… it’s at the end of the secret catacombs beneath the Baron Empain Palace, Cairo.”

Chapter Sixty-One

Cairo International Airport – Egypt

The private jet’s wheels screeched softly as they touched down on the runway at Cairo International Airport, the city lights shimmering beyond the tarmac like a field of golden fireflies. Sam leaned back in his seat, one hand gripping his phone. He dialed Elise again, waiting for the familiar click of the satellite line, but the call went unanswered for the third time.

He stared at the blank screen for a moment, unease gnawing at him. Elise never ignores a call. Something’s wrong.

“Something’s wrong,” Sam said aloud, turning to Lisa. “Elise isn’t answering her satellite phone.”

Lisa tilted her head, her expression thoughtful but calm. “It could be a battery problem on Icarus, or maybe the phone’s tipped over and isn’t catching a signal. Line-of-sight issues happen, right?”

“Maybe,” Sam replied, though his voice lacked conviction. Something in his gut told him it was more than that.

He glanced out the window as the jet taxied toward a private hangar. Cairo at night was alive with glowing lights – the streets below shimmered with headlights, and the outlines of mosques and minarets stood tall against the starry desert sky, their domes bathed in warm illumination. The Nile itself was a dark ribbon of glass, catching sparks of reflection from the city’s bridges.

“Tom and Genevieve are on a commercial flight,” Sam said, checking his watch. “They’ll be here in a couple of hours, but I don’t think we should wait. If Adam’s ahead of us, every minute counts.”

“I agree,” Lisa said firmly.

Sam rose from his seat and walked to a discreet panel in the jet’s sidewall. He pressed a small latch, revealing a hidden compartment lined with foam cutouts. Inside lay a selection of weapons, each meticulously maintained. He pulled out two Beretta M9 semiautomatics, checking the magazines with practiced efficiency.

“Have you ever fired a gun?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Lisa blinked. “Oh no. I’m not that kind of person.”

Sam arched an eyebrow. “Are you the type of person who wants to get out of here alive?”

There was no hesitation. “Yes.”

“Good.” He handed her one of the Berettas. “Then I suggest you take this. If I get killed, you might be the only thing between Adam and the Well of Ra. And if he gets there first, we’re all in trouble.”

Lisa stared at the weapon for a moment, then took it with both hands. “Okay,” she said, her voice steady.

Sam guided her through the basics – showing her the safety, the slide release, the proper grip. “Don’t overthink it,” he told her. “You’ve seen the movies. No need for commando rolls or dramatic leaps. Just point it at the bad guy and squeeze the trigger.”

Lisa gave a small, nervous laugh. “Right. Is it loaded?”

“Yeah,” Sam confirmed with a nod.

“All right,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I can do this.”

“Good.”

Lisa frowned. “We’re at an international airport… how do you expect us to get out of here with these?”

“When you fly business, it’s easy to get a private driver right from the steps of the aircraft. When you fly regularly, you tend to find out how to grease the right sort of hands to allow you to skip customs with some of these more delicate items.”

Lisa suppressed a grin. “A part of me is impressed, but another, stronger part of me, wonders why you should know how to bring a gun into a foreign country?”

“You probably shouldn’t ask, unless you’re willing to hear the answer.”

She laughed. “No, I definitely don’t want to hear the answer.”

“Good,” Sam replied, holstering his own weapon. He looked out at the glowing skyline of Cairo, the city’s energy pulsing like an ancient heartbeat. “Now, let’s go find the Well of Ra.”

Chapter Sixty-Two

Baron Empain Palace – Cairo

Sam stood on the quiet street, his eyes fixed on the Baron Empain Palace. The building loomed against the night sky, its pale sandstone façade glowing under a wash of warm floodlights. Shadows played along its intricate arches, balconies, and carved reliefs, giving the structure an almost otherworldly aura. The palace’s design was unlike anything Sam had seen before – a mesmerizing fusion of Hindu temples and Angkor Wat-style Khmer architecture, with hints of European influence woven into its symmetry.

The Baron Empain Palace, built in 1907 by Belgian industrialist Édouard Empain, had always been a mystery. Locals told stories of its eerie past – of secret passages and hidden chambers that didn’t appear on any blueprint, and of unexplained sounds that echoed through its halls at night. It stood as a testament to the eccentricity and vision of its creator, its ornate towers and domes reaching upward like fingers clawing at the moonlight.

“You said the Well of Ra is at the end of a secret series of catacomb tunnels beneath this palace?” Sam asked, his gaze lingering on the shadowy silhouette of the central dome.

Lisa nodded, her expression serious. “Yeah. The tunnels are ancient, much older than the palace itself. Empain’s architects had no idea they existed.”

Sam frowned. “Any idea how we get there, given it’s unlikely the palace guards will let us stroll in for a tour?”

Lisa’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “The truth is, the palace guards don’t even know the catacombs are there. In fact, neither did the original builders. The palace was constructed over the remains of ancient Heliopolis, and the tunnels are deep – far beneath anything they’ve ever explored.”

Sam tilted his head. “Okay, great, but how do we reach the Well of Ra?”

Lisa turned, her face lit by the warm glow of the streetlights. “Heliopolis once housed eight obelisks. Seven of those have been scattered around the globe over the centuries.”

“Those keys,” Sam said, “they’re now activated by Adam?”

“Exactly,” Lisa replied grimly. “But there’s one more – the eighth obelisk. The Obelisk of Senusret I. It’s the only one to remain here in Heliopolis.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Does its key need to be activated, too?”

“No,” Lisa said, her voice low, as if the very air around them was listening. “It hides a secret entrance to the ancient catacombs. Once we get inside, the tunnels will lead us beneath the palace, and to the Well of Ra.”

Sam pulled out his phone, fingers moving quickly as he typed a short message to Tom and Genevieve:

Heading to Obelisk of Senusret I. Meet us there.

He hit send, knowing they would see it as soon as their flight landed. Sliding the phone into his pocket, he glanced at Lisa.

“Let’s go find that obelisk,” he said, as they turned away from the glowing palace and disappeared into the maze of Cairo’s quiet, lamp-lit streets.

Chapter Sixty-Three

Cairo International Airport - Egypt

Adam gripped the leather steering wheel of the Lamborghini Urus, its twin-turbocharged V8 growling like a predator as he shot through the streets of Cairo. The SUV’s sleek, angular body cut through the night with ruthless precision, the headlights casting pale gold arcs across the uneven roadways. Behind him, Paul and Ren sat tense and ready, MP7s resting against their legs, while Ray Olson typed furiously on a laptop, searching for updates on Sam Reilly’s movements.

On the flight in to Cairo, Adam had contacted the private jet lounge and advised that they were flying in on private jet and needed a fast car to reach somewhere in the city immediately. The private jet lounge manager, used to the whims of the filthy rich, had met him on the tarmac with the Lamborghini SUV.

The city was alive despite the late hour. Cairo at night pulsed with energy – street vendors clustered under neon-lit awnings, their stalls glowing with the rich hues of spices, dried fruits, and silk fabrics. Smoke from roadside grills curled into the warm air, mingling with the scent of roasted lamb and petrol. Adam barely registered the blur of faces as he blasted past, his foot heavy on the accelerator.

The Urus roared, its engine note sharp and mechanical, echoing between the close-set buildings of the older districts. The tires squealed as he took a sharp turn, narrowly avoiding a battered taxi. A man shouted a curse in Arabic, but Adam didn’t even glance back.

The streets narrowed, weaving like a maze. Minarets rose against the moonlit sky, and the call to late-night prayer drifted faintly on the warm breeze. He threaded the Urus through the chaos of scooters and donkey carts, the SUV’s suspension eating up the cobblestones as if they were nothing.

“Any updates?” Adam asked, his voice taut.

Ray looked up from his laptop, the glow of the screen reflecting in his glasses. “Reilly and Lisa landed at Cairo International less than an hour ago. If they’re headed for the Well of Ra, we need to beat them to Heliopolis.”

Adam’s jaw tightened.

He swung the wheel around and turned round the corner at speed.

The Lamborghini surged forward, its engine screaming as he wove through traffic at dangerous speeds. The ancient city sped by in a blur of light and shadow – glimpses of colonial architecture, ancient mosques, and markets still open past midnight. Adam could feel the clock ticking with every passing second.

“Pray Reilly’s not already there,” Adam muttered under his breath.

The Urus roared like an untamed beast as he pushed it harder, chasing the road toward Heliopolis, his mind consumed by a single thought: Reach the Well of Ra before it’s too late.

Chapter Sixty-Four

Obelisk of Senusret I – Matareya, Cairo

The Obelisk of Senusret I rose like a silent sentinel against the Cairo night sky, its weathered granite glowing under a circle of bright floodlights. The obelisk, over 4,000 years old, had stood here since the days of the Middle Kingdom – long before Rome, before Greece, before nearly everything Sam had ever known. Its sides were carved with deep, intricate hieroglyphs, each character worn smooth at the edges by time yet still as clear and commanding as the day they were chiseled.

Sam stood at the base, craning his neck to take in its full height. Sixty-five feet of solid stone, tapering to a narrow tip crowned by a capstone that gleamed faintly beneath the lights. It was breathtaking – not just for its size but for the weight of history pressing down from every angle. This thing was here when the pyramids were still new, he thought. And now we’re about to find its secret.

Lisa stepped forward, her flashlight clipped to her belt, her hands testing the rough surface of the obelisk. “The hieroglyphs are deep enough to hold a grip,” she murmured. Without another word, she began to climb, her fingers and boots finding purchase in the grooves of ancient symbols that once spoke of kings, gods, and the sun’s eternal journey.

Sam watched her ascend, the beam of the floodlights creating stark shadows that danced across the obelisk’s face. “Careful,” he said, though his voice was more instinct than caution – Lisa moved with a quiet determination that told him she’d already dismissed fear.

Halfway up, she paused, pressing her palm against one particular hieroglyph – a cartouche of Senusret I. Sam heard a muted click – so faint he might have imagined it. Lisa pressed another, and another, following the precise sequence Icarus had decoded from its algorithmic study of ancient texts.

“Hidden levers,” Lisa whispered, her voice echoing faintly down the obelisk. “Four thousand years old, and they still work.”

Sam started his climb behind her, his boots scraping against the stone, fingers digging into the weathered glyphs. The surface was warm, holding the heat of the desert day. He felt each press of the code under Lisa’s hands, the ancient mechanisms inside the obelisk shifting, waiting.

By the time they reached the top, both of them were breathing hard, the city of Cairo sprawling out below them – a glowing sea of lights, with minarets and towers rising like islands.

Lisa placed her hand on the final hieroglyph and pressed.

A deep grinding sound rose from within the obelisk, a sound like stone awakening from a long slumber. Slowly, the capstone at the pinnacle split apart, revealing a dark opening just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Inside, the beam of Lisa’s flashlight revealed a spiral staircase, carved into the hollow heart of the monument, descending into blackness.

Lisa turned to Sam, her grin illuminated by the stark beam of her light. “Well, Sam… are you ready to be one of the first to see the Well of Ra in four thousand years?”

Sam adjusted his grip on the stone edge, his pulse pounding.

He gave her a wry smile. “Lead the way, Lisa. I’m right behind you.”

Chapter Sixty-Five

Tom and Genevieve stepped off the commercial flight, their movements brisk but unhurried, blending seamlessly with the weary passengers funneling through Cairo International Airport. Both carried themselves with a quiet confidence, the kind that drew no attention and yet spoke volumes to anyone trained to notice. They collected their weapons from customs without a hitch – everything had been arranged under the guise of being a forward security team for a visiting European dignitary. The paperwork was airtight. Elise had seen to that years ago when she’d crafted their identities and credentials as though they were born to this life.

As they exited into the humid Cairo night, Tom’s phone buzzed.

It was a message from Sam.

Tom’s thumbs moved quickly, sending a confirmation, but his response lingered unread – the three dots danced and then vanished, as though Sam’s signal had disappeared into the void.

Before he could think too hard about it, his phone rang. Elise.

He answered immediately. “Talk to me.”

“Listen carefully,” Elise said without preamble, her voice as sharp as a blade. She laid out the situation in rapid detail what she’d discovered.

Tom’s jaw tightened as he listened. When she finished, his voice was low, firm. “Don’t worry. Sam and Lisa have already entered the catacombs…”

There was a pause, and then Elise said something that made Tom’s blood run cold. His grip tightened around the phone. “What? You’re sure?” His face drained of color. “All right, we’re going as fast as we can!”

He shoved the phone into his pocket and looked at Genevieve. “We need a car. Now.”

Chapter Sixty-Six

The hollow core of the Obelisk of Senusret I was narrower than Sam expected, but the ancient spiral staircase had endured for millennia. Each step was carved directly into the granite, worn smooth from centuries of unknown use. The beams of their flashlights flickered against the stone, casting sharp, dancing shadows that twisted across the walls. Dust motes swirled in the beams of light, disturbed by their movements.

Lisa led the way, her hand brushing over the hieroglyph-covered walls as she descended. “Look at this,” she murmured, her voice reverberating in the narrow shaft. “The entire interior is dedicated to Ra. These inscriptions… they’re hymns, tributes to the sun god.”

Sam’s beam moved across the carvings – Ra’s solar disk shining above scenes of priests offering lotus flowers, falcons with outstretched wings, and processions of figures carved so precisely that they seemed almost alive in the flashlight’s glow. Every few feet, the hieroglyphs depicted what looked like an eye of fire, a symbol that seemed to shimmer when the light hit it at the right angle.

At the base of the staircase, the stone passage opened into a low, narrow tunnel. The walls here were lined with hieroglyphs as well, painted in faded pigments of red and gold that somehow still clung to life. The tunnel twisted and curved in strange, labyrinthine loops, giving no sense of direction or distance. Sam felt disoriented within minutes.

He paused and glanced down at his watch, activating the digital compass. The glowing arrow steadied after a moment, pointing northeast. “We’re heading in the right direction,” Sam said, his voice low. “Baron Empain Palace is that way. Looks like this tunnel’s taking us straight to it.”

Lisa gave a sharp nod and kept moving, her flashlight beam sweeping across the carvings –rows of sun disks and serpents intertwined like streams of fire, all converging on one central motif: a deep well carved in relief, surrounded by rays of light.

After what felt like an eternity, the tunnel widened suddenly and opened into a vast underground chamber. The air was cooler here, heavy with the scent of stone and ancient dust. The ceiling arched high above them, lost in shadow, while pillars lined the perimeter, each etched with more tributes to Ra.

Lisa stopped dead in her tracks. Her flashlight beam swept across the center of the chamber –and she gasped.

“The Well of Ra,” she whispered, the words trembling out of her throat. Then louder, with awe, “The Well of Ra!”

Sam’s flashlight followed her beam, and his breath caught. In the middle of the chamber was a circular stone well, carved from a single block of dark granite, its edges inlaid with faded gold. The interior of the well glimmered faintly, as if catching light from some unseen source deep below. Around its base, intricate hieroglyphs and spiraling rays were carved, depicting cosmic beams shooting from the heavens down into the Earth.

Sam stepped closer, his voice low and reverent. “So, this is it.”

Lisa glanced at him, her eyes shining with excitement. “After four thousand years… it’s still here.”

Chapter Sixty-Seven

The Lamborghini Urus tore into the square, its engine howling like a beast before Adam slammed the brakes, the tires screeching against the dusty pavement. The SUV skidded to a halt at the base of the Obelisk of Senusret I, its towering granite shaft glowing under the floodlights. Adam was out of the driver’s seat before the vehicle had fully stopped, his boots hitting the ground hard as Paul, Ren, and Ray spilled out behind him, MP7 submachine guns gripped tightly in their hands.

Adam’s light blue eyes shot upward, narrowing as they found the top of the obelisk. The capstone was ajar, tilted slightly open – a sign of the ancient mechanism having been triggered. His chest tightened. They’re inside. Sam and Lisa have beaten me to it.

“Damn it!” he growled under his breath.

Ren scanned the perimeter, his weapon raised. “No sign of them out here. They must be below.”

“Exactly,” Adam said. “We’re not letting them find the Well of Ra before us.”

Without hesitation, Adam strode to the base of the obelisk. The surface loomed above him, the hieroglyphs now ominous in the interplay of light and shadow. His hands found the deep carved grooves of the hieroglyphs, using them like handholds. The rough granite bit into his fingers, but he hauled himself upward with the determination of a man who knew time was running out.

Paul and Ren followed close behind, while Ray stayed at the base, his laptop ready and eyes on the surroundings.

By the time Adam reached the top, his breath was ragged, but the sight that greeted him made his pulse spike. The hidden capstone hatch gaped open, revealing a dark void leading into the heart of the obelisk. A stale breath of air escaped from it, carrying with it the scent of dust and ages past.

Adam switched on his flashlight and swung his legs over the edge, the beam cutting into the blackness of the spiral staircase that descended into the hollow shaft. He could hear the echo of his boots on stone as he began his descent, each step sending a hollow clang reverberating through the narrow walls. The staircase twisted steeply downward, the light of the night above vanishing until he was swallowed by absolute darkness.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

The Well of Ra – Heliopolis

Lisa moved with deliberate precision, her fingers brushing across the smooth, timeworn surface of the hieroglyphs that lined the central dais of the Well of Ra. The chamber was silent except for the faint crackle of sand shifting under their boots. Sam watched her closely as she pressed a series of symbols – an ankh, a falcon, the eye of Ra – each one sinking slightly into the stone with a muted click.

“This is the only way to prevent the device from starting,” Lisa said without looking at him. Her voice was calm, but there was a sharp tension in it, like a violin string pulled too tight. “The Well is… temperamental. It’s built to draw energy from deep within the earth, and if it activates without being controlled, it will…” She trailed off, her fingers hovering over another symbol.

“Destroy something?” Sam guessed.

Lisa’s eyes flicked to his for a brief second, and in that glance he saw something he didn’t like –an intensity, almost hunger.

Sam’s flashlight beam swept over the chamber, and his breath caught. The well wasn’t just a carved basin –it was an abyss. A vast, perfectly circular shaft dropped away into darkness, so deep that the beam of his flashlight didn’t find the bottom. A faint, metallic smell rose from the depths, and the silence that emanated from it felt oppressive, unnatural.

“Lisa,” he said slowly, “what is this thing really?”

She ignored him, pressing another hieroglyph.

The chamber of the Well of Ra felt alive with an ancient, ominous energy as Sam swept his flashlight across the carved walls. The hieroglyphs told a story in stone – not of prosperity or divine blessings, but of devastation. Entire cities were depicted under siege from above, obliterated by what looked like celestial lightning bolts raining down from the sky. The artistry was intricate, almost grotesquely vivid, showing buildings crumbling, rivers boiling, and people running in terror.

A cold unease settled in Sam’s chest. This isn’t about alchemy or gold, he thought. This is about war – about power.

Merlin’s words echoed in his mind like a ghost.

The Master Builders wouldn’t waste generations chasing gold through alchemy. But a weapon? A means of controlling the balance of power across empires? That… they might have built.

Sam stepped closer, scanning the carved landscapes with renewed attention. The cities weren’t exact likenesses, but they were recognizable. Skylines and landmarks leapt out at him – New York’s iconic bridges, London’s domes and spires, the unmistakable profile of the Eiffel Tower, the skyline of Istanbul. His pulse quickened.

Then Sam heard it.

A grinding rumble rolled up from the well, so low it was almost below the range of hearing. The abyss began to move – at first slowly, like the earth itself was twisting, and then faster. Sam stepped back instinctively as the edges of the well seemed to blur, rotating as if some hidden mechanism deep within the earth was charging up.

“Lisa! What did you do?”

“I told you,” she said, her tone steady but her eyes wide. “It has to be controlled. If the wrong sequence is triggered, the Well of Ra won’t make gold or stay dormant – it’ll wake up. And trust me, Sam, the world doesn’t want that.”

Sam stared into the spinning black void, the ancient carvings around the rim glowing faintly with golden light. His gut told him something else entirely: this wasn’t just a mechanism to create wealth. It was a weapon – something far older and far more dangerous than they had imagined.

Lisa’s silhouette moved against the dim beam of his flashlight. Slowly, almost calmly, she raised the Beretta in her hands and aimed it directly at him. Her expression had transformed – gone was the companion, the academic. Her face was cold, regal, and fierce, as though she had always known she was destined for this moment.

He turned sharply toward Lisa, his voice low but urgent. “This isn’t about gold! This is about the destruction of one’s enemies!”

“Yes,” she said, her voice steady, filled with a venomous pride. “It is. For four thousand years, my family has waited to regain the power and might of Egypt. The Well of Ra was never meant to be forgotten. It was meant to return, when the world was weak enough to bow before its strength.”

Sam’s arms spread slightly, palms open. His mind was racing, connecting fragments of memory – little details about Lisa that hadn’t added up. “You? You planned this from the beginning?”

A thought hit him like a hammer blow: that day when she had fumbled with her contact lens. The realization made his skin crawl. Purple eyes, he thought. Could she be one of them? A descendant of the Master Builders just like Elise?

“Sorry, Sam,” Lisa said, her tone almost mocking now. “You have no idea how useful you’ve been. I couldn’t have done it without you. I thought Adam might solve some of my problems, but even he saw through my ruse and tried to stop me…”

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

“Lisa –” Sam began.

The deafening crack of the Beretta shattered the chamber’s silence. The gunshot’s echo rolled through the catacombs like thunder, reverberating against the ancient stone as if the Well of Ra itself had awakened.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

The shot rang out like thunder in the ancient chamber, echoing off the carved walls as Lisa Green’s body jerked violently. The bullet had torn straight through her head, her last expression freezing in shock before she crumpled forward. Adam watched in grim silence as her body tumbled into the abyss of the Well of Ra, vanishing into the spinning, blood-red vortex below.

He lowered his smoking MP7 and glanced at Sam Reilly, his pulse hammering in his ears. “Are you okay?”

Sam’s jaw tightened. He gave a short nod. “Fine.”

“Good,” Adam said quickly, eyes already shifting back to the Well. “Because we need to stop this before it unleashes the wrath of Ra on half the world’s major cities.”

Sam’s Beretta was still up, its matte-black barrel steady on Adam. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

“I have to turn the power of this thing in on itself,” Adam replied, kneeling beside the dais of hieroglyphs, his flashlight casting a hard circle of light on the ancient controls. “If I can reverse the energy flow, the Well will collapse before it has the chance to fire.”

Behind them, Paul, Ren, and Ray were fanning out, their weapons drawn, securing the entrances to the chamber. The air was tense, filled with the low grinding hum of the Well spinning faster and faster.

“How do I know you’re not going to finish what Lisa started?” Sam demanded, his voice cutting through the noise.

Before Adam could respond, a familiar voice came from the tunnel. “Because Elise called me, Sam.”

Adam turned just as Tom stepped into the chamber, Beretta in hand, his face pale but resolute. “We had it all wrong. Lisa wasn’t the hero here – she was the threat. Adam’s been trying to stop her from day one.”

Sam’s gaze flicked from Tom to Adam, his eyes narrowing as he made the connection. Finally, he gave a single nod. “All right. It’s your show, Adam.”

Adam wasted no time. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his digital tablet, the device’s glow stark against the ancient stone. On the screen was a grid of intricate drawings – Elise’s final code sequences, sent to him hours earlier.

“Cover me,” Adam said without looking up as he began pressing a series of hieroglyphs with the tips of his fingers. Each symbol clicked softly, the mechanisms deep in the walls groaning in response.

Sam moved closer, keeping one eye on the Well and the other on Adam’s work. “How do you know that’s the right sequence?”

Adam smirked without humor. “I don’t. I couldn’t break this code.”

Sam frowned. “Then who did?”

“Elise,” Adam said, his voice tight as he pressed another glyph. “She used Icarus to model the ancient sequences and sent me the pattern. This is her work.”

The floor trembled beneath them, and from the depths of the Well of Ra came a resonant, metallic hum – a sound that made Adam’s teeth vibrate and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The red glow in the depths pulsed like a beating heart.

Sam looked at him sharply. “Now what?”

Adam’s lips pressed into a grim line as he holstered his weapon. “Now?” he said. “Now we run like hell.”

Chapter Seventy

Sam’s boots hit the open air as he leapt the final few steps of the obelisk’s interior, bursting out into the cool Cairo night. The others followed in a frantic rush – Tom gripping Genevieve’s hand, Adam shouting orders to his three gunmen, all of them driven by the relentless howl rising from deep below, now twisting into something that sounded almost alive.

Outside, the world was unnervingly still. Cairo stretched out before them, glowing like a city of fireflies under the desert sky. The call to prayer drifted faintly in the distance, and the warm night air carried the scents of spices and roasted meat from late-night food stalls. Everything looked… normal. No fires. No destruction. Just another quiet, living night in the ancient city.

Sam stopped, his chest heaving, and turned to Adam. “Now what?”

Adam wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his breathing ragged. “How the hell should I know?”

Sam frowned. “Should we keep running, or is this thing about to destroy half of Cairo?”

Adam’s expression tightened. “Elise didn’t think so. She said the Well draws cosmic rays from the constellations above, like the lens of a magnifying glass – directing the energy where it’s needed. But –”

Before Adam could finish, the sky lit up.

A sudden bolt of light erupted from the direction of the Baron Empain Palace, brilliant and blinding, like the flash of a nuclear detonation. The light cut through the night sky, turning shadows into sharp silhouettes. For an instant, everything was white. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the flash vanished, leaving only the cool glow of the stars.

The ground rumbled beneath them, a deep tremor running through the stone streets and into their bones. It was brief, violent – and then it was over. The city settled again, as if nothing had happened.

Sam lowered his Beretta, his eyes still locked on the distant palace. “What the hell was that?”

Adam shrugged, a half-smile curling his lips despite the tension. “I think,” he said, breathing heavily, “it’s finally over.”

Sam exchanged a glance with Tom and Genevieve, neither of whom seemed convinced. Still, for the first time that night, the air felt lighter, as though some ancient burden had finally been released.

Sam shook hands with Adam. “Thank you.”

Adam shrugged. “No, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, I guess,” Sam said, a confused smile on his face.

Adam nodded. “Look. You don’t know how guilty I’ve felt about this all this time.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I spent ten years building Icarus, only to have one of my leading mathematic engineers reveal something unique through its advanced language learning model. It was Lisa. She showed me how when she was training Icarus on the ancient Egyptian texts the AI system kept finding references to the Well of Ra. She convinced me this thing could harness the powers of cosmic rays to form gold. Then, she used my influence and power to get solve the equations for each Obelisk.”

“You went along with it at first?”

“Yes. I may be rich, but who wouldn’t like to find an ancient machine capable of turning matter into gold?”

Sam grinned. “Have you heard about King Midas?”

Adam raised a hand, as if the point had already been made. “Look. I’ve learned my lesson. Once we started dedicating all our time working on this project, I started to do my own research and what I found wasn’t some sort of ancient text on alchemy and the creation of gold – I found stories of a premeditated war spanning thousands of years.”

“The ancient Egyptian kings of past millennia foresaw their downfall, didn’t they?”

“Yes, and like the truly great rulers they were, they set in motion steps to prevent them losing this future war. The Obelisks were designed to form a type of target beacon, something the Well of Ra could focus this cosmic energy toward.”

Sam said, “Those diplomacy gifts were terrible Trojan Horses!”

Adam nodded. “Yes, and like the people of Troy, the people of the world let them come in with open arms.”

“What happened when you discovered the truth?”

“I went to Lisa and tried to stop her.”

“How did she take that?”

“With the political grace of a seasoned spy. She lied to me at first, telling me it was in my head. The thing wasn’t a weapon it was a gift from the gods and it would make us very, very rich. All I had to do was trust her. Only I didn’t. We fought about it, and she agreed to mothball the project.”

Sam’s brow creased. “And then?”

Adam shook his head. “Hurricane Idalia happened.”

“You thought it was going to destroy Icarus, and with it, any chance Lisa had of completing the codes needed to lock in the Obelisk keys?”

“Right. We talked about it and agreed that Idalia was sent as a sign from who knows what higher power, that Icarus was dangerous and the Well of Ra should remain forever hidden.”

Sam pictured Lisa hearing about the hurricane and racing to secure Icarius, only to find that house was eventually caught up in the storm and washed out to sea.

A strange thought entered his mind. “Lisa said you had wanted to bring me in on this project?”

“Me?” Adam seemed confused. “No. I had never heard of you. She brought your name up, telling me you were an expert in ancient Egyptian legends and myths. If anyone could help find the Well of Ra, it would be you. To be honest, I didn’t know for sure that you weren’t on Lisa Green’s side until I saw her pointing that gun at you.”

Sam grinned, imagining the scene. “So what now for you?”

Adam shrugged. “Now I’m going to take a long, well deserved vacation.”

“And Icarus?” Sam asked.

Adam grinned. “With my blessing, Elise and Veyron opened up the window, and let Icarus sink to the bottom of the Atlantic… perhaps humans aren’t ready for the powers of AI?”

Chapter Seventy-One

The engines of the private jet roared to life, a deep, satisfying hum that vibrated through the cabin as the aircraft taxied down the dimly lit runway of Cairo International Airport. Sam leaned back in his seat, the leather cool against his shoulders, and watched the desert lights blur past the window. A moment later, the pilot pushed the throttles forward, and the jet surged ahead, pressing them into their seats as it gained speed. The wheels left the tarmac with a smooth jolt, and the ground fell away beneath them. Cairo spread out below like a tapestry of gold, the dark line of the Nile cutting through the glowing cityscape before vanishing into the horizon.

The jet climbed quickly, piercing through the final veil of clouds, and soon the cabin was bathed in the soft, amber glow of the interior lights. Sam exhaled, feeling the adrenaline of the past hours finally begin to drain from his system.

Tom leaned back with a glass of red wine in hand, his rugged face softened by exhaustion and amusement. “Well,” he said, clinking his glass against Genevieve’s, “that was fun. Now what do you want to do?”

Sam smiled faintly at the understatement. “Fun isn’t the word I’d use,” he muttered, reaching across the table for a leather-bound notepad that Lisa had left behind.

He flipped it open, the familiar scent of old paper and ink mingling with the crisp air of the cabin. Inside, her sharp handwriting filled page after page – fragments of myths, riddles, and historical oddities that Icarus had flagged during its analysis of ancient texts. One page in particular caught his eye, the heading underlined twice: The Celtic Prophecy.

Sam’s grin widened. “Well,” he said, holding up the notebook, “that depends. What do you two know about the Celtic Prophecy?”

Tom groaned, draining his glass. “Oh, no. Here we go again…”

Genevieve raised an eyebrow, a curious smile forming. “This sounds like trouble.”

Sam’s eyes glinted with that familiar spark of mischief and anticipation. “The good kind,” he said, leaning back as the jet soared into the night sky over Cairo.

The End