The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

If there’s a worse city in the world to be tied to a chair in than Cairo it would be news to me. Being tied to a chair is usually a bad time, depending on what your kinks might be, I guess, but there’s something about the combination of the heat, the lack of humidity and the pollution in the air that makes each lungful taste like Sidney is shot gunning one of her disgusting nonfiltered cigarettes right down your throat that makes Cairo the worst. And now I just made myself picture Sid leaning in close enough so that her lips almost brush against mine and that distracted me from what I was trying to say. Oh right; tied to a chair, Cairo, it happens.

In this case, I’m strapped down to what seems like a cheap and slightly wobbly high-backed piece from a dining room set that was probably purchased at whatever the Egyptian version of IKEA is. Probably still IKEA. Stupid global economy. I can feel my wrists handcuffed behind me in what seems like a fairly standard set of steel cuffs. When I try to lift my wrists up the chair behind my back I’m happy to discover that whoever actually tied me down didn’t bother connecting those cuffs to my ankles or the chair legs or anything. Each of my legs feels like they are individually bound to the front legs of the chair. Amateurs. The tacky blue (Blue! I’m not kidding!) rope criss-crosses down my torso like the world’s ugliest and least erotic shibari harness. Good support for my breasts, at least, even if it’s tight enough to make breathing a little more difficult; that’s probably what woke me up. Yeah, I was unconscious. I’ll get to that. Binding both of my feet against a chair leg apparently required my as yet unknown captor to tie down my left leg to the chair and then string the rope, which is still bright blue by the way, back up my inner thigh to cocoon the right leg next. Seriously guys, we all saw Avengers and everything being equal I probably could kill you with a chair but this is just excessive.

Waking up this way; sweating, wearing the same clothes I had on last night, in Cairo and tied to a chair does not put me in the best of moods. I can’t actually touch the back of my head right now but it’s throbbing in a way that lets me know I’ve got a major bump from whoever wanged me with a blackjack while I was trying to enjoy my Chivas Regal in the bar last night. If I hadn’t been so busy trying to make eye contact with a certain dangerously cute Nehru collared dusky skinned Adonis across the room, I probably would have been paying more attention and not be in this situation. Sneaking up on me is normally pretty tough and not many amateurs like whoever grabbed me yesterday would have a shot at getting the drop on me. But I’m serious here: he was breathtaking. Hopefully he wasn’t in on it cause I would hate to have to kill him. People think that you black out instantly when you get hit with one of those things but I had just enough awareness to move my drink so that I didn’t face plant onto the glass and just enough regretful consciousness to picture Sidney laughing at me from thousands of miles away when my head crashed down on the table right before everything went dark.

On the good side, looking around the room I can see more evidence of my… can I really call them kidnappers? Guess not just yet. I can see more evidence that the jerks who tied me to a chair are strictly semi-pro, anyways. The single long, thin vertical window in the room is open—not that screaming for help in English or half-forgotten French while somewhere hopefully still in Cairo would be a super smart plan. The wooden door in front of me is probably locked from the outside but looking at the cheap lock and overall shoddy construction makes me think I could get through it in about two point six five kicks.

I’m just screwing with you. I have no idea how many fractional kicks it would take me. I thought it would make me sound impressive like Liam Neeson in Taken or something. I could smash the door with no problem is all I am saying. But the prize observation right now, the flashing neon electrified ‘These Guys Aren’t Serious’ sign is what is sitting on the table just to the left of the door.

The Brainiacs who nabbed me searched me pretty well while I was out. My belt is there on the table, all the tiny pouches turned out and what gear I was carrying spread around in front of it. They found my concealed combat knife and it’s there too (though wiggling a little more in my restraints confirms they didn’t bother with more than a cursory search of my bra so the tiny blade number two is still in place. God bless weird sexual repression in the underworld, I suppose).

But next to the knife? Right there on the table, in the same room as me? Out in the open like it’s nothing special sits my custom H&K VP9. They’ve unloaded it, at least. But the magazine is sitting six inches away, still full. I wonder if they even bothered to kick the round from the chamber. Since I can’t see it sitting anywhere on the table, I’m going to guess ‘no’. This is junior varsity.

Kidnappers, criminals and general low-lives of the world some free advice for when you sap some girl in a bar and drag her back to your Mom’s attic or wherever the hell I am and tie her to a chair with the rope Uncle Farid used last year to hold onto Homer Simpson’s belt loop in the Macy’s of Egypt parade. If you’re searching her and find an all-ceramic custom tooled pistol loaded with hollow point rounds in a concealed ankle holster strapped under her pants you might want to, you know, consider putting it in a different room than her. Safety first.

The sound of footsteps on a set of stairs and a muffled voice speaking what I’m guessing is Arabic coming through the door snaps me out of guidance counselor mode. Guess it’s time to meet the Napoleon of crime responsible for my current predicament. Damn, I was hoping that I’d be able to finish working my right foot free before they decided to check on me.

What?

I’ve been trying to get it loose this whole time. It just made sense. I’ve also been breathing regularly and swallowing on occasion.

Fine.

If you’re going to be that way I’ll try to keep you up to date a little better going forward. I knew I should have tried to do this third person omniscient.

I watched the brushed metal door handle turn while continuing to squirm in the restraints and attempt to slip my foot from the ropes. The door cracked open and a pair of heavy-sandaled feet strode with purpose into the ugly pink room. Gazing up, I… oh shit.

“Ah, Miss Chase,” oozed a depressingly familiar accented voice, “So good of you to once again visit Cairo. There are many here who have been eager to become reacquainted with you.”

Hasaan Fucking Zaliwya. Fucking is not actually his second name. So far as I know. I guess it could be. We aren’t exactly on ‘Share Your Secret Vulgar Extra Names’ friendship level. We’re not friends at all. Hasaan used to be a middle management nobody with Egypt’s Department of Antiquities or whatever they call the government organization that’s supposed to protect the historical artifacts and all the pretty golden treasures of the Pharaohs. Used to be. Until he got caught smuggling some of those same treasures out of the country in exchange for deposits into his hidden bank accounts. I… might have had a little bit to do with that.

This was back before the ‘Arab Spring’ when Egypt became less terrible so Hasaan mostly got away with it. He bribed the people he needed to bribe and any more he just smuggles and works as a middle man full-time without any official imprimatur. Last time I was in Cairo, I left him hypnotized and drooling at his desk but that whole stupid mess was Sid’s fault, not mine.

What now?

Geez, yes, hypnosis. It’s a real thing and it really works and in my line of work, sometimes it’s the easiest way of getting from point A to point pay. I can’t shoot silver sparkles from my eyes though so my talent for mindgames probably isn’t going to help me right here, okay?

Putting on my best attempt at a pleasant and familiar smile, I raise my head, looking up into his beady dark eyes. “You know me, Hasaan,” I say, “There are just too many fun places in the world where you don’t necessarily end up kidnapped and tied to a chair. I love Egypt, don’t get me wrong, but I usually like to start my mornings with more breakfast and less rope.”

He laughs mirthlessly, “I see that your sense of humor is just as I remembered it. But this time I’m afraid there is not sparkling golden coin for you to twirl while you try to talk your way out of trouble, Miss Chase.” He gestures toward the table, “I have taken care to secure your supply of tricks and weapons and now we can discuss what you are doing back in Cairo and how you intend to repay me for the theft of Mentuhothep’s Death Mask.” He reaches out and wraps his greasy fingers around my jaw, drumming them on my cheek teasingly, “I do hope you will be reasonable.”

Okay, back up. While technically speaking, I did steal the death mask, Hasaan had stolen it first. We had braved another trap-laden hole in the desert to recover the thing and, if Sidney had been able to land the stupid helicopter without crashing, we would have been out and on our way back to New York long before Hasaan and his at-the-time-government buddies rolled up in their jeeps and pointed automatic weapons in our faces. Sid is actually a fine pilot and there was a giant sandstorm going on at the time, possibly generated by some ancient tomb guardian curse but still; the ground is a big target, how hard could it really be to land. Anyway.

“I’m sure it was going to be headed straight for the Cairo museum, too,” I try not to roll my eyes too hard, “Hell, you’re probably back working for the government right now. Recovery division, right? Well sadly I don’t have the mask any more. Some millionaire who wrote a phone app wanted a conversation piece for his n—“

I probably had that slap coming. Luckily for me, he’s a ferrety little creep and he hits like a girl.

“Don’t mistake me,” Hasaan hisses, “I did not expect to recover the mask. My client has long since moved on to other prospects. But I will have compensation and you will tell me why you are here in Egypt and what you plan to plunder.”

SO that’s good news. However he managed to track me down, he hadn’t found and ransacked my hotel yet and doesn’t know about the Eye. Once I get out of here (and my foot is almost loose already), I might be able to actually complete the rest of this visit with no problems. I know, I know; I’m trying not to laugh, too.

“Dukkah,” I nod, watching him raise an eyebrow, “You can buy it in the states but I figure if you wanted to make a really authentic roasted—“

Another slap, this time a backhand to the opposite side of my face and he glares at me. “I had hoped that as old friends,” his voice drips with sarcasm, “we could come to an understanding…”

“You mean I give you a map to a fabulous treasure and you give me a ride in a jeep ten miles out of town to a shallow hole in the sand before you shoot me? I wouldn’t even have to dig it myself?” Sarcasm is always a good defense.

His thin lips tighten into a smirk, “My dear, you should know I would never shoot you myself.” He leans out the door and barks something in Arabic and I hear another set of ponderous footsteps on the stairs.

A massive wall of meat joins us in the room. Six foot four if he’s an inch and somewhere north of three hundred pounds of mostly muscle, he’s dressed in a black t-shirt and cargo pants tucked into a pair of olive green combat boots. Everything about this guy from his slightly unkempt beard to the way he’s looking at me just screams ‘Hired Goon’. There’s never a shortage of these guys no matter where I go for some reason.

He and Hasaan have a brief conversation in whatever language they’re speaking and I silently wish I had Heather somewhere in Cairo on the other end of my earpiece. ‘I don’t need support on this one,’ I remember telling her, ‘I’ll hire local if I really want translation. You and Sid take it easy, this will just be a quick in and out.’ Yeah, I’m getting the quick in and out right now, that’s for sure.

Hasaan smiles at me, satisfied with the instructions he gave his goon, “And now, Miss Chase, if you will excuse me, I believe I will take your advice and start my day with some breakfast.” He nods at the thug and then turns to leave, “I will return shortly and see if you’re not feeling more cooperative.”

He closes the door behind him and I hear it lock. The big guy steps closer and wags a calloused finger in my face. “You. Talk.” He growls in halting English.

Before I can respond with another smart remark, he rears back and drives a fist into my stomach. The breath explodes from my lungs and I suck in a painful gasp of air. Fuck this guy is strong. The chair, with me in it, skitters back a few inches just from the force of his punch. And… my right foot is loose. Hooray?

Panting for breath I groan out, “Hey… talk. Okay… let’s talk. What do you want to talk about? Football?”

His brow furrows and steps forward again, “You. Talk.” He pulled his fist back and this time slammed a left hook directly into my ribcage. I don’t feel anything crack which is either lucky for me or a sign that he’s really good at beating people, which would be significantly less lucky. I slump forward in the ropes, trying to fight down the pain. This guy apparently speaks about as much English as I do Arabic.

Yutock (that’s what I’m going to call him) grabs a handful of my hair and lifts my head to look into my eyes, “You…”

“Talk,” I finished, trying to nod, “Right, I get it.” He’s strong enough that I’m only going to get one chance at this and I need to make it count. I try to look as hurt and helpless as possible… which wasn’t that hard, considering.

Yutock smiles, pleased with my response and, as expected, swings in with a right hook to the body this time. I throw all my weight forward at the same moment, planting my free foot and using the momentum of his punch to aid in a pirouette in the chair, spinning around in front of the surprised tough. Using every bit of strength in my one untied limb, I thrust myself back and up, slamming the wooden chair back under his chin and, thankfully, shattering the cheap pressboard seat, knocking most of the ropes around me loose. Yutock staggers backwards and crashed heavily against the door and from below I hear Hasaan’s voice calling something up to his buddy.

I couldn’t worry about that now; if they had tied me up properly breaking the chair wouldn’t have mattered much. But because of their slapdash kidnapping job I have a window. My hands were still cuffed but my body was free and I yanked my left leg, still trailing rope from the harness, clear of the chair debris.

Yutock held one hand under his jaw, it was probably broken, and charges at me. But he was clearly better at fighting with people strapped to chairs and I side step him, ducking under his fist and throw my hardest knee shot to his kidney as he tumbles past. Not giving him a chance to recover, I keep moving, spinning into a jumping (cause of his size) roundhouse kick that connects to the side of his head as he turns. I felt something dragging as I moved and grinned when I realized what it was. I keep turning and launched another cycle kick, this time with my left foot that missed the staggering goon by a good foot of space. For a split second his eyes register confusion—maybe he thought I was a pro-wrestler or something—before the rope that was still tied to my other leg brought the remains of the chair crashing into the side of his head. His eyes roll back and he mutters something that I’d like to think was ‘Mother’ before slowly toppling over onto the ground.

From down below, I hear a door slam. That wasn’t what I was expecting—for one thing there’s a lot less guns cocking and shouting. Deciding to risk a peek out the window I catch a glimpse of Hasaan racing down the street, his thawb flapping in the wind. That guy’s truly a professional.

Moving back to the table, I locate the appropriate tool from my gear and, after a couple minutes work behind my back, free myself from the handcuffs. Unwinding the rope from around my body, I try not to touch any of the tender spots where I know ugly bruises were already starting to form. I decide to give Yutock, who definitely has a broken jaw if you’re curious, a free lesson in how to properly restrain someone and hogtied him on the floor. I collect the rest of my gear; slide my knife back in its sheath, fixe my belt in place and double checked my V9 to make sure everything is good. Pistol in hand, not that I really expect to need it but being extra careful in situations like this is generally a good plan, I open the door and cautiously proceed down the stair.

Arriving at the ground floor, I find myself, as I thought, in a tiny lower class home somewhere in Cairo’s backstreets. The place was a little dirty and I don’t think I’ll find anything useful if I search the place—Hasaan was stupid, sure, but he wasn’t that stupid and wouldn’t leave anything valuable or important in his hidey hole when he beat feet.

Shit.

I just realized that between all the complaining about second rate abductors, meeting old Egyptian buddies and knocking their hired muscle unconscious, you don’t have any idea who I am. Sorry. After the thing with my foot I promised to keep you informed but forgot to cover the basics. I just assumed you could see me or that there was some giant floating sign above my head with my name on it or something.

I’m Tara. Tara Chase. You probably heard Hasaan mention my last name. He does that because he’s still used to being an obsequious little bureaucratic toady and also, I’m sure, because he knows it bothers me. I don’t even like it when waitresses or call-center reps call me ‘Miss’ or God forbid ‘Ma’am’.

I’m a freelance archaeologist. That’s what I like to be called, anyway. Some people say ‘treasure hunter’, some even go so far as ‘artifact thief’. Don’t say ‘tomb raider’. I’m serious. I will cut you. Think like Indiana Jones only a woman and with less Nazis (since there are just fewer Nazis in total these days).

I lead a team of Indiana Janes that, I am always embarrassed to announce, is officially known as Adventure Incorporated. It’s not just a name. We are honest-to-God incorporated as an LLC somewhere in Delaware for tax purposes (why Delaware? I don’t know. Ask Heather). The goofy ass name is equal parts Sidney Sloane (one of my partners) and Jack Daniels. I will sign just about anything past a certain blood alcohol level and the next morning when Heather—that’s Heather Lockheart, co-founder number three of three, found the papers she had been trying to get us to finish for weeks actually completed and signed, she filed them before I had a chance to recover and say ‘Wait, that name is terrible’.

At least we don’t have a logo.

I’m going to guess that if you’re still with me at this point you probably already have a mental image of what I must look like. I’m not real experienced with this whole ‘Narrate Your Life For An Audience’ thing so I’m not sure whether I should tell you what I actually look like or let you hold on to the most likely very flattering version that you’ve constructed in your head. Tell you what, I’m going to go ahead and describe myself but if you don’t want to ruin the illusion you can skip the next couple of paragraphs.

I’m pretty tall, about 5′9″ barefoot, taller still in shoes with golden blonde hair that I keep trimmed above my shoulders. It stays out of the way when I’m working and doesn’t give creeps like Yutock much to grab when things go crazy. I’m picky about the cut. I admit that I’m jealous of Sidney’s whole long luxurious raven tresses thing and if I’m going to have to be the practical one, I at least want to look stylish. My weight is none of your damn business but I have to leap across chasms, pull myself up onto moving trucks with one hand and occasionally jump out of airplanes for my job so you can probably guess that I’m not an extra value meal kind of girl. I’d like to say that I don’t look dyke-y but fit girls with small breasts and short hair who wear pants all the time look a little bit dyke-y no matter how good their ass looks. And my ass does look damn good.

Honestly there are worst things to look like. No tattoos, that’s on purpose. No distinguishing scars, that’s luck. I’ve got bright green eyes but not in a ‘sexy sparkling emeralds’ kind of way but more of an ‘I’m thirsty and that can of Sprite looks damn good’ flavor. Piercings? Yeah I’ve got some in each ear but usually just wear studs, again cause of work. I’ve got one tiny bar in my left eyebrow that is literally just for me because I always thought it would look cool. I still do. Shut up.

How’s that? Got a good picture in your head? Hey! I’m wearing clothes, damnit. While I’m narrating, I get to be the one to fantasize. If anything else comes up with my looks I’ll mention it and I promise I’m not going to spring some ‘secret tail’ or ‘webbed feet’ surprise on you later.

I’m in Cairo on business. Assuming today is still Saturday and I was only out cold for one night, I’m meeting a contact, paying them a finder’s fee and being driven out to an excavation site in the desert where, apparently, they’ve unearthed an old temple while laying foundations for some new wind farm. The construction foreman called us and emailed the photos because if he went to the government or the museums they’d rope off the whole site and spend months going over everything with tiny brushes and start a gigantic legal battle with the company that bought the land. With us he knows we’ll go in and out in one night, get anything valuable out of there and then he can backhoe the whole place and fill it with concrete. He gets paid twice this way, too.

‘But Tara! What about the priceless historical value!’ See the thing is most ancient Egyptian ruins are, well, ruins. Millennia old masonry and furniture fragments along with the infrequent bits of super tarnished bronze and decrepit pottery. The pre-Christian era Egyptians weren’t even very good potters. Yeah, if I see a new Rosetta stone down there, I’m bringing it up but for the most part sites like this are a dime a dozen and your average Egyptian would probably rather have a new wind farm and a bigger paycheck.

For the most part.

This site, going by the foreman’s pictures, isn’t actually a dime a dozen but luckily for us he doesn’t know that. I saw it right away and some extra research with Heather confirmed it. What he unearthed out there is actually an old temple to a particular cult of the Egyptian deity Nut that was supposedly burned and buried by the Pharaoh’s soldiers some thousand years before the birth of Christ.

They were up to something that offended some other God or annoyed the Pharaoh or, fuck I don’t know, drove all the local hippos further north up the Nile. It doesn’t honestly matter; it was three thousand years ago.

What does matter is that the leader of the cult was reputed to wear a jeweled headdress, which since they did all their ceremonies at night in the pitch darkness seems extravagant but I’m not an ancient Egyptian priest so what do I know. At the center of the headdress sat a fist-sized star ruby referred to in the histories we could find as the ‘Eye of Azkhendar’. Now, is that headdress or even just the ruby still there? Probably not. It’s been three thousand years and it seems like the kind of thing the Pharaoh’s troops would have dug up after sacking the place but the possibility is worth the trip. If the Eye is still there we could make a few million dollars easily once we find the right collector. Egyptologists are nuts for stuff like this, especially if it has a sexy or dangerous history.

I think that brings us up to date. Sorry that it took so long but I was tied to a chair and groggy. Cut me a little slack. Thankfully, through the magic of narration, I relayed all that info to you and still haven’t managed to cross the room over to the door out of Hasaan’s little hideout.

Realizing that I’m about to step out into public, I slide my pistol back into its holster and quickly brush my fingers through my hair, hoping to make myself look at least a little bit casual and presentable.

Scanning the street outside for any late arriving backup or shady characters who would be trying to trail me back to the hotel (where, for reasons that probably amuse Sidney, I’m registered under the name Abigail Abernathy) I see nothing but more closed doors and with a shrug make my move out of the hovel and start picking my way in the direction of Cairo’s downtown.

I wonder how hard it will be to find a cab.

Not that hard, as it turns out, and I’m back at the room by lunchtime. It is still Saturday, which is good news. Heather booked me into a nice hotel and the concierge is too well-trained to comment on me returning after being gone all night still wearing the same clothes I wore for check in. I order up some room service, slip out of my clothes and slide into a hot bath.

In some place the internet can get spotty but a night here is expensive enough that I’m not anticipating any trouble. Setting up my laptop on the room service cart, I log in and start to ping Heather before I think about the time difference. Oh well, what could she possibly have been doing on a Friday night that would make her want to sleep in, right?

She picks up in under a minute. I don’t know why I’m surprised; she’s never that far from a computer, I swear she sneaks a laptop into the sauna sometimes. Of the three of us, Heather is the closest thing to a ‘professional one’. She’s smarter than either me or Sidney and I doubt we’d function without her around.

Her camera pops on and she gives me a relieved smile, “You didn’t check in last night.” Her tone is questioning without being the slightest bit accusatory, “Enjoying the bath?”

Oh right, a quick description. Heather is a few inches shorter than me (not that you can tell while she’s sitting in a computer chair on webcam) and doesn’t do as much field work so she’s… softer, in a very nice way. She’s got more of the classic hourglass figure and, when she wants to show it off which is sadly rarely, wonderful D cup cleavage. Pale skin and hazel eyes that almost match the color of her lightly curly hair which, at the moment, is yanked back into a ‘Sitting Around The House And Worrying About Her Stupid Partner’ ponytail. When she lets it down it frames her face and hangs just above her nipples.

“Ran into an old friend,” I answer, leaving it there so I don’t worry her any further, “And I needed this. You know how Egypt dries me out.”

“IF she’s dried out it must not have been the fun sort of friend,” calls out a second voice from the speakers. This one has just a touch of an English accent and I’ve never been able to figure out whether it’s an affectation or not.

“Hey Sid,” I roll my eyes knowing only Heather can see it and she stifles a giggle, “Hasaan Zaliwya. Still sore about losing his job. Now he has to make a dishonest living.”

Heather looks a little concerned but, being several thousand miles apart and seeing me in the bath, doesn’t let it get to her, “Mmm. Well you have everything for tonight set, right?” Without waiting for an answer, the rendezvous point pops up in text chat along with our finder’s fee and the contact’s name, Mohammed Abazaid. I know without checking that she just sent it all to my phone again, too.

“Sure thing Heather,” I smile, “Just leave it to me and hopefully we’ll have the eye sitting on the coffee table Monday morning.”

“Even without the Eye,” says Heather, always the voice of reason, “There are probably other artifacts worth grabbing. I know you usually think amber jewelry is a waste but…”

I hold up my hand, “Heather, I’ve got it. We can turn a profit without the big score. I just like to fantasize. Out of curiosity, any thoughts on interested buyers?”

“We should sell it to Veidt!” shouts Sidney from off-camera, referencing the reclusive and eccentric head of Pyramid Holdings.

“He’s nuts for Egyptian stuff,” I yell back before realizing that I’m speaking directly into a microphone and don’t need to shout to be heard, “But we’ll be sneaking it through customs twice and that might be a problem for him.” I give Heather a little shrug, “We can reach out.”

“Let’s not put the cart before the horse,” she shakes her head in mock exasperation, “Right now we don’t even have anything to sell.” She starts typing quickly, “Listen, if Zaliwya found you once I’m going to change you to a different hotel for tonight and move wheels up for your flight home to 10 AM Sunday.”

“It’s really okay Heather,” I try to reassure her, knowing that it’s already pointless, “Hasaan is an amateur and I’m not in any danger here.”

“Just for my own peace of mind then,” she says hopefully, “It’s on your phone and... there.” The text field pops up again with a second hotel address.

“Make her…” calls Sidney, thinking while she talks, “Bertha… Bickerbottom.” She laughs melodically.

Now it’s Heather’s turn to roll her eyes, “She doesn’t have a passport or ID for ‘Bertha Bickerbottom’ and I’m not going to set up a drop in under six hours just to amuse you, Sidney.”

“Hmmmm, I bet I could convince you, love…” purrs Sidney from someplace off to Heather’s left. On camera, Heather’s cheeks flush pink and she laughs nervously.

Cutting this off before things get out of hand I quickly interject, “If I have to switch hotels before the rendezvous I’d better get going. I’ll text you when I hook up with Abazaid and check in when I’m back with our score.”

Heather nods quickly, still blushing and her eyes keep darting over in Sidney’s direction, “Good look tonight. Talk to you s—“

I close the laptop and disconnect just as a smooth, caramel colored arm slides into frame and across Heather’s chest. Sidney is totally impossible when she’s bored.

The problem with clandestine meetings in the middle of nowhere is that they are, by definition, surrounded by miles and miles of nothing. Nowhere is this more true than the sand dunes of Egypt. I had picked up the jeep, keys still in the ignition, right where Heather had said it would be at seven. Ninety minutes of off-road driving with no headlights later, I was in the spot that my GPS said was the meeting spot but who knows how accurate his GPS would be. I sat on the hood of the jeep drinking from a bottle of Snapple and scanning the nearby dunes with my night vision binoculars.

Oh good point. At the bar last night I wasn’t ‘working’ or expecting trouble so I didn’t bring much in the way of gear. Tonight is a different story. I’ve got on protective gloves, elbow and knee pads. I have a fancy, while still shapely, composite armor vest strapped to my upper body. I’m carrying a couple of different lights; one full-sized room illuminating lantern, a more standard heavy torch and a little floodlight I can clip onto my harness. I’d be wearing an earpiece and microphone, too, if anybody was here with me but tonight I’m all by my lonesome. And I’m armed. Nothing major but I just feel more comfortable with two high powered pistols strapped to my holsters. I’ve still got my knives and my V9 at the ankle. Usually you don’t need guns but when you do you really really need them.

I’m a little early; we’re supposed to meet at 9 PM but I’m excited to get going. Also I’m not doing anything illegal by being here. I guess I don’t technically know what Egypt’s gun laws are like right now but worst case scenario I’m not doing very much illegal. The contact is probably more nervous and will want to be right on time.

And just by saying that, bang, I spot a pair of headlights rolling up over a distant dune. I kill my Snapple and, with a shrug of archaeological humor, toss the bottle as far out into the sand as it will go. In three thousand years maybe someone will find it and put it into a museum somewhere. I slide my phone from my pocket and quickly text Heather that the contact is here.

Sliding off the hood of the jeep I wait for Mr. Wind Farm to arrive. I check the pouch on my belt—the stack of American $100 bills is still there; half his payment up front with the other half coming electronically when I check in back at the hotel. I’m a little surprised to see he has his lights turned on. Usually they are a lot more secretive about this stuff than we are.

The bright red truck pulls up over the dune right in front of me and now shuts off the lights. There’s a logo painted on the side and some Arabic writing that probably says the equivalent of ‘Murphy Bros. Construction, Est. 1967’. There are two people in the front seat which is a little surprising. Not ‘Put Your Hand On Your Pistol’ surprising but definitely a little weird.

The passenger door opens and a young woman in a delicate cotton dress steps out. She’s barefoot for some reason and she approaches me.

“Hi,” I gives a cautious nod, “Are you Abazaid?” Maybe something got screwed up in the emails or in the translation.

She stops about six feet away, “No.” (So friendly…) She inspects me from head to toe. I decide to do the same. Our barefoot Egyptian mystery woman is short and thin. She has straight and silky looking black hair that glints in the moonlight. Her dress is dark cotton; maybe black, purple or deep blue but hard to confirm in the dark and it clings to her curves tightly enough that, in my professional opinion as someone who conceals things in surprising spots, she isn’t likely to have much else on. The skin of her arms and face are decorated with henna designs though I can’t pick out any specific patterns or symbols. She has a small nose, wide-set dark eyes and her lips look like something out of a collagen injection clinic’s dream book. She purses them and arches an eyebrow as she looks up into my eyes.

“Okay, well… I must have the wrong… dune,” I give a little shrug, “You know how that go—“

“We will take you to the temple,” Her voice is clear and has only the faintest accent. It’s not that she cut me off so much as she started speaking while barely acknowledging that I was saying anything at all.

I toss a thumb over my shoulder at the jeep, “I can follow you. That way you don’t have to worry about giv—“

She turns and walks back to the truck, opening the back seat door, “You will come with us.” She climbs back into the front and closes the door as the headlights flare back to life.

This is weird. It doesn’t seem dangerous and she definitely doesn’t feel like police. Weird is sadly par for the course for me, though. I’m now glad Heather’s not here because she would be clawing at the walls right now. I pocket the keys to my jeep and climb in the door that probably says ‘Murphy’—or do they write right to left here, I forget.

“Buckle up,” I advise, noticing that neither the woman nor the man who is driving is wearing a seatbelt. I’m not too surprised by the lack of response when the truck shifts into gear and we start rolling through the desert.

The woman turns and says something to the driver and I realize that she’s speaking a different language than Hasaan and Yutock. Or maybe it just sounds a hell of a lot better coming out of her lips than theirs.

“So you’re building wind farms out here?” I ask, trying to find a bit of solid ground somewhere to stand on.

She turns in her seat to look at me again with that strange appraising but neutral eye. “I am not.”

I shift in the seat uncomfortably, “Yeah I didn’t really think that was your thing.” Reaching forward, I slap the driver lightly on the shoulder but pull my hand back when she narrows her eyes. Um, okay. “What about you, chief?”

He doesn’t turn his head at all or look back at me in the mirror, “Wind farms. Yes.”

I didn’t get into this line of work to meet fun people or anything but this is a bit much. Luckily, the rendezvous wasn’t far from the actual site and within fifteen silent awkward minutes I see a fenced off area with a ‘Murphy Bros.’ sign ahead. The truck pulls into the gate and a second man closes it behind us. We wheel up to the only lighted pit and stop. The driver and our mystery woman slide out of the cab and are joined by the gate guy in front of the construction trench. I hop out and join them, looking down at the exposed opening of a very old stone tunnel.

“That looks like an Egyptian ruin, alright,” I nod, turning to the three silent figures, “Which one of you is Abazaid?” I reach into my belt pouch.

The woman nods in the direction of the driver, “He is Mohammed. You will go into the temple now.”

I give her a funny look, “Yeah, that’s the plan. You guys are all business here, aren’t you?” I offer Mohammed the stack of bills and he stares at them for a few seconds before taking them. He looks at them in his hand and then stuffs them into his vest pocket without counting.

Gesturing at the shaft the woman speaks again, “You have paid. You will go into the temple now.”

I’ve dealt with a lot of contacts over the years; greedy ones, nervous ones, aggressive ones but I’ve never met anybody so creepily insistent that I get to work plundering their cultural heritage before. I hammer a pair of pitons into one of the concrete slabs on the edge of the pit and affix the line from my belt, flicking on my torch as I start to make my way down without another word. They don’t seem like they want to talk.

The tunnel itself is rough stone with loose sand, probably from the construction above. The thing with your typical middle kingdom era Egyptian tombs and temples is that they did not go halfway with their death traps. You won’t find any cheap poison darts or swinging blades or rooms that slowly fill with mud (well… with sand, this being Egypt and all). No. You get giant fuck you crush blocks, two hundred foot deadfalls and loose tiles that collapse the whole structure on top of you. They did not want people stealing from them and living to talk about it.

Which makes it kind of ironic because once you know their trap style, they’re probably the easiest ones out of all the ancient tomb doom machines to discover and avoid. Not that anybody good would ever share that with non-archaeologists but we’re on the same side here so I think it’s probably okay.

At the bottom of the passageway, about thirty feet down, are shards of the capstone the construction guys must have knocked away by accident when they discovered this place. I flash my light over its surface and pick out some of the glyphs that I knew would be there. There is a large, still sealed door that must lead into the temple proper ringed with different hieroglyphics.

As I mentioned, just pushing the door open is a good way to end up buried in tons of rubble but I have seen this kind of door before. This was dedicated to Nut who in Egyptian myth was Goddess of the sky. Pushing her glyph stone in is another good way to end up buried. But the symbols representing her children, the Gods and Goddesses who she birthed in the legends are a different story. I find their symbols and press them in, one by one, with my palm feeling the thousand year old blocks sliding back and clicking into place. The sound of slowly rushing sand and stone grinding on stone rewards me as the thick door crawls open across ancient floor tile.

I flare the beam of my light through the doorway, gazing into a large room with a central alter and six stone columns supporting the roof. Just for fun I count the unused glyphs around the door; seven. Each one would probably have collapsed one of the columns, except for Nut’s image which would have dropped them all. There are two smaller archways visible leading to the north and south sides of the room and across the altar I can see a broad set of stairs leading up to another room. I scan the ceiling and floor for any obvious signs of fall away stone and carefully approach the altar.

Blowing the dust of the three thousand years from the faded masonry and running my fingers across its surface, I convince myself that there are no buttons or levers concealed anywhere on the platform. I rap on it a few times with my hammer to check but it’s solid stone; no hollow echoes.

From above there comes a loud voice, the woman, “You have opened the temple?”

I rub my forehead and consider ignoring her. This isn’t how it works. I’m not here to narrate for them. But she probably won’t shut up otherwise and might do something stupid. “That’s right,” I call out, “Just checking it out now.” I decide to add some placation, “Nothing interesting. Pretty typical place.” I hope my tone of voice is clear.

It isn’t. I feel the line on my belt jerk and I look back towards the doorway shouting, “What the hell?”

“I will come down,” the woman again.

“Bad idea,” I yell back, “Very unsafe. Danger. Climb back up.” But she is already through the door. She stands in the main room of the temple, looking around in the dark. I can hear her take a deep breath and whisper something that I couldn’t make out.

“You really shouldn’t be down here,” I shake my head, “There are traps. Danger.”

She strides up to me, “I am safe. You will find the traps. You will search the temple.” She nods.

Shaking my head with a sigh, I turn back to the altar, “You could get us both killed.” I hammer in a piton angrily, “Let me get my line secured and you can climb back up.” I raise my hammer to secure the second piton and then…

She is touching the back of my neck. Fingertips, cool and gentle, are slipping up and down along my skin. One fingernail grazes across the back of my ear and everything goes a little blurry. Just for a second my body is frozen and place and my thoughts aren’t doing much better.

“Wh... what?” I murmur.

“I am safe,” Her voice seems to plunge right through me, down my spine and ticking my sex. Her fingers continue their distracting, maddening touches along my exposed neck and I find my head leaning forward, my eyelids growing heavy. “You will find the traps. You will search the temple.” Her hand moves to the small of my back, resting there, fingers pointing down towards my tailbone. The warm dreamy blur seems to withdraw enough for me to say something.

I’m nodding, “Yeah. It should be okay. Just stay behind me until I make sure there aren’t any other traps. I’ll search the temple.”

I can feel her smile, “That is good.”

I hammer in the second piton, running out the rest of my cable and tying it tightly. I tug on it to ensure it was firmly in place and detach my larger lantern from my belt, setting it on the altar. She is rubbing the small of my back for some reason. I don’t mind though, the feelings seem to radiate out in waves from her hand and spread through my body, tingling and relaxing. I let out a soft breath and flicked the lantern on. For the first time in thousands of years, the temple’s hall is illuminated.

Gold glitters in the light around the room. There are piles of long decayed dust and pieces of skeletons on the floor. They hadn’t been mummified; probably sealed in by the Pharaoh’s men. My companion gasps behind me. Poor thing; she isn’t used to seeing things like this. Me, I only have eyes for the jewelry that a few of the skeletons are still ‘wearing’.

I hear a tiny sound and turn to look at her. Her eyes are closed and she’s softly sobbing, “Hey, no, it’s okay.” I lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Right now she reminds me of Heather the first time she had to shoot somebody, “You can just go back up, you don’t need t—“

She throws her arms around me and squeezes tight, burying her face on my shoulder. I hug back, not knowing what else to do, trying my best to comfort her.

And then her fingers are on my neck again. Her other hand is moving too, touching along the exposed skin of my forearm between my glove and my elbow pad. There is some kind pattern to the touches, something she is feathering along my skin but I can’t follow it. I feel the first touches and let them guide me to the next but then I lose it and they swirl and then I wait for them to start again. She is drawing something over my skin with her delicate fingertip but I can’t focus on it. I can’t focus on much of anything. Her fingers feel good. Her touches on my neck feel even better. It isn’t just blurry, I’m melting. Sagging forward loosely against the softness of her body. I hear a quiet moan and it takes me a few seconds to realize that it was my own voice. I feel good, warm.

Her voice I can identify instantly, I can feel it. Not just in the breath against my ear but every syllable quivering through the air and through my brain as she speaks, “You will relax.” Okay. “You will ignore the gold.” Yeah… I don’t need cheap jewelry. “You will explore the temple.” I will explore the temple.

She releases me from her arms and I’m proud of myself for not staggering. I looked across the room, eyes roaming over the remnants of forgotten skeletons scattered throughout the hall. Sparkles of old jewelry hang off some of the desiccated bone but it’s like I’ve told Heather a million times; we want the big score not some cheap pocket change.

The woman is watching me with a bemused expression. She lets her fingers drift down my arm and my whole body tingles with electric thrill. I feel intensely aware of my nipples right now, pushing hard through my bra against my top. Stupid armored vest; I tug at it uncomfortably for a second.

“I should check the other rooms,” I say, trying to get myself back under control. “There may be something else here.” What is wrong with me? I’m excited for the treasure but shouldn’t be that kind of excited.

“Yes,” She smiles “Bring it back.”

I look back at her, confused. Of course I am going to bring it back. It is going to get on a private jet to New York with me and make me a few million dollars richer. God why do I feel so turned on? I walked up the stairs across the room and peek through the crumbling stone arch.

Jackpot! Well, possible jackpot. This chamber is smaller than the temple’s great hall but there is only a single dead cultist crumpled against the far wall of the room. But it’s long decayed arms are still wrapped around a brittle looking parcel of venerable linen. I can’t tell what might be inside the package from here but I have my fingers crossed that I may have found our high priest.

This room has another obvious trap. On the ceiling above a heavy stone block had already slid partway out from its resting place. One wrong step and everything inside would be crushed. My impossibly firm nipples rub against the firm armor of my vest and my head spins. I brace myself with one hand against the door and let my other hand drop to cup my pussy through my pants. I give a hot moan. My panties are so fucking wet.

“Concentrate,” Her voice floats through the air to me, making me blush.

Concentrate? It is so hard to concentrate on anything except the burning heat of my arousal. All I want is to… feel that touch, to sink into it, the warm wetness in my panties, the throbbing spikes of each touch of my nipples, the drifting softness of Her voice as my mind floated away, floating away, floating…

I sway on my feet, leaning against the arch and rubbing and floating and drifting and… wait… Fuck! Damnit stop. I force both hands away from my body and grip my knees, taking huge gasping breaths of air in. Hypnosis.

I don’t know what technique she’s using or how it’s working but she’s trying to hypnotize me. I’ve felt that drifting, floating… gently falling… everything else further away… so quiet… God damnit! I shake my head frantically and take another breath. I’ve felt those feelings enough times to recognize them.

“I will concentrate,” I answer back to her, trying to make my voice sound only half there.

“Good,” she replies, seemingly satisfied.

Fuck. I knew something was up with her from the minute we met. She was planning to do something to my mind. As I take a careful step into the room and feel my panties slick on the move I have to concede that maybe she isn’t just working on my mind. She must have pulled the same trick on my contact but I wonder how she found out about any of this in the first place. If Mohammed sold the info to multiple parties, I’m taking the damn finder’s fee back.

Okay but that’s for later. I can’t take too long in here or she will come looking for me and put her fingers on my neck and my mind will blur away as my panties soak with need and my nipples raise to obedient points; my knees getting weak and my thoughts slowing down as the world spins around me but I’m barely aware and… and… Fuck. This is bad. I don’t know how to get this out right now so I probably should just focus on not letting anything more get in. No touching. Got to watch her hands.

I blink my eyes to clear them and inspect the stone trap; crushing bricks from above usually mean pressure plates. Dropping to my hands and knees I sweep the sand from the floor, finding the outlines of eight individual floor stones and let out a sigh. Any markings on them originally must have been painted on and were long ago erased by time. I look across the stones at the three thousand year old skeleton and his mystery package. Well, there’s only one thing to do.

I back out of the room, walking to the edge of the steps and take a few deep breaths, preparing myself.

“What have you found?” asks the woman from her seat on the central altar.

“Maybe nothing,” I shrug, “I could be crushed horribly in a few seconds so you might want to get ready to run.” I charge forward at full speed and fling myself through the air. Hurtling over the trapped stones, I land and roll, careening past Mr. Skeleton and thudding into the wall on the far side of the room. That was the easy part. Getting back I won’t have a full running start so I’m going to hit one of the tiles. You can start praying for me right now. I’ve got a one in four chance.

I take the wrapped parcel in hand and tug aside the ancient fragments of cloth. Jackpot confirmed. I lift from the dead man’s grasp the headdress of Nut complete with the Eye of Azkhendar. If anything it was bigger than Heather had described. Dollar signs appear in my eyes and visions of a very well deserved vacation to someplace tropical dances through my mind.

So what did you pick? Was it three? A lot of people pick three and that’s why I’m going to stick with floor tile number one. I line up on the right side of the room and run towards the possibly trapped tiles. I make a good jump, especially considering I was holding a three thousand year old jeweled headdress, but still crash down roughly in the middle of what I had arbitrarily decided was floor stone number one.

And… I’m not crushed. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.

I rub the sore back of my head and wince. Now we have a problem. Even odds are that mystery hypno lady is also here after the headdress. She got me more than halfway induced just barely touching me. I am not in the mood to lose this fucking ruby and even less in the mood to end up some zonked out dripping wet plaything. I shiver for a second at that thought, feeling it in my pussy, and realize that part of me does but mentally I’m less in the mood, okay? I am very glad I have my vest. I don’t even want to consider what those fingers could do to unprotected nipples. And now I made myself moan again, great.

I guess I could shoot her, but, contrary to what you might think, casual murder isn’t really my thing. Heather carried a taser when she does field work but that’s because she’s largely useless with close up weapons and pistols. I slip the heavy prybar off my back. Knock her out fast before she can get her hands on me and make a break for the truck. Let her and the construction guys explain whatever when I’m back in New York. That seems like the play.

And like all brilliant plans, it falls apart instantly.

Stepping back into the main temple hall, I see the two construction guys have joined her. And I see a lot of the guys. They’re both stripped naked, their bodies decorated with henna and their uncircumcised cocks fully erect as they kneel on either side of the altar.

She smiles at me, making eye contact, “Bring it to me.” The voice is still there but a combination of nearly dying, the fact that I’m all set to fight right now and knowing that she’s trying to put me under gives me enough resistance to shake it off.

“Yeah, I’m going to take this. That’s why I paid you assholes,” I watch them warily, “If you let me walk out of here, we’ll have no problems. If not…” I swing the bar as a demonstration.

She does not look happy. She says something in that other language and the two men rise to their feet, spreading out and starting to approach me. Shoving the headdress into one of my pockets, I grip the steel bar like a baseball bat and rush the first slave. He dodges out of the way so I know they’re not zombie style—still have some self preservation instincts.

His friend circles around, trying to get behind me; I can’t take my eyes off either one of them and again I consider shooting. These guys, though, seem hypnotized and gunning them down for something that they can’t control isn’t right.

The one at my back makes a grab but I bring the crowbar around and drive it into his thigh hard. He grunts and collapses. His friend is on top of me when I turn but I keep going, tucking and rolling and flipping him over with an improvised toss. He grabs at me as he falls and I hear something tear and then a tiny metallic tinkling.

The first man is heavily favoring his uninjured leg but still limps forward and kicks me in the stomach as I scramble to my feet. The armored vest absorbs most of the force and he couldn’t get much to begin with thanks to his damaged hip. Trying not to think about what I’m doing, I ram my head forward, slamming directly into his naked groin and brutally crushing his dick with my skull. He goes down clutching himself with both hands.

The second man has picked himself up but behind me I hear something else; the woman’s voice, chanting in that other language. The naked guy in front of me stares over my shoulder and starts to rock backwards and forwards on his feet, dropping his guard. I use both hands and cold-cock him with the crowbar. He drops and now I just need to get out of here and…

When I turn I see it; what distracted him. The woman stands there, arms spread, wearing the headdress and chanting. And as she chants, the ruby in the center of the crown glows. It pulses with eerie light and throbs with presumably mystical energy. Her eyes fix on me.

“You are aroused,” the voice washes over me again and I’m still so turned on and horny. I try to shake my head in the rose tinted light but it seems pointless to deny it. My nipples are instantly throbbing under my vest again and between my legs I feel the sticky wet heat of my folds begging for attention.

“You will look,” Her words flow into my head like syrup and I understand just what she means; the beautiful stone, so bright and clear. Every strange syllable of her chant causes it to flare with arcane power and as I look at it, I feel it penetrating my mind; the scarlet waves of power traveling through my eyes and into my thoughts.

“You cannot resist,” and I know it’s true. I fought it off before but now the ruby’s radiance is disintegrating every bit of my willpower. I just want to stare and listen and feel more aroused. I feel my muscles relaxing and my face must look so brainless and slack right now. I bet I look hot.

“You are falling,” and I am; falling right out of my body and drifting into the softly strobing stone. My hands finally go limp and I hear the metal bar clatter to the ground. I can’t take my eyes off the Eye, even to look into the eyes of the woman who is so thoroughly mindfucking me.

“Your arousal guides you,” to my knees. I fall before her, just as the two men posed before the altar. Knees spread, eyes gazing up, focused and obedient with no awareness. On my knees the fire of my need sweeps through my body unrestrained and I can hear a voice moaning like a slut in need.

“You will surrender.” There’s nothing else I can do, nothing else I want to do, nothing matters more than this. That moaning voice I now recognize as my own, it sounds so distant and dreamy as it answers.

“I surrender.”

The divine woman with the perfect jewel smiles to me.

“Your mind is gone.” I tumble out of myself, into the stone. Yes.

My eyes are open but I am not awake. Drifting in the stone’s power, my body responds to touch and word and obeys the will. I am naked, body stretched across a stone altar. I don’t know how I became naked but I do not need to know. I simply am. I want to fall back again into the perfect dreamless surrender. The voice is chanting and I can still picture the Eye in my mind. My own eyes see a penis above my head. A man leans over and paints my body with henna. It is what the voice orders, what the power commands. I am aroused and I kiss the bobbing shaft of his cock while he paints me. It tastes of sweat and salt and arousal. There is pleasure flowing through me. A second man is using his hand to caress my pussy. I writhe on the altar. Her fingers touch my exposed nipples and it feels even better than I dreamed. Her voice chants. The Eye glows. My mind is gone.

My mind is dreaming but I am aware. I am on hands and knees at the altar. My body obeys. A man is below me, on his back. I surrender. My body rides his hard cock, feeling it inside of me, pulsing and pumping. There is only pleasure. The chant is different; shaking and gasping. Another man is behind me. The gemstone’s light throbs in my mind. The second man’s dick throbs in my ass. I am full and open. My tongue slips over the wet, wonderful folds before me. She is sweeter than honey. I am licking. The chant becomes a gasping cry. My face is wet. My mind is gone.

There is nothing inside of me. I lay back on top of the altar. There is no mind. She is climbing above me. There is no will. I hear two voices chanting. There are no thoughts. Her scent is all around me. There is nothing else. I lick and obey. Her words are in my head. Her fingers are in my hair. I taste and serve. She grinds down on me from above. There is… pain. She is thrusting herself against my face. The back of my head scrapes against hard stone. She is panting frantically. There… I… I can think when I’m hurting. She grinds down onto me as her pussy spasms. The pain explodes in my head. Have to do something. She still tastes so good. I grab hold of her hips and throw her backwards with all my strength while she cums; she’s too busy crying out in ecstasy to stop me.

Her body hits the altar and the headdress flies off; the ruby tumbling out of it’s fitting and sliding across the dark stones. She reaches up for me with one hand but I instinctively bat it away; something inside of me is aware enough to remember what her touch can do. I slam my fist into her face as she begins to speak. My mind is not gone.

Rolling on top of her, I pin her naked body under my own. She’s slightly built and clearly not ready for physical combat; I rain blows down on her maybe for longer than I absolutely need to and she passes out. I pant for breath as the adrenaline starts to wear off and I realize that I’m still listening to the droning chant in that weird other language supplied by the two men.

It’s not as potent as her voice or the Eye, but it’s still making me dizzy; making my nipples start to peak again. I roll off the altar and slap one of the pair.

“Shut up!” I shout as I strike him on one cheek and then the other, hoping the pain will bring him around the same way it did me. His eyes slowly blink and blankness turns into confusion and then anguish as he looks up at a nude, henna-painted white girl slapping his naked ass.

I point at his companion, “Wake him up,” and turn back to the woman. She’s starting to come around and, not even wanting to deal with it at this point, I grab both sides of her head and pound the back of her skull back down on the stone again. Nighty night.

My clothes and gear are scattered around the room and while I’m collecting things one of the woozy men steps forward. “Are you Tara Chase?” he asks.

“Unfortunately,” is my witty reply, “You Abazaid?” I’m pulling on my clothes and trying to ignore their looks as I dress in front of them, smearing some of the still-fresh henna that I’ve been decorated with.

He nods; trying to find a pose where he’s less naked.

“Then who is she?” I jerk my thumb in the direction of our unconscious hypnotist.

He looks towards her and shivers, “I don’t know. She came out of the desert one night; after we had found the tomb, after I contacted you. And then…” He trails off.

Ugh. Great. “So what was that other language you were speaking?”

They both give me a weird look. “What other language,” asks the one whose name I don’t know (or care about).

Double ugh.

Back at the agency, we have a special file for this kind of bullshit. Unexplained happenings, ancient curses that seem to be real, ghosts and monsters and crap like that. I hate that file. I hate these cases. Because, honestly? I don’t care what’s happening. I want to be totally real with you. My only concerns is whether I can safely sell this rock or whether I’m going to end up creating some mind controlling comic book super villain if I do and so the smarter move would be to set off the traps and bury it with the temple.

“Um… did you pay me?” asks the one who is Mohammed, using both hands to cover himself.

“Yeah, you put the money in your vest, wherever that ended up.” I gesture towards the shaft, “Try upstairs. But don’t fucking leave. You’ve got to give me a ride back to my jeep.”

They both scramble up the rope in search of clothes and cash and probably to get away from the crazy ladies in the creepy ruins. I secure the magical headdress of mind fucking in my non-torn pocket and, using my knife to slice off some of the extra line, bind the knocked out hypno lady’s hands behind her back. I draw one of my pistols and pin her to the altar with one knee, aiming right at her face. Using my other hand I slap and poker her until she begins to open her eyes.

“Okay,” I say when she seems mostly conscious, “I am having a really bad night so we’re going to have rules now. Don’t talk unless I ask you a question. Don’t even try to touch me. All answers must be in English; the first syllable that comes out of your mouth that I don’t understand will be the last one, got it?”

She looks up at me and nods fearfully.

“In the fewest words and using the least crazy possible—what the fuck happened here tonight?”

“For over three thousand years,” she begins, “The sisterhood of Nut has…”

“Stop!” I interrupt, “Are you seriously telling me that you’re part of a sect that has existed for three goddamned millennia waiting in the desert somewhere to get back into this temple?”

“Our sisterhood, yes,” she nods, “I have been raised my whole life for—“

“Jesus Christ, I hate Egypt.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “So why didn’t you just take the stupid thing while I was out of it and rule the world or whatever your crazy cult is about?”

“The stone has no power beyond the borders of the old kingdom. It is useless to anyone who is not of our faith and trained in the proper rituals,” she sighs. “Returning the Eye to our order was my only goal.”

“Wait; hold up, so the stone has no power outside of Egypt?” I stared at her incredulous.

“Yes, the blessing of Nut would be lifted from the Eye if it were ever to be removed from our lands, “ She quivered. “Please, I will not attempt to control you again. Just give it to me.”

Well this sounds like a win-win situation for me. “Sorry. This part of the world has more than enough problems without some bronze age cult making people into sex slaves.”

She looked away, apparently ashamed. “It was wrong of me to attempt the ritual on you. But I was captivated by your beauty and fierceness. Women in my order are not like you.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. If she hadn’t decided that she needed to fuck me, the Eye of Azkhendar would be back with her goofy church right now. And, I guess, if Hasaan hadn’t tried to kidnap me, I’d be a brainwashed cultist myself. I would have never been able to snap out of the stone’s trance without the bump on my head. I give a sigh.

“Okay, look,” I climb off of her, holstering my pistol, “I’m taking the headdress and I am leaving the old, new and current kingdoms. You say that you admire me? Here’s a chance to be fierce and resourceful for yourself. It’s probably going to take them about half an hour to run me to my jeep and come back. You get that long to escape and make yourself scarce. I don’t know what anybody could charge you with anyway, without getting themselves in trouble. And I know I don’t want to make an official statement for the record about what happened here. So good luck.”

She stares deeply into my eyes and for just a moment I thought she was going to try something. Instead she merely nods, “I am called Jaheira. One day we will meet again, Tara Chase.”

I shake my head, “I really doubt it. I don’t do the archenemy thing.” I grin at her and blow a kiss as I climb back up the tunnel. It is still dark, maybe 4 AM at the latest. Mohammed and his friend are waiting back in the ‘Murphy Bros’ truck and we leave the construction site behind in a spray of sand.

“God, it’s really beautiful,” Heather almost drools while she finishes setting the headdress on a display stand inside one of our glass cases Monday morning.

“Beautiful and valuable,” I agree, happy to see her smiling while she snaps a few pictures. “How goes the client search?”

“A few nibbles,” she clicks away with the camera, “I’m sure once they see it, those nibbles will turn into full on bites. It’s too bad that it’s such an obscure piece. You know how big spenders love to have a fancy story to tell to go along with their relics.”

I take a deep breath, thankful that Sidney is still sleeping off last night’s celebration in her room. “Well, it’s funny you should mention that…”