Zahra pulled onto Gower Street and picked up the speed, quickly remembering the firearm she had in a bag in her backseat. Zahra snarled, frustrated, and kept it a mile an hour below the posted speed limit. For good measure, she reached behind her and repositioned the backpack to the floor behind her. The casual speed was pure torture for someone who notoriously liked to move fast.
“Dammit!” Zahra was stuck behind a two-door beater. Today was not a day to be late.
She needed to see her father, right away.
It had been months since Zahra had last seen her dad, and she had never visited him while in her current condition. Some of the bruising had subsided since the morning, but a little of it had also come to the surface with gusto. She now sported a subtle black eye. Her left cheek was tender, and she had another headache just starting to poke its ugly ass out. A pair of aviator sunglasses hid some of the injuries. They also helped with the rising brain pain.
George Kane lived in a modest flat less than a quarter of a mile to the south of River Thames. Half a mile north of the river was his place of employment, Oxford University. Zahra hoped she’d catch her father before he left for work. She checked her watch and cursed herself for being so careful on the roads. This was life or death, and she should have been driving like a woman possessed, and not like, well, her dad.
“Easy does it, girl,” she mumbled to herself. “Easy does it.” Getting stopped by the police would help nobody.
Zahra’s brakes squeaked as she pulled over and parked directly in front of her father’s home. She had no idea how she was going to open up the conversation with him. What could she possibly say to him to convince him of what was happening? It all sounded so fanciful — even for Zahra.
Her eyes never left the red front door as she gathered her belongings from the floor of her backseat. She opened her door and slung the heavy pack over her shoulder. Like the rest of her body, the joint ached. She surmounted the seven steps up to her father’s front door and lifted her fist to knock.
But she didn’t — she couldn’t.
Zahra was nervous, and a bit scared to see him. The answers she sought would surely crumble her world worse than it already had been. The museum was her livelihood, but this…this was her
Just as her closed hand descended toward the wooden door, it swung open. Zahra stepped back and nearly fell off the narrow landing at the top of the steps. Her father brought a hand to his chest with his mouth agape. Neither Kane spoke. Both just stood there and recouped themselves.
Zahra opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. So, instead, her dad was the first to talk.
He looked her up and down. “Rough night?”
Zahra checked her watch. “Technically, it was a rough morning.”
She removed her sunglasses to speak but was stopped by her father’s appalled response to the bruising on her face. The sight of his little girl so beat up brought a hand to George’s mouth. He was stunned to see her in a state such as this.
He held out his hand. “Why don’t you come in.”
She gave him a curt nod of thanks and entered. Unlike Zahra’s home, her father’s house was filled wall-to-wall with historical references and artifacts. George Kane lived and breathed everything to do with the subject. He was a real student of it, and as it was, a teacher of it too.
“Look, Dad, I don’t want to make you late.” Zahra stepped back toward the door. “I can come back later, and—”
George raised an open hand. “It’s okay. Something tells me that this can’t wait.”
Zahra looked down at her attire and nervously readjusted her backpack. “Can we sit? I’m a bit tired.”
He grinned. “You look like hell. Did you have a run-in with someone?”
She snickered. “Yeah, you could say that. There were six of them, I think.”
They hung a quick left, entering George’s study. Books lined the walls, and where there weren’t any bookshelves, there were maps of different countries. They sat in matching brown leather chairs. Zahra carefully set her bag down and relaxed, her tense posture melting away into the coolness of the leather.
George kept his mouth shut and waited for his daughter to speak.
She leaned forward and placed her elbows on her knees. “Tell me about the Scales of Anubis.”
He chuckled. “Is this why you drove an hour to see me?”
Zahra’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me about Khaliq Ayad.” Her father stammered his words, clearly trying to make something up. “Did you know he kidnapped Baahir and stole Mom’s canopic jar this morning?”
George’s stubbled face went white. “Baahir? Khaliq? He did this to you?”
“No,” Zahra replied, shaking her head, “his sister did. She and her men nearly destroyed the museum. It’s probably all over the news by now.”
“Ifza was there?”
