Sandstorm

8:35 P.M.

KARA STAREDdown at the Kalashnikov rifle on her lap. Fingers twitching uncontrollably on the stock, she found it hard to concentrate. Her eyes felt too large for her head, threatening a migraine, while nausea lapped at her belly.

She dreamed of a little orange pill.

To her side, Clay fought to get the engine started. He cranked it again, but it failed to turn over. Danny sat in the backseat with the lone pistol.

The explosion had lit up the northern hills like a rising sun. It was Painter’s signal. Across the intervening two valleys, echoing spatters of gunfire sounded like fireworks.

“Piece of shit!” Clay swore, and struck his hand on the steering wheel.

“You’ve flooded it,” Danny said sourly from the back.

Kara stared out the passenger window. A ruddy glow persisted to the north. It had started. If all went well, the others would be racing downhill in one of the kidnappers’ SUVs. The remainder of the party would scatter into the hills. The Bait Kathir knew many paths through the forested mountains.

But something felt wrong.

Maybe it was just the edgy frazzle in Kara’s head. It grew more acute with each breath. Pain lanced behind her eyes. Even the light of the dashboard stabbed painfully bright.

“You’re going to wear the battery down,” Danny warned as Clay engaged the engine again. “Let it rest. Five minutes at least.”

A buzzing filled Kara’s skull, as if her body were an antenna, tuning in on static. She had to move. She could no longer sit still. She pulled open the latch and half fell out the door, bobbling her rifle.

“What are you doing?” Clay called to her, frightened.

She didn’t answer. She stepped into the road. The van had been pulled under the branches of a tamarind tree. She crossed out into the open and wandered a short distance up the road, out of sight of the van.

Gunfire continued to echo.

Kara ignored it, her attention focused closer at hand.

An old woman stood in the roadway, facing Kara, as if waiting for her. She was dressed in a long desert cloak, her face hidden behind a black veil. In her bony fingers, she carried a staff of gnarled wood, worn smooth and shiny.

Kara’s head throbbed. Then the static in her head finally tuned to a proper station. Pain and nausea drained from her. She felt momentarily weightless, unburdened.

The woman merely stared.

Numbness filled the empty spaces inside her. She didn’t fight it. The rifle dropped from Kara’s limp fingers.

“She will need you,” the woman finally said, turning away.

Kara followed after the stranger, moving as if in a dream.

Back by the tamarind tree, she heard the van’s engine crank and fail.

Kara continued walking, leaving the road behind and heading down into the forested valley. Kara did not resist, even if she had been able to.

She knew who needed her.