The Lost Storehouse

by Tim Radley

A novel length Tomb Raider story. Lara Croft has an unwanted encounter with the CIA in Morocco

Lara Croft and the Lost Storehouse

by Tim Radley

trad50@yahoo.co.uk

Tomb Raider, Lara Croft, her image and likeness are trademark and copyright © of EIDOS Interactive and Core Design. No infringement or challenge to these copyrights is intended.

This story is long, almost novel length. It contains strong language and violence.

I really would be extremely grateful to get any feedback you might have on this story, either positive or negative. Please e-mail me.

* * * * *

She was being followed. Lara had suspected as much for the last couple of minutes. Now she was certain of it.

They were quite good at it too, and if they'd been native Moroccans she doubted that she would have noticed at all amid the general throng of the Rabat streets. As it was, with less than a score of Caucasian faces in sight, her pursuers stood out just slightly too much for effective surveillance.

Stopping at the street-side she paid for a newspaper with a low denomination dirham note, leaning back against the side of the vendor's stall and pretending to scan the front page. It was in Arabic and she only read Arabic moderately well. Still, it was all inevitably about the King Hussan II's latest bout of illness, so it wasn't of much interest to her. Eyes concealed behind the circular, red-tinted lenses of her sunglasses, Lara studied the woman who was the closest of the three.

She had stopped almost simultaneously with Lara beside a rack of postcards and was making a show of browsing through them interestedly – just a tourist out for a casual stroll her posture tried to say. Somewhere in her early thirties, the woman was tall and athletic looking with jaw-length blonde hair and a deep, smooth tan. She wore dark glasses and a lightweight cotton suit, the jacket of which bulged ever so slightly beneath her left arm. To Lara's experienced eye it was a screaming telltale of a concealed weapon.

Of the other two, the dark haired, muscular looking man in the loud Hawaiian shirt was somewhere up ahead, having walked right past her a couple of minutes ago. The third – a tall, slim male with a blond crew-cut – was lost from sight about a hundred or so yards back amid the crowds.

Lara wondered briefly who the hell they could be. Unfortunately the list of potential suspects was a depressingly long one. She hadn't been shy about making enemies these last few years. RX Tech Industries for one had a vested interest in seeing that she remained permanently silent about certain things she'd witnessed in Antarctica. She was by no means convinced that the Fiama Nera Cult were quite extinct just yet either. Then there was the fact that she'd extended the laws of more than one country in her time.

A wry smile quirked across her sensually full lips. That's what you got if you didn't stay a nice sedate little rich girl.

Moving on, she ducked inside a shop selling cheap looking Persian rugs and assorted other junk that could be passed off as ethnic souvenirs to gullible tourists. She handed the shopkeeper a couple of folded dirham notes and thanked him in fairly fluent Arabic for letting her use the back door.

He grinned broadly, pocketing the money, and with a slight bow gestured her on. "For such a beautiful lady it is a sincere pleasure."

The alleyway at the back was narrow, shadowed and rubbish strewn. It was much cooler and almost surreally quiet compared with the street, the brilliant sunlight not able penetrate all the way down between the closely huddled buildings. After a quick scan of her surroundings, her eyes adjusting rapidly to the comparative gloom, Lara pulled herself up onto a low wall. She moved with a lithely effortless, fluid cat-like grace.

From there it was a matter of moments to scramble, via a windowsill onto a flat-topped roof. . . And come face to face with yet another of her unknown stalkers.

For a moment it was a toss up who was the more surprised. She found herself staring, almost entranced, right into the vivid green eyes of an extremely handsome looking dark-haired man in his mid twenties. Then the spell broke.

Even as he was reaching for a shoulder holster and yelling at her to "freeze right there" Lara was vaulting over the roof's edge, back down into the alleyway from where she had just come.

She rolled instinctively as she landed in the dirt, springing instantly to her feet with breathtaking agility. Choosing a direction at random she sprinted off, her walking boots raising puffs of dust in her wake.

A right turn took her into a narrow gap between two buildings, shoulders scraping against rough-cut sandstone. A further right led to an alley that could have been the twin of the first. Lara could hear the sound of pounding footfalls alarmingly close behind her. Without pausing to think about it she vaulted over a six-foot high wall running parallel with her.

She found herself in someone's back yard. A wizened old woman with skin like cured leather, sunning herself and preparing for an afternoon nap, appeared on the verge of heart failure as Lara narrowly missed landing in her lap. There was no time for an apology though, and quickly she was hurdling a series of sagging chain-link fences, shrill Arabic insults trailing after her. Another wall loomed in front of her and a moment's effort had her clambering over it, dropping into yet another alleyway.

She was just a fraction breathless as she glanced both ways, but either direction seemed as good as the other. This time she chose left and was quickly off and running again.

It turned out rather quickly to be a bad choice. An enforced ninety degree turn to the right had her staring directly at a dead end less than a hundred feet in front of her – just an eighteen foot high whitewashed wall with piles of wooden crates stacked against it.

Lara half made to turn back the way she had just come from, but the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps and ragged breathing stayed that notion. Taking a deep breath and trying not to think about the chances of success she launched herself forward towards the wall, leaping at the crates and scrambling ever forwards and upwards, seemingly in defiance of the laws of gravity.

Crates tumbled and clattered, breaking apart behind her as she searched for footing, striving to maintain momentum. Every moment promised to see her tumbling backwards onto hard, unforgiving ground and her waiting pursuer. Then she was leaping forward again, leg muscles flexing with all the power she could muster, arms stretching for the top of the wall.

For a heart-stopping instant she thought she was going to come up short and smack face first into the wall. Her fingers grasped hold of crumbling plasterwork.

She held, dangling by her fingernails, arm muscles straining. Booted feet scrabbled at the wall for grip for a moment, before finding purchase, then helped to propel her upwards.

"Stop right there or I'll shoot!" The voice reached Lara just as she pulled herself up to straddle the wall. This time she was aware enough to notice the distinct American accent. She looked back down to see the handsome green-eyed man standing directly beneath her – in his hand a Colt .38 Combat Commander trained unerringly in her direction.

Glancing over to the other side of the wall she saw an ancient looking flatbed truck parked beneath her, and a short distance ahead a wide opening into bright sunlight and a major thoroughfare. Another look at the American showed a determined expression and the gun still unwaveringly pointed up at her.

"I mean it." He sounded just slightly nervous.

Lara flashed him a quick, impish smile. "Maybe some other time."

With that she pushed herself smoothly over the wall.

She rolled as she landed with a thud on the back of the truck, narrowly missing a nasty collision with a rusting engine block. Then she climbed back to her feet, dusting down her now more than slightly dishevelled clothing. No shot rang out from behind her as she got down from the truck. As she'd already suspected whoever these people were they wanted her alive – for the moment at least.

With an eighteen foot wall between them and no way of climbing it short of re-stacking those crates, there was a certain sense of nonchalance about Lara's stride – a confidence that she had managed to slip free of the pursuit.

That feeling lasted all of twenty seconds, when two figures stepped out to block the head of the alley directly in front of her.

Both of them were armed with .38s like their friend. Both of them were pointing the weapons directly at her. Out of instinctive reaction she started to go for her own guns, only to remember that she had lost them just over a week ago and hadn't been able to replace them yet.

She looked from one impassive face to the other – the blonde woman and the man in the Hawaiian shirt who had first tipped her off to their presence. Then she continued walking towards them as if their guns didn't exist.

"Well, what are you two waiting for? Don't we have places to go?"

* * *

"It is a pleasure to finally meet the distinguished Ms. Croft. You are even more beautiful in the flesh than pictures of you would suggest."

Lara had been ushered – the big man in the Hawaiian shirt gripping her tightly around her bicep – to a waiting S-Class Mercedes. It had diplomatic plates, a jet-black paint job, and no doubt enough in the way of body armour to shame a small tank. From there they had driven in silence all of the seven or so miles through the streets of Rabat to this hill top villa with its expansive gardens and its views of the Atlantic Ocean.

It wasn't that Lara hadn't tried to make conversation – no need to play the sullen, ungracious guest after all. It was just that all of her probes, her questions about where they were taking her, what they wanted, and all of her polite observations had fallen on completely deaf ears. No one had even told her to be quiet. It was like talking into a void. With a growing sense of unease about her situation, she had shut up.

Initially after that she had looked for ways of getting out. But there were no interior door handles and there was a thick layer of probably bulletproof glass between her and the driver. Even if she could get the gun off the meatball sitting next to her without getting shot in the process it wouldn't do her a whole lot of good. And then there was the line of small, almost unnoticeable holes above each of the doors – capable of flooding the passenger compartment with some form of gas, an inner voice told her.

In the end she had just sat back and attempted to enjoy the view as best she could.

Now she found herself sitting on a sun drenched pavilion, separated by a low white table from this grizzled but distinguished looking American man – the stereotypical image of a marine corps general with his short silver-grey hair and his weathered granite face. Flanking her on either side at almost military attention were two of the goons who had picked her up – blonde-woman and crew-cut.

"So much of a pleasure that you felt the need to send these goons to make sure I came along?" Lara raised an eyebrow.

"Hardly." The dry chuckle reminded her of a rattlesnake and the hint of a smile went nowhere near his ice grey eyes. "No, that was unfortunate. My agents were only supposed to keep tabs on you for the moment. I'm afraid that your somewhat precipitous actions rather forced their hand." The hint of a smile disappeared in a flash. "I will be having words with them over how to conduct proper surveillance, I assure you."

Lara sat back in her seat and crossed her legs. She was dressed in loose-fitting white drawstring trousers and a black cropped top which left a hand-span of tanned, tautly muscled midriff bare, a flash of gold glinting from her pierced navel. A sheer black silk shirt hung open and her long, glossy chestnut-brown hair spilled down her back in a single long braid. Everything was besmirched by dust stains from the earlier, short-lived chase.

"I'd put the blame on whoever sent them out there. If he'd been competent he'd have used native operatives who didn't stand out so much in the crowd."

She saw his eyelids flicker as the veiled insult struck home and felt a minor surge of petty satisfaction. He frowned and made a small gesture to the woman standing to Lara's left, who bent over and none too gently pulled the sunglasses Lara was wearing from her face. Lara shot her a hard glare, promising later retribution.

"I always like to see the eyes of the person I'm talking to," he explained. "It's really just a matter of good manners. You Brits like to think you're something special with all your vaunted etiquette, but when it comes to it you're just as uncouth as the rest of us."

Lara realised belatedly that the two goons flanking her had removed their sunglasses before this meeting. Must be some personal fetish thing. She could feel herself becoming increasingly annoyed by the whole situation.

"Just who exactly are you? And what do you want with me?" The edge of impatience in Lara's voice was clearly audible.

"You can call me Mr. Croag." He smiled as though at some private joke. "Myself and my associates work for a certain United States government agency made famous by Hollywood and bad thriller writers with half-baked conspiracy theories. We want to talk to you about a Ms. Jacqueline Natla."

Lara couldn't keep the surprise off her face. That was just about the last thing she had expected to hear.

"I see from your expression that you know – or should that be knew – the lady in question."

Lara's brain whirred. This was a part of her life she'd hoped had been put firmly behind her three years previously. It was definitely not something she had any desire to go into with these people. She wondered exactly how much they knew and what she could get away with telling them.

In the end she went for a highly edited version of the truth.

"It just caught me by surprise that you would want to know anything about that. It was three years ago now." Lara gave a small shrug. "Ms. Natla hired me to recover a certain artefact she was interested in from Peru – the ruins of the lost Inca city of Vilcabamba to be precise. The artefact in question was called the Scion if that has bearing on this. Anyway, I recovered the artefact, and that was that. There's not much more to say. I'd be delighted to discuss my experiences in Vilcabamba with you if you'd like, but I get the impression you don't want to talk about archaeology."

"Another time perhaps. I'm sure it's a fascinating story. I do have a personal interest in archaeology as a matter of fact." There was a predatory gleam forming in his cold eyes. "But I digress. Are you saying that is the full extent of your dealings with Jacqueline Natla? That you recovered this Scion and delivered it to her."

He knows I didn't. "Not entirely. For some reason I am not entirely sure of Ms. Natla decided to renege on our deal. She sent one of her pet thugs to relieve me of both the Scion and my life. He wasn't entirely successful on the second score." She flashed Croag a tight, humourless smile. "Maybe she just doesn't like paying for things."

"You expect me to believe you left it at that?"

"No. Of course not. I paid a visit to Natla Technologies headquarters in Dallas to have a chat with Ms. Natla. Unfortunately she wasn't home when I called. I took a look round her office – I'm sure she wouldn't have minded – but I couldn't find either the Scion or anything which told me where I could find Ms. Natla. I gave the whole thing up as a loss and headed back to Europe." Not a single outright lie in there.

Croag looked a touch nonplussed – probably because he hadn't expected her to come straight out with all of that so easily. "Are you aware that Jacqueline Natla – a well respected citizen of the United States of America incidentally – disappeared shortly after your contact with her and hasn't been seen in the three years since? Indeed, we believe she's almost certainly dead. From you've just told me you had more reason than most for wanting her that way."

Lara shrugged as though to say, what do I care. "You learn not to take these things personally. Yes I was aware of Jacqueline Natla's disappearance. I can't say I was too upset about it at the time." She decided to try a little misdirection. "If you listen to rumours she hired a privateer by the name of Pierre Du Pont after she'd finished with me. Pierre's rather notorious in the circles I move in – an unscrupulous thief and mercenary who's not above murdering anyone who gets in his way. If Natla tried to pull the same trick on him as she did with me. . . Well lets just say Pierre Du Pont isn't known for his warm and forgiving nature."

"We know all about Ms. Natla's association with Monsieur Du Pont, thank you. His reputation, incidentally, isn't altogether different from your own." He smiled broadly when Lara stiffened as though she'd been slapped, the look on her face turning abruptly ice cold. "In fact Du Pont disappeared at much the same time as Natla. Again, he hasn't been seen or heard from since."

"Well that would appear to wrap things up rather neatly."

"Would it? I myself am not so convinced. I don't suppose you're also aware that one of Ms. Natla's nastier pet goons – a lowlife thug by the name of Bradley Larson, III – was found at an ancient burial site in Northern Egypt, perforated by bullets from a 9mm weapon, again almost simultaneously with the disappearance of Ms. Natla herself. You own a pair of Beretta's, which use 9mm ammunition, don't you Lara?"

"So do a lot of people. Surely you're not suggesting that I had any involvement in this horrible sounding incident on evidence as scant as that?"

She saw Croag's mask of calm momentarily slip, revealing an instant of naked, white-hot rage. "Let's cut the crap shall we. I think you know a lot more about Jacqueline Natla's disappearance than you're saying. In fact I think you killed Ms. Natla, Pierre Du Pont, and Mr. Larson, whether in self-defence or otherwise. I don't, quite frankly give a damn about that. I'm not the slightest bit interested." He paused fractionally. "Although I'm sure that the Dallas police department could be made to feel very differently given the right prodding and some carefully manufactured evidence. If you get my meaning."

"Clear as crystal, Mr. Croag." She favoured him with a small, wintry smile. "Perhaps you could get on with it and tell me exactly what you are interested in – and why you think it concerns me."

"Whatever else Jacqueline Natla happened to be she was a certified genius."

Certifiable in any case, Lara thought with an inward grimace.

"The advances she made, in both the fields of computing and genetics, were absolutely incredible. What other scientists are even now only capable of dreaming of she was making reality four or five years ago. The US government and military were, to put it mildly, extremely interested in her work. If they could have put to practical application even a fraction of Natla's creations they would have ensured that the United States held onto complete technological, economical and military dominance well into the next millennium."

"I take it Ms. Natla wasn't too interested in sharing." Lara could see exactly the direction this conversation was going and she didn't like it one bit. There was a hollow, sinking feeling in her gut.

"What business leader would willingly share their competitive advantage with others?" Croag asked rhetorically. "You're right though. What we got from Natla technologies was gleaned entirely through industrial espionage and it was the merest tip of the iceberg. When Natla disappeared even that trickle dried up. Much to the distress of numerous prominent individuals at the pentagon."

"My heart bleeds for them." Lara's tone was dry. "I take it that Natla was too paranoid to share her knowledge with even her own scientists." Here's hoping.

"Alas so – as long days of painstakingly fruitless interrogation eventually led us to conclude. No one else at Natla Technologies rated as much more than a technician. And the laboratories and computer systems had all been cleaned out by the time we got to them."

Now that definitely was a surprise. Lara hadn't even considered going back and doing that, though now that she thought of it, she most definitely should have done.

"When Jacqueline Natla disappeared, so did all of her knowledge. It seems that she was, how shall I put it. . . a completely unique individual. A veritable Einstein in her field. Some might even go as far to say she was not quite of this world."

"What. Like the 5000-year-old Queen of Atlantis, risen from the dead? Or an alien visiting from outer space perhaps? Pardon me if I sound sceptical"

Croag gave a rasping chuckle, which again went nowhere near his eyes. "Or something like that."

So this bastard doesn't know quite as much as he would like to think. There hadn't even been a flicker when she'd mentioned the bit about the 'Queen of Atlantis'. "I still don't quite see where I fit into all this."

"Patience my dear. I'm just getting to that part."

Oh, Good. And next time you call me dear I'll break your nose.

"We did, interestingly enough, find Jacqueline Natla's journals. They make fascinating, though extremely bizarre reading. There was one thing in them that particularly caught our attention. Apparently Ms. Natla created a secret storehouse in which she held her most special creations."

Lara felt her heart thud in her chest. Of all the things she had feared. . . It was as though someone had reached straight into her skull and plucked out a nightmare. "W-What did you find there?" If those genetic freaks – or even worse, the means to produce more of them – fell into anybody's hands. . . she found herself shuddering at the very idea.

Croag regarded her levelly, a hint of amusement in his expression at her obvious discomfiture. "Therein lies our problem Lara. A problem which it seems only you can help us with." The smile he directed her way was terrifying – made her blood run cold. "Natla's journals didn't tell us where the storehouse was located – at least not in any form that we could use. Apparently the key to its whereabouts is the Scion."

Lara couldn't hide the surge of relief that flooded through her. Looks like you're out of luck there my friend. She knew for a fact that the Scion was now nothing more than a couple of melted and twisted fragments of scrap metal, entirely useless to anyone. After ascertaining they were now completely harmless she'd donated them to the British Museum.

"Oh we're pretty sure you don't have the Scion, Lara. While you were out playing Indiana Jones in the Atlas Mountains, getting involved in that little contretemps with those Berber mercenaries, we took the liberty of searching your home. Although we found numerous artefacts, the Scion – unfortunately – wasn't among them."

Lara could feel her blood boiling at the thought of these goons going through her private possessions. She had to fight very hard against the urge to leap straight across the table and attempt to strangle the self-satisfied Yank bastard.

Croag continued as if oblivious to her rage. "When it comes to it though we probably don't need the thing. Just somebody who's seen it. You see Lara, there was a passage of encrypted text in Natla's journals which we're certain contains the map co-ordinates of the storehouse. Initially we thought it would be an easy enough job to decrypt the information, given our expertise in such matters. But a year on, with an array of supercomputers working on the problem every single second of every day, we still haven't cracked it. Apparently – according to our boffins – Natla devised a previously unknown three-dimensional spatial encryption algorithm, which is comparable in complexity to straight 128 Megabyte encryption. Now I'm not sure what that really means – all that techie stuff just goes straight over my head." He made a vague, waving gesture. "But the bottom line is, with our current level of computing technology, we could be here for the next 20,000 years and still not have gotten anywhere.

"So we desperately need to find the decryption key. It's just fortunate that we know exactly what that key is – a three-dimensional digital representation of the Scion. Now none of us knows what the Scion looks like, which is potentially a bit of a problem." He spread his hands wide and gave her a salesman's grin. "Or it would have been if we didn't have you – the only person we know of currently still among the living to have laid eyes on the thing – ready and eager to help us."

"Why on earth should I tell you anything?" The words dripped with venom.

"Lara, Lara, Lara." Croag shook his head in mock sadness. "Did I mention that my agents encountered your butler. . ? Winston isn't it? When they broke into your house. A feisty old fella. Put up quite a fight for someone his age. He should make a full recovery from his injuries I'm told, though you never can tell with someone so old. . . there could easily be unexpected complications."

Lara didn't hear the rest of it as Croag went on about how his agents had decided to confiscate some of the artefacts they'd found in her home – how they'd look so much better in an American museum than her living room. The anger that filled her was all consuming, transcending into a deadly clarity in which time seemed to flow more slowly.

Without warning her elbow drove up and back, catching the woman standing at her left shoulder flush in the solar plexus, driving the air from her body with a whoosh. Before anybody could react Lara was up on her feet, pulling the doubled over woman back into her as a human shield. It took a fraction of a second to free the woman's gun from her shoulder holster, catching crew-cut with his hand only halfway to his own weapon.

For an instant Lara could have put a bullet straight through his temple – saw in the man's eyes the recognition of the inevitability of his own death. Then she shifted her aim a fraction and shot him in the meat of the shoulder. He gasped softly in shock and sat down heavily on his backside, a spurt of blood creating a garish pattern on the white stucco wall behind him.

"Drop the weapon or I blow the brains right out of your pretty little head."

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Croag standing, a .50 calibre IMI Desert Eagle pistol aimed at her head with the confidant stance of an accomplished marksman.

"That wouldn't be a good idea, would it? As you've just admitted you need what's held in them almost as much as I do." She pressed the gun's barrel against the side of the blonde woman's head.

"Thank you for reminding me of that Lara. We very nearly had a tragic accident for which I'd never forgive myself." She saw the barrel of Croag's Desert Eagle drop a fraction lower than before.

"It looks like we're at a bit of an impasse, doesn't it."

"Perhaps." Croag lowered the aim of his weapon even further. "Tell me Lara, which of your kneecaps can you most afford to loose? Left or right?"

"The moment you shoot me this lady. . . I'm sorry dear I don't know your name." The woman in her arms remained tight-lipped. "Gets to experience a rather crude form of lobotomy."

Croag shrugged. "I have lots of agents Lara. You only have two knees. Now I'll give you a three count."

At that moment another two of Croag's aforementioned agents barged through the pavilion doors, weapons raised and pointed at Lara and her hostage, effectively cutting off the main escape route.

"One."

Lara sighed softly. Things weren't going exactly how she had planned. Not that she'd had much time for planning.

"Two."

"Okay Croag. You win." Lara dropped the gun into the chair she'd been sitting in and shoved the blonde woman powerfully away from her, straight into the faces of the two gunmen in front of her. She made a start for the pavilion railing and the twelve-foot drop into the gardens beyond, hoping to take advantage of the momentary distraction.

Croag, however, had read her intentions. Before she could move more than a foot the butt of his pistol slammed hard into the back of her neck.

Lara dropped to her hands and knees, vision blurring and stars flashing before her eyes. As she tried to rise a brutal kick swept her legs out from under her, sending her sprawling face down on the tiles.

"Don't try to get up."

This definitely wasn't turning out to be her day. Now I suppose I get the living shit beaten out of me.

Before the anticipated beating could commence a woman appeared through the same doorway the two agents had just barged through. All eyes turned to focus on her.

She was small and dark haired – a delicate, pretty looking young thing who seemed somewhat out of place amongst the others. She directed a distressed look at the agent with the crew-cut. He was sitting, propped against the wall, blood oozing between the fingers of the hand clamped over his wounded shoulder. In one childlike hand she held an object that was somewhere between a pistol and a syringe. She looked up at Croag with big, soulful brown eyes. "Am I too early, sir?"

Croag smiled. He stood with one foot planted firmly in the small of Lara's back, keeping her pressed hard against the tile floor. "No, not all Connie. As always your timing is impeccable."

He reached out to take the device from Connie's proffered hand, leaning forward to press it against the nape of Lara's neck. Then – with a gentle, pneumatic hiss – he pulled the trigger.

"Ouch." Lara winced at the sudden burst of pain. "What the hell was that?"

"You've heard of Sodium Pentathol I presume?" She didn't need to see the victorious expression on Croag's face – she could hear it in his voice. "Well this is a highly advanced derivative of that substance – though much more useful. And, luckily for you, without many of the nastier side effects such as permanent brain damage. In a few minutes time you're going to become highly open to suggestion. In fact you'll want to do absolutely anything that I tell you to – anything to please me. What's more you'll be completely incapable of telling a lie.

"In this state you'll be the perfect subject for hypnotism. Then. . ." He tapped the side of her head none to gently with the hypodermic-pistol. "I'll be able to mine every last scrap of information inside that pretty little skull of yours, and you won't be able to do a single thing to resist."

* * *

Croag gazed at Lara's unconscious form – deeply submerged in the realm of hypnotised sleep. She sat, manacled by the wrists and ankles in what resembled an execution chair of the sort used for administering lethal injections. Her head lolled forward against her chest, her breathing shallow but steady.

He was, to say the least, surprised – no better, make that amazed – about what he had heard over the last three-hour interrogation session. His mind was buzzing over the myriad possible implications and opportunities that suddenly presented themselves. That crack about the 'Queen of Atlantis'. . . He shook his head and smiled ruefully to himself. Lara, Lara. To think that I actually almost underestimated you.

There was a disturbing gleam to his cold grey eyes as he continued to stare at Lara; a tiny flame of naked lust which had absolutely nothing to do with attraction to her undeniably beautiful physical form. Indeed, his mind had drifted miles distant from the antiseptic confines of the interrogation cell. Thoughts of an army of Natla's New Breed, fighting at the behest of the Organisation filled his head like a pleasant daydream. It was a shame that the Scion was now lost to them of course. . . but still, he had scarcely dared hoped for anything of this magnitude.

It just went to prove that you should never, ever, doubt anything the Great Queen said.

With a deep, shuddering in-drawn breath he reasserted his composure – his diamond hard rationality and self-control. It wouldn't do to get carried away on flights of fancy – or to count chickens before they hatched.

Always you must remain calm and in control. Always.

He turned to look at Connie Newsome. The young female scientist was seated at the room's single plain steel desk, finishing off her written notes. There was a small but noticeable tremor to her hand as she wrote, and her face looked pale and drawn. As he watched the tip of her tongue darted fleetingly out to moisten lips gone suddenly dry. The tightness of her shoulders screamed tension.

"Do you think the information we got was sufficient?"

Connie started violently at the unexpected sound of his voice – gazed up at him with wide, round eyes. "Erm. . . Even if all this doesn't prove to be exact," she made a nervous jabbing sweep with one hand to indicate her notepad, the tape-recorder and the sketchbook filled with drawings of the Scion made by a hypnotised Lara. "It should still prove sufficient to narrow the search-space down enough to allow the code to be cracked relatively quickly. If it doesn't. . . well we can always go for another of these sessions. Though we would have to wait 48 hours for it to be entirely safe." She cleared her throat, then trailed off abruptly.

"And by then we should know from our computer people one way or another." He gave an emphatic nod. "Thank you Connie. Your help today has been absolutely invaluable. It won't go unnoticed, or unmentioned, I can assure you."

He noticed a delicate flush of pink heighten her cheeks at the praise, and found himself wondering how such a naïve and sensitive seeming young girl could possibly have gotten involved in this line of business. There was a core of strength, determination and competence that belied those outward appearances of course. Still just a girl though. In a way it was such a pity. . .

He would hardly have suspected that she was in the employ of his nominal boss within the Agency, John Darrow, reporting back on everything that he said and did. That, Croag supposed, was the whole point.

"Sir?" The sound of her voice – almost as delicate as her looks – cut through his musings. "Those other things she said. There can't be any kind of truth in them can there?"

"What, you mean ancient rulers of Atlantis walking among us, freed from their prisons by nuclear testing? Hatcheries full of evil, genetically engineered mutant killing machines? Megalomaniac schemes to speed up human evolution through genocidal slaughter?" Croag fashioned a calming, slightly condescending smile on his face. "Tell me, what's your opinion, Connie?"

She gave a shaky laugh, followed by a rueful shake of her head. "Well. Put like that, obviously there can't be. She must be. . ."

"Mad. Psychotic. Paranoid delusional." He interrupted before Connie could finish. "Who knows what name the shrinks would have for it. If you look at her repressive upbringing, compounded by that plane crash and being stranded alone in the Himalayas at age 21. . . Is it really any wonder she turned out like she did? I mean the whole of the English aristocracy is probably several bricks short when it comes right down to it." He let out a brief, barking laugh at his own attempt at a joke.

After a moment Connie asked: "What's going to happen to her. After this is all sorted out I mean."

"We have clear-cut security camera footage of her breaking into and out of a top secret US Air Force base. The knowledge she carries in her head is a blatant threat to national security." Croag's tone was surprisingly gentle. "She will be dealt with like anyone else in the same situation – in the best interests of our country."

Connie gave a single short nod at the oblique death sentence he had just pronounced.

Yes, surprisingly hard and ruthless beneath that exterior. If only there was time to convert her. . . It really was such a shame.

She turned around to gather up her notes and the sketches. Croag reached stealthily for the Desert Eagle pistol held in the shoulder holster he wore beneath his jacket. He didn't think she could have heard anything, but nevertheless as he raised the barrel she turned around, her eyes becoming absolutely huge. "Wha. . ?"

The single gunshot sounded almost dull. Inconsequential in fact, deadened and absorbed by thick layers of soundproof material. A bright red flower bloomed in the centre of Connie's forehead and the back of her skull exploded, painting the wall behind her in a garish frieze of blood, brain tissue and bone fragments. She collapsed bonelessly, tumbling to the ground with a weirdly balletic grace. As death took her, her bowels loosed and urine spattered down her slender legs, forming a pool around her body to mingle with the blood.

Croag grimaced in disgust. How undignified death is, with its piss and shit and mangled flesh.

Moving carefully to avoid the expanding mess, he placed the gun down on the floor beside the chair where Lara was bound. Then he leant over her to unfasten her wrist manacles, before stepping back and regarding the scene he was trying to create critically.

With casual brutality he backhanded the unconscious Lara hard across the face, snapping her head back. The signet ring he wore left a bloody half-inch gash on her cheek and immediately raised a large purple bruise.

Apparently satisfied with his work, Croag pressed the intercom button. "Get help down hear fast! We have an emergency situation. Agent Newsome's been shot." His voice was invested with just the appropriate mix of urgency and carefully controlled panic.

Letting the intercom go dead without listening for the response he let his gaze drop down to Connie Newsome's shattered, lifeless body and smiled sadly. "I am truly, truly sorry my dear. Please believe me. If there had been any other way. . . But I couldn't allow you to report what you've just heard to dearest John."

* * *

The blow Croag struck to Lara's face had a side effect he didn't quite intend.

It penetrated through the deep velvet darkness of her hypnotised sleep and drew her back towards the realms of consciousness. She was able to hear what was going on around her, and sense the bright light through her eyelids, but wasn't immediately capable of summoning the will to throw off the lethargy that left her body feeling like a statue of lead.

She heard the agents arrive in a clattering rush of noise and agitation – four of them by the different voices they used. While Croag explained to them how she had grabbed his gun when he leant over to get a better look at one of the drawings she was sketching – had then used it to shoot Agent Newsome in the head before he could react – she listened attentively. A part of her was outraged by the false accusation – wanted to stand up and shout that he was lying, that it was Croag himself who had shot the woman. Deeper instincts held her back though. Kept her playing possum.

There was more talk, and for a short time Lara hazed out again as unconsciousness tried to reclaim her into its embrace. She only pulled back from that welcoming abyss when a shadow loomed over, blocking out the light. One voice was suddenly a lot closer and louder. It was Croag's.

"Take the murdering bitch to a holding cell. I need her alive and able to talk for the moment. But otherwise. . . You needn't be too gentle with her if you take my meaning."

Two pairs of hands grabbed hold of her from either side and pulled her roughly to her feet. Her legs immediately gave way beneath her, dead with pins and needles, her arms yanking painfully against her shoulder sockets before she was caught and held vertical. It was an effort to avoid yelping with the unexpected pain and giving herself away. Then she was being dragged forward, the toes of her boots scraping against the floor.

The light dimmed abruptly, and the quality of the sounds around her altered radically as she was carried through the interrogation chamber door, into a long, echoey corridor. Slowly – not to mention painfully – Lara could feel life returning to her legs. The realisation that she had to act quickly and decisively – that she would probably only get this one chance – filled her.

"Jeez, she's heavier than she looks." One of her carriers spoke right into her left earhole, almost making her start.

I strongly resent that implication.

"Must be all that ballast she's carrying up front," the one on her other side sniggered.

And you're treading on very dangerous ground, buddy.

"I mean look at them. Do you think they're real or fake?" The same man went on.

There was no reply from the left so after a moment he carried on. "So, you err. . . going to take advantage of the situation like the boss suggested? I mean damn, she's one hot looking babe."

"I think Croag meant beat the crap out of her. Not fucking rape her." The other man's voice was laced with contempt. "If you haven't forgotten, this lady's one major psycho. Newsome's dead and Drake's still being patched up from what she did. Do you really want to go near this one with your pants down?"

Lara tuned out of the conversation in disgust. She could hear the sound of footsteps pass by overhead, and in the distance faint conversation. Her heart was beating rapidly and the feeling had mostly returned to her legs. She knew that there couldn't be much further to go to their destination – that her window of opportunity was narrowing rapidly. Yet instinct told her to hold back a few seconds longer.

". . . Aguilera ain't gonna to take this good man. Him un' Connie. They was close. He's goin' to want to flay this bitch alive."

"The mood Croag's in he may just let him." A pause, then. "What was the boss thinking of? He's supposed to be the best of the fucking best. There's no way he should have made a mistake like that. Not with his experience. No way at all." There was definite doubt and worry in the man's voice.

You may have made a mistake Croag. One of your pet goons at least is capable of thinking. The thought didn't give Lara much satisfaction though. She allowed her eyes to drift open a fraction – couldn't hear anyone else near them now. This was probably the last best chance she would get.

She let a trailing foot snag on the ground, catching between two tiles so that her arms slid free of the men's shoulders, seemingly by accident. Before they even got an inkling something was wrong she was grabbing for their shoulder-holstered guns – just as Croag had claimed she had done to him – and was leaping powerfully back from them, ripping the weapons free.

The floor seemed to tilt and gyrate beneath her feet, her vision swimming. She came within inches of collapsing embarrassingly in a heap on the floor, and felt suddenly deeply nauseous. Damned drugs. With an effort she pasted a crooked devil-may-care grin on her face, the effect only slightly spoiled by the bead of sweat, which chose that instant to trickle down the side of her face.

"Okay boys, face down on the floor or I do a quick experiment to see how empty your heads really are. Now!" She rather hoped that they couldn't see the effort it took to keep the two guns from shaking.

But they responded instinctively to the authority and faked confidence of her tone. "Right, legs spread, hands behind your heads. If either of you suffers so much as a muscle spasm it'll be the last move you ever make." Lara stepped between them, guns trained unerringly, then bent quickly to retrieve two sets of wallets and car keys from the back pockets of their trousers. A Ford and a Chevrolet Corvette. She shook her head. Talk about the art of going native. . .

"Good. Stay exactly like that." It felt like the ground was gyrating slowly beneath her feet as she walked past them. When she got ten feet beyond where they lay she broke into a run, heading for stairs leading up from this basement level. A couple of shots, fired back and over the two men's heads stilled their scramble to regain their feet and quelled any thoughts of pursuit.

She wasn't worried about the gunshots giving away her position – she knew that the security cameras had already done that.

The run through the house took on a strange, drug distorted, surreal tilt. It seemed to her almost as if she was viewing things from the third person, outside her own body – that someone else, other than her own brain was making her limbs move. A door started to open in front of her and she let off another couple of shots, again deliberately missing, but scaring whoever it was into slamming the door shut and retreating. Then, without knowing how she got there, she was down on her knees, throwing up uncontrollably into a plant pot.

Her vision swirled and distorted as she regained her feet and half-staggered off again. A moment later she collided with the wall, letting out an inelegant ooph. Rounding a corner she only had the vaguest impression of the person she found herself face to face with – just the fact they were pointing two guns directly at her.

Heart leaping into her mouth, she managed to squeeze off four shots almost before she had time to blink; certainly before her brain belatedly registered the fact she had just murdered her own reflection. Shards of glass, wood and plaster flew everywhere.

Damn and double damn. She scared somebody into diving out of her way behind a sofa as she ran through another room, then there was yet another door. She flung it open like all the rest. Cool air hit her in the face, and temporarily her head cleared.

Outside it was night. She hadn't registered the fact before and a disoriented corner of her mind wondered where all the hours had gone. A bullet ripping into the doorjamb less than a foot away from her head put an end to any contemplation though. Without looking back she dove forward and rolled outside.

Directly in front off her, bathed in yellow illumination from rows of arc lamps, was a gravel crescent filled with parked cars. She made a zigzagging, random path across the lawn towards it, squeezing off shots behind her back without looking just to keep her pursuers nervous – unable to take the time to get a proper aim.

Ford or Corvette. Ford or Corvette. It repeated in her skull like a religious mantra.

The choice was Corvette. In her a current state she couldn't tell a Ford from her elbow amid the ranks of cars. The Corvette on the other hand stood out a mile, brand new, bright red and gleaming in the artificial light.

She felt the tug of a bullet passing by her right side and dove round the bonnet of one of those huge armour plated Mercedes' for cover. Two men, backlit and silhouetted by the lights of the villa were advancing across the lawn towards her on the double.

She opened up on them, pistols barking rapidly.

Acting instinctively as she had been taught, she aimed low. A gun's kick naturally makes you much more likely to miss high when laying down fire rapidly, so this way there was still a chance of hitting a target even with an erroneous shot; plus it tends to take any body armour a person might be wearing right out of the equation.

The man in front took bullets in the thigh and the hip, falling to the grass in a balletic spiral, screaming in pain. The one behind went down in a heap too, though Lara couldn't tell where, or even if, she had hit him. Her breath was coming raggedly now, and she could feel the muscles of her arms trembling. She had lost count of how many shots she'd fired – something that would never normally have happened – and knew that she must be just about out of ammo.

Shaking her head in an attempt to clear it, Lara stuffed one of the guns into the waistband of her trousers, then aimed the remote control to unlock the Corvette's doors. A deep breath, and she made a run for it, just ahead of a volley of gunfire from the villa. As she was getting in the driver-side window imploded, showering her in a mist of glass shards.

In return she squeezed a shot off at a figure standing in the villa's doorway, not hitting anything but forcing whoever it was to duck back. It bought just enough time to get the keys into the ignition and gun the engine.

Now this is going to be fun, she thought blearily. Her vision chose that moment to freak out again.

Then she was off. The Corvette's tires screeched, raising miniature fountains of gravel in their wake.

The back window disappeared in an explosion of glass fragments, the same bullet carrying on straight through the car to transform the windscreen in front of her into a crazy opaque spiderweb. Luckily a second bullet almost immediately blew it out entirely, cool wind streaming unimpeded into her face. Finally she was out of range, driving into the darkness – sick and dizzy.

Belatedly she remembered the lights – almost screamed as they illuminated the pair of white steel gates looming directly in front of her. In the split second available to make a decision she stamped down hard upon the accelerator rather than the brakes, bracing herself for impact.

The noise of the collision was horrendous. Lara was flung hard into the airbag that deployed explosively in front of her, then back into the seat with enough force to knock all the wind from her body. The steering wheel was torn violently from her weakened grasp. Time seemed to slow to a standstill, but miraculously the car made it through and was still going on the other side.

She clawed the deflating airbag out of her way, yanking hard left to avoid a stone wall and leaving half of her tires smeared across the tarmac. There were no other cars coming along that particular section of main road. Otherwise a collision would have been inevitable. The immediate danger averted, she leant over to the side and threw up again into the passenger seat.

The sight of headlights in her rear-view mirror spurred Lara to stamp on the accelerator again, despite the fact that the road wavered and undulated before her eyes like a hyperactive snake. She almost lost it going round a sweeping bend, the Corvette's wing raising sparks and a horrible banshee wail as it scraped for over 50 feet along a rough stone wall.

Her side was burning as sweat ran down it. The Corvette's upholstery was rapidly becoming sticky with slowly leaking blood. Apparently the bullet that had just 'missed' her had actually been one hell of a lot closer than she'd originally thought. In the brief moment of distraction that this realisation caused, Lara's foot slipped, and – unnoticed by her groggy mind – her speed began to drop inexorably. The trailing headlights grew gigantic in the rear-view mirror.

A violent jolt wracked her as the pursing car gave her an unfriendly nudge, snapping the onset of lethargy. In the period of time it took Lara to regain control she veered up onto the pavement and narrowly avoided a terminal collision with a parked van.

They were back in the city proper now, the roads narrowing and filling with traffic as they headed toward the harbour. It must have been something approaching divine intervention that enabled Lara – as bullets rang out behind her – to weave her way through the other cars. Certainly she wasn't more than half-aware of anything except a crazy morass of too bright lights cavorting before her eyes.

The Corvette's rear end clouted a parked car as she took another bend faster than her drugged reactions could safely cope with. Then she was straight through a busy junction before it even registered, gaining a couple of hundred metres as her pursuers were forced to brake desperately.

Despite the cold air blowing constantly in her face through the absent windscreen it seemed as though she was becoming more, not less, groggy. Other drivers were forced into evasive manoeuvres just to avoid her increasingly erratic progress.

The barrier she crashed straight through – further wrecking the Corvette's already badly scarred front end – didn't seem important until she realised that the road ran out directly in front of her and all that lay ahead was a vast, calm expanse of water.

Hitting the brakes as both she and the car went airborne off the end of the jetty, Lara and the Corvette sailed majestically into the sea.

* * *

"She drowned. Face it. She must have done." Wade Clauson – the blonde female agent who had earlier that day helped bring Lara Croft in – spoke to Croag's rigidly straight back. Her words failed to elicit any kind of a response from her superior. "With that amount of drugs in her bloodstream it's a wonder she could walk, let alone drive a car. She was probably unconscious before she hit the water."

Croag was standing at the end of the same jetty Lara had driven off several minutes earlier, staring fixedly at the patch of water where the red Chevrolet Corvette had sunk from view. "Perhaps. I will believe it when the divers bring up her body though. Not before"

Wade shivered at the wintry chill of tightly contained anger in his voice. She wouldn't want to be in the position of Nichols and McGhee – the two agents who Lara had managed to escape from. Not for any amount of money in the world. "You got what you wanted from her though, didn't you sir?"

"That remains to be seen. It may take several days for confirmation to come through." Then. "We shouldn't be in this position Agent Clauson. Not at all."

Behind their backs two Moroccan police cars – Volkswagen Passats – sat parked with their lights flashing. Makeshift barriers had been erected to keep away unwanted eyes. The local law enforcement wouldn't interfere though. Croag's influence was enough to see to that.

And you shouldn't have let her shoot Connie. Wisely Wade didn't vocalise the thought.

"Come on." Croag turned away from the water, pale eyes glittering. "If she's dead then it's saved us the price of a bullet. She's not though. People like her never have the grace to behave that conveniently." He brushed past Wade and strode off, back to where their Mercedes was parked.

Wade sighed. He's paranoid. There's no way anyone could have walked away from that in the condition she was in. She couldn't help but feel a touch of admiration for the British woman though. That was one hell of a tough lady. Even if she did happen to be a mad, murderous bitch.

Thrusting her hands low into the pockets of her jacket, she moved to follow her boss before she got left behind, dark thoughts flashing through her mind.

* * * * *

The sky was filled with vile, choking black smoke. It was so thick and all pervasive that it threatened to obscure the bloated, angry red sun, carrying with it the charnel house miasma of burnt flesh and other fouler pollutants.

Lara struggled to find enough breath as she walked rapidly through the ruined and deserted streets. Her lungs cried out for more oxygen. Shattered cars burned at the roadside – blackened and gutted husks -- whilst there wasn't a single intact window within the range of her view. Houses stared like malevolent blind men from vacant eye-sockets as she walked apprehensively past.

The broken pavement was smeared and streaked with red-brown stains, looking as though it had been painted by a maniac street artist in a frenzy of insane rage. And she didn't even like to glance into the dark, shadow filled corners – where rubbish and wreckage were piled in great heaps – for fear of what she would see the hordes of rats gnawing upon.

Every now and again she would throw panicked, wide-eyed looks over her shoulders as stealthy, furtive sounds reached her ears through the endless crackle of the flames. But there was never anything to be seen. Except for once – a fleeting glimpse of a shadow whose source stayed firmly out of sight.

From somewhere all too close ahead there was a howl, blood-chilling and feral. It held a harsh metallic rasping quality that didn't come from the throat of any natural beast.

Lara stopped in her tracks, a shiver passing involuntarily along the length of her spine. Hot, pestilent wind stirred stands of chestnut hair across her face.

A horde of answering cries rose up, responding to that initial challenge in a demonic cacophony that filled the air with rage and madness. The hosts of hell singing for their supper.

They were very, very near.

Quickly Lara changed direction, heading back the way she had just come from in a half run. She broke into a coughing fit as she tried to breathe in air that felt like treacle and couldn't provide enough untainted oxygen for her lungs. Suddenly an all too human scream, shrill and piercing with terrified agony, rang out. The intensity of the cries and howls increased ten-fold, filled with terrible, hungry lust.

The scream went on and on, seemingly without end or limitation. The sound of sheer, appalling suffering brought Lara to the verge of tears, but she knew that she could do nothing. If she went back and tried to help it would soon be her own screams ringing out across this devastated, benighted city. Then, with abrupt finality, the screaming stopped.

Lara caught a fleeting glimpse of something moving in the corner of her vision – a gory, sinuous flash of red.

Her heart pounded, adrenaline surging. She stopped, pulling the long knife from her belt and preparing to make a final stand. It seemed weeks – months even – since she had run out of ammunition for her guns, ceasing to be able to fight them properly. All things considered it was amazing she had lived this long.

Terror filled her in a way it never had before. She desperately didn't want to die like this; alone and helpless in a hell of endless death, destruction and suffering – inglorious and futile in her final moments. She managed to steel herself though. There wasn't any other choice.

The creature leapt out of the shadows, cat-like, to land lightly in front of her, right in the middle of the street. Indeed, there was something of the cat about its appearance – though it was a cat drawn straight from the blackest pits of nightmare and mated with a human to abominable effect. Flayed flesh and gristle glistened slickly as it rose up from its haunches to a height of more than eight feet.

A long hiss escaped from jaws that could tear through flesh and bone like paper. Razor-like claws tapped out a skittering tune on the broken tarmac as its dark, soulless eyes bored into her – frighteningly intelligent and empty of compassion.

Naked sinews and muscles flexing, it pounced.

Lara was ready. Just.

She rolled forward, under the thing's leap completely, then back up to her feet as it flew past. All four of its limbs scrabbled frantically for grip as it struggled to get itself turned around. In the metre or two of space she had gained she legged it towards a ruined house. Her knife would be about as much use as a knitting needle in a fight against that thing, and ultimately – in the wide open space of the street – she couldn't hope to out pace it for long.

There was another of the creatures – Natla's horrific New Breed – waiting for her in what had once been the house's living room. It was seated upon a pile of broken debris and bloody scraps, gnawing on the remnants of a severed arm – spat hatred at her as she tore straight past it.

As she emerged, running full pelt, into the blasted garden at the house's rear, the howling started up again, horribly near, calling for others to join the hunt. Knowing it was hopeless, dread devouring her from the inside out, she kept on going anyway. She imagined she could feel hot breath upon her neck.

Something swooped at her out of the smoke wreathed air, taking her completely by surprise. It flew on gory crimson bat wings, and Lara ducked from it instinctively. Still, its hooked claws raked across her back, shredding through her clothing as if it wasn't there and raising lines of agonising fire in her flesh. It knocked her down onto hard packed earth and she rolled desperately, the pain from her torn back enough to make her cry out.

A glowing ball of roiling crimson plasma exploded into the patch of dirt she had just vacated, and a scorching shockwave of heat washed over her. The winged-horror flapped lightly to the earth in front of her. In an act of sheer desperation Lara threw the knife hard into its nightmare of a face as it raised itself for the kill.

The blade took it in the eye, six inches of cold, sharp steel burying itself deep inside the thing's skull. It shrieked, wings flapping spasmodically, staggered wildly, then collapsed like a drunk.

Covering her face with her arms Lara curled into a ball, knowing exactly what to expect. The monstrous creation's insane, hyper-charged metabolism spiralled out of control and went into unstoppable chain-reaction. A second later it exploded violently in a shower of flame and gore and reeking, greasy black smoke.

Battered and bleeding, body trembling from pain and shock, Lara pulled herself to her feet. . . came face to face with the two flayed cat-things she had just fled from.

Though now of course she was completely unarmed.

The creatures circled her as she backed off slowly, hissing and growling through their trap-like teeth, clawing at the earth.

Just as she was about to make a final, futile dash she heard a sound from right behind her, almost in her ear – a ghastly, rasping, humourless chuckle that turned her soul to ash. Somewhere inside her head she heard the final nail hammer home.

A monstrous, spider-like presence – swollen and bloated from feasting upon the endless violence and death – stared down at her from above, dripping malevolence and dark, unholy glee as it spectated upon her demise. A seductively feminine voice whispered from nowhere and everywhere at once. "I always win in the end Lara. I always win in the end."

Then the creatures pounced, teeth and claws flashing.

Lara woke with a start, gasping, clawing at the bed beneath her.

* * *

Croag sat cross-legged in the centre of the small room's polished wooden floor. His posture was slightly reminiscent of the Lotus position, arms spread and palms raised.

He was stripped to the waist, wearing only a pair of loose black silk trousers belted by a cord of gold. His impressively developed musculature gleamed in the room's only source of illumination – a pair of tall white candles placed exactly two metres apart in front of him. Despite his advancing age he still looked as hard as carved stone. Sketched across his stomach and right side was an extensive network of pale scar tissue – long healed but never fading.

Around him there was an immaculate circle of white, crystalline powder exactly one meter in diameter and piled up to a uniform height of one inch. It was sea salt, one hundred percent pure. Slightly outside this there was a second circle, just as flawless as the first, though this one was of fine grey ash.

Inside the two circles, placed on the floor directly in front of him, were a matching pair of black-enamelled bowls. One was filled to the brim with crystal clear spring water, the other draped by a square of black silk which concealed its contents from view. Between the two, its polished ivory hilt pointing away from him, was a dagger – an athane. The mirror steel blade was exactly nine inches long, glittering with the sharpness of a surgeon's scalpel.

There was nothing else in the room; no decoration, no window, and not a single hint of dirt or dust. This was sanctified territory, and nothing unnecessary, no matter how tiny or seemingly insignificant, must be allowed to impugn it.

Croag cleared his thoughts. Each concern, worry, desire, or petty emotion that threatened to distract him and render him impure – unworthy for this communion – was picked up one at a time by the corner. He then proceeded to set them alight with the cold flames of his will, watching emotionlessly as each in turn was consumed. Eventually all that remained within him was void; dark and unbroken. He was ready to become the receptacle.

Movements slow and measured, Croag lifted the silk from atop the bowl, placing it carefully to one side. Within was a lump of raw and bloody meat – Connie Newsome's now unneeded heart.

In his earlier wrath at Lara Croft's escape he had been sorely tempted to add those of Agent's Nichols and McGhee to the offering pile. He'd relented only because – for the moment at least – he still needed his underlings' loyalty. Such an action would have surely tested that beyond breaking point.

With his other hand he reverentially lifted up the dagger, drawing it slowly and carefully along the meat of his forearm. There were a multitude of other scars there, indicating that this was by no means the first time this ritual had been performed.

Blood flowed, dark and glimmering in the gently flickering candle light. As it began to drip from his fingertips in fat droplets, into the bowl and over Connie's heart, Croag placed the dagger aside on the square of black silk. He started to murmur softly.

It wasn't anything like any other language known to man; maybe not even a language. Just a rhythmic cadence of formless nonsense syllables and sounds, mixing together into an ever intensifying chanting that seemed to come from many different tongues at once. Its meaning was forever just beyond the listener's grasp.

After several minutes Croag's chanting reached a fever pitch. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, it fell silent.

"Eisheth Zenunim. My Queen!"

Spontaneously the offering of heart and blood burst into foot high flames. The bowl of water began to steam.

* * *

Lara winced at the brilliant sunlight streaming in through the window. She threw up an arm to shield her eyes from the glare and looked away. Her heart rate was still a little fast from that extraordinarily vivid nightmare and her head hurt with a hangover straight from the pits of hell. She was lying in a strange bed with absolutely no idea how she had gotten there.

Bone tired, surrounded on all sides by inky water blacker than any tomb, with no sense of up or down, left or right, the temptation to Lara's drug addled and oxygen starved brain was to just lie back and let herself float away – to open up her lungs and drink in of endless calm and peace. But the fierce survival instincts which had kept an untrained, privileged and spoilt rich girl alive through a plane crash, and the subsequent, endless seeming solitary hike through the Himalayas – which had never, ever let her give in for a moment since, no matter how poor the odds may have seemed – kicked in and refused to let that happen. She spotted a glimmer of light from one direction. Despite the inner howls of protest, she kicked for it. And kicked, and kicked, even when her lungs screamed for air and it seemed as if her heart must explode in her chest, her vision turning the blackness red. Just as it seemed that it would all be in vain anyway – that she would have to breathe in the endless ocean and drown – she broke through the surface and sucked in great, gasping lungfuls of cool air. Then, bone weary and scarcely able to think, she pressed for shore with a steady metronomical stroke. Eventually she dragged herself, crawling on hands and knees, from the water and collapsed, not caring where she was as she fell into oblivion.

Someone, it seemed, had found her – and from the look of her current surroundings it hadn't been either the Moroccan police or Croag and his mob.

The realisation that beneath the bedcovers she was naked then hit home. She felt a pang of uncomfortable vulnerability, realising that whatever situation she now found herself in she was far from in control of it. Well, naked apart from a bandage, she allowed as she felt a sudden sharpness from her side, reminding her pointedly of the bullet that had grazed her.

She had been bathed by someone while she was unconscious too, as well as being undressed and patched up. Both her skin and hair were noticeably clean.

Lara's gaze – just about adjusted to the brightness, although it still made her head throb – travelled down to the foot of bed where she saw that a set of clothes had been laid out for her. Her own clothes in fact, along with all of her travel bags from the hotel she'd been staying at. She found herself wondering whose hands she had fallen into this time.

"Ah, you're finally awake then. I was beginning to think that I was going to have to resort to the traditional method of waking up sleeping beauty."

Lara started at the unexpected voice, deep and rich and mellow, with an educated English accent – and very definitely male. She lay back on the bed, reflexively pulling the sheets up beneath her armpits to cover herself as completely as possible as she looked round at the voice's source.

She hadn't seen him straight away because he was seated in the corner of the room, shielded from her still sensitive eyes behind the glare from the window. From what she could see he was a tall, lithe and athletic looking individual. He was dressed in a lightweight and expensive cotton suit, with gleaming ebony dark skin and a smoothly shaven scalp. Half-moon spectacles perched upon the end of his nose, sparkling where they caught the sunlight, and there was an inch long scar running straight down his left cheek – the only blemish on an otherwise extremely handsome face. He appeared around the same age as herself, and in other circumstances perhaps, Lara might have found him very attractive.

Lara could feel her cheeks flushing at the thought of this man undressing her, not only seeing her completely naked but washing her and cleaning and dressing her wounds too. . . Not that I'm normally a prude or anything. She felt a flash of anger for being made to feel this uncomfortable. "Do you normally spy on women while they're sleeping? Or did you make a special exception just for me?"

"Erm." He seemed a trifle embarrassed. "We were concerned about your condition. Someone had to stay and make sure you didn't suffer any adverse effects. There was a real danger of secondary drowning you know."

"Of course."

"It wasn't me who bathed and undressed you, if that's any comfort to you. My er. . ." He seemed to be struggling to find the correct word. "Housekeeper, Garda, took care of all that."

Lara realised that she was probably coming across as some kind of stuck-up ungrateful bitch when these people – whoever they actually were – may well have saved her life. "My apologies, and thank you. It's just that I didn't have a particular good day yesterday. And I feel like I'm suffering from one hell of a hangover." She paused a moment in sudden concern. "It was yesterday, wasn't it?"

"It was ten past ten yesterday evening when you drove off the end of that jetty, Lara." He confirmed. "It's just on six o'clock in the evening now."

So, I've been out for slightly under twenty hours. Not good, but not as bad as I'd feared either. Then. Lara? How is it that everyone I meet recently seems to know not only my name but my life history for the past five years. It would almost be flattering if it wasn't so damned annoying.

"I notice that you've got all my clothes and belongings from the Safir."

"Garda again." He flashed her a brilliant, charming smile. "I'm afraid that I can't take any credit for that either."

"This Garda sounds like a very talented and versatile lady."

"Oh she is. Sometimes I wonder what I'd do without her." Another of those smiles. Lara tried to remain resolutely uncharmed. "I'm sorry. I completely forget my manners. I know your name, but I haven't introduced myself. Emil Ngonge at your service." He offered her a hint of a bow.

"Charmed, I'm sure." Lara tried to ensure that the words were freighted with just the right amount of irony – so he knew exactly how she really felt. "Might I ask how you came to find me? And perhaps more pertinently, what it is you want with me? Assuming you are not just playing the Good Samaritan that is."

"Direct and to the point. I like that in a woman."

Oh, spare me please.

"I have been watching the man who is currently calling himself Jack Croag for some time now," he said at length. "Him and me have what you might call a shared past. They are a number of things that we need to. . . work through together. Croag is an extremely dangerous and unpleasant person. Although you probably got to experience that first hand, didn't you?"

"He certainly won't be on my Christmas card list." Oh Good. To top everything off I now appear to be caught in the middle of some kind of blood feud. Things just get better and better.

"What I want to know, Lara, is what Croag wanted with you. I happen to know that you're an adventurer, explorer and archaeologist, who has also published several rather interesting pieces of travel writing. So you probably have a whole raft of fascinating stories and anecdotes to tell. I doubt though, that Croag went to all the trouble he did in order to share a cup of tea and a friendly chat."

Lara considered Emil's words. He didn't come across as particularly threatening, and indeed seemed almost friendly – for the moment at least. However, she had no desire to get involved in someone else's personal grudge – which is what this was sounding like. She strongly suspected there was too much at stake to let herself get sidetracked into something like that. And she definitely didn't trust him yet.

"Mr. Ngonge. . ."

"Call me Emil, please."

"Alright then, Emil. I am very grateful for the help and care you have shown me. I really am. But I don't want to get involved in anybody else's quest for personal vengeance, or whatever – no matter how worthy that might in fact be. I would therefore appreciate it a great deal if you'd allow me some privacy so I can get dressed. I've got a phone call I need to make. Then there are then a couple of things that I need to take care of urgently." Though God only knows how I'm going to manage to achieve them.

Emil stood up abruptly, taking a couple of paces forward to stand directly in the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. The expression on his face had altered subtly but perceptibly, becoming harder and more set – the engaging friendliness fading. He opened his mouth a couple times as though to start saying something, then apparently thought better of it. Eventually he appeared to calm a little. "Do you have any idea what you are dealing with here, Ms. Croft?" His voice was still several notches louder than before though.

Lara regarded him levelly, head propped up on one hand. Her whole posture seemed to be trying to inform him that if he thought he could intimidate her by simply talking down at her from a greater height while she was in bed with no clothes on, then he was sadly mistaken. "The implication I was given was that I was dealing with the CIA."

He sighed in exasperation. "You're not going to walk away from this are you? I can tell by the expression on your face." He shook his head slowly. "Lara, we can help each other. I can help you. If you go up against Croag again by yourself you'll get eaten alive. It makes much more sense if the two of us work together and pool our knowledge and resources rather than you trying to go up against him on your own. You'll just get yourself killed."

"I've found over the years that I work much better alone Mr Ngonge. And I'm very good at taking care of myself. It's nothing personal." I just prefer it when I'm not being betrayed, double-crossed or tossed aside as soon as you look like getting what you really want. And, come to that, she wasn't any happier with the idea of whoever Emil was working for getting their hands on Natla's technology than she was about Croag and his friends.

"Goddammit!" For a moment Lara half expected him to stamp his foot and start jumping about like a kid throwing a tantrum because he wasn't immediately being allowed to have his own way.

"Now, are you going to let me have some privacy, or do I have to get dressed while you stand there watching." She felt a growing sense of urgency as each second passed with her lying around doing nothing, fearing that every moment was taking Croag a fraction closer to getting his hands on Natla's storehouse. It was probably slightly irrational – a few minutes now would likely make no ultimate difference in the end. But she had never been particularly good at sitting around idly when there was action that needed be taken.

At that moment the bedroom door opened, temporarily at least, putting an end to any further argument.

The woman who stood there, looking from Emil to Lara and back again with dark, fiery, flashing eyes was probably somewhere in her early forties. She was small – no more than an inch over five foot tall – and slim in build, though with a hard, wiry strength radiating from her that was obvious even from where Lara was lying in bed. She could best be described as handsome rather than attractive. Her short, dark hair showed several skeins of grey and there were deep frown lines in her lustrous olive-bronze skin on either side of a small, tightly compressed mouth.

Lara presumed that this was Garda. If so then she looked rather more like a militia fighter than the housekeeper that Emil had described her as. Something about her put her in a mind of a teacher she had once known when she was fourteen: a Miss Ventner. She had similarly been a small, hard looking woman, and had managed to leave all of the girls in terrified awe of her.

A long look passed between Garda and Emil. Eventually Emil looked away from the woman, seemingly chastened. Garda then returned her fiercely scathing gaze to where Lara lay, muttering something beneath her breath in Arabic.

Lara caught the words; arrogant, butter-skinned little. . . donkey? No that didn't seem quite right. Ass – yes, that was a much more appropriate translation. She couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing.

"Ah, so you understand Arabic then. Most of you English can only manage to speak the one language." Her lips twitched in a manner that just might have been a smile. There was no apology though. Lara didn't expect one either. She got the impression that this was somebody who spoke her mind, and if you were offended by it – well, tough.

Instinctively and immediately she found herself taking a liking to this tough, abrasive woman.

Then the hint of a smile on Garda's face disappeared. "What is happening? I leave you two alone for half an hour and when I come back you are squabbling like children." Garda shook her head in disgust. "What is this? Playground?" She rounded on Emil, jabbing him in the centre of his chest with her finger. "Now you sit down here and stop trying to intimidate the lady into doing what you want by standing over her and shouting."

"And you." She turned back to Lara. "Lara Croft isn't it? You just stay there and don't even think about leaving. You're in no fit state to be going anywhere, especially not with Croag after you. Honestly, you are as bad as a man with this macho bullshit. Hmm? You just lie there and listen to what Emil has to say. Maybe try to show a little in the way of co-operation. Are we agreed?"

Lara gave a weary nod. All of a sudden the impetus of her urgency was gone. What she now found she actually wanted to do most of all was not get up and go after Croag, but instead lie back and go to sleep. She certainly didn't want an argument with this woman. She had a strong sense that this would be about as effective as trying to argue with the sea. Her gaze strayed briefly across to Emil, who she saw was smiling at her.

"Lara, may I introduce you to Garda Kachoulla." The next was directed at Garda. "Were you listening at the door by any chance?"

"Pfah! I don't have to listen at doors. You two talk loudly enough that I have to stick fingers in my ears not to overhear."

"So, this is your 'housekeeper' then?" Lara raised an enquiring eyebrow in Emil's direction.

If possible he appeared to be blushing. Garda, however, didn't seem to take any offence. "Yes, this is correct. I keep his house for him. He is a man and therefore not capable of doing such things for himself." She moved to stand in the same corner of the room where all of Lara's belongings were piled. "Now I stay here and make sure you two don't start behaving like children again. Yes?"

Two murmurs of agreement.

"Good. Tell her about Croag, Emil. Convince Lara that it is in her best interests to assist us. Now Lara, you could do with a glass of water, yes?"

Lara wasn't a hundred percent certain whether this was a question or a statement, but she gave a nod anyway. "Yes, please." In truth she did need a drink. Her throat felt parched.

"She keeps me sane. And pointed in the right direction. More or less." Emil gave a heavy sigh and there was, Lara thought, a look of deep melancholy in the man's eyes. "So Jack Croag told you he was CIA then did he?"

"Well no. Now that I come to think of it. Neither him nor any of his goon-squad came directly out and said it in so many words. Though he did imply fairly strongly that was what he was." She frowned. "Why, is he not then?"

Lara accepted the glass from Garda as she returned, propping herself up into a seated position with the sheets wrapped firmly around her. She took a slow sip.

"He may indeed still be a CIA operative." Emil grimaced. "A section commander no less. But his loyalties no longer lie with the either US government or his CIA superiors. They haven't done for a long time now."

"So who does he work for then?" She got the distinct impression from his body language that talking about Croag in any shape or form was an effort for Emil – that he was struggling to avoid grinding his teeth every time he spoke the name.

"That is a difficult one to answer. Erm. . ." He shoved his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

"He's scared that you won't believe him." Garda interjected. "That you'll think he's some kind of paranoid conspiracy theorist nutball."

"Thank you Garda." Emil's tone was more than a little acid.

"Look, I've encountered more than a few strange things in my time. I doubt that what you have to tell me will even cause a raised eyebrow."

"Ah, yes." A fleeting, humorous light appeared in Emil's eyes as he spoke. "You're the person who discovered Bigfoot, aren't you? Shot the poor bugger too if I remember correctly. Got yourself on the cover of Time Magazine for that I believe."

Why was this the one thing that people always remembered about her? "Could we possibly get back to the subject in hand please? And anyway, I never had any intention of shooting it. Things just turned out that way. . ." She realised that she should probably just shut up.

"Right. Yes." For a moment Emil appeared to have completely lost track of where he had got to. "There are a group of individuals – a secret society you might say – who sometimes refer to themselves as the Organisation. They've had other names down the several centuries of their existence, but names aren't really what they're all about. I don't know what this group's motives or goals really are – or even if they have any. I suspect that no one who's not a member off their ruling inner circle does. What I do know though, is that they thrive on inflicting chaos – on undermining the very tenets upon which civilised society is founded. They are extremely ruthless, won't hesitate to kill indiscriminately where they deem necessary, and apparently have a very strong interest in anything and everything relating to the occult. How many members they have I'm not sure. Not that many I suspect. But those I've encountered have all moved in fairly exalted circles."

Still sounds to me very much like the CIA.

Lara couldn't in her heart pass it off as a joke though. She had seen too much in her time to even be particularly sceptical about Emil's words. Compared to what I know about Jacqueline Natla, in fact, a centuries old secret society working to foment chaos is as clear and sane as day.

It didn't, ultimately, make much difference to a single important fact: this storehouse couldn't be allowed to fall into Jack Croag's hands.

"I take it that Croag is a member of this Organisation then?" The question was rhetorical. She already knew the answer.

"A very senior member indeed. If not one of the inner circle, then at most just a single step below them."

Lara took a moment to digest this. "Okay then. That's Croag's loyalty accounted for. What about you two? Who do you work for and why are you after Croag?"

"We're both self-employed." Said a little too quickly. "Although I used to work for the British diplomatic service before an unfortunate chain of events conspired to leave me out of a job. And need you ask why we're after Croag after what I've just said? You have met the bastard after all."

The British diplomatic service. No doubt from the way Emil said it that he really meant British Intelligence. MI6 in all probability. "So your motives are one hundred percent altruistic then?" A note of scepticism had crept into Lara's voice.

It was a moment before he spoke again. "Seven years ago somebody who I loved a great deal died because of Jack Croag. For a long time afterwards the only thing that kept me going was the dream of holding that bastard's heart in my hands as it beat its last. Then, later, I found out what he really was involved in. It ceased to become about anything so petty as revenge right then."

"I'm sorry." Lara meant it, though she wasn't sure she believed him when he said it was no longer about revenge. "What about you Garda? If you don't mind me asking. . ."

"I owe Emil a great deal," she said simply. "I owe Croag too. But for completely different reasons."

Lara sensed from the way Garda said it that she wouldn't be getting any more than that.

"So Lara. Are you going to tell us what Croag wanted with you?"

Lara sighed, closed her eyes, then gave a brief, resigned nod.

As quickly as she could, and for the second time in two days, she summarised what had happened three years ago when Jacqueline Natla had hired her to recover a part of the Atlantean Scion. She edited out the bit about Natla being over five-thousand years old and one of the three former rulers of Atlantis. She also avoided mentioning about the great pyramid of Atlantis and skated around the exact nature of Natla's mutants. Otherwise it was just about the whole truth.

Then she told them about how Croag's people had found out about the secret storehouse – needed information from her in order to unlock the key to its location. She could feel her blood boiling with pent-up rage as she coldly described how Croag had injected her with drugs, then had her hypnotised. Just thinking about it – that horrible, trapped Lara-in-a-box feeling as a tiny corner of her mind watched on helplessly whilst some stranger hijacked her body and confessed all of her innermost thoughts and secrets to Croag's honeyed probings – made her feel dirty and violated.

She found herself wanting – really genuinely wanting – to inflict violence and pain and suffering on Jack Croag, so that he regretted the day he ever laid eyes on her. Somehow this made her hate the bastard even more: for reducing her morals down to his inhuman level.

Lara stuttered to a halt, unable to say anything more. She swallowed thickly, feeling suddenly almost on the verge of crying, clenching her hands into fists and digging blunt nails into the flesh of her palms in order to hold back the tears.

Emil and Garda exchanged a long look. Trying to decide exactly what kind of madwoman they're dealing with probably. It seemed for a moment as though Emil was going to make some kind of expression of sympathy about what had happened to her, but he caught the look in her eyes in time and his jaw snapped shut with a click. It was a good thing too. Right at that moment she would have bitten his head off.

"So this Natla woman used a three-dimensional representation of this Scion to act as some kind of encryption key then? I've never heard of anything like that before. It sounds ingenious."

Cold hard fact she could handle. Though she slightly got the impression that Emil was just saying anything that sprang into his head just to avoid a period of very uncomfortable silence.

"Well I'm no computer scientist I'll confess, but it doesn't seem anything particularly special to me. As far as I'm aware a three-dimensional image would be stored as a series bits, just like any other information on a computer. That's not, surely, anything fundamentally different to any 'normal' encryption key."

"No, I guess that's right." Emil fell silent, studying Lara with an intensity that started to make her feel uncomfortable. "Lara, have you told us everything?"

"No. I damn well have not told you everything!" Lara took a deep breath. Attempted to calm herself. "Just like neither of you two has told me all that you know either. I've told you what's important though, and that's going to have to be enough." She looked between Emil and Garda, her eyes challenging. "I think I've shown you more than enough trust in even saying what I just have. Whatever is in that storehouse can't afford to fall into anybody's hand – anybody's at all. Especially not Croag's, but no one else's either. Not the British government's. Not the American government's. Not even the late Mother Theresa of Calcutta's come to that. The only way I can work with you is if we agree absolutely on that."

Emil and Garda shared another of those long significant looks, and Lara found herself wondering if the two of them possessed some hitherto unknown form of telepathy. Eventually Garda gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.

"Then I guess that's settled," Emil told her.

Somehow it didn't make her feel a whole lot better. "Now would you let me get up please? I honestly do have a phone call I need to make."

* * *

"I promise I will be back soon, and safely too Winston. I've never let you down in the past, have I?"

Lara was actually smiling as she hung up, the foul mood and nascent self-pity of earlier on forgotten for the present. She felt a genuine affection for her ancient butler, having known him for as long as her memories went back – right to when she was a three-year old toddler, into every kind of trouble and mess she could find. He was perhaps the closest thing to family she had left – more so at any rate than the father she hadn't spoken to on more than six separate occasions during the past ten years. Certainly he had long ago ceased to be merely an employee.

The relief she'd experienced upon hearing his slightly quavering voice had been immense. He'd assured her that he was no more than slightly bruised – 'which is more than I can say for those American brutes.' Hearing that had raised genuine laughter and made Lara's current troubles seem much less forbidding.

When Lara had eventually got round to asking what Croag's men had taken she'd felt extremely guilty. Like some vacuous little rich bitch only concerned about personal property when real people's lives were at stake – even though she knew it was genuinely important that she find out.

The answers she'd gotten had reassured her to a degree. As Croag had indicated the Ark of the Covenant had been taken. Thankfully that was in reality nothing like the artefact depicted by Spielberg in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Just a very ornate and very holy box containing some crumbled fragments of extremely ancient stone tablets, and not – as far as she'd been able to ascertain – a receptacle from which the Wrath of God could be unleashed. The golden Kabuki idol was also gone, along with some priceless emerald jewellery recovered from the tomb of one of Ramases II's high priests, a set of Haitian Loa masks, plus a couple of irreplaceable original paintings by Turner and Cotman.

Winston had sounded absolutely livid about that, though Lara had only felt only a dull sense of relief. They hadn't found their way into the secret treasure chamber. The Dagger of Xian and the four meteorite artefacts she'd recovered from around the globe last year – the really dangerous stuff – were safe. Later on, she was sure, she'd be absolutely furious. For the moment there was one less nightmare scenario for her to concern herself with.

Before their conversation had ended she'd instructed Winston to take some time off – to pay a visit to some of his adored grandnieces and grandnephews – and in the nicest way she could, to stay away from the house until she got back to England and everything was definitely safe again. Somehow though, she couldn't help but know that he would violate those orders as soon as she put the phone down.

She was dressed again now, wearing a khaki shirt over the top of another black cropped top, tied into a loose knot just below her breasts with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. Matching khaki cargo pants hung low on her hips and a pair of walking boots covered her feet. The whole ensemble was topped off by a battered Amazon-explorer style fedora, and she had pulled her chestnut-brown hair back into its customary single long braid. Unfortunately her sunglasses were gone – the second pair she'd managed to lose on this apparently cursed trip to Morocco.

I should have realised nothing good was going to come out of this right from the start. Lara allowed herself a slightly rueful smile.

To start with she had followed two years of painstaking and often frustrating research to a site in the Atlas Mountains that was almost certainly the legendary Well of Spirits – only to find that it had been broken open, looted, vandalised, then used as a camp site by a group of Berber mercenaries less than ten days before she got there. Then, later on, she had run into four of the aforementioned mercenaries, stinking drunk – probably from the proceeds of pawning off loot from the Well – and indulging in a spot rape in the village where she was staying. Not being the sort of person who could stand idly by, two of the mercenaries had ended up dead by her hand. Which of course had only gone to earn Lara the enmity of the mercenaries' leader, Alwairan. Things had spiralled rapidly downhill from there.

The sight of Garda sticking her head round the door cut off Lara's attempts to catalogue her run of bad luck.

"So?" Lara lifted an eyebrow questioningly.

"The streets are crawling with Croag's people." Something under her breath in Arabic followed too quickly for Lara to catch. "You can scarcely move an inch without tripping over an extremely obvious American. They don't seem to believe you're dead I'm afraid. Croag himself still sits like a king in his villa, and there's no outward sign he plans on leaving anytime soon."

Emil's so called 'housekeeper' had proved to have a network of informants the size of a small army at her beck-and-call. Any of Lara's probes – subtle or otherwise – about them had been completely ignored.

Good enough. He hasn't cracked the code just yet then. A slow, slanted smile spread across Lara's lips. "Garda, how would you feel about going on a little excursion?"

* * *

Croag hung up, outwardly calm at least. The phone call had been from Geneva. He stared down at the map reference, and the accompanying short passage of text that he'd jotted down. Idly his blunt fingertips caressed the paper's surface. The look in his eyes was strange, unfocused – as though his consciousness was in a different time and place, far distant from the room around him.

He stayed that way for several minutes, the only sound in the room his slow, steady breathing. Then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened to him, he leaned forward and pressed the intercom switch on his desk. "Would you tell Mr. Kayser that I'll see him now." He paused a moment. "Oh yes, and tell all of the boys and girls that it's time to pack up and move out."

A few seconds later there was a diffident knock.

The man who entered looked like an accountant on the downslide to a mid-life crisis. He was in his mid thirties, five and a half-feet tall with stooped, rounded shoulders and a balding, sun-reddened head like an overdone egg. His loose fitting, garishly cheap holiday clothes didn't suit his thin frame at all and he looked distinctly ill at ease. Watery hazel eyes glanced this way and that from behind steel-rimmed glasses as he crossed the room.

The expression on his face suggested he'd just found out that his wife had left him for his brother – shortly after being made redundant and running over his pet cat.

Croag had worked with Kayser on several occasions in the past, and it still came as a surprise each time he met the man. It was hard to credit that somebody who looked. . . well, to be absolute frank, like the biggest loser and wimp on this side of the Atlantic, could be what he really was.

Kayser folded gracelessly into the seat Croag offered him, like a collapsing deck chair. "Jack. Long time no see. How have you been keeping?" There was a slightly nasal quality to the man's voice, which on prolonged exposure would make a dripping tap seem soothing.

"Oh, you know how it is Bob. Ups and downs. Highs and lows."

"I hear there's been a little spillage. One where you could use my cleansing skills."

Croag slid a plain manila folder across the top of the desk to Kayser, his face carefully expressionless.

Kayser flicked through the photos and sheets of profiles and personal history for a few seconds before he met Croag's gaze again. "Lara Croft – noted archaeologist and adventurer. An interesting choice, if I may comment."

Croag shrugged. "Who knows where circumstance may lead us?"

Kayser appeared to mull this over. "You've met her I believe. Tell me what you think. I value your opinion much more than this soulless detail." He gave an absent wave in the direction of the manila folder with a bony, inelegant looking hand, dismissing it.

Croag didn't reply for several heartbeats. "Surprising," was his eventual considered response. "Strong. Capable. Dangerous. She would make an excellent operative I think. I underestimated the strength of her will certainly. She made two of my boys look like monkeys."

"But not formally trained?"

"No."

Kayser nodded thoughtfully. "That can be taken advantage of." Almost as an afterthought he added. "I presume from all this you have definite confirmation that the incident at the harbour didn't prove to be a terminal one."

No surprise showed on Croag's face that Kayser knew about this. Kayser made a habit of knowing everything. "From the highest of authorities. There is absolutely no question."

Another thoughtful nod. "Are there any preferences as to which type of. . . detergent I use."

"Just as long as everything is spotless when you've finished I don't care how it is accomplished."

Kayser smiled – a rather sickly looking expression, which didn't suit him at all. "As said. Is done."

Croag seemed to visibly brighten as the deal was agreed. The posture of his shoulders relaxed just a fraction, only now bringing attention to the fact there had been any tension there in the first place. He returned Kayser's smile in a way that was almost warm. "So Bob. How are the wife and kids getting on?"

* * *

"They're moving out. It's stirred up like a hornet's nest up there." Garda handed the night-vision binoculars to Lara, who muttered something under breath that was completely unbefitting her upbringing. It was very definitely inappropriate for the traditional Muslim djellaba she was wearing over her normal set of clothes.

There wasn't much to see from this angle. The villa was situated on the highest point within a couple of miles so there wasn't anywhere you could overlook it from. This spot was the best they could manage. Even from here all you could really see was a considerable amount of activity amidst the ranks of parked cars, with vehicles leaving periodically.

"I see Croag." A flash of white – or more accurately, given the infrared, extremely pale green – hair caught her eye just as it was getting into the back seat of one of those armour-plated Mercedes'. "Pity we don't have a sniper rifle."

"I'm sorry. I forgot to pack one in my handbag."

Lara lowered the binoculars though she didn't stop staring up at the villa.

"We go now then, yes? I told you this was complete madness right from the outset."

"No you didn't." Lara's reply was absent.

"Well I thought it extremely loudly anyway." Garda reached out and pulled firmly on Lara's arm to get her moving in what she considered was the right direction.

It had been madness, Lara supposed as she got into the front passenger seat of Garda's car – a battered old Fiat that looked more ancient than half the artefacts she had dug up during her career. She was still slightly surprised that Garda hadn't tried to stop her earlier – she'd probably seen the look in her eyes and realised she'd have had to pull a gun on Lara to achieve anything.

Now the worst seemed to have happened. From the look of things Croag had found out where the storehouse was.

The car clattered off, billowing smoke. Neither occupant noticed the small, nerdy looking individual who watched their departure through night-vision binoculars of his own.

"What no demands for me to turn round and follow them? Perhaps you are finally seeing some sense."

For just an instant Lara felt that was exactly what they should be doing – was on the verge of ordering Garda to do precisely what she had just suggested. She subsided abruptly with a heavy sigh. "We already know where they're going don't we? And we don't have any means of following them through the air."

A memory of how the last time she had snuck onto an adversary's plane almost ended up flitted through her head. It really would be pushing her luck to try something like that a second time.

Garda grunted noncommittally.

You have to get a grip, Lara berated herself silently, scarcely noticing Garda's manic driving style – which at times appeared to verge upon the suicidal. Calm and control, Lara, calm and control.

She had felt fear and anger in the past of course, many times. Indeed she normally used those feelings in a positive way, controlling and focusing them to help give her the sharpness and edge upon which she thrived. For some reason though, Croag's treatment of her had affected her profoundly – fuelled her with a rage and resentment that was making her act in ways that were, frankly, irrational. It couldn't continue to happen.

"I'm sorry Garda."

"What?" Garda took her eyes off the road for a moment and Lara was certain she was going to drive straight into the back of the van in front of them. Somehow that didn't happen.

"I've been acting like an idiot. It won't happen again."

Thankfully Garda's attention was now back on the road ahead of her. "Good. Make sure that it doesn't." Lara could see out of the corner of her eye that Garda was grinning though.

Emil was already waiting for them when the Fiat came to a lurching halt approximately parallel to the pavement. The expression on his face suggested that he wasn't entirely pleased. His glare moved from Garda – who simply returned it blandly – to Lara, who was in the process of stripping off the voluminous layer of black Muslim costume. "Where the hell have you two been?"

"Sightseeing," was Garda's dry response.

"I've never been to Rabat before," Lara added. "It's a fascinating place. So much to do and see."

Emil muttered something unflattering as they walked together into the house. "Why is it that two women will always, without fail, gang up against a man?" The rhetorical question got the response it deserved. "Are you two tourists aware that Mr. Croag has a private jet fuelled and ready to fly within the hour? That he appears to be ready to shut up shop and leave as we speak."

"We just saw." Lara told him.

"You. . . You did what?!" Emil threw up his hands. "No don't bother explaining. We don't have the time. Croag must have found out where this storehouse of Lara's is located. We need to decide what our next move is, and quickly."

They came to a stop in what doubled as both dining and conference room, a large oval table with places to seat eight at its centre, scattered with maps and assorted papers. "Well as far as I see it we need to find out where the storehouse is located and get to it before Croag has finished clearing the place out." Lara moved to stand by an antique globe, idly turning it as she spoke.

"Brilliant. I just never would have come up with that on my own."

"Emil," Garda snapped. "Try and do us all a favour and engage your brain before you speak. And calm down. We all need to be thinking with clear heads." Then she turned to Lara. "You're the only one of us to have met this Jacqueline Natla. Do you have any idea where she might have hidden this storehouse of hers?"

Lara was still slowly spinning the globe, the look on her face suggesting that she was miles away. "That all depends on whether she built it before or after her imprisonment." Her reply was slow and considered.

"Imprisonment?"

Lara didn't seem to hear Emil's probe as she continued. "If it was afterwards then I would think it is somewhere in the United States. New Mexico or Texas would be my best guess." An image of a pyramid rising above the desert at a place that would one day become known as Los Alamos filled her head. She had seen it once before in a Scion given vision – built atop the deep underground chamber where Natla of Atlantis was supposed to have remained, cryogenically frozen for all of time. Perhaps. Such a location would certainly appeal to the woman's ego and vanity. A poke in the eye for the two who condemned her – Qualopec and Tihocan – even if they were millennia dead.

"If it dates from before though. . . well the site which was one day to have been Natla's tomb was at Khamoon, Egypt. And Natla had dominion over the African part of the Atlantean nation. So logic would suggest that the storehouse would also be here in Africa – probably near to the Nile, as that's where the bulk of civilisation was centred at the time. Though of course she may have deliberately chosen to build away from civilisation. That can't be entirely discounted."

She became aware that the other two were suddenly looking at her very strangely.

"Er, Lara." Emil's voice sounded a fraction brittle. "What are you talking about? Natla's tomb? Dominion over the African part of the Atlantean nation? Did I mishear somewhere?"

Lara went back over the words she had just spoken whilst thinking aloud and inwardly winced. "Mmm, didn't I mention that Jacqueline Natla was over five thousand years old and one of the triumvirate of former rulers of the ancient civilisation known as Atlantis? No? It must have slipped my mind." And now I am officially declared insane.

There was a long period of silence.

Garda eventually broke it. "Leaving certain details aside, you're saying storehouse is in Texas, New Mexico, or Africa – either near or not near to the Nile?"

Lara grimaced. "I know. Not much help. I'm sorry. If we had Natla's journals perhaps I could narrow it down. . ." She gave a heavy shrug.

While they were speaking Emil had moved across to the other side of the room, and was now talking into a cell-phone in fluent, rapid-fire Arabic. The two women were both looking at him as he hung up.

"I ordered a pizza." He shook his head at the lack of response to the joke. "Sorry. Force of habit. I've asked Youseff Makhalouf to see if he can get hold of Croag's flight-plan – he has a cousin who's a senior air traffic controller. Presupposing of course that Croag actually bothers with international aviation laws. Further presupposing the flight-plan he does file isn't a complete fabrication. It's a long shot I know." He shot Lara another strange look.

"Whereabouts does the CIA have their major computer facilities located?" Lara asked suddenly, completely changing the subject.

"Arlington, at CIA central headquarters is the main one. Then there's the supposedly top-secret facility just outside of Geneva, Switzerland. . ."

"Geneva." Lara snapped her fingers. "While I was under hypnosis Croag mentioned about 'something for the boys in Geneva to get their teeth into.'" She smiled suddenly. "I've always liked Geneva."

"No, that's insane. The security levels there. . ." Emil was shaking his head slowly, although there was a sudden gleam of eagerness in his eyes.

"I thought my lack of sanity had already been well established."

Emil laughed abruptly, his face lighting up with enthusiasm. "I love it. I really do. Break into the second most important CIA computer facility in the world." He seemed almost in awe at the suggestion. "That's got to be the. . .well, the coolest thing I've done in years."

"You were right the first time when you said it was insane." Garda's tone was dry.

"Maybe I was." Emil sounded almost dismissive though, as if he had already made up his mind. "But unless you can come up with a better idea Garda. . . Then I think it's potentially the best bet we have of catching up with Croag in time."

Garda muttered something almost inaudible beneath her breath. To Lara it sounded like: 'I thought you'd gotten over the desire to get yourself killed.' Louder she said. "Makhalouf might still pan out Emil. And the speed that those lot were leaving they might have failed to cover their tracks properly up at the villa."

He nodded. "Which is why I need you and Lara to stay here and follow up on those things. I can be in Geneva by tomorrow morning. With the help of Martin and some of the others the whole deal can be accomplished in a couple of days. . ."

Lara cleared her throat. "Excuse me but wasn't this my idea?"

"No offence Lara, but you're an archaeologist – maybe of the Indiana Jones school, but still fundamentally an archaeologist. Just how many successful covert operations have you been involved in – precisely?"

"I paid an out of hours visit to a certain top secret US air base in the Nevada desert last year, if that counts for anything." She folded her arms, her head tilting to one side as she regarded Emil fixedly. "And I presume that either you or one of your friends is able to read ancient Atlantean."

Emil's jaw shut with a click, cutting off his reply unspoken. It was apparent that she'd made her point.

"Because I can assure you that's what language Natla's journals will be written in."

The look Emil shot Garda's way was pleading.

The Arab woman sighed heavily. "Alright. Alright. I'll take care of everything at this end on my own. You two run off and play commandos or whatever. Just don't go getting yourself killed; else I get very, very annoyed with you both. Now stop looking at me like a damned puppy dog." The last came out almost as a growl.

"Thank you Garda." Emil gave the woman a quick, fierce hug, which seemed to take her completely by surprise. "I don't say that to you often enough I know. You're really, really important to me."

Garda looked positively embarrassed by the whole thing (though she was also, Lara suspected, secretly pleased).

Almost immediately Emil was speaking into his cell-phone, again in Arabic. "Hello? I'd like to book two tickets on the next available flight to Switzerland please."

* * * * *

Bob Kayser hummed a merry little tune as he pulled his clothes back on over his freshly scrubbed and reddened flesh. Surprisingly, given the stooped and scrawny look he possessed when dressed, his body was ridged with sinew and hard, wiry muscle. And his movements – now that he knew he was unobserved – had lost even the slightest hint of the awkward diffidence they normally contained. Now there was a lithe, feral grace and absolute poise about his slightest gesture.

He picked up his wire-framed spectacles and held them up to the sunlight streaming in through the bathroom window. Critically, he inspected them, frowning slightly, before wiping an almost microscopic spot of blood from one lens. Only finally did he perch them lightly on the bridge of his nose.

Next he carefully unscrewed the silencer from his tiny .22 calibre automatic pistol and put both pieces into a small holdall, atop his tool box and a bloodstained towel, before zipping it firmly shut. One last look around to check that all was well, and he walked out of the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. Latex surgical gloves covered his hands so that fingerprints weren't left behind on the surfaces that he touched.

He didn't so much as glance in the direction of the open door and the bedroom to his left. Or the horror story of gore and mangled flesh that lay chained to the blood-soaked mattress – all but unrecognisable as the woman it had been just a couple of hours earlier. His footfalls scarcely made a sound as he quickly descended the stairs.

Kayser had to give her credit. She was only the third person he had encountered in his long, long career who had managed to remain unbroken right to the bitter end. Normally he could have the toughest, hardest, most brutal of men singing within a few minutes of his attentions, ready to sell him their souls – and those of their wives and children too – for the merest respite. Most people, it had to be said, were actually harder to shut up than they were to get started. Not this woman though. She had been spitting defiant curses at him right until the final bullet had entered her eye-socket. The agony at that point must have been beyond belief.

It had been ironic that all of this woman's suffering had been in vain – all her defiance completely without point or purpose. Except, of course, for the special place it had earned her in his heart.

He paused before the front door in order to right a vase that had been knocked over when he initially took the woman by surprise. It gladdened him to see that there was not the slightest sign of a crack in it – it would have been criminal to damage such a beautiful and valuable antique.

Then, feeling enlivened and invigorated by the work of the past couple of hours, he opened the front door. Removing the latex gloves, he stepped outside into the heat of the late morning street.

A few minutes ago he had received a phone call. A pull done on airport records had shown that Lara Croft – using a known alias – had boarded a flight bound for Geneva in the early hours of this morning. Kayser knew exactly what that meant. Too late for Garda Kachoulla unfortunately – her second piece of bad luck in one morning, after he'd recognised that clapped out old Fiat.

Just enough time to buy some souvenirs and a postcode before he had to catch his own flight. If he finished in Geneva quickly enough, he mused, slouching back into role, then perhaps he would get the opportunity to brush up on his skiing.

* * *

Lara walked briskly up the steps to the apartment block. It was a cool, crisp spring morning very different to the scorching heat of Rabat, and in the distance, above the Geneva rooftops, the snow-capped peaks of the Swiss Alps could be glimpsed.

She looked quite different than she did in her more customary explorer gear. A very expensive chocolate brown Versace trouser suit was worn over a white tee shirt, and she had managed to get hold of another pair of her favourite red-tinted sunglasses. Her long, glossy chestnut coloured hair for once hung loose, and she did a pretty fair impression of being 'just another' stunningly beautiful rich lady returning from a morning's shopping. Only the blunt nailed and callused fingers – along with the cut and bruise on her cheek which make-up couldn't quite conceal – could have given her away.

An old doorman with a heavy, flowing white moustache doffed his cap to her as she walked past him and she rewarded him with a smile.

Lara didn't have the patience to wait for the ornate brass-caged lift and swept quickly up the stairs to the third floor. She headed swiftly along the plushly carpeted hallway to the apartment number Emil had told her. There she rapped on the door with her knuckles.

"Just a minute!" The voice that answered wasn't Emil's, having a hint of East-Coast American in its accent. She heard the sound of footsteps approaching across wooden floorboards, then the door opened.

She found herself face to face with a tall, lanky looking Chinese-American dressed in ripped jeans and a grungy old Chemical Brothers tee shirt. He was wearing black ray-bans despite the dim lighting from inside the apartment and looked on first impressions to be all of eighteen years old.

"Martin Liu?"

"The one and only." He flashed her a brilliant white grin, looking her up and down in a manner that couldn't be considered the epitome of politeness.

"I'm Lara Croft." She offered him her hand. His gaze seemed to have stopped somewhere considerably below her eye level and it was a moment before he took it, shaking it in a slightly distracted manner.

Then he gave her another of those dazzling grins. "Come in, come in. Welcome to the command centre."

Lara rolled her eyes as she followed him. It's not as if I'm even showing any cleavage.

The reason it was so dark quickly became apparent. Venetian blinds had been pulled down to cover all of the windows, blocking out the sunlight. Lara counted six different computers arranged on a number of tables pulled together in the room's centre, the glow from their monitors providing eerie illumination. There were various disk arrays on the floor beneath the tables, along with modems, telephones and a whole lot of electrical equipment that she didn't recognise. Everything was connected by a chaotic mass of wiring which to Lara's eye resembled nothing so much as a horde of garter snakes caught up in a mating frenzy.

"Yo, Emil. Lara's here." Martin called out. "You never told me that she was such a complete babe."

A few moments later Emil appeared in one of the doorways leading off from this main room. He was stripped to the waist with a white towel slung around his broad neck, his muscular chest gleaming like sculpted ebony, still glistening with a few beaded droplets of water.

"A word of advice Martin." He looked briefly at Lara, a hint of a smile ghosting across his lips. "Most women prefer not to be referred to as 'complete babes' within their earshot."

Martin had seated himself amid the nest of wiring and computers, leaning back in his seat with his feet up on one of the few vacant spaces on the tabletops. "No, it's a compliment." He shook his head, rolling a pen rapidly back and forth between the fingers of his left hand. "I don't see that one Emil. Really I don't. Lara, what do you think?"

Oh God. "I don't know Martin. I don't really feet I'm qualified to speak on behalf of 'most women'. Maybe there's something to what Emil says though. I think a person may prefer to be recognised for more than just their looks."

"Mmh." Martin still looked less than one hundred percent convinced though.

Emil just shook his head, turning his attention to Lara. "So, did you get what you went for?"

Lara nodded, setting the heavy leather shoulder bag she was carrying down on a chair and unzipping it, pulling out a locked metal case. "There weren't any problems." She opened the metal case too, lifting half of its contents – a stainless steel Beretta 92 series pistol – from the wadded foam interior and inspecting it with an expert eye.

Since gun-laws had made it illegal to own any sort of handgun in the United Kingdom – even down to the single shot .22 calibre weapons used in Olympic pistol shooting events – Lara had found it very useful to keep a weapons stash here in Switzerland. Not only was it a country she knew well, having spent a couple of years attending finishing school here, it also had just about the most liberal attitude to gun-ownership of anywhere in Europe.

Apparently satisfied, she placed the weapon carefully down and repeated the inspection on its twin. Then, as Martin and Emil looked on, she pulled a pistol grip shotgun of the type she preferred from the bag and racked it experimentally. This type of weapon was still, for the moment at least, legal in Britain and she kept one exactly like it locked in the gun cabinet beside her bed at home. Finally she lifted out a large number of boxes containing cartridges and bullets.

"I've got that beat," Emil commented with a slight smirk. He moved to a black leather briefcase resting in a broad windowsill and produced a sleek looking matt-black Uzi. It was fitted with both silencer and laser-scope attachments. "Want one?"

Lara raised an eyebrow. "I thought the idea was to use stealth. Not to go in with all guns blazing."

"Still is," Emil agreed. "But we have to be ready for all possible contingencies."

"I think I'll settle for what I've already got."

"Man, oh man. I thought that you Brits weren't supposed to like guns." Martin was grinning broadly as he looked from one to the other. "Not like all us whacko fruitcake American types."

"I don't like guns." This was Emil, the words spoken with a heavy conviction. He placed the Uzi back in the briefcase and snapped it shut. "I would gladly never touch one of the things again if I thought it would do any good."

Lara walked across to the window, moving the blind to one side so that she could look out at the clear blue sky. "So, have you two managed to come up with anything that might help us get into that computer centre?"

"Have we come up with anything? You're asking us if we've come up with anything?" Martin seemed almost to choke with mock indignation at the implied slur.

Lara glanced over her shoulder at him. Even in the few minutes since they'd met he managed to come across as very much the brash, cocky, ill-mannered American teenager. From what Emil had told her though, Martin was actually twenty-four years old, and all of this was an act – well most of it anyway – so that people tended to underestimate him. He was, Emil had assured her, absolutely brilliant at what he did best – hack computers and penetrate security systems. She certainly hoped so.

He flourished a rolled up piece of A1 size paper at her. "Do you have any idea what this is?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me." She flashed him a smile.

"Too right." He unrolled the paper with a flourish. "What we have here is the most detailed set of schematics you will ever see of the CIA's Lac Leman installation. It includes details the CIA don't even know about themselves." He waved his hand across the network of faint lines that covered the paper. "Every single security camera, motion sensor, automated machine-gun nest, pressure plate and laser trip-wire down in black and white."

Lara stepped forward, leaning over to peer at the schematics interestedly. "Where did you get hold of that?"

It was Emil who answered. "I have some friends from my old work who'd absolutely love it if we put one over on the CIA. They were only too eager to oblige."

"I thought that the CIA and MI6 were supposed to be on the same side, more or less."

Emil chuckled. "Oh, don't kid yourself. The British and American governments may be friendly enough, and the two organisations may sometimes have to work together. But in reality they're no better than a couple of kids fighting over a girl they both like. It's a constant stream of showing off, one-upmanship and trying to put one over on the other guy. I don't think there's anything either of them enjoy quite as much as seeing the other side embarrass themselves." He paused as what she'd said sank in. "Anyway, who said I used to work for MI6?"

What a marvellous assessment of the competence of two organisations who are allegedly supposed to make the world a safer place. Lara's lips twitched a fraction. "Well you made it fairly obvious."

"Ah. . ."

"I presume we can find some way of subverting all this security." Lara cut him off. Otherwise we're in for a very short and unpleasant evening indeed. From the look of the schematics they would be shot to ribbons the moment they stepped onto the lawn the other side of the perimeter fence. Actually getting into the building in one piece would require an act of divine intervention.

"That is where I come in." Martin sounded smug. "This. . ." He brandished a thin bit of wire attached to a small plastic circle with some circuitry embedded in it. "Is your key to happiness and long life."

"What is it?" Lara asked after a slight pause. It seemed that Martin wanted her to ask the question before he went on.

"Think of it as being a bit like a phone tap." His voice took on a lecturing tone and Lara hid a smile which might have offended him. "You see, the weakest point in most security systems you come across is the security of the security system itself, if you follow."

Lara thought she did, but didn't say anything.

"And once you've compromised the operation of the security system, well you're in. They may as well not have bothered with security at all. Its absolutely amazing how many times I see it, it really is. Sometimes you despair. . ." He shook his head, a pious look crossing his face. "I could make an absolute fortune as a consultant on things like this you know. Maybe I should offer my services to the CIA after you've waltzed in and out. . . Show them how to tighten things up."

"What my friend here fails to mention," Emil moved behind Martin and clapped a hand down on his shoulder, making him jump. "Is that we have to wire this thing right into one of the perimeter security cameras before he can actually manage any of this 'compromising' that he's going on about."

"Hey, I never said it had to be one of the security cameras. Any part of the security network will do equally well. Its just that the cameras look like the easiest thing for you to get at from outside. . ."

Lara switched off from the conversation, studying the positions of the perimeter security cameras on the schematic, and the surrounding cover as it was drawn in. "It's going to be pretty tight."

"Yeah, I've gone over it pretty carefully. I think I should just about be able to make it though."

"You think?"

"Well nothing in this life is certain, is it?" Their eyes met. Both of them knew it was going to be very tricky indeed.

"Once Emil gets it hooked up that transmitter will allow all these babies," Martin indicated his computers with a sweep of his arm. "To go to work. I should. . . no, I will be able to control their security systems completely, without anyone being the wiser about it. I can turn off the motion sensors and the laser trip wires, disable the intruder alarms, and make the camera's see what isn't there – or rather, not see what is there."

"Very impressive."

Martin positively beamed up at Lara. Still not quite managing to look me in the eye though.

"Of course, getting in is probably going to turn out to be the easiest part of this whole operation." Emil interjected. "Actually finding the information that we want, then getting out again is going to be the difficult bit."

Lara had been thinking about that little detail while she was out fetching her guns too. "Martin won't be able to hack into the main computer array from out here will he."

It was more a statement than a question, but Martin was quickly shaking his head. "Difficult as it is to believe, there are limits to even my superhuman powers. They keep all that stuff deep below ground and completely shielded from the outside world, on a completely different network to everything else where you can't even touch it from the outside. They may be a little slow when it comes to some aspects of computer technology, but they're not entirely stupid either. And much as I hate to admit it they're learning all the time.

"If you wanted to take a look at some personnel records, or maybe screw over their website then maybe. . . Even that wouldn't be easy though. They've tightened things up quite a bit since a couple of embarrassing incidents last year."

"I think we can do without redirecting the CIA homepage to a XXX live sex site," Lara said dryly. "No, what I was going to suggest is that we target some of the project heads' offices. Knowing the way people tend to behave there's a good chance that we can find something printed out in hardcopy – at the very least something which will tell us where else to look."

Martin gave a shrug. "Doesn't sound a bad first move." Then he grinned. "That's not for me to worry about though, is it?"

Emil shot him a dirty look. "What if we can grab their disk arrays and bring them out with us? We've got some forensic data analysis tools haven't we Martin?"

"Yeah, that'd be fine too. . . Just so long as you can find the correct set of disks. I suspect you'd need a lorry and a team of porters to get them all though – there's likely to be hundreds. And even if you managed that it'd likely take weeks of work to pick out the info you need. I'd stick to Lara's suggestion boss. Leave the thinking to those that can manage it without breaking into a sweat."

"Thank you so much Martin. As always I appreciate your attempts at wit – however feeble they may be." Emil turned to look at Lara. "I'm going to finish getting dressed now. Then the three of us can finish hammering out all the details. There's a lot of work to do if we're even going to consider going for tonight."

Lara nodded her agreement. That there was.

* * *

Bob Kayser drove his car – an anonymous gunmetal Ford Mondeo – slowly and carefully along the lakeside road, taking the time to appreciate the beauty of the setting.

The waters of Lac Leman reflected the sky – deep, sparkling crystal blue, spreading out almost as far as the eye could see. He could make out a number of white boats, small at this distance, taking tourists out on day-trips, and beyond, rising against the horizon, were the Swiss Alps – glittering like jewels beneath a frosting of snow. Close around him everything was bursting into green life with the onset of spring, the trees on either side of the road losing their skeletal winter appearance as new foliage budded.

In contrast to the splendour of it setting, the CIA installation was – to Kayser's eyes at least – an eyesore. An anonymous square of office space that could have been anywhere in the world, surrounded on all sides by wide expanses of lawn where any obtrusive foliage had been brutally chopped back. Topping it all off was an unsightly chain-link fence surrounding the entire perimeter. To Kayser's mind the whole thing displayed a chronic lack of imagination, at odds with the tranquillity of its setting.

He eased to a halt in front of the security station at the site's only entrance. Yellow and black steel barriers blocked his way forward along with jagged ridges of steel teeth rising from the tarmac. As he hit the control to lower the driver-side window a uniformed security guard walked across to him. He appeared to be unarmed, but Kayser knew there would be at least three others like this one back inside the security station, all of them with heavy firepower trained in his direction.

Smiling up at the rigid looking, impassive faced young man Kayser handed him his security pass before he could be asked. He wondered if it was his imagination, but the guard's complexion seemed to grey a fraction as he unfolded and read it.

"Very good sir. If you would follow the road around to the parking in front of the main building. I'll let reception know to expect you." He handed the pass back to Kayser, and made a signal back to the security station, his voice sounding almost constipated.

"Thank you so much." In front of him the barriers lifted up and the rows of steel teeth retracted into the road surface to allow him to continue.

An extremely attractive young black woman was waiting on the front steps to greet him, smiling at him with well-practised insincerity. She was dressed in a charcoal grey business suit, the impractically short skirt displaying most of her amazingly long and shapely legs. Spike heels lifted her to at least half a foot taller than he was.

"Mr. Kayser? A pleasure to meet you." She extended an immaculately manicured hand, which he took politely. "I'm Leeann. We've made all of the arrangements that you requested. If you'd like to follow me I'll show you to your office. I know that the Director is especially eager to meet with you later on."

They exchanged small talk as they took the lift to the top floor: How was your journey? This must be a lovely place to work. And so forth, every word of equal inconsequence. Eventually she left him alone in a spacious office complete with a spectacular view of the lake and its own shower-unit and miniature kitchen, telling him to call her if there was anything he needed.

Kayser let his smile fade away, laying his suitcase down atop the several acres of polished wooden desk that appeared temporarily to be his. There was, he supposed, a very simple way of dealing with the current situation – one that his superiors, with the notable exception of Jack Croag, would expect him to adopt.

When it came right down to it, it was his duty as a CIA operative to inform installation security about his suspicions of a forthcoming raid by Ms. Croft and her male companion. They would then take care of the situation, and the two would be intruders could suffer a little 'accident' without any untoward risk to the integrity of this facility.

He wasn't going to do that though, and for two reasons.

Kayser quickly set the tumblers of the suitcase's combination lock, then waited for the green light to appear on recognition of his thumbprint.

First of all he was slightly worried that he would only end up scaring his target off. The man accompanying her, he was sure, would have the resources to detect any unusual alteration to the site's normal security posture. That could lead to their attempted incursion being aborted. . . which would be a little inconvenient.

He flipped the suitcase open as the light appeared. It didn't contain clothes.

And the second reason of course. . . well it just wouldn't be any fun. Not a motive his superiors would approve of, he was sure. But you had to take job satisfaction where you could find it. Otherwise you became jaded. And in the cleaning business when you became jaded you very quickly also became dead.

He began to carefully unpack.

No, the more he thought about it, the more he wanted Ms. Croft and friend to succeed, at least in so far as getting into the installation unharmed. Then. . . well then there would be ample opportunity for him to indulge in that which he did best.

Kayser actually started to whistle to himself. He would have to arrange for the Director to give him a tour. It always paid to know the killing ground.

* * *

Emil moved through the sparse undergrowth in as near to complete silence as he could manage. It would be much easier, he reflected, to be doing this a couple of months later in the year when there was more in the way of actual cover.

He had removed the glasses he normally wore and was dressed in dull greens, browns and black. Not camouflage, as that would look far too suspicious, but something that would help conceal him whilst still allowing the excuse of being a hiker who had gotten lost. Each footfall he made was carefully purposeful.

From somewhere close by there was a burst of shrill birdsong, followed by a fluttering of wings. For several seconds Emil stopped in his tracks, listening intently to his surroundings. Then he continued forward, deciding it was just his own presence that had caused the momentary uproar.

He deliberately tried to keep his thoughts calm, focused only on the here and now. Worries – about how tonight would go; about what Croag was up to; most of all about not being able to reach Garda the five times he had already tried today – were thrust as far aside as he could manage. Nothing but his surroundings were allowed to intrude.

About ten metres up ahead he could see the corner of the chain-link fence he was aiming for – close enough to easily read the red on white sign written in French, Italian, German and English that indicated 'Trespassers will be prosecuted.' Those who there's anything left of anyway.

He came to a halt, crouching on one knee on the damp earth. From there he watched the camera as it swept through its slow, steady, relentless arc, twelve feet above the ground.

The fence wasn't electrified, Emil knew. Neither, according to the schematics, was it equipped with vibration sensors, although an alarm would be triggered if it was cut. The only added protection were two parallel strips of barbed wire running across the fence's top. No sense in having a secret facility if your outward security precautions scream 'this is a secret facility' to all who see them.

He'd chosen this particular spot because it had cover almost all the way up to the fence, and crucially, was concealed from the view of all but the installation's top floor by the contours of the ground.

He watched the camera go through the entire sweep four times, counting out the timings, rehearsing in his head every single move he would make until he had it down by rote. Then, just at the precise moment in the fifth sweep, he went into action.

Sixteen carefully measured strides took him in an arc outside the camera's field of view, right up to the foot of the fence-pole on which it was mounted. A single upward leap, accompanied by a couple of scrabbling steps had him level with the top of the fence, clinging on precariously to avoid ripping his hands on the barbed wire. Heart racing, he pulled out the set of pliers from his pocket, then used them as quickly as he could to strip back a small section of insulation from the security-camera's main cable.

The camera had now reached the far end of its arc and was in the process of swinging inexorably back towards him.

He could feel his breath coming hard and fast as he connected Martin's tap up to the bit of wire he'd exposed, wrapping the rest of its length swiftly around the camera's cable so that it didn't flap. All finished with a foot to spare.

Then he realised that his sweater was caught on the barbed wire. He couldn't get it free. Six inches. No more time. Cursing beneath his breath, Emil let himself drop.

There was the sound of tearing fabric and he fell back to the earth with a thud, rolling over in the mud. Three inches. Desperately he scrambled towards the undergrowth. One inch. A frantic leaping dive, then he was lying face down, his cheek pressed against the damp ground, twigs and branches digging into him painfully. No more inches.

He lay like that for a while, counting in his head, not daring to move. Then, taking a deep breath, he pulled himself up.

Just about half of his dark, olive green sweater was still attached to the barbed wire, flapping gently in the breeze – a veritable flag.

Emil cursed beneath his breath. Here we go again.

* * *

Lara sat waiting in the black Opel Omega that Emil had hired. It was parked in a roadside lay-by just over a mile away from the CIA computer installation. She was gazing out across the clear blue waters of Lac Leman, her thoughts miles away. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky to the west, directly over Geneva.

She started as the dashboard phone trilled suddenly, jerked out of her reverie. "Yes?"

"Hey, Lara." She recognised Martin's distinctive voice instantly. "A pleasure to hear your voice. I thought you'd like to know that Emil succeeded. I'm in."

A pleasure to hear your voice? The way he said it almost managed to raise a smile. He'd been flirting – or at least attempting to flirt – with her almost continuously since this morning. "Excellent. So, do you think you'll be able to do what you need to?" She tried to put some enthusiasm into her words that she wasn't really feeling.

"Cake and pie, Lara. Cake and pie." She could hear him laughing on the other end of the phone. "Really, it's going even better than I could have hoped for. In fact. . ." He paused, deepening his voice a couple of octaves. "It's almost too easy." Then he burst out laughing again.

Well, somebody at least seems to be enjoying themselves. "So as far as you're concerned tonight's still on?"

"Yep. No problem whatsoever. I'll have 'em twisted round my little finger." She could picture him grinning that dazzlingly infectious grin of his as he spoke into the phone. "So, Lara. Do you think the boys and girls of the CIA would like a fire drill? Just say the word and it'll happen."

"Martin!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. No fooling around. I was only joking." A fractional pause. "No point anyway – It's not raining. Say hi to old muscle-head for me when he gets back. . . mother." With that Martin hung up.

Lara was smiling ever so slightly as she slid the phone back into its holder, her thoughts diverted – temporarily at least – from the gnawing anxiety of what she was going to do in a few hours time. If nothing else talking to Martin was a useful distraction.

According to Emil, he'd first met Martin Liu four years ago, whilst the American had been studying for a year at the University of London on an exchange program. Apparently the young man had been involved in some quite serious computer crime at the time – stealing hundreds of pounds worth of free phone calls; obtaining services under false pretences; indulging in some fairly destructive hacking of several major companies. It had only been a matter of time before he got caught, expelled and arrested. Emil had found him before that happened. After talking to him and being quite impressed by what lay beneath the surface, he'd offered him a job.

It had, Emil had told her, taken 'quite a lot of persuasion' before Martin accepted the offer. What form that persuasion had actually taken he hadn't elaborated upon. Over the intervening years the two of them had apparently worked together on a number of occasions, becoming friends.

A part of Lara had been left wondering precisely how self-employed Emil actually was, but she hadn't pressed him on it. He'd tell her in his own time. If at all.

The passenger door opened, and she glanced around quickly – only to relax back into her seat as she saw it was Emil. She noted the fact that he was covered in mud, and that his sweater looked as though it had been worried by several extremely hungry wolves, most of the front completely missing. "Problems?"

"I kind of got hung up," Emil said dryly as he climbed into the passenger seat. He stripped the remnants of his sweater off over his head and tossed it, along with the piece that had been torn from its front, into the back seat.

Lara noticed that he was getting mud all over the upholstery. That'll cost him his deposit. Then she wondered why an earth she had thought such a thing, especially at a time like this. "What happened to your glasses?"

Emil had pulled the forlorn looking things from his pocket. One lens was starred with cracks and the wire frames were twisted and buckled. "I landed on them," he answered heavily. "Don't worry, they were only plain glass. My effectiveness won't be in any way hindered."

At the look she directed his way he added: "If you must know I wear them to draw attention away from my scar. I've found that it's a lot easier to pull women with them than without. Makes me look less like a drug dealer or violent criminal, or something." He sounded defensive.

"Sorry. None of my business." In fact, knowing that little detail about him made Emil suddenly seem a lot more human to her. Like everyone else he had his petty little vanities, and not just his unending quest against Croag. "I take it from the lack of panic that, despite the way you look, it all went according to plan."

Emil smiled fractionally. "More or less. I just had a close encounter with some barbed wire. Nothing to compromise our mission I assure you."

Lara nodded. "Martin called a few minutes ago. He said he was in and gave us the go ahead."

Emil grunted. "Then tonight it shall be. No backing out now."

Lara wondered if he was as nervous – not to say scared – as she was. His face, from what she could see of it in profile, looked expressionless – completely unreadable. "It's about two hours till sunset. We should go for a drive. Sitting around here for that long might look suspicious."

Out of the corner of her eye she caught his nod. He didn't speak though.

For a long time silence reigned as Lara threw the car along the winding Swiss roads, going just in excess of the speed limit – but not by enough of a margin to attract the ire of any watching traffic police.

Out of the blue Emil commented: "You don't exactly fit my image of an archaeologist, Lara. If you don't mind me saying."

"Believe me, I've heard that one before." Lara gave a slight laugh. "Many, many times."

"Sorry. I didn't mean it to come out like some kind of lame chat-up line, honestly."

"What do you think an archaeologist should look like anyway?"

"Erm. . ." Emil sounded a fraction embarrassed. "I've always had this picture of middle-aged men with beards, dressed in woolly hats and open-toed sandals, up to their knees in mud and pottery shards in the middle of some godforsaken stretch of moor land or other."

"Just woolly hats and open-toed sandals," Lara teased. "I have to say your fantasies are even sicker than I dared imagine."

"Ouch. Thank you for that lovely image." Emil winced. "No, what I guess I was wondering is how someone with your background and upbringing gets to be where they are today?"

For a time Lara didn't reply, her concentration seemingly fixed firmly upon the road ahead.

"If it's a sensitive subject you don't have to. . ."

Lara shook her head, slowing down and signalling as she turned left into another lay-by before coming to a halt. She twisted the key in the ignition and the engine died. "Tell you what, I'll do you a trade . My story for yours. How does that sound?"

Emil hesitated. "Sure. That's only fair I guess."

Lara's hand came up to sweep a stray strand of hair from her face. After a moment's staring out at the lake and the snow capped mountain peaks, she started to speak. "I guess I was always interested in archaeology, right back to when I was a girl of nine or ten. While my friends were all reading teenage romances, interested primarily in boys and clothes and their ponies – though not necessarily in that order – I had my nose stuck in histories of Egypt, Ancient Greece and the Mesoamerican civilisations. I just found it fascinating – especially anything to do with Egypt.

"My parents didn't really approve. Dad especially. I think he sometimes believed I was 'behaving in this strange and unnatural manner' just to spite him. Half the time I came away with the impression that they both secretly thought I'd been replaced at birth by some kind of changeling – their sweet, pretty, docile Lady Lara swapped for this weird, awkward creature interested only in fighting, causing trouble, and defying their will – thwarting all their grand and carefully laid plans.

"I think it would have been better for me if I'd had siblings. Maybe I could have hidden behind them and maintained something approaching a good relationship with my parents. Maybe they'd have been less determined to mould me into the image that they had for me." She sighed fractionally. She hadn't meant to get into all this. It wasn't what Emil had asked.

"Eventually, through sheer force of attrition they just about got what they wanted. It just became easier to bend to their will than to fight them all the time, and I turned in this pale facsimile of the young woman they wanted. I still had these strange interests, but they were willing to let that pass as long as I 'seemed to be recovering from my behavioural difficulties.'"

"What happened?"

"I was twenty-one. Just completed two years at a Swiss finishing school. Yes, they do still have them, even in this day and age would you believe? I was engaged to be married. James his name was – Earl of Farringdon. I can't honestly remember that much about him now, except that he was extremely wealthy and from a family that my father considered 'appropriate to my station'. He was very handsome and very upper-class, and absolutely hideously, appallingly, irredeemably dull.

"Kind of as a last hurrah before returning to the realms of the real world there was this end of term skiing trip, arranged by the finishing school. My last taste of freedom." She stopped a moment at the memories that suddenly flooded through her, before carrying on. Her voice wavered just a fraction as she told Emil about the plane crash; the numb terror she'd felt when she'd realised that they were experiencing more than a patch of particularly bad turbulence. About the miracle that had seen her thrown clear of the wreckage – battered and bruised and bleeding, with a dislocated elbow, but otherwise more-or-less unscathed – into a snowbank just before the fuel-tanks caught fire and exploded. Of walking through the smouldering fragments of aircraft, and the bodies – some still recognisable but most not – and trying to salvage something in the way of supplies whilst tears ran down her cheeks, almost but not quite freezing on her face.

"There was a moment which I can only describe as some kind of epiphany. There I was, alone amid the ice and snow and soaring mountains that seemed to go on forever. A pampered, over-privileged little rich girl completely unequipped to deal with the situation I found myself in, all of my friends dead on the mountainside behind me. And I found it beautiful – perhaps the most beautiful sight I had ever experienced in my life.

"I should have been scared out of my wits – who knows: maybe it was just the thin air and the lack of oxygen reaching my brain; or maybe I'd simply gone beyond the ability to feel terror. But I felt calm. Absolutely calm. I knew that I was almost certainly going to die up there in those mountains, but for the first time that I could recall I felt like I was in control of my own destiny. That I didn't have to answer to anybody else, or live up to their rules and expectations; that the only person I had to please and depend upon was myself.

"I guess what I'm trying to say, is that – for the first time in a very long while – I felt as though I was really alive."

Lara shook her head slowly, trying to clear away the vividness of some of the images that were flooding back. "I know that this must sound extremely selfish and heartless. After all ninety-six people, most of whom I knew – and some of whom had been close friends of mine – had just died, scattered across the mountainside like so much human chaff.

"Anyway, I started walking. I won't pretend it was easy. In fact it was probably the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. There were times when all I wanted to do was give in to weariness and absolute despair – to lay down in the snow and let myself drift off, into a sleep that would never end and where I would never be cold or hungry or in pain again. A large proportion of the time I think I was probably delirious with altitude sickness. But twelve days later I was still alive – barely – and I walked into the Nepalese village of Tokakeriby."

A short period of silence passed when neither of them said anything, and the only sound in the car was their breathing. "Needless to say, when I returned to England I was a changed person. It probably sounds pretentious, but when the plane crashed I was still a girl. When I walked down from the mountain I was a woman." A wry smile twisted across Lara's lips. "Not that I'd recommend it as a way of growing up, you understand.

"I broke off my engagement to James. He doesn't know what a lucky escape he had. I'd have made just about the worst wife it's possible to imagine. And I started to seriously study and pursue the things that really interested me – archaeology, travel and exploration. My parents were appalled, but initially they gave me a bit of leeway on the assumption that I was still suffering from the trauma of the crash. Then I started to arrange solo expeditions where I would be away from home for weeks on end. That was, I think, the last straw.

"My father cut off my allowance. He even threatened to have me committed 'for my own good' as I had 'quite obviously gone insane'. We exchanged words – most of them extremely unpleasant – and I ended up walking out.

"I started funding my travels through my writing, and commissions from various museums and private collectors, though I think dad imagined I would still have to come crawling back to him eventually for money. It didn't happen – I made finds which left me independently wealthy, and I bought back the old ancestral home in Surrey which the Croft family had to sell in the last century when there were financial difficulties.

"I made an attempt to patch things up with my parents, hoping that they'd see that I'd made some sort of success out of my life and would be able to accept me for what I was." Lara let out a long exhalation. "It didn't quite happen the way I had envisaged. These things never do I suppose. My father told me that he no longer considered me to be his daughter and disowned me."

She turned to look at Emil directly. "That was just over eight years ago now." Then. "I'm sorry. I said more than I tended to. I didn't mean to go on about myself for quite so long. Apologies if I bored you."

Outside the sky had turned golden, the sun a huge fiery red sphere hanging over Geneva's distant skyline. There was a wonderful sense of tranquillity about the soft, satiny light and for a time a spell was cast where the world really did seem to be a beautiful, mystical place – all of the hard edges smoothed away.

"Bored me?" Emil met her gaze. "How could you possibly believe. . .?" He looked away from her, shaking his head. "I guess it's my turn now. Though I don't really have anything to tell that can compare with what I just heard."

"It's not a competition you know. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. . . but I would be interested to hear."

Emil chuckled softly. "A deal is a deal."

"Believe it or not I used to be a policeman," he began. "I got into law-enforcement. . . No, maybe that's not the best place to start.

"My father moved to England in the early sixties from Nigeria – took British citizenship a couple of years before I was born. He was a very driven, ambitious man – set up his own business and managed to make a success of it at a time when it really was very difficult to succeed if your skin was the wrong colour. In time we got rich. . . maybe not in the manner of your family, but by our standards it was beyond our dreams. . . well maybe not beyond dad's dreams. He had quite some dreams. I went to all the best schools, and I mean the best schools. . . Harrow, then a place at Cambridge.

"I did well. . . dad was almost like some kind of god to me, and I could never dream of disappointing him. . . not that our relationship was without its difficulties mind. Then, back in 1985 he made the decision to expanded his business into Nigeria – give something back to his homeland I think the idea was.

"He was a proud man, dad, never gave in to anybody, or let himself be bullied. He wasn't the sort to be intimidated by some low-grade Lagos thugs running a protection racquet. Stupid sod. . ." Emil broke off, and Lara thought she detected a slight waver to his voice.

"He was gunned down on a road crossing in Lagos. Mum was absolutely devastated. I was. . . I was furious with the whole fucking world.

"I think I joined the police to get my own back on the sort of scumbags who did that to him – to my family. Not, with hindsight the very best of motives."

There was another pause in Emil's flow, and Lara began to wonder if he was going to continue at all. "Very quickly I became disillusioned. Not with the way my career was going. . . I made detective sergeant at twenty-four, which is pretty good going I'm told. No, more with the system itself. Now I'm on the outside I recognise the fact you absolutely cannot risk jailing an innocent person just to ensure ten guilty ones get convicted. I agree with that wholeheartedly. But when you're on the inside. . . it all seems so different. Everything seems weighted so heavily in favour of the criminal. It starts to look nigh on impossible to secure a conviction, and people – really nasty, viciously unpleasant people – who you know absolutely are guilty walk free and commit more harm with impunity. It happens constantly, and you begin to wonder where the justice is. You see things that begin to deaden your soul, and I think I was in danger of starting down a very dark path.

"When the man tried to recruit me into MI6 I leapt at the opportunity. This, I was sure, was my chance to really make a difference." Emil smiled ruefully, as though in memory of his old naïveté. "Do you have any idea what intelligence work really involves Lara?"

"I suspect it is not quite as advertised in the James Bond films."

Emil laughed. "No kidding. When it comes down to it it's ninety-eight parts excruciating, mind numbing tedium mixed in occasionally with two parts of bowel-loosening terror and adrenaline rush, when you know for certain you're going to die. The benefits are lousy too.

"I'd been in the job about two years when I met Jack Croag. It was in Bosnia – our two organisations were engaged in a joint operation that seemed for the most part to involve little more than keeping tabs on the atrocities committed by both sides. To start with he seemed an alright bloke – for somebody of his seniority – old stoneface we used to call the bastard." He paused a moment to compose himself.

"There was a woman too. Mariana Vlaovic her name was. . . also working for MI6. She was. . . she was. . . Very special." His voice broke, catching in his throat. "I don't know if you'd say it was love at first sight, but there was definitely some kind of major connection right from the moment I laid eyes on her. The days and nights we spent together. . . they were like nothing I have known before or since. I probably wasn't behaving very professionally. In fact I know I wasn't. But I believed that I'd found the one true love of my life, and I frankly didn't care. Maybe if I'd paid a bit more attention I'd have noticed that Croag was acting suspiciously. Maybe not. I don't know.

"Anyway, Croag led a small team, supposedly to assassinate a Serbian militia leader – Drazan Alsavijec – who had been implicated in several of the worst atrocities committed against the Muslim population. Mariana was part of that team. I wasn't.

"I later found out that the real reason for taking out Alsavijec had nothing to do with the alleged atrocities he was supposed to have committed. His militia group simply possessed some artefact or other dedicated to a whacko demon-goddess, which they were using as a kind of battle-standard. The organisation that Croag's loyalties truly lay with wanted it – seemingly at any cost.

"The hit was a success – went extremely smoothly apparently – and Croag came away with what he wanted. Unfortunately Croag was – and still is – a paranoid bastard. He didn't feel comfortable with the hit team knowing that he'd taken the artefact. So he had a CIA cleaner – and by that I don't mean someone who sweeps the floors – brought in to tie up 'loose ends'.

"Mariana was one of those loose ends."

Emil fell silent again, staring out across the lake's waters where they reflected the flaming glory of the setting sun. Lara wanted to say something to him, but she wasn't sure what she could – half felt she was intruding upon private grief. In the end she just kept quiet.

Eventually he turned to face her once more. His eyes seemed calm and untroubled as they looked into hers. Suddenly he was leaning towards her, one hand sliding round her back to gently cradle the nape of her neck.

Lara's breath caught in her throat. As his face came close hers, lips fractionally parted, she could feel her heart racing – though not with fear. What the hell is he doing?

He veered fractionally to one side at the last moment. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her ear, lingering traces of the cologne he sometimes wore filling her nostrils. "Look in the mirror, at the car that just pulled up behind us." His voice was scarcely even a whisper.

Lara let out a shuddering exhalation. A Swiss police BMW loomed large in her vision. Walking rapidly towards their car was a uniformed officer, florid faced with a moustache that made him look like he was attempting to swallow a live squirrel headfirst.

Emil pretended to start at the tap on the window, pulling quickly back from her and opening the window. "Can I help you officer?" He asked in halting, badly mangled French – deliberately faking. Lara knew he spoke the language fluently.

"English?" The officer asked dryly, his voice containing virtually no trace of an accent.

"Er. . . Yes. That's right. Is there some kind of a problem?"

The policeman displayed his badge to Emil before responding. "Routine enquiry. I don't know if you're aware of it Monsieur, but a young girl went missing from this area last week."

"How awful," Emil murmured. "I'm very sorry officer, I don't think that we can be of much help. You see we only arrived in Switzerland yesterday, I'm afraid." He gestured at the car's glove compartment. "I have my passport in the front if you wish to confirm that. Shall I get it for you?"

The policeman waved that he should do so. "Go ahead Monsieur, please."

Emil opened the glove compartment slowly, allowing the policeman to see into it at all times. He reached carefully inside and handed the thin black-covered booklet over.

"Thank you. And your. . . companion?" The policeman let his gaze linger over Lara.

"Er, this is Ms. Croft. We're over here on a business trip together. She's my. . ."

"Let me guess," the policeman butted in as Lara silently leant across Emil to pass him her driver's license. "Your secretary?"

"Erm, no. My boss actually. I'm her Personal Assistant."

"Is that so?" Lara could see the policeman's smirk even through the shrubbery on his top lip. He handed the passport and driver's license back to Emil. "Sorry to have troubled you. And enjoy the rest of your stay. Geneva is a beautiful place at this time of year." He turned to go, but paused mid-stride, looking back over his shoulder. "If I might offer a piece of advice. You may want to take that back to you're hotel room where you have some privacy."

"Yes. Thank you officer." Emil fixed a smile on his face. It quickly faded when the policeman's back was turned and he was safely walking towards his car.

"Was all of that really necessary?" Lara shot him a glowering look as the police BMW pulled out of the lay-by and drove away.

Emil was grinning at her broadly, all signs of his earlier introspection faded. "Your hair smells very nice. Do you know that?"

Lara shook her head and sighed.

* * *

"Umh, that outfit really suits you Lara." Emil directed a mock leer in her direction.

Lara, who had just finished stripping off her outer layer of clothing, looked up and met his gaze with a level stare. "In your dreams."

She was wearing a black cat-suit, which clung to each and every lissom curve as if it had been painted on. She was in the process of efficiently belting her twin Beretta pistols around her waist, then slid her shotgun over her shoulder and through a loop to secure it in place. Her backpack – in addition to its normal first-aid kit, flares and survival gear – held climbing equipment including a long coil of nylon rope, plus one or two more specialised items Emil had supplied her with.

Emil laughed. "Believe me Lara, in my dreams you're wearing considerably less that that."

Overhead the sky was a deep, smooth, inky blue, dusted with the first faint traceries of silver starlight. The moon – a bright, sickle crescent – cast its pale glow through sparsely foliaged tree-tops, while to the west there was still a brighter line of paler blue sky where the sun had set less than an hour ago. To the east over the Alps, in contrast, the sky was close to pure black. Numerous small lights shone from out upon the lake.

Unaccountably Lara found herself blushing at Emil's words – found herself hoping that the minimal illumination managed to hide the fact from him. "You're just as bad as Martin you know. Is it some kind of infectious condition do you think?" Then. "Pick a limb."

"Er. . . Lara?"

She had eased one of her pistols free of its holster and was making a show of inspecting it carefully. "I said pick a limb." Her voice was calm. "I think I'm going to shoot you. It's only polite to give you the option as to where."

"Umh. That'd hardly be very professional of you. Given the circumstances."

"But I think it would be fun," she pointed out. "I haven't had nearly enough in the way fun in recent weeks."

After a moment she slid the pistol firmly back into place at her hip. Then she pulled on the headset that would allow her to remain in instantaneous contact with both Emil and Martin, back at the apartment. "Lets get going shall we? The sooner this is over with the better."

* * *

To start with it all went smoothly.

Emil watched as Lara went over the perimeter fence in front of him with a grace and fluidity that was simply astonishing. She moved in almost absolute silence, avoiding the barbed-wire as though it wasn't there. He felt his doubts about her ability – her lack of any kind of formalised training in this type of covert activity – evaporate in a single instant. It was very apparent that she had done this kind of thing before and knew exactly what she was doing.

In fact he made considerably more of a meal of the fence than she had, feeling almost embarrassed as he landed on the grass at her side.

It was full dark now, though the CIA installation itself was lit up like a Christmas tree, bathed in the glow of dozens of powerful sodium vapour lamps. They illuminated the sky with residual glow for several miles around.

Lara was slightly surprised that the environmentally conscious Swiss didn't consider the place an unacceptable light pollutant. She quickly pushed the thought from her head as completely irrelevant to the matter in hand.

Two of the lamps had been extinguished to create a narrow corridor of relative shadow across the expanse of lawn leading up to the building – Martin's work. He had also set up the nearest three security cameras to play back a couple of minutes of recently recorded footage in an endless loop. Any security guards watching their monitors would not be able to see them breaking in.

There were a number of motion sensors too, hidden in white sprinkler heads spaced across the lawns. Martin had set these down to their lowest level of sensitivity. He was unable to turn the things off entirely because it would trip a system monitor and cause a control board somewhere to light up.

Moving with almost painful slowness they started out across the grass, separated from each other by about five paces with Emil leading the way.

The feeling of exposure and vulnerability was horrible, verging upon agoraphobia. The area of shadow they were moving through didn't seem to provide anything like enough cover, and there was a constant urge to break into a run to escape from the eyes that a tiny, paranoid part of Lara's brain was sure were watching her from the building.

Rationally she knew that anyone looking out of the installation's windows would be blinded by the glare of the lights, able to see little more than a reflection of their office's interior and inky darkness beyond. Sometimes rationality wasn't much help though. Ahead of her Emil looked like he was trying to wade through treacle.

It took getting on for ten minutes to cover slightly under a hundred yards, and by the end of it Lara's nerves were feeling distinctly frayed.

"Martin, we've arrived at the entry point. Take the alarm down." Emil's words came over loud and clear through Lara's earpiece, though they were spoken in what scarcely qualified as a whisper.

"Done." There was no hint of flippancy in Martin's tone now. Just cool, detached professionalism. "Quick as you safely can." Reminding them that every second the alarm was down they risked detection.

Emil took out the glasscutter he had ready in his pocket, pressing the suction cup against an area of window near to the latch. Body positioned to shield his hands from the motion sensors, he then drew the arm round in a swift circle, diamond whispering softly against glass. A single firm tap, and the circle came free, still attached to the suction cup. Then he was reaching through the hole he had created, easing the window open just enough to allow them access.

Climbing through in slow motion was the work of a skilled contortionist. A couple of minutes later tough, they were both inside.

Almost before Lara's feet touched the floor Emil was easing the window shut behind her. He then slotted the circle of glass back into place in the hole it had left, and sprayed carefully around it with clear, quick-hardening gel to secure it in place. After a ten count he gently prised the suction cup away. No one who saw it would be fooled in the slightest as to what had happened. However it would be enough to convince the alarm system that the window was still intact.

"Martin, we're in."

"Bringing alarm back on line. Now cycling cameras back to live feed. . . Okay, all done."

Lara let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding when no alarm rang out to give them away.

"Status check?"

"Route A still open. Proceed as per the initial plan." There was a slight pause followed by a muttered curse. "Oh shit. . . Er I think there may be a problem boss."

"Don't keep us in suspense." That was Lara. She'd moved silently across the room and was peering out of the glass section of the office door.

"Dr. Rachel Adler just checked in at the security station. She's heading up to the installation." Dr. Adler was one of the project heads whose offices they planned to search.

After a moment's silence Lara said: "This could turn out to be a positive. If we can't find anything there's now somebody who we can ask." She didn't need to add about how much more problematical it also made things.

"We carry on," Emil informed Martin.

Abruptly the light came on in the corridor outside the office. "Security Guard." Lara drew her head back from the door. "Martin, could he have noticed the alarm going down?"

"Maybe. Could just as easily be on a routine round though."

Lara was staring upwards and Emil followed the direction of her gaze. Removable ceiling tiles, about two foot square. Then she had leapt, catlike, onto a tabletop and was lifting one of the tiles aside. "Quick, follow me." Even as she finished speaking she was pulling herself up, only her dangling legs still in Emil's field of view.

Hearing the sound of the security guard's footsteps now, slowly getting closer, Emil moved to do as he was told.

* * *

Up in a darkened office on the top floor of the building, the only source of illumination coming from the LCD display of a laptop PC, Bob Kayser monitored the incursion's progress – a spider feeling slight vibrations travelling across his web, waiting patiently for his prey to become entangled.

Hooked into the installation's computer systems he had been able to track Lara and her friend to their entry point on the ground floor by watching the changes to the motion sensors' settings, then the short-lived period where the alarm on office B1.25's window had been taken down. For the moment though he had temporarily lost them

He was smiling to himself, his visage transformed into an alien mask by the laptop's sickly glow. Altogether he was impressed – by now he had half expected to have to intervene on their behalf: to cover up a slip; or even assert his authority to call security off.

So far though, they had been flawless in their performance. Even now he was unsure how they had managed to gain access to the computers without leaving a trace. The diagnostics showed no sign.

The sense of anticipation within him grew. Just possibly tonight he would for once face worthy opposition. Idly his hand caressed the weapon resting on his lap.

* * *

"All clear." Lara whispered, then lowered herself down into the office below, disappearing from Emil's view.

They had crawled almost the entire length of the corridor through this cramped ceiling cavity. It was filled with what seemed like years worth of accumulated dust and grime, their progress slow and meticulous as they picked their way carefully between a tangled mess of cabling. For the last couple of minutes Emil had been struggling to hold back a coughing fit from the irritation in the back of his throat. The space had begun to seem ever more confining to his sizeable frame, almost as though it was closing in on him. It was with great relief that he eased himself down to the floor again.

It hadn't been part of their plan to take this route, but it had definitely had its benefits. As of yet they hadn't needed to venture into the corridors with their security camera coverage, and now they were right next to the fire escape they planned to use.

"Okay Martin, we're about to move for the first juncture. We need you to work some more of that camera magic."

There was a couple of seconds pause before the reply came. "Go ahead."

Even as the words were finishing Lara was slipping silently out of the office door, 9mm pistol now in hand, muzzle carried pointed upwards towards the ceiling. Emil followed just behind – a huge, substantial shadow at her back. He too now openly carried his gun in his hand.

"Clear," Emil informed Martin as the fire escape door closed behind his back. Ahead of him Lara dropped smoothly into a combat crouch, pistol aimed at unwaveringly at the next stairwell.

No one was there.

They ascended the three flights of stairs to the top floor in rapid-fire fashion. Both were filled with a steadily mounting tension, and in a strange way the fact that everything had gone so perfectly smoothly up to this point actually increased rather than lessened this feeling.

Then they were at the exit leading to their target. "Martin, which office is Dr. Adler's?"

"D4.07," Lara answered him before Martin got the chance.

"Yeah, don't you pay attention, man?"

Emil ignored him. "Okay, Lara you take the offices on the left. I'll take the right."

She gave a short nod of acknowledgement

"Martin?"

"I know, switch the cameras. Just a moment. . . There, it's done. Go ahead."

Emil took a deep breath. There was nothing to be gained from standing around. "Okay, lets get going."

* * *

Bob Kayser finished reeling off his authorisation code. "Can I be entirely candid with you Mr. Murcheson? Good. I fully appreciate your concerns, and I understand your objections. I really do. Feel free to raise them with my superiors when this is over. But the fact remains that I am giving you a direct order. I am not asking you for your opinion. I'm telling you what you are going to do. The top three floors of this building are, as of now, under quarantine. Anybody who violates this risks being shot – and if they are not shot, then their career with the Agency is most certainly over, with probable criminal charges to follow. Is that quite clear? Thank you Mr. Murcheson. You've been a great help." Kayser hung up on the installation security chief as he started another blustering reply. Pompous, self-important little bastard.

Five minutes earlier Kayser had seen the intruders on the feed from a concealed micro-camera hidden within the foliage of a miniature palm tree in the corridor just outside this office. It was one of several similar devices he'd planted throughout the installation at strategic points. Lara, his primary target, gliding like just another shadow through the gloom, and yes, it really was who he had thought. Croag would be especially pleased by this turn-up. An unexpected little bonus that would see the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

Switching to a feed from the main security camera had shown nothing – empty corridor with no one in sight. That had raised a smile.

He'd then switched back to his own camera and watched as Lara managed to successfully spring one of the office doors before disappearing inside. Emil Ngonge – the other one – had moved on further down the corridor, out of sight.

Still going so well. It almost seemed a pity to interrupt their little jaunt.

Now though, the time had come.

He hit the laptop's enter key, and suddenly the security circuits covering each of the top three floors of the installation were shut down. Then he rose to his feet, silencer-fitted automatic in one hand, suitcase in the other.

Time to do the day job.

* * *

Lara ran the beam of a penlight across the file, then slotted it back into the cabinet, before quickly picking out the next one. No good.

She wasn't interested in costing reports on proposed network upgrades.

It seemed like it was taking forever, and at the current rate of progress they would probably both still be here, fruitlessly searching, come morning when people started to arrive for work. Her mouth felt dry and she had to consciously fight down the sense of nervous urgency that filled her – made her want to empty all the draws and cabinets full of files in a great heap on the floor and ransack the place. Never mind that the office three doors down was occupied, light filtering through the crack beneath the door and the gentle strains of classical music – Beethoven's Fidelio overture she thought – reaching her even with the door shut. You'd have thought the CIA would have better soundproofing fitted.

She moved to the next file.

This is just like raiding a tomb, she tried to reassure herself. The same skills and virtues – patience, concentration, thoroughness – are what is required. She never felt the need to rush when walking through the ruins of an ancient temple, where any misstep or lack of caution could trigger sudden and fatal disaster; where any unnecessary hurrying could result in priceless millennia old artefacts being lost forever. There was no need to treat what she was doing at the moment any differently. The setting may have been different but the principles still applied. And you can think of the Doctor three doors away as a mythical guardian beast that the slightest sound will wake up.

A report on possible weaknesses in the Lac Leman Installation's security. Martin might find it of some interest, but it was of little use to her right now. She moved on past it.

There was a growing feeling inside that she should give up on this office. The person it belonged to was obviously into the hardware side of things. Probably head of computer systems, or some title pretty close to that. It was doubtful that he – she glanced quickly at the desk to get the name; Allan Lufkin – would also be directly involved in code cracking operations for Jack Croag.

After a couple of folders containing nothing more than various invoices – for a pair of Sun workstations, various disk arrays and sundry cabling – Lara concluded that this was exactly what she should do. If necessary she could always come back. Then a thought struck her. This was probably the best place to find out which disk arrays were allocated to what.

Maybe a couple more minutes.

"Lara." Emil's voice in her ear interrupted her thoughts. "I may have got something here. Did you know that Natla Technologies used to have their African headquarters based in Uganda? Kampala to be precise."

"Uganda?" She echoed softly. To be honest she hadn't been aware that Natla technologies had even had an African headquarters – though if that was where Jacqueline Natla had her storehouse located it was logical that they would. It suddenly hit her that Uganda was where the Nile – well, one of its tributaries anyway – had its source.

Emil's voice changed suddenly, the excitement in it barely contained. "Lara, I think you want to come and see this."

She dropped the folder she was holding back into the drawer. "On my way."

Lara eased the door shut behind her in absolute silence. She glanced down the broad corridor with its plush carpeting, lush tropical plants and works of modern art hanging from the walls. She didn't try to lock it. It had been tense enough getting the thing open in the first place, using the set of skeleton keys that Emil had given her whilst half-expecting with every passing instant that Dr. Adler would open her door.

Suddenly she froze. There was someone in the corridor with her.

He had his back turned towards her and was half-hidden in the shadow of a yucca plant; so still and silent that it took Lara a couple of seconds to register the fact that this wasn't just some bizarre piece of sculpture. He was quite short – Lara topped him by several inches certainly – and she could see his balding scalp gleaming in the dim light. With his wire-frame glasses and his cheap looking, strangely lumpen suit he could pass for a stereotypical, ageing computer nerd – if it wasn't for the modern, silencer-fitted automatic held almost casually in one hand.

How? How can this man be here? She didn't pursue the thought. There would be time to think later.

Still he seemed oblivious to her presence, even as she silently drew one of her pistols and aimed it at the back of his skull. One shot – a smooth squeeze from her trigger finger – and it would all be over, no more problem.

A deep calm came over her, time slowing to a crawl. She hesitated though, unable to do it. Killing someone in the heat of combat was one thing. Shooting somebody in the back of the head, without them even knowing she was there quite another. Her trigger finger wavered.

"You guys, we have a big problem." Martin was suddenly speaking over the headset, into her ear. "The security loops on the top three floors have gone dead. Completely dead. I think you need to get out of there. Right now." The panic in his voice was audible, barely contained.

Lara didn't know if the man somehow heard Martin's frantic communication, or saw the gleam of her weapon's silencer-fitted barrel out of the corner of his eye, or just plain sensed her eyes fixed upon the back of his head. Whatever, he was suddenly spinning round, gun blazing, bullets stitching the air with a quiet phhtt, phhtt.

She dove to the floor, the moment of lethargy gone in a blazing rush of adrenaline, feeling the passage of the bullets like bees buzzing mere inches above her. Desperately she squeezed off a couple of countershots, punching twin holes in the plasterwork either side of where his head had just been – forcing him to retreat back into the scant cover of the shadows and the yucca and buying herself a few fractions of a second.

Somehow she managed to get the door open again, rolling through it an instant before the second burst of her gunfire, which would have ripped her to shreds.

* * *

"What the hell is going on out there. . ?" The words died on Rachel Adler's lips as she took in the scene before her. As Bob Kayser's eyes met hers the realisation struck that she was looking death straight in the face.

Aged in her late thirties, Rachel was an attractive, slightly cold seeming woman – tall and slim with jaw-length reddish blonde hair, flawless alabaster pale skin and bright sea-green eyes. She was well groomed and professional looking – smart and competent. As the gun barrel lifted towards her – her legs rooted to the spot and completely unwilling to respond to her brains frantic urgings – she felt a brief flash of regret. She wasn't going to be able to make that date on Friday after all.

Without warning a huge, dark missile exploded out of the shadows, slamming into her hard and knocking her bodily backwards. The breath blasted from her lungs as she crashed hard onto the floor of her office, a heavy figure landing on top of her.

Bullets ripped over them both, tearing a bland landscape print to shreds and shattering her PC's monitor in a shower of broken glass and blinding sparks. A window exploded outwards, cold air flooding inside. Puffs of stuffing and jagged splinters of wood rose into the air as her chair was ripped apart.

As the burst of gunfire subsided – louder now than the sounds that had drawn Rachel out of her office as the effectiveness of Kayser's silencer began to degrade – Emil pulled his weight off her and kicked the door closed with a thunderous retort. Little snowfalls of paint and plaster were knocked from the surrounding doorframe to flutter to the floor.

Sucking great gulps of air back into her lungs, Rachel struggled to sit up.

Immediately, his own silencer-fitted Uzi still trained upon the door, Emil dropped to her side. One large hand clamped firmly over her mouth as she gazed up at him. There was a wild, frightened look in her eyes.

"Listen to me very carefully, and do exactly what I tell you if you want to live. Clear?" Emil's words came out in a harsh, hissing whisper.

A fractional nod of her head. "Dr. Adler, right? Now I just saved your life. That guy out there is called Robert Kayser, and he's a CIA cleaner – one of the best. You know what that means?" Another scared nod. "I'm afraid you're part of the mess he was sent to tidy up after."

Inside Emil's thoughts were racing. Kayser? What the fuck was that psychopath doing here? Lara obviously. Croag must have decided he couldn't afford to have her running around behind him, causing god alone knows what kind of trouble. But how the hell had he found them? A sudden horrific thought struck him. Garda! No!

It was a struggle to maintain a facade of calm as he said: "I'm going to let go of you now. You're going to remain completely calm and not try to do anything stupid. Understand?"

After a second or so delay she gave another slight nod, and he lifted his hand away from her mouth, standing up and looking around the office.

"W-Why would a cleaner be after me? Who are you?"

Emil glanced back at Dr. Adler as she pulled herself to her feet, a noticeable tremor in her legs. "Jack Croag," he said simply, looking her directly in the eye. He saw from the almost imperceptible start that she recognised the name. "Croag's been a renegade for a long time now, and that code he asked you to crack – lets just say he isn't willing to share the pot of gold at the end of that particular rainbow with anyone."

He found himself wondering, just for a moment whether this could be true. That Kayser's presence was merely some horrifically unlikely coincidence; that he really was here to kill this woman. It doesn't seem likely, he concluded with an almost inaudible sigh. Even Croag isn't mad enough to target one of the CIA's own installations for cleaning.

His gaze settled on the ceiling tiles – the same as the ones that had led to the crawlspace they had utilised on the ground floor.

Some of the glassy, frightened look had faded from Rachel Adler' face. "Just who the hell are you? And why should I trust you or anything that you say?"

Emil regarded her levelly. "I'm somebody who wants to see that Jack Croag doesn't get what he wants. And you don't have to trust me." He shot a meaningful look at the office door. "You're quite welcome to stay behind and chat to Mr. Kayser if that's what you desire.

"Now I'm going up there," he gestured towards the ceiling with his gun. "I suggest that you come with me. Though of course, the choice is entirely yours."

* * *

Kayser was absolutely furious with himself. Livid. He knew that if Lara Croft hadn't suffered from quite as many moral scruples his brains would now be scattered across the wall and his corpse would be bleeding slowly into the deep pile carpet.

Not only that, he now had armed opponents on either side of him who both knew of his presence. One of them at least had good knowledge of his capabilities – along with every reason on earth to want him dead. To top it all off he now needed to kill Dr. Adler – which might not go down too well with some of his more squeamish superiors. And he'd managed to waste more than half a clip of bullets with nothing to show for it.

Oh, well. I always did like a challenge. . . A ghost of a smile.

He had been sloppy and overconfident up to this point. He was still alive though, and now had ample opportunity to correct those mistakes and turn the tables. His gaze turned to the open doorway that Lara had dived through a few seconds before.

Her first. She was after all the target he had been sent to kill.

Moving with controlled efficiency, Kayser opened his case and took out a slightly elongated, perfectly smooth, spherical black object – a stun-gas grenade. Humming beneath his breath he pulled out the pin and rolled it across the carpet, in through the office door, listening to the soft hiss of the escaping gas. He followed up with a second identical grenade.

Then he sat down on his haunches, gun trained on the doorway to cover any attempted break. Slowly he began to count within his head. By the time he reached a hundred there was still neither sound nor sign of movement from within.

Out of the window? He mused as he stood up. It was difficult to credit that the grenades had actually got her. Calmly he tossed a glow stick into the office, lighting it up in sickly green-hued light. There was no sign of any unconscious woman sprawled on the floor.

Advancing forward he squeezed off a few rounds into the deeply shadowed corners, but there was no indication that he hit anything living. Then he rolled through the doorway, firing more shots into the only part of the office completely invisible from outside. The only result was a row of shredded manuals.

The room was completely empty.

Kayser glanced around, breathing shallowly through his nose. He could taste the acridity of the gas lingering in the air – though it was now too diluted to be of much harm to anyone of his constitution. All of the windows were intact and still closed. There was no other way out, and nowhere that an adult human could successfully hide. A frown crossed his face, and for a moment he was to say the least, perturbed.

Then he looked upwards, the only direction he had yet to check. A smile of dawning understanding spread across his lips. Stupid, stupid. The admonishment was directed towards himself.

Still smiling, Kayser proceeded to empty the remainder of the clip into the ceiling, managing to put at least one bullet into every single one of the tiles. No cries of pain resulted though, and there was no distinctive sound of bullet ripping into flesh.

Quickly he slotted a second clip into place – there were four more to come after this one if it proved to be necessary. Then he sprang agilely onto the desk, a part of his mind briefly noting the pencil holder that Lara had obviously knocked over when taking the same route just before him. Using the barrel of his gun – with its now almost useless silencer attachment still fitted – he pushed the tile directly above him upwards.

No shots rang out to greet him, but he wasn't taking any chances. He reached up and fired a couple of short bursts blind into the dark space above him, raking round in an arc to cover the full 360°. Again there was no distinctive sound of a live human being struck by bullets. Cautiously – ready to draw back in a moment's notice – he stuck his head up into the dark space above him.

It took a moment for Kayser's eyes to adjust to the gloom. When they eventually did he could clearly see the route that Lara had taken, swept free of accumulated dust by her body, with the forest of wires and cables pushed aside by her rapid progress. There had been no attempt to cover up her trail. Somewhere in the distance he could make out a paler square amid the gloom; absolutely no sign of Lara Croft.

An unpleasant thought occurred to him. Adrenaline flowing, he dropped swiftly to the floor, weapon moving almost instantaneously to cover the doorway. But she hadn't doubled back at him. He shook his head, allowing himself to relax.

She isn't a professional killer, he reminded himself. She won't think like I do, or possess the same ruthlessness.

Nevertheless Bob Kayser was beginning to enjoy himself. He went to get her.

* * *

Emil slid free of the ceiling cavity and landed in a crouch on the carpet. After glancing quickly at his surroundings, he reached up to help Dr. Adler down beside him, the two of them staggering as she landed. Lara followed quickly on their heels – effortlessly graceful and controlled as always.

"You know him?" Lara queried. It was obvious who she meant.

"Robert Kayser," Emil filled her in quickly. "A CIA cleaner. The CIA cleaner."

Lara knew immediately what he meant by that. The CIA cleaner he had told her about a few hours earlier. The one who had killed Mariana – the lost love of his life. Quickly on its tail came the thought: What the hell is he doing here now?

Emil read the unspoken question from the expression on her face. "I don't know exactly why he's here – well apart from to kill us all obviously." He cast a quick glance in Dr. Adler's direction. "There could be any number of reasons."

He knows all right. But the implication was clear: not a topic for discussion in front of the Doctor, and not now. Lara had a pretty good idea herself. Croag wanted loose ends – such as herself – tied up. How he'd found them was quite another matter. "You got what we came for?"

Emil patted one of his pockets. "A map reference and a paragraph of some kind of text I couldn't even begin to read. You'd need to look to know for sure." Then. "It'll have to be enough. We won't be doing any more searching tonight. We've got to get out of here. Now preferably."

Lara glanced at Dr. Adler, who looked pale and withdrawn – perhaps in danger of sliding into shock. She noticed Lara's scrutiny and abruptly refocused. "You don't have to worry about me. I won't try to hinder you."

Lara nodded – gave the woman a smile she hoped was reassuring. Dr. Adler seemed to be handling the situation reasonable well – understood the realities of it at least. For the moment she wasn't raising any questions or protests. Those would inevitably come later.

Somewhere behind them came the sound of gunfire – now only slightly muffled. Presuming of course that there was a later. They got going.

"Martin. Status report." Emil spoke urgently, leading the way at a half run. He was gripping Dr. Adler around the arm and almost appeared to be dragging her along. Lara was bringing up the rear, covering behind them, both of her pistols now in hand.

"Man, is it good to hear you're voice again. I thought. . ."

"Later Martin."

"Sorry. Er, the three top floors might as well be invisible. I can't see them and I can't touch them. There doesn't seem to be the uproar I expected though – no alarms and no running around like headless chickens."

They rounded a corner. "The cleaner. He's initiated a quarantine so there won't be any interference with his work." Emil then muttered something inaudible beneath his breath.

"The roof." Lara butted in suddenly. "We can get down from there."

Emil nodded. It was certainly better than trying to play cat and mouse through four floors of unfamiliar building where they no longer had control of the security systems with a professional killer in hot pursuit. They switched direction quickly.

"Martin, we're going to need you to switch off all those motion sensors on my word. Not just desensitise them. Switch them off. Stealth has ceased to be much of an issue."

"Sure, I can still do that. Just yell."

They reached the maintenance doorway, behind which lay the stairs leading to the roof. It was locked.

Cursing beneath his breath Emil rammed his gun back into its holster and began to go at the lock with his set of skeleton keys.

"Get out of the way. I'll blow it open with this." Lara indicated her shotgun with a pat. "We don't have the time."

"Just another couple of seconds." She saw a trickle of sweat run down the side of Emil's face as he continued to struggle with the lock; felt her own heart rising up into her mouth with every instant of delay. "Just another couple of seconds."

After what seemed, subjectively, to be an eternity there was a small, brittle sounding click. The maintenance door swung open. Emil let out an explosive sigh of relief.

From behind them, gunshots rang out.

Dr. Adler gave a sudden gasping cry of shock and pain, collapsing onto her knees like a broken puppet. Lara and Emil just about managed to drag her through, kicking the door shut behind them before another volley of gunfire rang out.

* * *

Kayser saw Dr. Adler go down, a flower of blood blooming from her left calf. Then the door slammed shut between them, cutting off his view. He let off another short burst of gunfire, but to his trained ear the sound of the bullets hitting a metal plate behind the wood was quite distinct. Quickly he let up, realising that he was only wasting ammunition.

First blood is finally mine.

Calmly, and in no apparent hurry, he walked the length of the corridor towards the door his quarries had just fled through. Of course he would have much preferred for it to have been one of the other two – that went without saying. But crippling Dr. Adler still wasn't without its good points.

Now his targets were weighed down with bleeding meat. If it was him he would have left the useless bitch behind, to bleed and be killed – or more likely, simply put a bullet through her brain there and then. It was the only sensible, pragmatic option that anyone who considered themselves a professional could take. One dying so that two might have a better chance of living was a matter of simple maths.

But neither of these two would be able to see it like that. Emil certainly wouldn't, and – from what he had so far witnessed of her – Lara would be even less likely to.

No, he thought. These two would feel a sense of responsibility for the good Doctor – that they had caused her to be dragged into a mess she otherwise wouldn't be involved in; couldn't just throw her to the wolves. Despite the fact that they didn't know her, or anything about her – and could even be said to be working on different sides – they would continue trying to help her. Even when it was obviously going to get them both killed in the process.

Human compassion made his job so much easier.

He reached the door. The handle turned but it wouldn't budge. He threw his shoulder against it, but it still didn't show any sign of giving. Bolted, he surmised.

Kayser stepped back, hooking his weapon through the belt of his trousers. Still showing no signs of hurrying, he produced a compact looking pistol-grip shotgun from his case. Then he pumped a round directly into the lock at close range, turning his face away from the backwash of heat, splinters and pellets. A second and third round quickly followed, leaving the door a complete shambles – the lock mangled entirely beyond recognition.

Swiftly he returned the shotgun to its case before throwing his weight against the door again. This time it flew open with a resounding clatter to reveal the stairway beyond.

Kayser leapt coolly back as a chatter of bullets tore up the carpet in front of his feet. He could see blood smeared in a slick trail up the concrete steps and the impact mark where the slug had gone all the way through. It would have been better if it had hit bone and got wedged, he observed clinically.

He returned fire almost casually – just to let them know he was still there. After a couple more brief exchanges of shots it quickly became obvious that he wouldn't be going up this way – at least until he could dislodge Emil from his position. On the plus side Emil wasn't going anywhere for the moment either. . .

Time for a change in tack.

For a moment he considered abandoning his attempt to reach the building's roof entirely – instead waiting for them to come down the outside and picking them off there. Quickly he dismissed the idea. For all he knew they were gong to call a helicopter to pick them up – however unlikely that might seem. And in any case there was just too much building to cover for him to risk taking that chance. No, he decided, there were other more direct ways.

He produced another couple of grenades from his case, these of the more traditional pineapple-shaped, explosive variety. Yes they should do the job very nicely indeed. . . Smiling like a kid on Christmas day, Kayser threw first one, then the second up the flight of stairs and onto the roof.

Somebody shouted: "Oh shit. . . Get down!"

Even as the shockwave of heat and debris fragments were still washing down the stairs Kayser was up and moving at a sprint, firing a burst of gunfire ahead of him to clear the way.

Now we finish it.

* * *

Lara had managed to get Rachel Adler dragged behind a block of air-conditioning vents, and was in the process of trying to patch up the woman's wound. From somewhere up ahead she could hear Emil and the cleaner, Kayser, exchanging short bursts of gun fire up and down the stairway. Resolutely she pushed that distraction from her mind, concentrating on the matter in hand.

Dr. Adler was shivering, her lips looking almost white – both tell tale signs that she was suffering from shock. The bullet had gone straight through the meat of her calf. To Lara both the entry and exit wounds looked neat and tidy, which was some kind of blessing, but she was bleeding profusely and had almost certainly lost some muscle tissue.

She gave the woman's hand a reassuring squeeze, more than a little concerned by how cold it felt in her grasp. Then she took a tourniquet strip from the first aid kit she carried in her backpack, tying it tightly just beneath the woman's knee.

Lara felt Dr. Adler's wince of pain, but the welling of blood did ease a fraction. She began to wipe away some of the gory mess from around the wounds' edges, trying to ignore the stifled gasps this action elicited. As soon as she was satisfied, she sprayed both sides of the woman's leg copiously with a numbing antiseptic spray, then wadded the wounds with gauze padding and began to tightly bandage it up. It wasn't ideal, but in the circumstances it would have to do. She could get proper treatment assuming that they survived.

Quite how she was going to get Dr. Adler down from the roof in this condition was something she didn't like to think about.

Suddenly she heard Emil yelling: "Oh shit. . . Get down!"

For a moment Lara gaped at him as he sprinted headlong towards them. Then, slightly belatedly she caught on, flattening herself on top of Dr. Adler in an effort to shield the woman, just as the first grenade exploded.

She felt the scorching heat wash over her, the leading edge of the shockwave violently buffeting her body just before she heard the thunderous retort of the explosion, frighteningly close by. Even as it was dying down a second, equally powerful explosion rang out. This one seemed a fraction further away.

Lara's ears were still ringing with the violence of the twin explosions as she pulled herself onto her hands and knees. One side of her face felt as though it had been badly sunburnt, her night vision all but wiped out by the brilliant flashes of light. Blinking, eyes watering, she could just make out Emil's body a few metres beyond her, lying face down on the rooftop, completely motionless. His gun had fallen several feet beyond the reach of his outstretched hand.

It took her a few moments to realise that he was still breathing.

Not for long though. Out in the open like that he was a sitting duck for the cleaner.

Biting down on the fear rising up inside her, Lara drew both of her pistols. Before the complete insanity of what she was about to do could register she dove straight out of the cover, guns blazing.

In mid air she managed to squeeze off three shots with each pistol. Time seemed almost to stand still, and she could clearly see the way that the moonlight reflected weirdly off the lenses of Kayser's glasses – how the man's jaw sagged in amazement at the sight of her. His automatic was still pointing in completely the wrong direction to be brought to bear.

Then at least four bullets slammed straight into his chest from a distance of about three metres, driving him down to his knees.

She landed hard, rolling as she slammed into the rooftop, behind the cover of another of the four-foot high metal vent units that dotted the broad, flat expanse. Belatedly a burst from Kayser's automatic rang out behind her.

"Oh, very good. Very good indeed. If I didn't have both hands full I'd stop and applaud."

Lara felt numb as she listened to his voice ring out. How can he not be dead? I saw him hit four times, virtually point blank range, right in the centre of his chest. She remembered the strange, slightly misshapen way that his suit had hung on his frame. Body armour. Inconsiderate bastard.

She had to keep him busy, away from the others – not give him time to notice them and finish them off. So she did something that normally she never would have considered. She called back to him. "You haven't seen anything yet. Believe me Mr. Kayser."

Firing blind over the cover, she let off a couple of shots in the general direction she'd heard his voice coming from. She deliberately kept her aim high to avoid accidentally hitting Emil or Dr. Adler – had no real thoughts of achieving anything other than a momentary distraction.

Then she made a break, sprinting in a half crouch down the length of the roof, away from Kayser – away from Dr. Adler and Emil.

Kayser's gun sputtered behind her, kicking up splinters of shrapnel as it stitched a line across the rooftop mere inches from her heels. Then she was diving full length behind another of the vents, bullets showering her with sparks as they clanged against the metal.

The gunfire died out with a stuttering cough. Out of bullets, Lara guessed. Though no doubt he would have enough spare clips to keep him going half the night. She started crawling quickly on hands and knees towards the next set of cover.

"So Mr. Ngonge told you my name, did he Lara?" That voice, with its nasal, almost whiny edge was already starting to become distinctly annoying. "Did he also tell you how we know each other?"

Lara ignored him and kept on going. She wondered what he was trying to achieve. Did he hope to lure her into breaking cover, or distract her in some way? All his talking was doing was allowing her to pinpoint his position – and covering up the noise of her movements.

"I killed the woman he loved you see. Shot her in the head. Nothing personal mind, just doing my job."

She more or less had his position locked now – was stealthily working her way around so she would have a clear angle on him. For a supposedly professional killer he sure does like the sound of his own voice.

"She died instantly. No pain whatsoever."

Okay you bastard, one more comment and I've got you. Lara crouched, guns ready and muscles tensed to spring, waiting for the moment.

"Which is more than I can say for poor Garda unfortunately. Her death was quite agonising."

Lara felt as though a skeletal hand had closed around her heart – was momentarily paralysed by a combination of grief and rage, tiny tremors passing through her body. She closed her eyes – bit down on her bottom lip, trying to reassert calm and control.

"You should have remembered to leave a forwarding address. It would have saved so many long hours of torment."

Got you. Lara sprang up, guns blazing, bullets ripping into exactly the spot where Kayser's voice had been coming from. Unfortunately there was no one there. Kayser was standing more than ten feet to the left, gun aimed directly at her, a wide grin slanted across his lips.

Damn, he knows how to throw his voice. It didn't seem a particularly glorious way to die.

Only the fact that Emil chose exactly that moment to stagger unsteadily to his feet, unleashing a wildly inaccurate spray of bullets in Kayser's approximate direction saved her life. Kayser dived instinctively to the floor, causing his own shot to miss Lara's right ear by almost an inch.

As Lara ducked back into cover, she saw Emil stagger and collapse bonelessly to the rooftop in a heap. She didn't think he'd been shot though. Just a concussion. Please be just a concussion. Her heart was hammering wildly out of control, her breath coming in jagged, frightened gasps, and she could feel cold sweat trickling from her armpits and down her back.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Got to stay calm and controlled.

She fired a couple of shots across the top of the block Kayser had dropped behind, working to make sure his attention was still directed towards her and not Emil. One of the guns clicked empty. Which means two rounds left in the other one. Quickly she holstered her pistols and slid the shotgun free from her back. "I'm still alive Mr. Kayser. What's the matter, having problems shooting straight? If you don't mind me saying, for a professional hitman you're not really very good at your job."

Behind and to the left of her, out of the corner of her eye, she could see a square shaped structure resembling a small shed. The vibrating electrical hum emanating from it told her that it was some kind of generator unit. Slowly she began to back towards it.

Kayser popped up like a mad jack-in-a-box with her still only halfway there, horribly exposed and out of cover. The reflexive blast from her shotgun caught him high on the shoulder, knocking him over onto his backside and sending his volley of bullets high and wide into the night sky.

Unfortunately she was also off balance, not having time to brace herself for the shotgun's kick. She stumbled in the half crouch she was moving in, foot catching in one of the rooftop's many grills. As she instinctively tried to catch herself from falling over backwards the shotgun skittered free of her grasp, spinning over two metres away from her across the rooftop.

Lara made a move to recover it, but a raking spray of bullets from Kayser had her drawing her hand back and yelping in pain, fingers torn and bleeding from splinters of rooftop shrapnel. She gave up on it, changing direction abruptly and diving for the cover of the generator shed.

Somehow she made it without bullets ripping into her back.

Lara tried to control her breathing as she crouched in the shadows, mind racing, wondering what on earth she was going to do now. She reached over her shoulder to her backpack, initially intent on getting reload clips for her pistols before Kayser could come and finish her. Then she changed her mind – had a different idea.

"Have you lost your gun Lara? Ahhh, what a pity. And you were doing so well."

She could hear Kayser's voice getting steadily nearer as she took a coil of nylon rope from her pack. After rapidly estimating the particular length she required, she clipped and tied it to her belt harness with trembling, blood slick fingers. The other end of the rope was attached to a spring-loaded grapple.

"I'm bleeding you know Lara. There aren't many who can say they've made Bob Kayser bleed. In a way it almost seems a pity that I have to end it like this." He faked a sigh. "But it's what I get paid for."

His voice made it sound as if he was coming round the generator shed from the left. Don't think that trick's going to work on me twice do you? Lara slid the grapple head into a grill between the wall of the generator and the two-foot high rim of the roof, four spring-loaded titanium steel hooks snapping out to wedge it tightly in place. Then she pulled herself swiftly and silently up onto generator shed's roof, ignoring the knifing pain that shot through her hand. She left a single garish red palm print behind.

Kayser, actually coming round the shed from the right – as Lara had already guessed – caught a glimpse of her shadow moving out of the corner of his eye. Almost laughing aloud at her cleverness, but not in the least taken by surprise, he span around. His gun came up with lightning speed in order to empty half a clip worth of lead into her torso at point blank range.

Or at least that's what would have happened – if Lara had actually tried to jump him as he'd thought.

Instead the bullets went wide of their target by nearly a foot and Kayser watched in stupefied amazement as she plummeted straight past him, over the edge of the roof. An instant later, before he had time to realise what was going on, the rope snapped taut around him so forcefully that it almost ripped him in two.

Without even having time to cry out Kayser was yanked backwards, straight over the edge of the roof and into space. He fell four stories in eerie silence and landed on the lawn with a dull thud.

Lara's own fall was arrested after just one and a half stories, though the force of the rope snapping taut was strong enough to yank all the breath from her body. Moments later she slammed into the side of the building, bouncing and skidding off it in a glancing blow. Dazed and gasping, she swung slowly back and forth in mid-air like some kind of bizarre novelty pendulum.

Thank Christ that's over. Lara's gaze dropped to Kayser's body, lying spread-eagled on his back with one leg twisted unnaturally under him, his glasses torn from his face.

He moved.

Numb shock filled her. A hand twitched spasmodically, then moved to grasp the gun that had landed less than a metre away from him. A part of her almost expected to see a glint of steel through the torn flesh of his scalp – one red glowing mechanical eye.

Moving with all the grace of a broken marionette, somehow Kayser managed to pull himself onto his knees, propping himself up with the barrel of his gun. She could see violent shudders wracking his shoulders. Then, shaking wildly, he managed to raise the gun. Up towards her.

Finally the danger penetrated. She reached for the pistol that still had the two bullets left in it. Unfortunately it wasn't there – the holster at her left hip empty. Lara desperately started climbing back up the 15 feet of rope separating her from the rooftop, knowing she wouldn't make it in time.

Just before he fired, Kayser slipped. He caught himself an instant before he ended up flat on his face on the grass. A high-pitched mechanical whine just about penetrated into his pain-clouded brain. He froze mid-way through his efforts to bring the gun back to bear.

Lara glanced back just in time to see the automated machine-guns that the motion sensors had triggered open up.

Kayser seemed to be doing a strange, groovy dance to music only his ears could hear. Little fountains of blood – nearly black in the artificial light that bathed him – spurted from his limbs where the bullets ripped into him. He collapsed forward onto his face. This time he didn't move again.

Lara took a deep, steadying breath. "Okay Martin, I think it might be a good idea to turn the motion sensors off now."

* * *

Lara pulled herself back onto the rooftop, gasping for breath. The pain in her torn hand had progressed from the merely very painful into a continuous throbbing agony about halfway up the climb, and the relief of being able to let go of the rope was something akin to bliss.

She took a moment to gather herself, feeling battered and bruised now that the pumping of adrenaline through her veins had started to subside. You're not out of this yet. Not by a long way. Can't afford to relax just yet. Quickly she set about the business of unhooking herself and gathering up the rope, before recovering both of her lost guns from where they lay on the roof.

Then she remembered Emil.

He had managed to pull himself up onto his haunches – was looking about himself in a bleary eyed, disconnected kind of way that suggested he was only half-aware of where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. She hurried over to him, kneeling at his side.

"Emil, are you okay?"

He managed a fractional smile. "Feel like shit. Like somebody's been battering me about the head with a sledgehammer." He winced, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead and closing his eyes. Lara could see blood from his nose encrusted on his chin and top lip, a further line running down from one of his ears. "I'll be alright. What about Kayser?"

"He had a firsthand opportunity to demonstrate the effectiveness of the lawn security systems. I don't think we need worry about him anymore."

It took him a moment to register what she was saying. Then he nodded. "You did good." After a moment he sighed. "I guess we'd better be on our way."

"Unless you intend to spend the night here." She watched in concern as he levered himself unsteadily to his feet.

"Don't worry I'm not going to collapse on you again Lara." His smile looked a fraction sickly. "I'd prefer not to have to do any sprinting or wild gunfights for a few minutes though."

"Neither of you move."

Lara turned around slowly.

Dr. Adler was sitting, propped up against one of the air conditioning vents, her injured leg stretched out in front of her. She was holding Emil's dropped Uzi in both hands, aimed to cover both of them. Lara noted that blood was starting to seep through the bandage on her leg. "I said don't move. I have a gun." There was a tight look about her face, but Lara thought she looked slightly better than she had a few minutes – god, was that all it was? – ago.

"And a very nice one it is too. Though not yours I think." Lara took a couple of steps towards her. "How's your leg feeling?"

"Sore." Dr. Adler grimaced. "I'll recover I'm sure." Then. "Are you deaf or stupid? I have a gun pointed at you." Her hands wavered slightly, a distinct edge of nervousness in her voice.

Lara looked her straight in the eye. "If you really feel the need to shoot me Doctor, then I suggest you go ahead and get it over with. Because I'm not going to take any notice of you."

They held each other's gaze for several long moments. Finally Dr. Adler let out a heavy sigh, lowering the gun-barrel before setting the weapon entirely aside. "You win. I never was really cut out for this kind of thing."

"If you're okay we'll be going. I think it would be best for all of us if you don't try to stop us."

Dr. Adler gave Lara a wry look. "I think we've just established the fact I won't be able to do that."

Emil had moved to stand at Lara's shoulder, his step – outwardly at least – steady. "Let them know about Jack Croag."

Dr. Adler fixed him with a hard look. "Why should I take any notice of anything that you say? You're both criminals who broke in here and put my life at risk – got me shot in fact – for no better reason than you wanted to steal some information. By all rights it is my duty as a CIA operative to do everything within my power to stop you, even if it ends up costing me my life. Give me one good reason why I should so much as lift a finger to help you!"

Emil looked away from her. "Do whatever you will. At the end of the day I don't suppose it really matters."

"I guarantee that you won't like it much if Croag finds what he's after." This was Lara, her voice soft.

"You're Lara Croft aren't you?" Realisation dawned in Dr. Adler's voice. "The woman Jack Croag interviewed to get the information we used to crack that code."

"If by interview what you actually mean is have kidnapped, pumped full of drugs, then scheduled for execution if I hadn't escaped before he could carry it out, then yes – that's me. Not forgetting sending that psychotic bastard down there along to scrub away any potentially embarrassing traces."

It was Dr. Adler's turn to look away. "I'll see what I can do," she murmured eventually. "I doubt it'll be much though. Jack Croag is one of the golden children – the mighty and the favoured. All but untouchable."

Lara looked around at Emil. "Is that phone of yours traceable?"

Emil shook his head, seeming puzzled by the question.

"Give it to her."

After a couple of seconds he nodded, then flipped the small black object to Dr. Adler who caught it unsteadily in one hand.

"Call security when we're gone. Get them to call an ambulance. Tell them that Mr. Kayser met with an unfortunate accident." Lara paused. "I'd be grateful if you let us have a five or ten minute start. Your choice though." Then she and Emil turned and started to walk away.

Dr. Adler watched them go, idly caressing the phone's smooth plastic casing with one hand.

* * * * *

Jack Croag stepped out of the plane's doorway into the searing heat and humidity of a late Ugandan morning. A hint of breeze blowing off the nearby waters of Lake Victoria did nothing more than stir the air turgidly, offering no hint of respite or refreshment. Blurring heat haze rose up off the baking, dusty runway.

Standing off to the left in the shade he caught sight of the man who'd been sent to meet him. Their eyes met briefly, across the distance.

Croag turned away, looking back into the aircraft. "Stay here until I give the signal." The order was directed at Agent Szalecki, and by implication all of the others too. "I have some urgent business that I need to attend to personally."

He descended the steps steadily, deliberately crossing the hundred or so yards of tarmac between them with an unhurried stride, expensive loafers raising little puffs of dust. Already, in the few minutes he'd been here, the heat seemed much worse than it had been in Morocco, the humidity sapping. The man he was meeting made no move to leave his shade – to meet him halfway.

"Mr. Croag. It is a profound honour to finally make your acquaintance. I have been hoping to do so for quite some time now."

Croag studied the man who addressed him carefully. The first thing he noticed was his size. He was huge – six foot six tall at least but so broad that he appeared almost stocky in build. He was also a Sikh, the turban he wore a dark bloody red in colour. His skin was a deep shade of olive-bronze that slightly resembled beaten metal in texture, and his heavy black, square-cut beard emphasised the harsh angularity of his face. Eyes glittered like black pearls beneath straight, heavy brows. They seemed to Croag to be laughing at a private joke he was having at the world's expense.

His grooming was immaculate, the light tan safari suit he wore perfectly tailored to fit his massive frame. And one detail that Croag particularly noted was the black silk scarf tucked neatly into his breast-pocket. Instinctively he knew that he was in the presence of a man of standing.

"The honour is doubly mine, Mr. . ."

"Singh. Narayan Singh."

The Lion. The living legend. The Dark Prince of Sighs. He was even more honoured than he had thought. Croag inclined his head in a bow of respect.

Narayan returned the gesture, though anyone who observed the exchange with a cold, objective eye would have noted that his bow was the merest fraction less deep. "The news you bring us has caused great excitement." Croag thought he saw the smallest hint of a smile. "Should you be able to deliver your status among us will assume that of legend."

Or to read that another way, don't screw this up or you're finished. "I have no doubt that I will be able to deliver. What the delivery turns out to be though. . . that is an altogether different question."

"Indeed. But you have faith, do you not my friend?"

"Implicit faith." He returned the man's fractional smile in kind. "I am sure that neither yourself, nor our good associates will have cause for disappointment."

"I'm sure that is so." Narayan paused for a moment. "If I may be frank Mr. Croag, I am gladdened that it is to you that this great work has fallen to. I know that you are a man of special ability, and truly deserving of this glory."

For a few seconds Croag was left speechless. High praise indeed from one such as The Lion. An extremely sharp and double-edged sword too, though. Before he could respond Narayan continued.

"Have you seen sign of those who follow the heretic?"

"They are always out there. The one who provided the key escaped my hand. A mistake, I acknowledge. She is a dangerous one and they may try to act through her. I have employed Mr. Kayser to eliminate that threat."

"It is not mistakes that are important. Only that you don't make the same one more than once – and show a willingness to tidy up after yourself. Mr. Kayser is an excellent choice. A man of singular talent. I am pleased, but enough chat. It is a hot day to be standing around."

Narayan Singh looked absolutely cool and refreshed despite his words. He leant over and picked up a bag resting on the tarmac beside him. "I bring a gift to aid you in your task Mr. Croag. A seed of the Great Mother's divine essence. One of only three such fragments known to exist."

Carefully, and seemingly with great reverence, Narayan unzipped the bag and removed an ancient looking box. It was about six inches square and four inches deep, made of a tarnished, dull grey metal with every millimetre of each surface covered in incredibly intricate carving. Upon the lid were a pair off eyes – slanted, seductive female eyes – inlayed with ivory, jade and onyx, and surrounding these was a carved wreath of serpents, roses and fire. Sun-crosses – inverted swastikas – stood out in bold relief, and around the four sides was an orgiastic mass of intertwined male and female forms, engaged in every form of copulation imaginable.

It was a work of art, and from the look of it incredibly ancient.

Croag had to hide a slight tremor in his hands as he accepted the object from Narayan, genuinely awe-struck. It was much heavier than it looked, almost as if it was a solid ingot of metal, and there was noticeable warmth radiating from it. Contact with it made Croag's flesh tingle halfway up his forearms. As he continued to hold it he became aware of a slow throbbing pulse – like the heartbeat of some kind of living entity.

"I am scarcely worthy of such a gift." He just about managed to keep the stammer out of his voice.

"You are as worthy as any my friend." Narayan sounded sincere. "The success of your mission is of paramount importance. The Great Mother looks upon your work with favour, and in entrusting this to you we are taking a giant step towards the fulfilment of our divinely given purpose. Believe in yourself as I do."

Croag gave a nod of acknowledgement. He always believed in himself.

"You should find what you hold to be a more than adequate substitute for the Scion – for your purposes at least. You are conversant with the prescribed method for opening it?"

"Quite conversant." He knew all about these boxes, and what would be required.

"Then know that the blessings of Great Mother, our most divine queen, are with you and your work."

"I humbly thank you, Mr. Singh." They exchanged another fractional bow. "The arrangements that I requested. . ?"

"Taken care of." He handed Croag a folded slip of paper. "A Mr. Thugwane Mbangwa has been instructed to place himself and his men at your disposal. You will find him to be quite capable. Now I must take my leave. Both of us have important tasks that we must attend to."

They turned away from each other and walked swiftly in opposite directions across the runway.

* * *

Agent Chris Drake had concluded that he detested Kampala within an hour of the plane landing. A day and a half's further exposure had done nothing to improve his opinion of the place.

The heat and humidity was just one factor – though certainly a major one. It was making his head itch, his blonde crew-cut feeling prickly and irritating. And it was playing absolute hell with the half healed bullet wound in his shoulder. He felt a constant urge to rip the bandages away – to tear at the slowly knitting flesh and scratch and scratch. Anything to stop the crawling sensation that made it feel as though something was burrowing, maggot-like just below the skin. It sapped the energy too, making concentration difficult and transforming even the simplest tasks into a horrendous chore.

There were other deeper reasons as well; nagging things that he wasn't quite able to put his finger on, but which lurked ominously just beneath the surface. It had to be to do with the situation, he decided. Certainly, viewed with rational objectivity he had been in places far worse than this. Certain parts of Los Angeles I know for starters. But he couldn't make himself stop hating the city down to the last brick and piece of wood.

The bar he entered was little more than a shack. Not even a particularly well made shack when it came to it. Drake was aware of every eye in the place turning his way the moment he stepped through the door, and none of the looks he was receiving could be deemed friendly.

He felt acutely self-conscious as he walked across the floor, bare floorboards creaking beneath the soles of his walking boots. He was out of place – white; affluent looking; very obviously foreign – and he felt that fact being rammed back down his throat with every passing second. Every one of them was male, poor looking, and as tough as dried up leather; as alien to him in their way as men from Mars. A part of him was reminded of those dreams where you suddenly realised you were walking around stark naked in public. The urge to turn around – 'sorry, wrong turn, I hope I haven't disturbed you' – and walk straight out was intense. For sure this was not a tourist spot.

Then somebody turned away from him and cranked the volume of the radio up – it was a commentary of a local football match, in English – and the spell seemed to break. In an instant he went from centre of attention to nobody; completely ignored. It was almost eerie.

He saw Wade sitting in an island of space at a table at the back of the room – the only woman in the place. If the attention he'd received had been unnerving he didn't like to think what it had been like for her. Strangely though everyone was ignoring her, giving her table a wide berth – studiously pretending that she wasn't there in a manner that wasn't quite convincing. He had the strong feeling that there had been some kind of 'incident' a few minutes before he walked in.

Why the hell had she picked this place?

Instead of crossing straight over to her he went to the bar; bought two bottles of beer from a man whose constant smile made him nervous. Bud, and ice cold too. Maybe this place isn't all bad after all. He accepted the fact he was overcharged with no comment.

He sat down opposite Wade and pushed one of the bottles across to her. She caught it without comment and took a long pull. He couldn't help but notice the dark, wet patch soaking into the floorboards beside their table. It looked uncannily like blood.

There was no preamble. "Okay Drake, what to you want? Why have I been sitting in this hole for the last fifteen minutes? It had better not be some half-assed attempt at a chat up."

"I'm crushed. My heart lies in shreds on the floor." Drake's tone was sardonic. "Like someone else's by the look of things." She refused to rise to the draw, so he stopped trying to be the comedian. "It's about the boss, Jack Croag."

A strange flicker passed across her eyes and her expression was suddenly tight and fixed.

"I know you're having doubts about him Wade."

She leaned back in her seat, taking another long swig from the neck of the beer bottle. "I don't know what you are talking about."

Drake sighed inwardly. So it was going to play like this was it. "Okay Wade, you want me to lay it on the line? I'll do that." He took a deep breath; leant over closer to her so he could speak more softly. "I think Croag's lost it big time. Gone bad, if you will. I think he's working to his own agenda, which has got nothing to do with the Agency's. If we continue to let him go on like he this at best we'll be betraying our country and at worst we'll all end up like Connie Newsome."

Wade stared at him. Drake stared back. They held each other's gaze for what seemed like a long time. Eventually she looked away from him. "That's very interesting Chris. And I'm sure you've more than earned your free subscription to Paranoid Conspiracy Theorist's Monthly." She stood up. "But I really don't have the time or inclination to sit here and listen to this crap. So if you'll excuse me. . ." She turned to leave.

"Wait Wade!" His voice was quiet but fierce. "Are you going to walk away from this just because the implications scare you? I know you've been having similar thoughts to the ones I have. I didn't have you down as a coward."

She stopped in her tracks – turned back slowly. For several long heartbeats she just stood there, hesitating. Then, with obvious reluctance, she returned to her seat. "Okay Chris, I'll admit that some of the boss's recent actions have seemed a little. . . well strange. And Connie. . . that was fucking negligent. No two ways about it. If one of us had done what he did, that's it – career over and lucky to get a job behind the counter at McDonald's. But that's the privilege you get when you reach his rank. The shit no longer sticks. To suggest anything more sinister is ludicrous."

He could read the doubt in every line of her face though. "Is it? Is it really? Lara Croft held a gun pointed directly at my face. She could have killed my like that." He snapped his fingers for emphasis. "I thought I was dead. I really did. But she shifted aim and shot me in the shoulder."

"What a sweetie," Wade muttered beneath her breath.

"What I'm getting at is I don't think she's the sort of person who would kill an unarmed woman. Her actions just don't suggest it. Ask Nichols – she could have shot both him and McGhee; had no reason not to given what she's already supposed to have done. Even in the firefight across the parking lot no one got killed. All her shots were aimed low. And why shoot Connie and not Croag – surely he was the biggest threat and would have been her first target."

"Chris, she was drugged up to the eyeballs and under hypnosis – hardly a normal and rational state. And of course she'd see Connie as the bigger threat – she was the one who was conducting the hypnosis, making her reveal her secrets. What you're suggesting – that Croag killed Connie – just doesn't make sense. Why? What actual evidence is there to support it?"

"Maybe she heard something he didn't want her to know. I'll admit all I've said is fairly circumstantial and wouldn't stand up for a moment in court. But why did Croag even have his weapon while conducting an interrogation – that's against all procedure for starters. Then there was the fact that the cameras were turned off for the duration, and no one other than him has been allowed to look at the transcripts or listen to the tapes. That at least is enough to warrant an investigation."

"Okay Chris, I'll grant you that Croag is an arrogant shit. That's his prerogative. But there are explanations for all of those things, and they don't add up to murdering a subordinate officer."

Drake realised he was getting nowhere with this tack. "Alright, I'm not necessarily saying that he did shoot her. But his actions really make me think, you know Wade? His competence to lead us is brought into question at the least."

Wade gave a grunt of grudging acknowledgement.

"And what about that Thugwane Mbangwa and his merry mob of mercenaries? What's the betting that they aren't fresh from a good ol' massacre across the border in Rwanda?"

Wade sighed. "Chris, some people might say that's an incredibly tasteless remark. Indeed they might go as far to say that it borders on the racist. We don't always work with choirboys – hell we aren't choirboys ourselves when it comes to it. We've got to look at this in an adult way. Sometimes, out of necessity, we have to co-operate with some pretty nasty individuals. And Thugwane, I admit, is a very nasty individual. But it's the nature of the job. You know that as well as I do."

"So you're saying that, basically, everything is just fine. Hunky-dory and all that."

Wade made an exasperated noise. "No, I'm not saying that at all. Its fairly obvious everything isn't okay. Croag is acting a touch strangely, and I do have my doubts about him. But what you're suggesting is quite a leap I think. There are other more reasonable explanations that also fit."

"Oh?"

"Okay, say you're exactly one-hundred percent correct about all this. Just say that for a moment. What the hell are you going to do about it? Report him to his superiors?"

"Maybe. Yeah, maybe that's what I should do. He does have superiors you know. He's not God."

"No? As far as you're concerned he might as well be. You try that stunt and your career will be over before you can blink. If you're lucky."

"There are more important things at stake here than my career."

Wade groaned. "Christ, Chris. I hadn't got you down as an idealist."

"You say that as if it's meant to be an insult."

"Oh, don't be so naïve!" Wade snapped at him. "If Croag is what you think he is, how do you suppose he's going to react when you go over his head like that? D'you think maybe he might provide his cleaner friend with another employment opportunity? That guy's bound to be finished with Ms. Croft soon – even assuming she did survive that midnight swim like Croag thinks."

"I don't hear you making any constructive suggestions." This conversation wasn't turning out the way he'd hoped.

What were you hoping for exactly?

"Sit on what you've got. Don't talk about it – it'll get you into the kind of crap you can't dig your way out off. Keep watching him like I am. Wait for some evidence to confirm your suspicions, or otherwise. Because at the moment you don't have shit: negligence at an interrogation you're trying to turn into murder; a strange meeting with a giant Sikh; some mercenaries who – just maybe – are a bit on the dodgy side. I mean, Jeez." She carried on over his attempt to speak. "Then, when you know – I mean really know – and have the evidence to back it up. Then you act. Not before."

"So, if I can summarise, what you're saying is that I should do nothing."

"If that's how you want to look at it, then yes."

Drake stared at her. "Well if that's all you've got to say, then I think this conversation is probably at an end."

Feeling cold and angry inside he stood up and started to walk away.

* * *

"Mister Croag, I think you will very much want to see this."

Croag stared at Thugwane Mbangwa through the torrents of rain that made seeing anything more then a few metres ahead almost impossible. He had come to the conclusion over the course of the past several days that he didn't like the man much.

Thugwane was tall and lanky, his skin so dark that it seemed to gleam. There was usually a disturbing vacancy about his expression, and his eyes seemed to look through you rather than at you when you were talking to him. A certain hollowness to his cheeks gave his head an almost skull-like look, and in repose his jaw had the tendency to loll open – suggestive somehow of a mental deficiency he most certainly didn't possess. Then there was his tendency to bare his teeth like a snarling dog when 'smiling', and the fact he would burst into laughter at the strangest and most unlikely seeming events or phrases.

Something about the man whispered to Croag that he had absolutely no moral code. That he was possessed of a type of madness where every possible action held equal merit and nothing was forbidden or taboo – or even undesirable.

But it wasn't really any of this that set Croag's teeth on edge. He could have handled all that without blinking. No, it was the general lack of fear or respect that the man showed him. Oh, he carried out his orders unfailingly, never questioning, and always demonstrating the utmost skill and efficiency. Somehow though, without ever doing or saying anything overt, he managed to make it very clear that he worked for Croag only because he had been instructed to. In his heart he was still very much Narayan Singh's creature.

"Lead the way."

Croag followed Thugwane through a trail of chopped branches and hacked vegetation. In these remote hilly areas the Bwindi Forest really managed to live up its name as being 'impenetrable'.

They'd been forced to leave their jeeps three days ago once they'd left the more travelled regions behind, and since then they'd been making ten to fifteen miles of slow and painful progress each day. After the first few hours, when the wonder at the untouched beauty and wildness of the place had still been fresh, a general consensus had been reached that they were travailing through some kind of particularly green and wet purgatory.

The joys of endless swarms of mosquitoes, leaches with a nasty knack of finding the most uncomfortable area of skin possible to fasten onto as soon as you stopped for a breather, and air that it was easier to drink than breath, quickly palled. Couple this with permanently sodden clothing, gear and even rations – along with long, exhausting periods of hacking through dense vegetation with machetes – and the view of this expedition as some kind of exciting wilderness vacation quickly faded.

Croag himself bore it all with unflinching stoicism – a man of stone. Physical discomfort had long ago ceased to interest him, and each step brought him a fraction closer to his goal. Only Thugwane appeared to be enjoying himself – but he also gave the distinct impression he would equally enjoy being burned alive, just for the novelty of the experience.

Suddenly the rain eased slightly and in front of him the world opened up into brightness and wide-open space.

"Impressive is it not Mister Croag." Thugwane was grinning that broad, animalistic grin once again. "We have reached the place the place you seek, No?"

They were standing at the edge of a lake. Not a particularly big one perhaps, the far shore being only two or three hundred metres away from where he stood, but a lake nonetheless – its waters deep and clear looking. Croag felt a tiny twitch of deeply buried excitement.

Three sides of the lake were bounded by the same dense rainforest through which they'd been trekking. On the fourth side, directly opposite where he was standing a limestone cliff face rose up, about fifty metres tall at its highest point. A glittering waterfall cascaded from its centre

It certainly fitted the translated description in Natla's journals. Just to reassure himself Croag pulled out the GPS system he carried from his backpack.

He read back the co-ordinates. They were a match, give the extra two hundred odd metres to cross the lake. "It would seem so Mr. Mbangwa. It would seem so."

For no apparent reason this comment elicited another fit of braying laughter, the sound slowly fading into the background of falling rain as Thugwane wandered away along the lake shore. One day soon my friendly hyena your usefulness to me will be at end. Then your heart – should I find you have one – will make a suitable addition to the offering bowl.

It took them the best part of three hours to construct a makeshift raft.

It would have been much quicker, but Agent McGhee wandered slightly too close to a floating 'log'. The 'log' blinked at him, startling him into panicked flight. He might actually have managed to outrun the crocodile if it wasn't for an inconveniently protruding tree root.

They'd had to prise the dead reptile's jaws off McGhee's leg as the CIA agent whimpered and thrashed and cried out. It had taken almost an entire magazine from an AK-47 before it had eventually died.

The wounds the crocodile inflicted were extremely nasty – multiple bone deep lacerations along with a serious compound fracture, a badly dislocated knee and ripped tendons and ligaments. A few more seconds and McGhee would most likely have lost the limb at the knee. As it was he now lay on a stretcher, leg splinted and tightly bandaged, floating in and out of consciousness and emitting the occasional semi-delirious howl despite the fact he'd been pumped to the gills with painkillers.

Croag had been disgusted by the display, dark thoughts about overseeing a bunch of school children filling him. No doubt his feelings showed all too clearly on his face. After the incident everyone had been at great pains to keep their distance from him, conversation restricted to the occasional muted whisper at the edge of his earshot.

Well, except for Thugwane of course. That was a given.

On the bright side, by the time the raft was completed the rain had stopped and the sun was peeking out from behind the clouds. For a few blissful minutes the humidity became almost bearable.

Six of them set out across the lake – Croag, Agents Szalecki and Clauson, plus Thugwane and two of his men – whilst the others stayed behind to set up camp. The short trip was conducted in complete silence, this time even on Thugwane's part. Croag's mood gradually lightened before the sense of approaching destiny.

As they approached, the shadows behind the falls resolved themselves into a cave, over ten feet tall and obviously deep, although the true extent of it could not be ascertained from the outside. The waters of the falls were surprisingly chill as they passed beneath them. Then the raft's underside scraped bottom and they were forced to abandon it, wading ankle deep into the cold water.

The quality of sound inside the cave was strange and eerie, the burbling, musical rush of the falls playing ceaselessly at their back. Daylight was unable to penetrate far through the screen of ever-moving water – softened and distorted. His voice echoing crazily off the walls, Croag gave the order for flashlights to be turned on.

It quickly became obvious that this was no natural cave. The walls and ceiling were too smooth and regular, and the ground beneath their feet sloped gradually upwards, out of the water. It was covered in extremely ancient and smooth worn paving stones.

As they got deeper, the spot of water-filtered sunlight at their back dwindling, Croag became filled with a deep sense of calm. Still nobody broke the silence. Very soon, he thought. Very soon now I will make good on all my promises. For your glory my Queen.

His flashlight beam hit something blocking the way in front of him.

The breath caught in his throat as he studied it, but curiously there was no sense of disappointment. Or rage, or frustration. A few metres ahead of where they were standing the roof had caved in, the passageway blocked by tons of stone.

"It looks like we have some digging to do."

* * *

Lara had not been pleased when she'd first laid eyes on their plane – a small single-engined Russian Antonov transport that was at least forty years old. Now that they were airborne, with the vibration of the lone engine travelling back through the worryingly flimsy seeming fuselage, she wasn't a whole lot happier.

Perhaps understandably given her experiences, she wasn't a particularly keen flyer. Tension filled her as soon as soon as she got onto an aeroplane – especially if it was as old and rickety as this one – and she was never able to fully relax until she was walking out onto the runway at the other end of the journey. She found it virtually impossible to sleep or rest whilst airborne. Even when she did manage to drift off she tended to experience the kind of nightmares that made staying awake more restful – not to mention less disturbing for her fellow passengers.

Considering that travel was almost her entire life it could be something of a downer.

She knew that, statistically speaking, air travel was just about the safest form of transport imaginable. You tended to view things slightly differently though, when – over the course of twelve years – you'd been involved in three separate crashes. Okay, so one was a helicopter, but still. . . It would make anyone a little wary.

When Emil had shown her this medieval looking contraption after they'd landed in Nairobi, Kenya, she'd felt an irrational surge of resentment towards him. Surely he knew how she felt about flying; was doing this to her deliberately. . . It had taken a considerable effort to push that feeling aside, but the reality was that to get from Geneva to Uganda quickly you took whatever means presented itself. There wasn't much in the way of regularly scheduled airline routes – not in the time-scales they had at least.

She glanced across at Emil. They hadn't spoken much since he'd spoken to Youseff Makhalouf in Morocco – had found out about the discovery of Garda's mutilated body.

There had been one blazing row, ostensibly over whether he was fit to fly. Concussions could be extremely dangerous at high altitude, the possibility of a stroke or aneurysm becoming increasingly strong. In the same position as him, Lara knew she would have insisted on coming along – just like he had. But from the outside having to watch him take such a risk had left her seething.

Other than that they both kept pretty much to themselves, conversation down to a minimum. Even that was directed strictly towards the business in hand.

Lara could tell that Garda's death had hit him extremely hard. What the full extent of the relationship between them had been she didn't know, but he was obviously torn up with feelings of anguish, grief and guilt.

She didn't know what she could do or say to improve things. Inside she was feeling pretty lousy about it as well. She hadn't known her for any more than a couple of days, but she had liked Garda a lot – couldn't help but lay the blame squarely with herself.

No doubt he blames me too.

He looked ill she thought, still feeling the effects of the concussion. His skin looked greyish as he stared at the strutted roof above them, apparently oblivious to her scrutiny.

Lara gripped the side of her seat tightly as the plane jolted its way through a patch of mild turbulence. Relax for god's sake.

She tried turning her thoughts ahead, to what they would face very soon now. If she couldn't rest or relax she could at least try to use the duration of the flight constructively.

Unfortunately she knew all too clearly what she expected to find.

Her mind strayed involuntarily back to the Great Pyramid of Atlantis. That hideous fusion of living flesh and stonework all around her; the ceaseless pulsing throb reverberating through her entire being like a colossal heartbeat; bloody, red tinged light and the ghastly slick, spongy feel of the ground beneath her feet; vile hatching chambers, which spewed forth streams of nightmarish, skinless abominations. It had been more like crawling through the bowels of a gigantic living beast than a structure made by the hands of man. Altogether it was not an experience she cared to repeat.

Of course the Great Pyramid had been active, the Scion sitting at its heart, powering the whole infernal process. That wouldn't be the case with the storehouse. It would be long dead – or at least dormant.

At least she assumed it would be. She experienced a sudden nasty little jolt. What if it wasn't?

No, that was impossible. Natla had needed the Scion. If she could have managed to power the mutant creation process without it then they would even now be buried under tides of her 'new breed'.

No way can Natla's storehouse still be active.

Something nagged though. Something that wouldn't go away.

What it Croag could find a way to activate the place without the Scion?

Until now her major concern was that one of Natla's dormant mutants might fall into Croag hands – that it would allow scientists to reproduce Jacqueline Natla's nightmarish genetic techniques. Given enough time they might work out how to create mutants of their own: to use as weapons, or soldiers in an army of freaks. Horrible enough, granted, but a fairly long-term threat.

She hadn't really considered the possibility that Croag might actually manage to start up the breeding process straight away.

But could he?

It all came down to what the Scion really was and how big a part it had played in Natla's work. The theory she had developed was that the Scion had been a. . . well, sort of an Atlantean supercomputer.

The most well known of its powers – the ones the legends all spoke of – was its ability to shape and manipulate the genetic sequences of living things, and even to imbue the spark of life. The power of creation itself. As well as Natla's hideous abuse of this power, which she had got to experience first hand, she suspected that Qualopec had used it to restore extinct species to life: in particular the dinosaurs she had discovered in and around his tomb.

There was obviously more to the Scion than that though. Alone, the ability to create life – however magical and miraculous – did not explain the cataclysm that enveloped the Atlantean nation, seemingly directly as a result of Qualopec and Tihocan being forced to remove it from its housing in the Great Pyramid and dismantle it.

That had got her thinking.

One possible explanation was that the timing of the cataclysm had been pure coincidence: nothing at all to do with Natla's abuse of the Scion. She didn't buy that though – and the visions she had been shown by the Scion certainly suggested otherwise. Granted, coincidences occurred every second of every day, but one of this magnitude just didn't feel right.

An alternative that had occurred to her was that together the Scion and the Great Pyramid had formed a gigantic engine. A kind of huge reactor that had formed the power source for the entire Atlantean civilisation. The Great Pyramid had certainly been constructed directly on top of a hot spot in the earth's crust. There had been a huge lava well sitting right at its heart, plus numerous other lava vents on the island where it had been built. Perhaps – in conjunction with the Scion – the pyramid became a massive source of geothermal energy, tapping directly into the heat of the earth's core, with the Scion regulating and controlling the entire process.

After all, when she had shot and damaged the Scion it had not exploded directly. Instead it had triggered violent earth tremors and volcanic eruptions, eventually leading to the monumental chain reaction that had shattered the Great Pyramid from within.

Maybe the Atlantean's had been able to take the process she had witnessed a step further still, not just tapping into the energy of the Earth's core, but actually controlling the reaction of the Earth's core itself. They could have used this power to prevent earthquakes and volcanoes from endangering their people when it was switched on – perhaps even to control their own climate.

And there – if she was correct – came the rub. As soon as you turn the engine off, all of the tension that has built up, previously controlled and channelled by the Great Pyramid, suddenly has nowhere to go. You get cataclysmic earthquakes and eruptions all over the world simultaneously as the energy releases itself uncontrollably through the Earth's crust. Landmasses crumble and subside beneath the sea, and millions upon millions die in the span of a few awful minutes. Then, in the aftermath – the infrastructure of civilisation irrevocably shattered, everywhere flooded or in ruins and the sky choked with ash – the starvation and disease come. Even more millions succumb in the terrible months that follow.

Once Natla had corrupted the Great Pyramid – turning it into a breeding house to churn out her mutant killers in endless supply – Qualopec and Tihocan had probably felt they had no choice. To leave the Great Pyramid up and running was to let their people be slaughtered, and Natla's vision of the future succeed. It was a terrible, tragic irony that the action intended to save their people from disaster may ultimately have ended up destroying them.

It was all speculation of course, but Lara thought it fitted what she knew quite neatly.

So, onto where that left her with Croag and Natla's storehouse.

To look on the bright side she was fairly sure that without the Scion Croag wouldn't be able to create any new creatures entirely from scratch, even if he found examples from which to copy. So, if all the storehouse contained was a collection of specimens it wouldn't be so bad. She wouldn't want such things to fall into his hands of course, as ultimately it could result in the science of genetics being taken down some incredibly dark and nasty paths. But it wasn't instantaneous disaster.

Now for the downside. And it was a pretty damned big one.

If the storehouse contained an intact hatching chamber she didn't think Croag would need the Scion to make it work. All that would be required was a compatible energy source. She had a horrible suspicion that once created, a hatching chamber could function as a self-contained unit with no further input from the Scion. As long as the right sort of energy was flowing through the egg cells she suspected that they would go on producing ad infinitum – growing and hatching and growing again, over and over and over.

Jack Croag, with the resources of both the CIA and this Organisation that Emil had mentioned to back him, probably wouldn't have much difficulty in coming up with a compatible energy source.

Lara shook her head.

In a sense it wasn't worth worrying about. They would find what they would find. And she would try to stop Croag, or be killed in the attempt. It didn't really matter if the threat to rest of the world was minimal or huge – both herself and Emil were too far involved to back out now and go home.

They hit another patch of turbulence, and Lara's thoughts were jerked away from such abstract and nebulous concerns by the juddering vibrations all around her. For the time being her only worry became whether they would manage to make it to the ground intact.

* * *

Mark Aguilera couldn't sleep. This was nothing new. He hadn't been able to sleep properly for days.

He was wandering through the forest along the lakeshore, carrying no light despite the fact that the darkness was almost total. Earlier he had slipped out of his sleeping bag as soon as he judged those near him to be asleep, ghosting through the security perimeter without effort. Why, he wasn't sure. There was just a need to be alone, away from the noise of the excavation work and the intrusion of his fellows. It had got to the point where he simply couldn't stand being around other human beings.

A part of him was aware that what he was doing was stupid and dangerous. He couldn't see where he was going and the chances of becoming lost, or running into some less than friendly creature were high. The rest didn't care – would almost relish an end to the empty void his life had become.

Around him the jungle was eerily quiet. There was the strange sense of it watching him simultaneously with a thousand eyes; observing to see what he would do next before deciding what to do with him.

Then his mind was back in the recent past, replaying the scene that haunted him endlessly. He was standing in a dead end alley in Rabat, gun raised and pointed at the woman he'd been chasing, caught dead in his sights as she tried to clamber over the top of a high wall.

'Stop right there or I'll shoot,' he heard himself order, his palms sweating and his finger uncomfortable on the trigger. She ignored him as always, glancing over at what was on the other side of the wall. He willed himself to shoot – to drop her body, twitching and bleeding to the dirt at his feet. Again, as always he didn't.

'I mean it'. He hated the way his voice quavered. If he had been stern and commanding maybe it would have turned out differently.

She was smiling that mocking little smile. Shoot the bitch in the face! His thoughts implored. But of course he didn't do that either.

'Maybe some other time'. That wry British voice pounded into his skull like a nail being driven by a hammer. Then she dropped from view. All hope that somehow, miraculously, it would be different this time died.

I'm sorry Connie. So, so sorry.

He found himself on his hands and knees in the mud and decaying mulch of the forest floor, his breath coming in ragged gulps and his cheeks streaked with tears. Slowly the grief and loss hardened into a core of white-hot hatred inside him. He pulled himself back to his feet.

He hoped – truly hoped – that the cleaner Croag had sent after Lara Croft failed in his task. Then – either if she dared to follow them here, or afterwards, when he had the opportunity to hunt the bitch down – he would be able to extract full revenge for what had been done to his poor, sweet Connie.

This time, Lara would find, there would be no hesitation.

* * *

"I hear that you're looking for a guide?"

Lara and Emil looked up together at the speaker from the collection of maps they were poring over. They were seated either side of a low table, at what had in better times – before the mercenaries and guerrilla fighters had started crossing over from neighbouring Rwanda, making the place too dangerous – served as a nightly stopover for touring safari groups. Outside the open balcony at the front of the building rain was falling in horizontal sheets, transforming the trail that served as a road into a sea of thick red mud.

"That is correct," Lara answered quickly, before Emil could say anything. She gazed up at the speaker over the top of her red-tinted sunglasses.

They'd been debating – well arguing might have been a more accurate description – over that point right up to a few minutes before this man had approached them. Emil had been of the opinion that, since they knew the exact point they were heading for, possessed detailed maps of the terrain, and were both experienced travellers, they didn't need a guide. He'd argued that they would only be putting another innocent party at unconscionable risk, and for minimal gain – that he didn't want another person's blood on his hands. And considering what was at stake he didn't think they should be putting their trust in a complete stranger.

Inwardly Lara had agreed with some of what he said – especially about putting somebody else's life at risk. But she also had a lot more experience than Emil when it came to traversing jungle terrain, and knew that there was absolutely no substitute to local knowledge garnered over the course of a lifetime. They could be in there for days, trying to hack their way through the shortest seeming overland route when someone who knew all of the trails and little features that didn't show up on even the most detailed map could get them where they wanted in less than a third of the time.

And time was absolutely of the essence.

She knew what she expected to find up in those jungle-covered hills – the magnitude of the threat that lay there. She wasn't convinced that Emil, despite everything he said, truly did. So she had decided to overrule him.

"Charles Okwelu at your service." The man grinned broadly at Lara, pretending not to notice the glower that Emil was sending her way. "May I pull up a chair?"

"Please." Lara studied him carefully. He looked to be somewhere in his late thirties, though it was difficult to tell for sure – small and wiry in build with a short, neatly cropped black beard and a relaxed, easy going manner that radiated from every pore.

"So Mr. Okwelu, you know this area well then?"

His gaze flicked briefly across the maps. "Please, call me Charlie." His English was impeccable, with only the subtlest hint of an accent. "And yes, I know this area very well. Better than anyone else you will find if you search for a year, if I may say."

"And modest with it too," Lara put in wryly.

Charlie laughed. "One of my better qualities, as anybody will tell you, Ms. . ?"

"Croft. Lara Croft." She glanced across at Emil. He had ceased his glowering but remained resolutely silent. "And my good friend, who you see sulking here is called Emil Ngonge."

"Thank you Lara." Emil's tone was acid.

"Erm, yes," Charlie cut in quickly, apparently sensing that letting any argument get restarted would be a bad idea. "Lara. May I call you Lara?" At her nod he continued. "I've been an expedition guide in this area for over twenty years now." Lara quickly revised her estimation of his age up a few years to somewhere in his forties – he wore it well. "I know this region of the Bwindi Forest better than I know the back of my own hand."

For the next several minutes he fielded an array of questions from her, concerning anything and everything about the area. The local flora and fauna; seasonal variations in climate; the best times and areas for viewing the populations of mountain gorillas; what routes to take to some of the nearest villages and towns. Eventually he seemed to have her satisfied that he really was the genuine article.

"It must be tough making a living as a guide in the present climate. Not too many tourists." It was Emil who – perhaps surprisingly given his surliness up to this point – interjected.

Charlie grimaced. "You're right there my friend. Lean times at the moment. The tourism industry really died badly when that party of British and Americans got massacred by Rwandan guerrillas – made headlines all across the world I'm told. Now foreign governments tell their people it is not safe here, and the tourists – they stay away. A lot of locals lose out – have to find alternative ways of making a living."

"Not you though?"

"If you have a reputation – if you're good at your job – there's still just enough business to scrape by. There's always going to be the scientists who want to study the mountain gorillas. And there are always the types who don't care about the supposed danger – students, adventurers, a few journalists too. And people like yourselves as well, I'd venture."

Emil and Lara exchanged a look, wondering what he meant by that last bit.

"I make just enough money. And money isn't quite as important up here as it is down in the cities anyway. Now, where is it that you two fine people are interested in heading?"

Lara reeled off a rapid string of co-ordinates, then leant over to indicate a spot on one of the maps. She was wearing what she thought of as 'the uniform' – khaki shorts rolled up her tanned, lithely powerful thighs, brown leather walking boots, and a light grey-blue tank top, every inch of her bare skin covered in greasy and sharp smelling heavy-duty insect repellent. She couldn't help but notice that Charlie's gaze seemed to be more interested in her cleavage than the map.

A lightning grin flashed across his face. "Looking for buried treasure are you?"

"No." Lara's voice was flat. "Not buried treasure."

"Forgive me. It is just that most people are not. . . how can I say, quite so exact." He studied the point on the map that Lara had indicated. "There is not much there you know. Just a small lake and a waterfall. Not even a very impressive waterfall either – not like the Kabarega Falls for example. Well away from the main trails too. There are plenty of more interesting, not to mention more accessible, spots."

"Nevertheless, that is where we wish to go." This was Emil again. He too was covered in the same sharp smelling insect repellent that Lara had on. Initially he'd taken one sniff of the stuff and grimaced in disgust, declining politely. Two minutes in these forests had very rapidly changed his mind. "We're not interested in seeing the sights just at the moment."

Charlie nodded. "It is interesting, do you not think, that for three years at least no one at all has bothered to go near this place. Now you are the second lot of people wanting to go there in the space of a few days."

Lara and Emil exchanged another look. It seems like we're in the right place at any rate. "These others were a group of Americans, right?"

"Indeed. You are acquainted them then?" He nodded at the pistols that Lara wore, one holstered at each hip. "Like you they were armed. . . a sensible precaution in the current climate I might add. They hired a number of local villagers. To do some digging so they said. Though they did not seem much like archaeologists."

"They're not," Emil stated grimly.

"Tell me," Lara said suddenly, apparently veering of the subject at a tangent. "There are local legends about this place aren't there? Very ancient ones. Maybe almost forgotten now?"

Charlie studied her with renewed interest, and more than a little surprise. A speculative look formed in his eyes. "Stories for children Lara. No more than that. It is a long time since I have heard them mentioned, even among the elders of my own people."

"What were they about?" Lara pressed gently.

He gave a soft laugh. "You mean the ones about the gateway to – " he spoke a Bantu word which could perhaps best be translated as 'the Underworld', though it also had connotations that could mean a 'very bad place' and even 'hell'. " – that is supposed to lie beneath the waterfall, where those Americans are digging." He grinned at Lara broadly. "There is nothing there believe me. I went up to that place once as a child, and all I found was rock. It was very disappointing."

"Sometimes, I find, there is a tiny seed of truth in these old stories – however ridiculous they sound now, in the modern world." She shook her head, as if to dismiss the thought. "Anyway it is not really relevant right at this moment. So, can you show us the quickest way to get there Charlie?"

"I can. Though I'm not sure that I should."

"Oh?"

"I expect that there will be trouble between you and these Americans. No?" He looked from Lara to Emil, then back again. "There are some of my people up there. People who I know."

Lara sighed. "I cannot deny the possibility Charlie. But we will try to make sure that none of your people come to harm."

He digested this. "I will show the quickest way for. . ." The figure he quoted was probably four times what he usually charged, but Lara agreed to it instantly, without even trying to haggle him down.

"Damn, I should have asked for more." Charlie smiled, leaning over the maps again. "We'll travel up to here." He indicated where the trail this stopover was on met a river several miles to the west. "I know a man who will hire out a boat to us for a good price." His traced north up the winding path of the river until it was parallel with the location that Lara had indicated earlier. "Then it's a twenty mile hike overland to the east."

Emil frowned. "You'll pardon me for saying, but the route you're suggesting looks at least four times the distance as directly across here." He traced the most direct route between their current location and where they wanted to go.

"Nearer five times," Charlie agreed. "And that's the route the American's took. But the way I'm suggesting will get you there almost twice as fast. They don't call the Bwindi forest 'impenetrable' for nothing you know. Very hard going that way. The jungle is considerably less dense up here, and the terrain much less rugged. You cannot trust the maps – they are flat."

Lara directed a look Emil's way that was ever so slightly smug, containing just a hint of 'I told you so'. Charlie noted it with interest. "So when do you two want to start out?"

"Now," Lara answered him immediately.

* * *

"Mister Croag."

Croag's pale eyes shot open, boring like laser beams into the man who had stuck his head inside the tent flap. He recognised Issa, Thugwane Mbangwa's second in command – didn't say a word.

Issa's face blanched noticeably as he took note of Croag's expression. "Mister Croag, you said you were to be told immediately we had any news. . . Did you not? Well, the diggers, they have broken through."

Quickly, having delivered the message, the head retreated to safety. Croag was out of the sleeping bag like a shot.

* * * * *

The excitement he felt staring into that black space through the shored up passage of excavated stone was intense. The air around him seemed to thrum with it. In fact, Jack Croag couldn't remember feeling anything quite like this since. . . well since Before. He shook off the thought. It was unworthy of the moment. Weak.

From behind he could hear subdued chatter in Bantu – looked slowly round.

The voices fell abruptly silent as his chill gaze swept across the hired workers. They looked scared, and if it wasn't for the fact that Thugwane and his men were at their backs – armed with AK-47s and blocking the way out of the cave – Croag suspected they would have fled long ago. Earlier he had heard joking comments about 'these dumb Americans, trying to find the gate to the underworld', but none of them seemed to be finding quite so much humour in the situation now. There was definitely a palpable sensation emanating from the passageway ahead.

He met Thugwane's gaze over their heads, ignoring that bared teeth excuse for a smile. "Send in one of the canaries."

The workers looked confused. Although they understood English well enough, the reference Croag had just used was alien to them.

Thugwane's grin broadened. "A pleasure Mister Croag."

He shoved one of the workers hard in the back with the barrel of his gun, making the man stumble as he drove him into the darkness ahead. More protests in rapid-fire Bantu started up as it quickly became apparent what 'canaries' actually meant. A look from Thugwane – and that smile – swiftly quieted any dissension.

The passageway continued on past the excavated rock-fall for fifty yards, arrow-straight and unchanging. With every slow, careful step forward the level of tense expectancy hiked another notch. No one was talking now, the only sound that of a score of people breathing out of time with one another. The way that multiple flashlight beams danced and jerked across the stonework was strange and disconcerting.

Abruptly, the quality of the sound and space around them changed. The passageway opened out into a vast, wide chamber.

Randomly moving flashlight beams from a dozen different sources flitted across carved floor tiles with glittering, fiery red inlay; illuminated strangely sculpted walls, and – directly in front of them, fifty or sixty metres away – a broad flight of steps leading upwards. Hundreds of little details were picked out in small pools of light, but the whole remained resolutely shrouded in darkness and mystery. Then one of the beams settled on a huge, monstrous looking figure. Everybody froze.

There was the sound of a dozen guns being readied and aimed with varying degrees of panic. It was quickly followed by a huge collective sigh of relief and embarrassment as it registered that whatever the hell it was, it wasn't moving, and indeed was made of stone.

Exasperated, Croag ordered a halt. "Okay people, lets get some more light on the subject!"

Two of Croag's agents – Szalecki and Metzler – carried a pair of arc lamps. They were attached to a portable generator unit set up just inside the cave entrance, with over a kilometre of heavy-duty cable to play with should it prove necessary. As the dazzling white glare lit up the darkness, peeling back the veils of shadow, the gasps were audible.

The chamber they were in was huge – perhaps eighty metres square with the roof at least thirty metres above them, shrouded in gloom. It looked from its slightly irregular, asymmetrical shape as if it had once been a natural cavern, although every inch of the walls had been polished smooth and sculpted into strange, flowing shapes for no reason that the mind could easily fathom. The shadows cast by the arc lamps suggested strange, alien faces looking down at them, and other weird and fanciful forms that may or may not have been in the onlooker's imagination.

Beneath their feet broad, square grey-stone tiles spread out – completely regular and as level as the floor of a grand ballroom despite the fact that the whole place was obviously incredibly ancient. Directly in front of where they stood, spanning an area about fifty metres, there was some kind of huge design, circular in pattern and carved from a type of red stone that caught the light and reflected it back, appearing to glitter and glow from within.

As Croag stared at it the glow seemed to get brighter and brighter, as if the design was absorbing the light that played across it.

The design was intricately patterned and subdivided into three equal arcs of 120°. Over the top of it there was superimposed what appeared to be a gigantic stylised letter 'N'. It nagged at Croag as somehow familiar, until he recalled that it was almost identical to the image of the Scion that Lara Croft had drawn for him – it seemed so long ago now – though minus that misshapen letter 'N' of course.

It was what lay beyond this though, that really caught his gaze.

There was a broad flight of steps leading up to a pair of stone doors, inlaid with the same red stone and 'N' design as on the floor in front of him. Croag's gaze skipped over this for the moment, fixing instead on the two great pedestals that flanked the stairs – more particularly, the two statues sitting atop them.

"Jesus fuck, what the hell is this place. . ." Metzler stammered to silence as he became aware that Croag was looking at him, and not in what could be considered a friendly, encouraging way.

Fully bathed in light now, the statues were every bit as disturbing as the first shadowy half-glimpse had suggested. Standing more than fifteen feet tall apiece, they slightly resembled cats that had been merged with men and risen up to stand on their back legs – although their jaws were bigger and more savage looking than any cat's.

Very much like the creatures that Lara described, Croag mused. Though, of course made from stone rather than flesh. And with two extra pairs of arms sprouting from their shoulders, these ending in enormous scythe-like blades over five feet long rather than hands and claws. They reminded him slightly of twisted and monstrous versions of the statues of Shiva that were sometimes found in Hindu temples.

It was no wonder that people who had viewed this place in times past had considered it to be a gateway to the underworld. It certainly defied the description of 'storehouse', far different and stranger than Croag had imagined.

He noticed that Metzler was drifting past him, a strange, vacant look on his face. Seemingly he was intent on walking straight across that huge design on the floor in front of them. The thought occurred that this might not – all things considered – be a good idea. He clamped his hand down hard upon the man's shoulder.

"Wha. . ?" Metzler almost jumped out of skin. He turned to look into Croag's face, swallowing thickly.

"You might want to look where you're treading, Agent Metzler."

Metzler stared down at the edge of that glowing red pattern, less than six inches away from where his front foot had landed. He gave a short nod, and retreated backwards with a haste that would have been comical in different circumstances.

Croag turned back towards the others too. They still stood clustered around the mouth of the passageway – a gaggle of nervous school kids, reluctant to venture further inside for fear of disturbing something.

He gave one of the workers – who was throwing darting, wide-eyed glances all around himself, appearing on the verge of panic – a speculative look. A small, icy smile ghosted across his lips. Yes, perhaps this was what they needed. He moved to stand in front of the man.

The man's gaze locked on Croag as the American loomed over him. Croag's smile broadened and he reached into a pocket, removing an expensive looking leather wallet. He opened it to display a sheath of cash – searched his memories for a name. "Zacharia, isn't it?"

The man nodded wordlessly.

"How would you like this?"

"Sir. . ?" He looked nervous and confused. Croag wondered whether he imagined the gleam in his eye.

"It's yours. If you want it."

Zacharia started to reach to take the wallet from Croag's outstretched hand. Just before his fingers could close Croag pulled it back, just out of range. Then he turned and threw it hard, deep into the chamber. It hit at the far side of that fiery red design, skidding across the stone to land at the base of the steps.

"All you have to do is go and fetch it."

Zacharia looked torn. He obviously wanted the money, but he just as obviously didn't want to have to walk all the way across there to get it.

Croag nodded to one of Thugwane's men standing directly behind Zacharia, who gave the worker a firm nudge of encouragement to get him moving forward. "You're not superstitious are you Zacharia? A modern man like yourself. I guarantee it will be much less dangerous to get the wallet than it is to stay where you are."

That finally got him moving.

Croag watched his hesitant progress across the glowing red pattern with interest, loosening his Desert Eagle pistol in its holster. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Thugwane and all his men now had their AK-47s at the ready, pointed after Zacharia. There was an expectant hush.

No immediate doom descended from stepping onto that representation of the Scion. In fact nothing at all seemed to happen.

Zacharia's confidence seemed buoyed. As soon as he reached halfway across he broke into a scampering run, covering the rest of the ground in a few brief seconds.

Croag felt rather than heard the sound. It resonated through his flesh – a high, juddering whine beyond the range of his hearing, which made the fillings in his back teeth ring. Zacharia didn't appear to notice, intent on scooping up the wallet from the floor.

One of the statues exploded.

The Desert Eagle was in Croag's hand, raised even as the fragments of rock were flying through the air. Gasps of shock and horror rang out all around him at the sight of the thing born from the statue.

One of the AK-47s barked into startled, stuttering life over to his left, raising a line of stone splinters before chewing up Zacharia's leg. Zacharia – who up to that instant had still seemed oblivious to what was going on – collapsed onto his back, screaming in pain and leaking blood. The creature hopped almost delicately down from its pedestal.

"Hold your fire!" Croag's bellow echoed off the walls of the chamber. He studied the statue-born creature in absolute fascination.

It glistened rawly in the glare of the arc lamps, wet and gristly, every inch of its alien-looking musculature nakedly revealed to his eyes. As it walked, the claws of its feet clicking hollowly on the stone, it appeared as though it had been freshly flayed – utterly horrible, yet to Croag's mind also strangely beautiful and pure in its form.

Zacharia was whimpering like a wounded animal, desperately trying to drag himself as far away from the thing as possible before it noticed him. He left a dark slick of blood across the stone in his wake.

The thing's head swung unerringly around, small black eyes fixing directly on Zacharia's prone form. The African let out a terrified little shriek.

Croag could see the way the thing's muscles coiled and tensed clearly without any skin in the way to conceal them. He saw the explosion coming, but even so its speed and power was astonishing.

Two great strides ate up the space between it and Zacharia in an instant. Then those four blade-tipped arms were driving forward and down as if driven by pneumatic pistons. Zacharia didn't even cry out as they pierced his chest, his body arching taut.

It lifted the impaled figure slowly, Zacharia finally making a kind of wet, drawn-out gurgling noise. Blood geysered from his nose and mouth, falling from his body in a thick red rain. He spasmed like a landed fish. Croag saw the creature's shoulder-muscles twitch, then suddenly Zacharia was flying apart in all directions, scattered in pieces and trailing thick ropes of gore.

The silence and shock was momentarily deafening.

Crouching down on its haunches, and rapidly loosing interest in the mess it had just created, the ripper – as Croag's mind internally christened the thing – swung its head back round towards them. It let out a low thrumming growl from deep in the back of its throat. With no further warning, it was charging.

A hail of bullets filled the air. Puffs of blood and gore rose from the ripper's torso as round after round struck home, but they seemed to cause no more inconvenience than if it was running into a stiff breeze. Croag saw it take a .50 calibre bullet from his own weapon right in the centre of its chest without so much as staggering – despite the fact a gout of blood and raw tissue exploded from its back as the same round exited. Fifty metres of space between them vanished in less than three seconds.

Then one of Thugwane's men was screaming, his shoulder sliced through by one of those huge scythes of bone, severed arm and AK-47 falling to the floor together with a clatter.

So many bullets were now striking the thing that it seemed to be disintegrating before Croag's eyes. Now, finally it was staggering, bits falling from it in a steady rain.

Finally it gave a huge, unearthly bellow that shook the entire chamber, toppling slowly over onto its side.

"Everybody down!" Croag threw himself flat as another memory of something Lara had told him under hypnosis surfaced. He didn't see how many others followed his lead, but he felt the blast and heat from the explosion as it washed over him – heard the pitter-patter as chunks of half-cooked flesh fell all around them like rain.

Along with Thugwane, he was the first of them back onto his feet, looking around at the dazed bodies strewn all around him. The man who'd had his arm severed was clearly dead, lying in a miniature lake of his own gradually spreading blood. But everyone else was alive and, from the look of things at least, more-or-less intact. It was difficult to tell with a hundred percent certainty though, given that they'd all just been showered in a messy coating of flesh and blood from the ripper.

He looked across at Thugwane, who was grinning as usual. "Very impressive, hey Mister Croag?" For once he actually shared the man's barking laughter.

When they were all eventually regrouped and back on their feet Croag picked out another of the workers – had Thugwane's mercenaries throw the panicking man bodily in front of the second statue as he begged piteously for mercy.

* * *

"And that was supposed to be the easy way was it?" Emil muttered as he followed at Lara's back, his face slick with sweat. She didn't seem to be feeling the pace at all.

They'd paid Charlie off a few miles back – told him to get out of here while he had the chance. He'd seemed only too happy to obey, vanishing swiftly into the wall of vegetation behind them. While he'd been with them Emil had found his constant chatter almost teeth-grindingly irritating, but now it was absent he found that he actually missed the little man. Now there was nothing to distract his attention from the quiet and the way that he felt, save for clouds of mosquitoes and the occasional chattering uproar from a troupe of colobus monkeys high up in the canopy overhead.

It wasn't that the jungle seemed empty. Indeed Emil could sense thousands of living organisms all around him, the foliage literally teeming with concealed life. It was just that everything seemed to fall silent and hide at the merest hint of their presence, thousands of pairs of eyes observing discreetly until they had passed safely out of range.

He noticed belatedly that Lara had stopped dead ahead and was looking back at him over her shoulder. Her expression showed concern. There was a brief stab of envy at how she could look so cool and refreshed after hours and hours of hard hiking, not even out of breath from the look of her.

"Are you okay?"

He nodded wearily. "Don't worry about me. I'm just not quite as used to this jungle hiking business as you are." He could feel his head pounding in time to his heartbeat as he spoke. And it would probably help if this damned concussion cleared up sometime before the end of the millennium.

She didn't seem a hundred percent convinced by his assurance though, and kept looking at him with that slightly worried look in her eye. "We're just about at the top of the cliff now. The lake should be a few metres beyond that ridge. If Charlie was right we should be able to see their camp from there."

Emil gave a wordless nod – followed her forward in absolute silence.

They crouched amidst the concealing undergrowth along the cliff-top, looking down at the campsite that Croag's men had set up. Overhead the sun was out, beating down on the backs of their heads and making the air uncomfortably hot and humid. At least – for the moment – it wasn't raining, though how long that would remain the case it was impossible to be sure. The downpour could start-up again without the slightest warning in minutes, hours, or maybe not for days.

Lara was studying the scene through a pair of binoculars, whilst Emil took the opportunity the pause provided to swig some tepid, brackish tasting water from his canteen.

"Not much activity down there at the moment," Lara commented after a minute or two. "In fact, from the look of things most of the folks are not at home at all."

"Probably digging in the cave that Charlie mentioned. Bit of good fortune about that cave-in."

"Mmph. Or else they've broken through and are inside as we speak." Lara continued to study the scene fixedly through the binoculars.

"Yeah. Always look on the bright side. That's my motto"

"It looks like Croag has hired himself some mercenaries," she continued after a while, ignoring his previous comment. "Unless those locals that Charlie mentioned make a habit of wearing camouflage gear and carrying Kalashnikov assault rifles."

Which was just what they needed at the moment. Emil grimaced. More complications. If these bastards were anything like their reputation made them out to be then they would be big trouble. Just at the moment he wasn't sure he was up to handling even small trouble.

"So what's the plan? We wait for nightfall, then go in and kill Croag?" He tried to make his voice sound confident and enthusiastic. But even the prospect of finally getting payback on that bastard didn't raise the kind of excitement he would have expected. In fact he felt. . . well pretty much absolutely nothing. He'd been chasing Croag for so long that the only sensation was a kind of numb relief it would soon be over, one way or another.

I'm sorry Mariana.

Part of him felt that it was almost sacrilege that he could no longer raise the passion of white hot anger – as if it was somehow defaming her memory. Maybe it was the head injury. Maybe it would be different when he got to look that evil fucker in the eyes one more time. Maybe. . .

Lara looked around at him, lowering the binoculars. "Nightfall's over eight hours away. And there's no guarantee that even if we get Croag we'll bring about an end to all this. When it comes right down to it the chances of us surviving the attempt are pretty slim. Anyway, I'm not an assassin."

She paused, seemingly trying to read his reaction to her words. "No, what we do is find the back entrance. Who knows, we might even manage to get inside before they do." She patted the camouflage bag she was carrying. Emil had one just like it slung over his back. "If we manage to get these planted it pretty much doesn't matter what else happens."

Not to you, maybe. Then, when he had absorbed the rest of what she'd said: "Back entrance? What back entrance? How to you know this place has a back entrance? I don't recall any mention of one anywhere."

"I know Natla." Lara said simply. "She always has a back entrance. A secret way in and out known only to herself. Once, when I was in Egypt I spent several painstaking days crawling through the trap-infested ruins of the lost city of Khamoon. When I eventually got to the heart of the place one of Natla's more mentally challenged goons – a Mr. Larson – was already there, waiting to ambush me. He'd gotten in by a secret route which covered the same ground I had taken in ten minutes flat."

"I spot a slight flaw to your logic."

"Oh." Lara raised an eyebrow in that particular way he'd noticed she had.

"The words, 'secret way' and 'known only to herself' kind of spring to mind. You don't foresee a problem with either of those things?"

Lara directed a wide, crooked smile his way. It was, he thought, an expression calculated to make the recipient very, very nervous. Though it's also extremely sexy. He tried to shake that particular thought away. "I have a certain amount of practise with this type of thing Emil. Besides, have you got anything better to do for the next eight hours?"

There didn't really seem to be an appropriate answer to that.

* * *

The second ripper statue remained resolutely inanimate.

Whether this indicated that it was, in fact, nothing more than a statue Croag couldn't be certain. It could just mean that they had yet to find the correct triggering mechanism, or even that the triggering mechanism – that pulse of ultrasonic sound – had malfunctioned some time in the past. Without either smashing the thing, or having access to x-ray equipment, it was impossible to tell.

Nevertheless, he didn't take any chances.

Whilst the abattoir carnage of human and ripper remains were still being cleared up he had a heavy cargo net thrown over the remaining statue and bolted firmly into the stonework of the floor. Suspecting that, against the thing's bone-scythes, this would be no more than a temporary inconvenience he then had the whole lot wired up to the portable generator unit, ready to fry the thing at a moment's notice. It really would be nice to be able to capture the creature rather have to pump it full of several thousand rounds of ammunition.

The next problem that presented itself were the doors at the top of the steps. Quite simply they wouldn't budge. There was no handle or other obvious opening mechanism, and a couple of wasted hours searching the chamber revealed no secret mechanism either. Just pushing them had no effect.

Eventually losing patience with the entire situation, Croag ordered the cutting gear brought up. Even so it still took another hour and a half to create an opening whereby they could gain access.

The party that went inside numbered six. Croag himself was one. He also chose Agent's Szalecki and Metzler, both of whom he knew were loyal to him first and the CIA second – sharing the valuable qualities of a complete lack of imagination, along with a similar deficiency in moral scruples. Thugwane also came, plus one of his men – a big implacable looking individual called Samuel. Whatever Croag might think of Narayan Singh's cat's-paw on a personal level he was the only one among them who shared his true Devotion – the only one with the same ultimate goal. The last choice was one of the workers, Kwazi – again to fulfil the role of canary.

To say the least, he was a less than willing volunteer.

As soon as Kwazi – prodded forward with the barrel of Samuel's Kalashnikov in the small of his back – stepped across the threshold, into the darkness, the lights came on.

It was a soft red glow from the level of the ceiling, which seemed to pulse subtly, illuminating the passageway ahead of them in a dim, bloody radiance. Croag could see that the grey stone of the walls seemed to mingle and merge into what looked like flesh – pink and raw and slick looking. Overhead fibrous tendrils dangled within a couple of inches of their heads in an intricate network – like fleshy spider-webs. The feeling as he stepped inside was akin to walking voluntarily into the gullet of a monstrously huge living beast. Behind him he could hear Metzler muttering beneath his breath – a sure sign of his disquiet.

Fascinated by his surroundings, Croag reached out to touch a patch of that strange flesh. It was slick and spongy to the touch – noticeably warmer than the surrounding stonework. His fingertips came away coated with a damp, slightly sticky residue.

From the front of their file came a strangled scream.

It took several adrenaline filled seconds to come to the conclusion they were not facing sudden, dire jeopardy, although even then no one started to relax.

Kwazi had come level with a pair of deeply shadowed alcoves on either side of him, each covered by a web of gruesome, fleshy tendrils. It was the contents of these alcoves that had startled the cry from his lips.

As Croag drew nearer he saw that each held a monstrous looking figure – miniature versions of the ripper beast that had attacked them. These were 'only' eight feet tall and lacked the four extra scythe-blade arms. Their dead black eyes seemed to bore right through him. It fooled him for a moment into thinking they were alive – until he realised that, because of their lack of skin, they didn't have any eyelids. A second glance showed that the only thing keeping them upright was the webbing of tendrils that surrounded them. Their flayed bodies had a dry, crusted, brownish look – completely unlike the living creature they had witnessed so spectacularly earlier.

"Dead and crusty," Thugwane's comment was followed by a bray of manic laughter.

"Gross," Croag heard Metzler mutter near his ear. They walked past three more pairs of alcoves, each occupied by another skinless horror just as dead and lifeless as the last.

The further they went inside the higher the proportion of flesh to stone became. Soon the floor tiles vanished beneath thick, springy mats of the gruesome material, sucking at their feet with each step. It became impossible to tell if the place had been man made or simply grown.

Out of the bloody red gloom a circular doorway loomed, blocking the way ahead – looking horribly like some kind of enormous sphincter. As Samuel shoved Kwazi towards it there was a soft hiss of escaping air and the strange looking orifice opened to allow them access.

* * *

It took six, long, painstaking hours to find the concealed, vine encrusted cave entrance. Even then Lara had to concede they were lucky – they'd only covered a small percentage of the nearby territory, and could easily have been at the task for days without a sniff of success.

The other side of a thickly forested ridge, just over half a mile north of the cliff-face and the lake, they'd found a hint of what might once have been a trail – now only really qualifying as a path of least resistance through the increasingly dense vegetation. It had lead to a cluster of rocks, thrusting up through the jungle floor like a misshapen fist, covered in a thick thatch of moss and surrounded on all sides by dense, spiky undergrowth. Ten minutes of tiring, often painful hacking – Lara's bare legs and arms showed any number of scratches by the time they had finished – with machetes got them to the low, almost invisible cave entrance. Now they were inside, Emil having to duck fractionally to avoid scraping his head on the ceiling.

She'd been pleasantly surprised that nothing had decided to make the place its lair. The sight of blocks of obviously man-made stone – blocking the way forward a little over ten-feet inside the cave's entrance – told her immediately that they'd found what they were looking for.

"Okay, okay. You told me so. I'll admit it. I was wrong."

Lara glanced back over her shoulder at Emil, smiling slightly. "You should have more faith in me."

She scraped some of the moss and lichen covering almost every inch of every surface away from the stone blocks with the blade of her machete – felt the breath catch in the back of her throat at what was revealed.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, its nothing. Sorry." Lara shook her head quickly. Dark grey stone with red inlay. She'd seen exactly this type of stonework before – in the Great Pyramid of Atlantis. The strength of reaction that just seeing it provoked surprised her.

After a couple of minutes she'd cleared away enough of the moss to make out the outline of what looked to be a door, although unfortunately there didn't immediately appear to be any mechanism for opening it. No handle, and as she applied pressure with her shoulder, no sign of any give. A minute more and she located a block that felt a fraction loose to the touch, wobbling slightly in its setting. Taking a deep breath, muscles tensed and ready to fling herself back at the slightest hint of trouble, Lara pressed it.

It slid inwards fairly easily for about two inches. There was a dry, brittle sounding click somewhere deep within the stone, just about audible to her. Nothing seemed to happen.

She waited a few seconds expectantly. Still nothing. She tried to push the block in deeper, but it wouldn't budge. "Damn."

"A problem?"

"Maybe." Dammit Natla, can't you make an opening mechanism that'll last five thousand years properly in the damp? Her gaze hit two large blocks sitting loose on the cave floor, then travelled to a section of the wall to at ground level which had been overgrown by plants. Quickly she dropped to her knees beside it.

Bending the plants back revealed a dark, gaping hole where the blocks had been removed from. It looked just about large enough for a person to crawl into if the went on their belly – even if they were the size of Emil. "It looks like we've found our way in."

Emil knelt down behind her. There was a pregnant pause. "Er, how deep is it exactly?"

Lara directed the beam of her flashlight into the hole, peering into it intently. "It goes back farther than I can see." She saw something move, skittering rapidly out of the reach of the intrusive light. "And I think we have rats too." She paused. "At least I hope it's only rats."

She could hear Emil gulp audibly. Something her flashlight beam strayed over caught her eye, and she stretched her arm inside the hole to grab it. A large centipede darted away from her questing fingertips.

When she pulled her hand back she was holding a small square of ripped fabric. It had once been red, but had faded to a kind of washed out pink, with black checks that were now more of a greenish-grey. It looked very familiar. She looked over her shoulder, back at Emil. "Afraid of rats?"

He shook his head. "No. Not rats."

She studied his expression. His skin seemed to have taken on a greasy, greyish hue, and there was a definite look of wildness and tightly contained fear about his eyes. She understood. Claustrophobia. To be honest the thought of crawling into that space didn't exactly fill her with joy. But for him, it was something much, much different.

"I thought you coped okay with those crawlspaces back in Switzerland. They weren't really bigger than this." Well not much.

"That's something very different, believe me. And I wasn't altogether happy with doing it then either." Emil's tongue flicked out to moisten lips gone suddenly dry. "In Switzerland there wasn't thousands upon thousands of tons of rock around me on all sides, pressing in. I knew the crawlspace wasn't going to narrow suddenly so I'd get wedged in tight. The earth wasn't going settle, trapping me fast, and I wouldn't be left screaming my lungs out until I starved to death, or ran out of oxygen, or expired from sheer fright. And there definitely wasn't anything that might start nibbling on my extremities before I was quite dead." His mouth clamped shut fast as he realised he was starting to sound increasingly hysterical.

Lara regarded him for several seconds, then showed him the scrap of fabric she'd found. "I think I know the man whose clothes this came from. He was probably as big through the chest and shoulders as you are. You'll make it comfortably Emil, believe me."

He stared at that small square of faded material. "You know someone from an old scrap of cloth stuck to a rock?"

"Well, I used to know a man who worked for Natla. He wore shirts made out of the same kind of material."

"There was a time a few years back when everyone and their fucking grandmother wore shirts made out of material like that."

Their gazes locked. Lara could see in his eyes that he was absolutely terrified of having to crawl into that tight space, not knowing where it ended, or what was waiting for him if he even got there. She had the sense that he would find it easier to walk calmly into the heart of a raging bonfire.

After a few seconds she gave a fractional nod. "It's okay. I'll go through on my own. There should be a way to get that door to open from the inside."

"I. . . I. . ." He looked and sounded ashamed, but at the same time extremely relieved.

"Don't worry about it." She gave him a smile filled with genuine warmth and understanding. "It'll be quicker if we do it like this anyway."

Lara took off her backpack and removed a coil of rope, securing it round her waist. If necessary she could use it pull the two camouflage bags through after her. Then, thrusting away the doubts, she got down on her stomach and started to crawl into the gap. She found that she had to tilt her head slightly to one side to gain access.

"I'm sorry Lara."

"You don't have anything to be sorry for anything." Now the entirety of her upper torso was inside the gap, only her legs sticking out into the cave beyond. It was very dark and cramped.

"I don't mean for that. Well, yeah. . .I suppose that too. But. . . I've been acting like a bit of a bastard these past few days. Forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive." Even Lara's legs vanished inside the gap. "But if it makes you feel better, then yes I forgive you."

Progress was slow – a combination of pulling herself with her arms stretched out above her head and pushing with her legs. Her stomach scraped over the stone beneath her and the back of her skull scraped against the roof above. The air felt stale and suffocating, and she found herself wishing she was just maybe a little more flat-chested – it would have made the whole business considerably more comfortable.

The narrow bar of light from behind her was getting increasingly dim. Something with a large number of legs skittered through her hair and down between her shoulder blades. She had to stifle a yelp of surprise.

"Everything okay in there?" Emil's voice seemed to come from a very long way away.

"Just encountered one of the residents," Lara shouted back. "Everything's fine." She let the thing – another large centipede she guessed – get off her back before she continued moving forward, not particularly wanting to mash it against the roof.

A few metres more and Lara's fingers met water. She stopped – managed to flick on the flashlight. Shit. The passage must have been sloping imperceptibly downwards, because for as far as she could see a puddle of muddy brown water stretched out in front of her.

For a long time she just stared at it, not moving. Well, girl you can't go back now. This might be our only chance of getting inside. Then. How do I get into these situations? Without further hesitation, she plunged forward, into the water.

To start with it was just a minor annoyance, her entire front getting drenched and covered liberally with the mud that she had to slither through. Her feet slid as she tried to thrust forward, finding it more and more difficult to get proper purchase. Gradually though, the water started to get deeper.

After a few minutes she couldn't keep her mouth above the waterline unless she twisted her head right over onto its side, forcing her into breathing only through her nose. The tunnel showed no signs of levelling out.

The ceiling began to feel even tighter and more constricting than before, weighing down on her heavily from above – an illusion she was sure. The only sounds she could hear were the rushing of her own blood and the lapping of the water. It was a major effort to keep calm and hold the fear at bay.

Now there were only a few inches between water and roof, and she had to stop periodically, twisting her head sideways in order to take gulps of air. Still it was getting deeper.

She turned the flashlight on again. Visible, about ten feet ahead of her roof and water met. Part of her wanted to scream.

For a long time she just lay there, wondering what she was going to do now. The water was completely opaque with mud and she couldn't tell if the passage continued on for two-feet, or ten-feet, or a hundred feet under the water. What she did know was that if she didn't reach air within about a minute – given the fact that she would be exerting herself and burning off oxygen all the time – she would drown, trapped in a tight coffin of stone.

Lara felt a tug on the rope at her waist – Emil signalling to ask if she was okay. She managed a quick acknowledging tug, still unable to decide whether to go back or risk all in plunging ahead. Something splashed unexpectedly in front of her, and her head jerked back involuntarily – smack into the stone above her. In a way it was a good thing that there was so little room – she didn't have much momentum to hurt herself. Even so, she ended up swallowing a mouthful of filthy water in startlement.

There was a twitching pink snout and a pair of shiny black eyes, level with her face about five feet in front of her. A rat. She stared at it. Well, if a rat can make it, so can I.

Not pausing to examine that logic, she went forward a few more feet, absolutely to the limit of where she was still capable of drawing breath. The part of her that wanted to scream in terror and flee at the thought of what she was doing was carefully locked away in a small cell somewhere in the back of her mind. Then she metaphorically swallowed the key. It was a technique that a Buddhist monk from Tibet had once taught her, and it often came in very usefully. Taking the deepest breath she could manage, filling her lungs to their absolute maximum capacity, she plunged forward.

She couldn't see a thing; just kept pulling herself forward through that tight, water filled tomb, on and on. Her lungs began to burn, the need to draw breath intensifying by the instant. Yet she couldn't speed up, and there was no sign of an end to the passage, or the water level dropping. Soon she was going to have to draw breath.

The part she had locked up began to bang noisily upon the cell door.

Then, abruptly, there was watery space above her head, her scalp no longer scraping against stone. She pulled forward with a frantic haste, using every ounce of strength in her arms and legs. Suddenly, she wedged tight.

In her haste the rope had somehow managed to become tightly wrapped around her body. Its extra width was too much to fit through the opening.

Desperately she tried to yank herself the rest of the way through, the rope biting hard into her flesh. She even felt the back of her head come completely clear of the water, into air. But the last couple of inches remained an eternity away. Now she couldn't even move back, wedged absolutely solid. The cage in her head burst open.

Through the terror she was aware of her vision turning red, her lungs feeling like they were on the point of exploding inside her chest. Certain she was going to die, inches from safety, a tiny core of calm gave it one last throw of the dice.

Bubbles rose from her mouth as she forced every scrap of remaining air from her lungs, making herself as small as she physically could. Then, with the last fraction of strength she had left, Lara pulled again. She felt the rope biting into her flesh, her muscles popping with the strain. She wasn't moving. She couldn't hold on any longer.

Abruptly she popped free – a cork exploding from a champagne bottle – gasping frantically for air.

It took Lara several minutes to gather herself enough to even take note of her own surroundings. Her whole body ached, limbs trembling as that frantic surge of adrenaline faded. The rope had left a deep, bruised imprint all around her body, skin abraded raw and leaking blood. The hand she had wounded in Geneva was throbbing, painful and bleeding again. Frankly though, the pain felt good – it meant she was still alive.

It proved to be no trouble opening the door back to the cave where Emil was waiting for her – a relief, as she wasn't entirely sure she'd have managed the crawl back out the same way if it had come to that. His eyes went wide when he saw her.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell happened to you?"

Lara was drenched from head to foot, smeared in slick mud, with her braid hanging half undone. Her top was torn in several places, a great flap of material hanging loose at her back, and much of her uncovered skin was scratched or grazed. A picture of her could have appeared in the dictionary as the definition for bedraggled.

"I think you made a very good choice in waiting here," was all that she said.

They walked along the passageway in silence. Lara took the lead, and they went slowly. She was very much on her guard against the possibility of traps, balancing the need for haste against the awareness that it would be no good whatsoever if they were killed now, right on the verge of getting where they wanted. Every step was carefully tested.

Natla always had traps.

After about fifteen minutes of slow, steady and entirely uneventful progress, the stone passageway came to an end. It opened up in front of them into a domed chamber about thirty feet across and half that high at its centre point. Dark grey hexagonal tiles covered every inch of surface area, remarkably free of the lichen and moss that had grown up over just about everything up else. The beams of their flashlights illuminated a myriad of strange and fanciful patterns and symbols drawn in that red inlay, glittering where the light struck in a way that reminded Lara of cat's eyes – almost seeming to glow from within. Unfortunately there didn't appear to be any exit. Apart from the way they had just come from, that was.

Emil followed her cautiously inside, taking great care not to tread anywhere Lara hadn't already stepped. He watched as she walked up to the wall in front of them, looking it over in a manner that gave the impression that she was actually reading it, one hand occasionally coming up to lightly trace this symbol or that.

"Okay," she said after a time, speaking as much for her own benefit as Emil's. "One of these symbols. . ." She indicated the whole room with a sweep of her arm. ". . .will open a door that will allow us to continue. The others – lets just say that they wont."

Emil had drifted across to stand beside one of the walls as she continued to speak, his gaze drawn as though by magnets to the bare flesh that the hanging flap at the back of Lara's top now revealed.

"This entire place is no doubt riddled with traps, so whatever you do. . ."

Scarcely aware of what he was doing as he continued to watch her, Emil rested his weight against the wall, propping himself with one hand against a tile emblazoned with what appeared to be a stylised letter 'N'. It sank inwards a few inches with an ominous sounding click.

". . . don't touch anything!" Lara span round to face him just as a sinister, bass rumbling started up.

* * *

Beyond that strange, sphincter-like doorway was what looked to be living quarters and supply stores.

The only things of particular note that the best part of an hour's searching turned up was, slightly incongruously, four empty cans of premium strength lager, a snickers wrapper, and a well-worn copy of a pornographic magazine, resting on the mattress of a bunk-bed. They really didn't fit with the rest of the place – it was slightly like being the first person to step on the moon, only to find a pile of trash waiting for you when you got there.

Closer inspection revealed that these things all dated from just under five years ago. Natla's people, Croag surmised. The interesting thing was that, according to the locals, the rockfall at the storehouse's entrance had been blocking the way in for a lot longer than five years. At least the past 70 years, and probably back a lot, lot longer. Which meant that there must, somewhere, be another way in.

Once he had satisfied himself that they had missed nothing, the group moved on inside.

Another of those circular, sphincter shaped doors opened automatically as they approached, leading to another corridor, very much like the one they had followed from the front doors. This one though, was almost a hundred percent sheathed in that raw looking flesh. Fibrous bundles of nerve tissue appeared to pulse and throb as they walked past, emitting that sinister blood red light.

A third sphincter-door, relaxed open with a soft hiss, and Croag felt his jaw drop. For a few moments he just stared at the sight before him, profound awe for a short time penetrating the hard, icily controlled exterior that he wore like armour.

It was like some kind of infernal cathedral, deep within the inner circles of hell – hideous and terrifying, yet at the same time somehow majestic.

The chamber was roughly circular and about a hundred feet across. Its roof soared upwards, high overhead until it was surely within a few metres of breaking through the ground above into open air. Raw flesh sheathed the walls and vaulted ceiling, ribbed in a manner that was reminiscent of the ribcage of some titanic behemoth, and directly above the room's centre – at the ceiling's highest point – was what looked almost like a huge, sightless eye. A shaft of bloody radiance shone down from this upon the huge object that sat at the chamber's heart.

Croag's gaze settled on it, staring; trying to fathom what it was.

It appeared – if you used your imagination – to be some kind of massive organic control console. On initial inspection it looked more like a mass of flayed sinners, all melted and fused together into a single great lump as they reached in vain to the heavens for salvation. As he continued to stare, however, vague hints of purpose began to suggest themselves.

Rising from the top of this, connecting all the way to the centre of that blind red eye so high above their heads, were a number of thin red strands, glistening softly in the light. Spreading out across the stone tiled floor in all directions, was a web of similarly fleshy fibres – intricate and symmetrical as a stylised spider-web.

Croag's eyes were then drawn past the bizarre central sculpture. Evenly spaced around the walls were an array of tubes, like giant organ pipes, or – perhaps more accurately – rows of test-tubes in a rack. They were made of glass, about four feet in diameter and stretching upwards halfway to the ceiling, filled with some kind of translucent bluish liquid. Suspended in each one was an identical, hideous creature.

Croag had now seen enough of Natla's creations to recognise the common characteristics, although these particular things were different to anything he had already encountered. They resembled monstrous foetuses, four feet tall with huge heads, and – like everything else in this place – a distressing lack of skin. Short limbs that looked incapable of supporting the creatures' weight were tipped in vicious claws, while from their backs sprouted a series of eight long tentacle-like appendages, some hardened and segmented, others flexible and tipped by what looked like giant hypodermic needles.

As he stared he saw one of the things twitch and move, then a second. They were alive.

One tube, he saw, had broken, spilling its contents like a messy pile of afterbirth onto the floor beneath it. A second tube was cracked, the level of the glutinous blue fluid inside drained by about a third, encrusted down its outsides like a particularly unappealing form of snot.

No one spoke as they gazed at their surroundings. Everyone seemed to be making very sure – consciously or not – that they kept as far away as possible from those glass tubes with their grisly, still living contents.

Croag made his way over to the central console, running his gaze across it. Its design appeared so alien initially that it was totally incomprehensible. Gradually though, things started to make a kind of sense. There were a number of fleshy, nodule-like pads at about the height and spacing where his hands would naturally fall, and at chest level there was a broad, shallow basin of stone protruding from the surrounding flesh. The whole thing seemed almost to be whispering to him – speaking inside his head – and he knew with certainty that this was the place from where the storehouse was controlled.

Praying inwardly to his Great Queen for guidance, Croag took out the ornate box presented to him by Narayan Singh and placed it on top of the stone basin.

Metzler, meanwhile, had drifted towards the spot where that giant mutant foetus thing had fallen from its broken tube. He was simultaneously fascinated and repulsed by the hideous tangle of tentacles and flayed flesh lying at his feet. Broken glass and that crusted bluish snot crunched beneath the soles of his boots. It reminded the CIA agent of particularly gruesome road kill.

"Man, that is one ugly mutha' of a baby." Metzler's expression twisted in a grimace of disgust. He prodded the creature's bloated, oversized head lightly with his toe, leaning over to inspect it more closely.

At the contact it sprang shockingly to life, its tentacles lashing out like a nest of striking cobras.

Metzler had just enough time to feel a surge of stark terror – to start to jump frantically back. Then two of those hypodermic-like appendages embedded themselves deep into his flesh, one in each thigh. A strangled cry, laden with startled horror, was ripped from his throat. Blood blossomed in twin flowers through the front of his trousers. The two embedded tentacles seemed to pulse.

Hyperventilating in shock, Metzler yanked himself away from the thing, overbalancing onto his backside as the hypodermics ripped violently free of his flesh. Panicked babbling came from his lips in a constant nonsense stream, "Oh god, oh god, oh shit, sweet Jesus. . ." His violently shaking hand fumbled for his gun.

The creature rose up on four, segmented tentacle appendages, using them like legs. A low, vibrating hiss emerged from between needle-like fangs, the four hypodermic tipped tentacles waving almost hypnotically in the air above its head, brandished threateningly.

But it didn't bother to attack Metzler again. Instead it darted right past him as he flinched back, moving with a speed that was frightening. Its rapid scuttling motion was slightly reminiscent of an enormous spider, carrying it towards the next nearest target in a blur.

The difference this time was that Thugwane Mbangwa was ready and waiting. Calmly and deliberately, without breaking sweat, the mercenary leader emptied half a clip from his AK-47 unerringly into the thing.

The spray of bullets ripped it apart.

Its oversized skull split like a ripe watermelon, spraying viscous fluid. It was knocked backwards over ten feet, twitching and thrashing violently, one of its tentacles severed entirely. A high-pitched mewling sound came from between the thing's needle fangs, then, without any other warning, it exploded into a mass of intensely hot orange flame, billowing clouds of noxious black smoke.

The fire subsided almost as suddenly as it rose up, leaving behind a greasy black smear and a few blackened fragments of flesh and bone. As the noise died everyone became aware that Metzler was gasping loudly, a high wheezing note coming from his throat as the breath was forced in and out of his airways far too quickly. His face was flushed a shade that verged upon aubergine and sweat was pouring off him in rivulets.

Szalecki started to move to the aid of his fellow CIA agent, but Croag intercepted him, halting him with an outstretched arm and a laser beam glare. "Stay away from him Szalecki. That's an order!"

"But sir, he might. . ."

Szalecki's protest was cut off as Metzler gave voice to a scream that sounded too loud and anguished to have possibly emanated from a single throat. The noise was loud enough to hurt the eardrums, going on and on and on until finally his voice cracked, transforming into a broken rasp.

As they watched in a mixture of sickened horror, cool detachment, and an avidity bordering upon lust, it appeared as if Metzler's skin was dissolving – becoming liquescent and sloughing off in sheets. His body jerked and spasmed like a shattered marionette, and punctuating the harsh, gurgling rasps were loud pops and cracks that made it seem as if each of his bones was being individually dislocated and rearranged in turn.

Nobody even noticed when Kwazi – his face a pop-eyed mask of fear – made a run for it, sprinting through the door they had entered through as fast as his legs could carry him.

Tears running down his cheeks, muttering "I'm sorry" under his breath, Szalecki aimed his gun – using both hands to quell the shaking – at Metzler's jerking skull.

Croag knocked Szalecki's arms aside before he could fire. "No! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Metzler's skin was now nothing more than a gruesome puddle around his body, his hair all gone, and the shape of his body appearing strange and alien beneath his gore drenched clothing. His skinless hands were held up before him in rigid claws, bones reshaping and lengthening with a hideous crackling sound, whilst his head was thrown right back. The jaws slowly grew and lengthened as they watched, and that broken, rasping scream altered into an unearthly sounding howl as vocal cords altered fundamentally. Suddenly the seam down the back of his shirt split open as his ribcage and shoulders changed their shape.

It was now quite obvious to everyone that Metzler was being transformed into one of the same creatures they'd seen within the alcoves on the way in.

Somewhere along the way though, the transformation started to go wrong.

The note of Metzler's howl changed abruptly, becoming a kind of wet gurgling sound, and his body started to take on a distinctly misshapen look. Flayed flesh appeared to be boiling with a thousand cancers at once, bloating and bubbling with ever growing tumours running out of control. He looked like he was swelling up into a lumpen, twisted balloon. The rest of his clothing ripped and tore as his bulk became too large to be contained and he slumped over onto one side with a mewling, agonised sob. Bones continued to twist and grow, great misshapen spurs rising through the blubbery expanding layers of flesh and tissue.

It went on and on, the mutations becoming ever more hideous. Extra limbs sprouted, then got re-enveloped into the warped main bulk, tentacles growing and waving spasmodically in the air. Eyes grew like blisters all over him and were then covered over again, and a huge, jaggedly fanged mouth suddenly split almost the entire length of his twisted back, shrieking horrible noise of its own.

"Kill. . . Me. . ." The wet, gurgling words were scarcely recognisable as human.

Before Croag could intervene again to stop him, Szalecki emptied every round of his .38 pistol into the thing that had once been Metzler – continuing to dry-fire reflexively even after the weapon was empty.

Finally the thing fell still, the mutations dying along with the body. There was no explosion this time: no spontaneous crackle of flame. Its remains – calling the thing Metzler scarcely seemed appropriate anymore – no longer bore the slightest resemblance to the human being it had started out as. Seven or eight times its original bulk, it was so twisted and misshapen that the eye could scarcely comprehend it. It looked like nothing so much as the sweepings from an abattoir floor all piled together in a great spoil heap.

Croag and Szalecki locked gazes. Croag was coldly furious, whilst Szalecki scarcely appeared to be sane. "Fucking hell. . . sir! Why did you stop me shooting him? Why did you just stand by and watch that. . . that. . . happen?"

Croag was having to make a conscious effort to control himself, fists clenched tight, his mouth compressed into a thin line. "I thought there might still be something we could do for him – after the process had stopped." His tone was surprisingly gentle and belied the expression on his face. "It was a judgement call. A mistake in this case, I acknowledge. But shooting somebody under your own command – that is not a decision you take unless there is absolutely no other choice."

"You just stood there watching him!"

Croag didn't respond, turning his back on Szalecki and walking several paces away from him. It was a few moments before he spoke again, his voice calm and commanding. "You see that box, beside you on the stone basin Agent Szalecki? That one, yes. Open it for me would you."

"Huh?" Almost without thinking Szalecki did as he was told, picking the box up – his obedience to Croag was instinctual. It was heavy and slightly warm in his grasp – almost feeling alive.

"You press both of the eyes simultaneously with your thumbs."

Croag waited for a moment before he heard a soft click. Then he turned back to Szalecki, gently prising the box free of the Agent's now nerveless hands before it could clatter to the floor. Szalecki's face was twisted in a silent grimace, and tiny shudders were passing throughout his body. Twin spots of blood had formed on his thumbs where the poison had been injected.

"I commend your soul to Eisheth Zenunim," Croag whispered as he watched Szalecki topple slowly backwards.

"You fucking bastard. . ." Szalecki just about managed to croak out. Then a series of convulsions wracked his body. Finally he lay still, pinkish froth bubbling from his lips.

"Very nicely done," Thugwane commented, moving to inspect Szalecki's corpse with a critical eye. "I have never seen one of those boxes opened before." He grinned across at Croag broadly. "Quick and effective, no?"

Croag ignored him.

He could feel his pulse quickening, warmth suffusing through his body as he laid the box carefully back down upon the edge of the basin. A tiny tremor in his hands, he reverentially opened the now unlocked lid.

Orange light poured forth as soon as the box opened a crack, growing until it was as bright as a miniature sun. Resting in the padded, cushioned interior was what appeared to be an orb of transparent crystal the size of a small apple. The light was emanating from the heart of this – a single bright seed that pulsed softly, as if to the rhythm of a slow, steady heartbeat.

Croag hesitated as he moved to touch it, half-afraid of being burnt. The shake in his hands was noticeable as he pushed away the awe and hint of fear, but it was no more than pleasantly warm as his fingers lightly came in contact with its surface; tenderly caressed across it. It felt more like satin than crystal against his skin, and as he continued to stroke it he felt a deep, tranquil state of calm wash over him. That feeling burgeoned steadily into arousal.

Swallowing, Croag hastily lifted the crystal from its setting and gently lowered it down, onto the centre of the stone basin.

The effect was almost instantaneous.

He jumped back a few paces in startlement as the crystal seed burst into life, throwing his arm up across his face as its brightness increased a hundredfold. A low thrumming noise filled the chamber, vibrating through his bones. Then, suddenly, a flash of orange light shot straight up the fibres connecting the console with the 'eye' high above it.

The shaft of red light pouring down became slowly brighter, pushing back the shadows, then further sparks of orange shot out of the console's base, spreading in all directions through the web upon the floor. The entire storehouse came to life.

A steady, ominous thub-dub sound started up, filling the entire place. It seemingly emanated from the walls themselves, heightening the impression that they were within the body of a gigantic beast. Other noises, strange and sinister, reached their ears from deeper inside the storehouse where they had yet to explore.

Croag felt a voice speak inside his head – a sensual, authoritative female voice. It told him exactly what he had to do.

Stepping back towards the console as the light from the crystal seed subsided to more bearable levels, he reached out – his hands seemingly guided by an outside power. He grasped hold of two of the protruding, fleshy nodules. Instantly his back arched taut, as if electricity was arcing through his body. The flesh of the nodules appeared momentarily to liquefy, sucking his hands inside. It was then that the visions started, sweeping him away.

Thugwane stared hard at Croag's back, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the man he had been instructed to serve. That strange bared-teeth smile was extremely disturbing.

After a few seconds he looked away, glancing across at Samuel – who for such a big man was doing a very good job of fading unobtrusively into the background. He spoke to him in Bantu. "Our 'canary' – " He laughed briefly at the expression. " – seems to have done a vanishing act."

"You want me to go fetch him?"

Thugwane appeared to consider. "No. I don't think so. But remember to express our displeasure when we next see him."

Over Croag's head images were forming in the air – electricity ionising and aligning molecules to form insubstantial, floating screens. One showed the entrance chamber with the net covered ripper in the foreground, a group of Croag's underlings seemingly in heated conference. A second displayed the living quarters they had recently searched. It was the third, though, that captured Thugwane's attention.

This showed a chamber that they hadn't yet explored. It appeared to be clothed entirely in more of the same, hideous red-raw flesh they had seen so much of already. Growing amongst this were huge, pale golden spheres. They throbbed to the same rhythm as the heartbeat resonating through the entire storehouse, though it wasn't particularly these that caught Thugwane's eye.

A man and a woman were moving stealthily, right across the centre of the image.

Thugwane grinned broadly. "Shall we go and welcome our guests, Samuel?"

Croag didn't notice as they left him on his own.

Outside, in the jungle above, his mind's eye watched as – for the first time in approximately five thousand years – a huge aerial erupted from the earth and rose upwards until it protruded above the forest canopy. Vainly it tried to align itself with the Great Pyramid of Atlantis, and the Scion supposedly lying at its heart.

* * *

"What more proof do you need Wade?" Chris Drake hissed at her through his teeth. His voice was no louder than a whisper but it thrummed with frustration and exasperated anger. "He sent that man deliberately to his death. Don't say he didn't – you saw the look in the bastard's eyes just as clearly as me. He knew exactly what was going to happen. He knew. And he enjoyed watching it."

She just looked at him; sighed heavily and said nothing. There was a ghost of disquiet in her eyes though.

"I mean what the hell is this place? We were told that we were looking for a technology storehouse – something vital for the sake of national security. I don't know what the fuck this place is, but it sure as hell ain't that. Look around you. It's got to be a thousand years old at least, and according to the locals its been sealed up for as long as living memory. And I don't even want to think about that. . . that thing." He waved an arm in a wide sweeping motion at the net-covered statue of the ripper.

"Shut up Chris. Just shut up. You're not helping. I'm trying to think."

The hollow sound of distant automatic gunfire from somewhere deep inside the structure cut through their argument like an axe-blade.

"Have you two lovebirds quite finished?" This was Nichols, throwing a meaningful and anxious glance at Thugwane's remaining mercenaries. Nichols was a sturdy, anonymous looking man in his thirties with a plain, sombre looking face most people wouldn't look at twice framed by short-cropped sandy brown hair. He always looked worried, but at the moment he seemed about tenfold more so than normal.

Drake started to make an angry reply, and if looks could kill the one Wade Clauson directed Nichols' way would have left him lifeless on the floor. The scream – more intense and agonised than anything any of them had ever heard – put an end to that.

It went on and on, seemingly longer than was possible, grating across their nerve-endings like a saw. The hairs on the backs of Drake's arms and neck had risen straight up. Abruptly the scream changed, not quite going silent but transforming into a dry rasping noise that was almost inaudible from their distance.

"The bastard's getting them all killed." Drake's voice sounded dead – flat.

Then the noise started up again – an unearthly howl as loud as the scream before it. More shots rang out, these from a handgun. Silence followed.

The three of them stared up at the entrance for a long time, their expressions various levels of unreadable. Then Drake appeared to reach a decision. He pulled his .38 from his shoulder holster. "I'm going in. We can't just leave Metzler and Szalecki to get slaughtered in there."

"What?" Wade was incredulous. "You want to go in there and help them? From what you've been saying I thought you'd be happy to let Croag rot."

"If it was just Croag. Metzler may be an asshole but I quite like Szalecki. And anyway we don't just abandon our colleagues because we're scared." No, we only do that when it's politically expedient, a cynical inner voice appended.

"Croag told us to wait here." Nichols again.

"I don't give a shit about Croag anymore. He's pretty much the whole problem."

"Maybe our friends," Nichols nodded to indicate Issa – the mercenary second in command. "Think differently. There's more of them than us and they have a lot bigger guns."

"They can try to stop us."

"I think that's what we're worried about." Nichols' tone was dry.

"Are you with me or not?" Drake had taken a couple of steps towards the base of the stairs. "I'm going in even if it's by myself."

"Okay Chris, you win," Wade sighed. "I'm in. You want to get us all killed? That's fine by me. Just don't expect me to put in a good word for you when we get to hell. Nichols?"

Nichols just nodded, looking more glum than usual if possible.

Issa noticed what they were doing and moved to cut them off. "Where you CIA going? Mister Croag says for us to wait here."

It was Wade who answered, looking the mercenary second up and down appraisingly. "I don't think he meant us to sit around doing nothing while he's getting slaughtered. Do you?"

Issa shrugged. "All quiet now."

"That's your boss in there too. Don't you care what happens to him?" Drake managed a fair impression of indignation.

Another shrug. The look in Issa's eyes suggested that – just maybe – he wouldn't be too torn up about it if a vacancy appeared above him in the chain of command. "He know how to take care of himself. We stay here like we are told." He appeared to chew things over, in the end apparently deciding that he couldn't be held responsible for the actions of stupid Americans. "You – you do what you want. It's your funeral."

Wade faked a smile. "Thank you. We'll be sure to pass on your touching concern."

Mark Aguilera – who up to this point had stayed firmly in the background, brooding in his own isolated little world and apparently paying their conversation no attention – moved to follow them.

* * *

"You know Emil," Lara said dryly, her heart dropping back from her mouth as the dull rumbling subsided and the stone door finished rolling ponderously aside. "I think I'd probably feel safer if I just shoot you now and have done with it."

He grinned sheepishly. "Hey, I resent the implication. I. . . I studied all those symbols carefully and selected the one I knew opened the door to accidentally lean on. Er. . . simple as that really."

"Right." Lara turned away from him, shaking her head and smiling ruefully. "I suppose you learned to read ancient Atlantean on the flight over, did you?"

"Look at it this way, I probably saved us an hour of messing about in there at least."

"I'll give you that I suppose. But could you refrain from touching anything else unless I say so? I doubt that your outlandish good luck will hold twice."

They continued along the corridor beyond as fast as Lara dared. There was a smattering of traps along the way, but nothing that Lara hadn't faced many times before. She was well attuned to spot them.

A line of small holes set at various heights spat poison tipped darts when the wrong floor tile was stepped on. Beyond this two sets of clashing steel teeth required agility and good timing to avoid – a third set appeared to have jammed solid over the thousands of years since it had been set up. There were even a couple of sections of collapsing floor tiles with deep, shadowy pits below. The beam of Lara's flashlight illuminated bristling nests of razor sharp spikes waiting for them about twenty feet down should they have been a little less careful.

Emil coped with it all very well. Very strong, fit and agile – despite the lingering effects of his latent concussion – he managed to mimic her movements and steps without too much trouble. He has promise, she found herself thinking with a touch of amusement.

Eventually they came to an extremely strange looking door and stopped in their tracks.

Lara felt her breath catch in her throat as she stared at it. Although she hadn't seen anything exactly like it those three years ago in the Great Pyramid, its look was hauntingly familiar. It was circular in shape, and red light shone through the translucent layers of raw looking flesh that made up its centre.

"What the hell is that thing?" There were vague echoes of disgust in Emil's voice as he stared it.

"That is our way in."

With a deep breath, Lara took a couple of hesitant steps towards it. There was a soft hiss of escaping air. Abruptly the flesh relaxed, folding back on itself to create an orifice large enough for them to pass through unhindered. As Lara stepped cautiously through it, one pistol and her flashlight in hand, a sight unfolded that she had been both dreading and expecting.

It was a hatching chamber, and larger than any single one of the ghastly abomination factories she had ever laid eyes on before. Its far reaches vanished in red-tinged shadow a couple of hundred or more feet back from the entrance where she now stood, and it was at least fifty feet high. Walls, floor and ceiling were completely sheathed in flesh and fibrous bundles of tissue, making it impossible to tell if the chamber was a natural cavern or a construction.

Then there were the eggs. A score of them at least that Lara could see, all at least as big as a large adult human, and two of them bigger than any she had seen before – other than the one that had spewed forth that titanic monstrosity at the top of the Great Pyramid. They grew from the walls, two whole levels of the things, spherical and pale golden in colour – ever so slightly translucent so that the nightmare forms inside them could be glimpsed in silhouette.

One relief to temper the horror she felt was that the place was dormant. No thudding heartbeat resounded through the structure, pumping nutrients to the eggs, and all the gruesome flesh around them hung limp and flaccid – as opposed to throbbing and pulsating in a grotesque parody of a living thing.

Emil had moved to stand at her shoulder. She could feel the shock radiating off him. "What the fuck is this place Lara?" His voice held a strange mixture of horror and awe.

"Those mutants of Natla's I told you about," She replied quietly. "This is where they get manufactured."

It was a moment before Emil could respond. "I. . . Well I didn't expect something like this. It looks like something H.R. Giger dreamt up on a bad acid trip." Deep inside, he hadn't truly believed all those things that she'd told him – about Atlantis and so on. It had seemed so outlandish.

He believed her now.

"A very apt description. Though unfortunately this is no film set." She drew in a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering feelings of horrific deja vu. "Come on. Lets get these explosives laid as quickly as possible. I don't want to be around here a second longer than is necessary."

Emil agreed fervently.

They worked as quickly and efficiently as they could, unpacking the bundles of plastic explosive they had lugged through the jungle, and spreading them out – one block per egg. Each block had to have a detonator charge embedded, and was wired to the one before it. It was a struggle to keep down to a safe pace – to stop from hurrying so much that one of them accidentally made a mistake and set everything off there and then.

"Er, Lara. . ." Emil broke the hush that had come over them as they worked.

"Yes?" She looked up at him. He was several metres further down the chamber, beside one of those disturbingly huge eggs.

"None of those things –" He nodded at the egg, and she knew exactly what he meant. " – have any skin. That mean's they're a long way from being mature, right?"

"No. Unfortunately." Lara finished connecting the detonator to the block of plastic explosive she was working on, then moved quickly to the next egg along. She avoided looking at the silhouette she could faintly make out through the shell.

"I've never seen one of Natla's mutants yet that had any skin." She paused; thought about it "Though to be fair I've only really seen freshly hatched examples. Maybe their lack of skin helps them grow more quickly. Perhaps they develop some kind of armour plating once they've reached full size and been up and about for a while." Not a very pleasant thought. Those that she'd encountered previously had been bad enough as it was. "On the other hand maybe Natla was just a completely sick bitch and didn't do skin."

Emil looked slightly sick.

Gunfire rang out from somewhere deeper inside the storehouse. It was muffled, but still seemed worryingly close to them. This was followed by a truly horrendous sounding scream, going on and on before it was eventually replaced by an unearthly howling that sent a cold shiver down Lara's spine. Then there were more gunshots, and finally silence.

Lara could feel her heart thudding as she redoubled her efforts, concentrating firmly to keep the nervous shake from her hands.

"Too much to hope that scream was Croag," she heard Emil mutter under his breath. He was forcing himself to go faster too.

Then it seemed as though the lights had been switched on. They froze.

The brightness increased five-fold in a single instant. Suddenly they were able to see both ends of the chamber clearly, denuded of their cloak of shadows.

Crimson light pulsed along bundles of nerve-fibre and the entire feel of the flesh around them changed – life suddenly restored, Lazarus-style, to a gigantic corpse. The whole chamber seemed now to be thrumming and the temperature of the air around them perceptibly increased.

Then the heartbeat started. The entire chamber began to reverberate with a sound that still sometimes haunted Lara's dreams. Around them the eggs began to throb with life.

Biting down on the panic that surged up inside her and fighting the urge to flee, she saw that Emil was staring up at the huge egg he was kneeling beside. Sweat was trickling in rivulets down the back of his head. He threw a desperate, wide-eyed glance back at her. "It's moving," he mouthed to her silently.

"Carry on," she hissed back. "We're more than half done. We can't abandon it now." It was a struggle to make her body respond to her words. How the hell had Croag managed to activate the place so quickly?

Emil managed a short nod, though she saw his throat muscles clench as he swallowed heavily.

The next few minutes were absolute agony, seeming to drag on through several entire eternities.

Sweat poured from Lara's body in icy sheets. The tension of kneeling beneath those eggs – at every moment expecting one of them to explode and unleash shrieking, clawing, skinless death – was hellish. Every tiny sound or moving shadow as one of the creatures shifted fractionally sent an anxious start through her body. When the sound of claws skittering against eggshell came from less than a foot away she fell over backwards in fear, grabbing reflexively for her guns. In the space of slightly under five minutes it felt as though she aged about a hundred years.

Finally they were just done. There was only just over a third of the explosives left for the remainder of the storehouse, but every single hatching berth was now wired up and ready to blow.

Neither of them noticed when a fleshy doorway opened between two of the eggs, or saw Samuel enter – a silent, stealthy shadow.

The chatter of automatic gunfire took them both completely by surprise. Emil was still spinning round to face the source of it when a bullet took him in the shoulder, knocking him violently backwards onto the flesh covered floor.

"No!!!"

Lara's vehement reaction surprised herself as much as anyone else, but it saved Emil's life. Samuel's attention was distracted from Emil's stricken form onto her, and suddenly she was diving desperately out of the path of another burst of bullets from his AK-47, rolling directly beneath one of the eggs.

As she went for her own guns she could feel the creature above her becoming agitated, pawing at the thin casing that surrounding it and making a noise that sounded like a rasping cough. She caught a glimpse of a moving shadow and fired two shots, more of less blind – the kick of her pistols making her wounded hand sting. Seeing the shadow jump back in surprise she rolled out of cover again, fearing that her proximity was driving the egg – and the creature inside – into hatching prematurely.

More shots rang out, chasing after her swiftly moving form. They found only air.

Lara caught a fleeting glimpse of Samuel, standing between two of the eggs and using their bulk as cover. Coolly she pumped a couple of bullets straight into the egg directly behind him, then flattened herself an instant before more gunfire ripped through the air above her head.

To say the affect of her shots was startling was the grossest of understatements.

The egg behind Samuel exploded in a nightmare of clawing, shrieking, flayed horror. Before he could even start to turn around and face the threat long, powerful skinless limbs had wrapped around him in a vice-like grip, razor-sharp claws tearing ferociously at his flesh.

Lara caught a fleeting glimpse of Samuel's face, wide-eyed with pain and absolute horror, his desperate screams echoing through the hatching chamber. Then the creature's trap-like jaws snapped shut over the back of his skull. Before she even heard the sickening wet crunch – which cut the screams off with terminal abruptness – she was back on her feet, both guns blazing.

As the thing continued to remorselessly savage Samuel's lifeless carcass 9mm bullets tore into its skull, neck and shoulders. Blood, flesh, bone fragments and brain-tissue spurted. Still gripping the torn human body to its chest – a child with its favourite doll – it toppled slowly forwards.

Lara turned her face away just as it exploded. A gruesome spray of vaporised of flesh – human and mutant mingling together as one in death – splattered her from head to foot.

She hurried over to where Emil still lay, dropping to her knees on the spongy, flesh-covered ground beside him. He was still conscious – barely. His left hand was clamped tightly over his right shoulder where the bullet had hit, blood oozing steadily between his fingers.

"Don't worry." The smile he directed her way was nearer to a grimace. "I'll be okay. Its just a flesh wound."

She had her doubts about that. He didn't look good at all. Nevertheless she started to help him up to his feet, figuring it was more important to get the hell out of the hatching chamber than to try and patch him up just yet. A shadow fell across them.

"Well bless my soul if it isn't Lara Croft, live and in the flesh." The voice spoke in a terribly overdone mock-English accent. "Do be a dear and get rid of those nasty guns." She felt the cold steel circle of a gun barrel press into the skin behind her ear – heard a horribly familiar baying hyena-like laugh.

Lara carefully unfastened the gun-belt she wore, letting it drop to the floor with a muffled thud. She felt her shotgun being pulled free of the loop that held it and turned around slowly, coming face to face with a grin that she'd hoped never to see again.

"Thugwane Mbangwa," she said heavily. "I'd fervently hoped you were dead."

"Isn't she a kidder?" Thugwane directed this comment to Emil, who was standing, leaning forward slightly, with his hand clamped tightly over his shoulder, breathing heavily.

"You two know each other I take it?" Emil sounded weary.

"Oh, rather, old chap. Yes indeed we do." Again that awful faked English accent. "Do tell your friend, Lara. Really, I insist."

She sighed, the memories that came back all too clear. "Emil, this is Thugwane Mbangwa. A nastier bastard than him you couldn't hope to meet." Thugwane smiled as though he had just been complimented. "Five years ago I met him in the Congo. I was searching for the ruins of the lost city of Zinj – that's the place where King Solomon's legendary diamond mines are supposedly located, incidentally. Him and his men had just finished raping and torturing to death a team of archaeologists for jollies. I could say more, but I'd sooner not stand around and chat when another those killer freaks might hatch at any moment." Lara looked at Thugwane pointedly.

"Ah, practical as well as beautiful and intelligent. What else could any man ask for?" Thugwane sniggered, then gestured them towards the door both he and Samuel had entered through. "You are quite correct though. It would be. . . inconvenient."

As they walked along a flesh-sheathed corridor – the floor sloping gradually upwards, with pulses of red light flashing at regular intervals above their heads – it was Thugwane who broke the silence again.

"That was not a very nice thing you did to poor Samuel, dear Lara." His mock sadness was no more convincing than his attempt at an English accent. "He was just a simple working man trying to do the job for which he gets paid."

"He didn't exactly leave me a great deal of choice."

"Isn't that always the excuse of the weak and the would be righteous?" Thugwane's words held a contemptuous twist. "I had no choice."

"Why exactly are we still alive Thugwane?" Lara's voice was heavy.

Thugwane laughed explosively. "Merely shooting you would be no fun at all. Samuel got a bit carried away I'm afraid." Lara noticed that Emil was finding walking at the pace Thugwane was forcing them a struggle. He was still leaking blood. "No, I think that Mister Croag will find much more interesting uses for you two. You're my special gift to him – my making up present if you will. I don't think that he likes me very much." He sounded almost sad.

"He's gone up in my estimation already," Lara muttered beneath her breath.

"Now, now. Be nice dear."

* * *

"Oh, dear God." The words were out before Wade Clauson could clamp her mouth down on them.

Croag's eyes came open with a snap.

The nodules of flesh into which he'd sunken his hands had now grown up the length of his arms and enveloped his entire body in their gory embrace. The only part of Croag that was still visible was his face, peering out – as hard as stone – from a glistening cowl of raw flesh. It appeared as if he was being sucked in and slowly devoured by that hideous central console – merged with it in order to form some kind of ghastly gestalt being.

Wade's initial thought on seeing him was that she was being given a special preview glimpse, straight into the bowels of hell.

"Ah, Agent Clauson. And Agents Drake and Nichols too. How very nice of you to drop in." The calm, almost beatific look on his face was absolutely terrifying. Wade felt her blood chill as a sudden realisation struck her. He thinks that he's found heaven.

Drake was staring down at Szalecki's twisted corpse – back arched almost double from the affects of the poison, dead eyes staring vacantly at the vaulted ceiling high above. He didn't appear to have noticed the horrifying condition that Croag was in yet.

"What the hell happened to Szalecki?" Drake's voice seethed with barely contained rage. "And where the fuck are Metzler and the others?"

"There's been a tragic accident I'm afraid Agent Drake." The smile that spread across Croag's face made Wade's legs go weak. She wanted to turn around and run, as far away from this place as it was possible to go.

He's mad. Absolutely one hundred percent mad. It hit home like a nail driven by a sledgehammer. Drake was right, but he doesn't even know the half of it. Then: Where the hell is Aguilera? He was right behind us a couple of minutes ago.

"An accident?" Drake sounded incredulous. His gaze had moved from Szalecki to that huge, hideously tangled mass of unrecognisable flesh piled on the floor a few metres away from him. He was staring at it – the few scraps of gore soaked cloth that still clung to it, suspiciously similar in appearance to some of the clothing Metzler had been wearing. Wade could see the tumblers turning in his head.

Nichols got there first. Suddenly his face had gone bone white. He dropped to his knees, gagging violently, his vomit splattering noisily across the floor.

Drake obviously arrived at the same conclusion a few seconds later. He looked up at Croag, an expression of unutterable horror dawning across his face. Their boss's condition finally seemed to register with him too.

"Jesus Christ. What have you done to us?" He took a few steps towards Croag, fury and the intent to commit violence written starkly on his face. Even though Croag can probably snap him in half with one hand. "We trusted you, you fucking bastard!" Wade had never seen Drake like he was now – hadn't thought that he had it in him. "And you betrayed us you useless son-of-a-bitch. Tossed us aside and killed us. You had a fucking obligation!"

Use your damned gun. Wade wasn't sure if the silent admonition was directed towards Drake or herself. She felt curiously detached from the reality of the situation, her mind numb with shock.

Croag's expression changed abruptly as Drake got within a couple of paces of him – became a black, twisted mask. "You dare to tell me what my obligations are?" His voice reverberated through the entire chamber, no longer sounding entirely human.

Then – seemingly, at his behest – a shockwave of angry orange energy rose from the stone basin in front of him, ripping explosively through the room with a shrieking banshee wail.

Wade felt herself being picked up as though by a gigantic fist; was flung backwards through the air. She was still gasping in shock when she slammed against the flesh-covered wall with enough force to blast the breath from her lungs.

She didn't collapse to the floor though. Some force – Croag's will perhaps – was holding her up, pinned to the wall like an insect to a collection card. Through the ringing in her ears she could hear a kind of slippery, wet crawling sound.

Before she could react she was being wrapped up in fleshy tendrils growing from all around her, rapidly cocooning her in their disgusting, slimy embrace. She could only turn her head a fraction, but out of the corner of her eye she could see that Drake and Nichols were faced with a similar predicament.

"That's better, children." Croag's voice was mocking – monstrous. "In here I control everything. I am as God. You had best remember that – if you wish to live."

Can I wake up now mommy, please?

Further megalomaniac ranting was mercifully cut off as a door about a third of the way round the chamber to Wade's left opened with a hissing exhalation.

The first figure shoved through was familiar, although it took Wade a moment to recognise her in her current bedraggled state. Lara Croft.

It looked as though she had just walked through several kinds of purgatory, her clothing ripped and torn, and drenched from head to foot – first in mud and then in blood and gore. Her expression was a mixture of wary alertness and determination, making Wade suspect that not much of the latter two were her own. She survived then. Both the car crash and Croag's cleaner. After what she'd seen over the past few minutes she couldn't even muster mild surprise.

Next, stumbling slightly, was a tall, strongly built black man she didn't recognise. He was bleeding from a gunshot wound in his shoulder and looked to be in pretty bad shape.

At their back, AK-47 trained on the two figures in front of him, was the all too familiar form of Thugwane Mbangwa. Still grinning of course, with that dead-eyed look, seemingly oblivious to the horror of his surroundings. Wade felt the fleeting spark of hope die.

"Mister Croag, you seem to have made yourself at home." Thugwane laughed loudly at his own attempt at a joke. "I've brought you a couple of gifts I found wandering around. I do hope that you enjoy them." He nudged Lara and Emil forward until they were near the centre of the room.

"Thank you, Thugwane. I was just having a conference with some of my underlings – ironing out a few minor disagreements. Your guests are just in time to join us."

Croag's gaze turned to Lara, a chill smile curving across his lips. "I have to admit I was quite surprised when I saw you, wandering through my hatching chamber. Mr. Kayser has always been extremely efficient in the past. I think you must be the first time he has ever failed."

"I guess he must have fallen for me." Lara's tone was flat.

Croag's eyes narrowed as he tried to puzzle out the meaning of that. "No matter. As you can see you arrived just a bit too late, I'm afraid. I'm sure you'll make a fascinating addition to the entertainments though."

His gaze moved on. "And Emil Ngonge. Here's a blast from the past. What rock did you crawl from under?"

Emil didn't say anything, glaring at Croag with a hatred that was palpable – silently promising death. It was obvious, even from where Wade was bound against the wall, that there was shared history here.

Croag chuckled in amusement. "Ah, so you still hate me after all this time. What a mediocre, sad little life you must lead." He sighed with mock sorrow. "It's such a shame. I thought that you had so much potential when I first met you. That's why I didn't made you part of the raid against Alsavijec – so that I didn't have to clean you. But you had to go and take it all so personally. What a waste."

"I'm happy to have disappointed you Croag." Emil spat.

"You won't be."

Lara cut in quickly, sensing that Emil was trying to make Croag angry – and that he probably wouldn't survive Croag's anger in his current condition. "So Croag, I see Natla's managed to turn you into her slave even from beyond the grave. What's that saying about standing on the shoulders of giants – or in this case should it be psychopaths?"

Croag's gaze snapped instantly back to Lara, his pale eyes blazing. There was another brilliant flash of orange light, then both her and Emil were being flung back hard against the wall.

Wade got to witness the sight of a mass of fleshy tendrils writhing over them from an entirely different angle from that she had so recently experienced.

Well-done girl. That sure told the bastard. The thought was bitter. Part of her wanted to scream, but she knew that if she started she wouldn't be able to stop.

"You have no idea of the grandeur of my plans, you pathetic little girl." The entire chamber vibrated in time with Croag's rage. "Natla may have built this place, but I am its master now. All of its secrets have been revealed to me. Me! And I control it absolutely."

"My, isn't somebody feeling insecure today."

They never got a chance to find out what kind of retaliation Lara's comment would have provoked. Aguilera chose just that moment in order to make his entrance.

The formerly handsome young CIA agent now looked wild and unkempt, black hair disarrayed, his jaw darkly shadowed with several days worth of stubble and his eyes bleary and bloodshot. He didn't appear to be altogether sane.

He strode into the chamber with the single-minded purpose of the Angel of Death. From the look of it he was entirely oblivious to what was going on around him – his fellow Agents bound to the walls; Croag sheathed in flesh and fused into the central console; even Thugwane, grinning in amusement at this new intrusion, his AK-47 ready to blow this maniac American into the next world. The only thing Aguilera had eyes for was Lara.

Wade noticed his hand quaver fractionally as he raised his gun, pointing it directly between Lara's eyes. She sensed it was more out of emotion than any indecision though. "You. . . You murderous fucking bitch." Aguilera's voice was almost incoherent, shaking and stuttering. "If I could kill you a thousand times over it wouldn't be enough for what you did to my Connie. . ."

She saw the expression of profound sympathy that crossed Lara's face and winced, waiting for the gunshot that she was sure was going to follow. It was, she thought, just about the worst thing that Lara could have done.

"Ah, Aguilera, do join us. The more the merrier. This little pantomime may as well include you." Croag's flippant words probably had the inadvertent affect of saving Lara's life.

Aguilera blinked. He looked across at Croag's face, his expression twisting in momentary horror. The events occurring around him seemed to finally penetrate through his obsession, for a few seconds at least. His mouth dropped open, gaping for a moment or two in apparent shock. Then his face clouded over again, the set of his jaw hardening. He turned back to Lara.

"I didn't kill Connie. Really I didn't." Lara's tone was gentle, as though she was speaking to a child.

"Don't think that your foul lies are going to save you!" Aguilera's knuckle whitened on the trigger, but he hesitated before pulling it as Lara continued to gaze calmly into his eyes.

"Listen to what she says Mark! She's telling you the truth." This was Drake, fighting back against the daze that had overcome him when he'd been slammed into the wall. "It was Croag who shot Connie. Not her. Just take a look at him. He's gone completely mad."

Another pulsing shockwave of orange light slammed into Drake. The backwash snapped Wade's head violently to one side. When her vision cleared Drake wasn't moving or talking anymore. His head lolled brokenly forward – at least as far as the enveloping tendrils would allow – and his eyes were closed. A line of dark blood streamed from his nose. Wade couldn't tell if he was dead or merely unconscious.

"I've just about had enough of all these fucking interruptions!" Croag sounded absolutely furious. "Agent Aguilera, put that gun down before I make you eat it and stop acting like such a baby. You're supposed to be a CIA agent. A highly trained, professional individual. So what if Connie died? Shit like that happens every single fucking day. You have to put it to one-side and get on with it. Otherwise life will chew you up and spit you out. Believe me I know. You should be grateful to me for teaching you that lesson now, while you're still young enough to appreciate it."

The only sound was that ever-throbbing heartbeat, reverberating through the walls.

Aguilera looked to Wade's eyes as though a lightening bolt had struck him. As he turned from Lara his expression would have made even Croag blanch – had he not been too caught up in his own madness to notice. The breath came from Aguilera's mouth in hissing blasts, his gun shaking wildly as he aimed it at Croag.

A wild, animalistic, keening cry of grief and sheer feral rage erupted from his throat. He opened fire with a fury that bordered upon the possessed.

A look of surprise that was almost comical crossed Croag's face. Three bullets slammed into the centre of his flesh-sheathed chest.

Yes! Wade exulted inwardly.

Then Croag started to laugh uproariously, showing not the slightest sign of ill effects.

Aguilera continued shooting, but his aim grew increasingly erratic. One bullet slammed into Croag's arm with no more effect than the one's that had hit him in the chest. Two more flew completely wide, only narrowly missing those huge, liquid filled tubes.

Wade felt an inner tide of despair as she saw the orange light gathering once more around the basin – the icy look that had come over Croag's eyes. And so it is all over again.

Aguilera's seventh bullet smacked dead centre into the seed of fire at the basin's heart.

All hell broke loose.

A burst of gunfire from Thugwane Mbangwa's AK-47 riddled Aguilera with bullets, the young CIA agent dead before he hit the ground. Dark blood spurted from his mouth even as his pistol dropped from suddenly lifeless hands.

Then a tremor shook the very earth around them and the light flickered erratically.

Wade felt the bonds holding her fast against the wall loosen abruptly. Without warning she was dropping free, down onto her knees on the hard stone. She caught a glimpse of Drake collapsing limply. Directly in front of her the hideous console of flesh into which Croag had been merged contracted violently like a spasming muscle.

With a wet sucking noise Croag shot free of it as if he'd been greased. He was ejected so powerfully that he skidded well over twenty feet across the floor before he came to rest, dazed and groaning and leaving a slug-trail of slippery gore.

The tremor stopped. The lights returned to normal. The storehouse's heartbeat resumed, regular and sonorous as ever.

Wade could see Thugwane levelling his Kalashnikov to unleash a spray of death upon them all. She flinched – lifted a futile arm to cover her face. Then a huge missile slammed powerfully into the mercenary leader's side, knocking him sprawling.

Thugwane and Emil rolled over and over, locked together in a tight mutual embrace, the AK-47 knocked free and clattering across the stone tiles.

Normally Emil would have probably prevailed, the bigger and the stronger of the two men, and just as ruthless and well trained in the controlled viciousness of hand-to-hand combat. But the shoulder wound hampered him critically. Thugwane hammered his balled fist hard into the still leaking bullet hole and Emil cried out in agony, his grip loosening and allowing Thugwane to pull free.

Just as the mercenary was trying to pick up the AK-47 again Lara stamped down on it hard, ripping it from his grasp. Her open fisted punch caught him on the side of his head and sent him reeling.

A look of realisation passed across Thugwane's face as he took in the situation. He turned and fled – the numbers turning rapidly against him. His back disappeared from view through the doorway leading back towards the hatchery.

A second or so later another gunshot rang out – Nichols firing at and missing Croag's retreating back as he staggered through a second doorway, disappearing from view as it contracted shut behind him.

Finally the world seemed to return to normal pace.

Groaning in pain, Wade pulled herself up to her feet. She moved carefully around Aguilera's bullet riddled body to stand just behind Lara as the British woman knelt over Emil's prone form. Emil was bleeding badly again, but he was still just about conscious. Lara was trying to get him patched up using a first-aid kit taken from her pack.

Eventually she seemed satisfied – or at least resigned to the fact that she couldn't do any more for him. She rose to her feet and turned to regard Wade levelly.

The words died on Wade's lips as she saw the look of steely determination in Lara's eyes. She was no longer quite sure what she had intended to say.

In the en d it was Lara who broke the silence. "I'm going after Croag," she stated simply. "He has to be stopped. Permanently." Then she passed a small remote control unit to Wade, who accepted it numbly. "This will detonate the explosives that we've planted. The large button there is the trigger. I want you to take it. If I'm not back within thirty minutes set it off – bring this whole damned place crashing down."

Wade nodded wordlessly.

"Now get Emil, and your wounded friend – " Lara nodded towards Drake, and Wade saw with some amazement that he was still alive, and even conscious, moving feebly. " – out of here as quickly as you can."

Again Wade just nodded, not speaking.

"If Emil should die I'll hold you personally responsible." Lara's expression was grim.

"Don't worry. I won't let you down."

Lara managed a slight smile. "Thank you. Now get going."

* * *

When she was alone Lara moved to pick up first Thugwane's fallen AK-47, then the .38 calibre pistol that had belonged to Aguilera. About three-quarters of a clip left in the AK-47 and five more bullets in the .38. It would have to be enough.

She found herself staring at Aguilera's lifeless form, feeling a deep sadness flood over her. He was the man who had chased her through the alleys of Rabat, right at the beginning of all this. It seemed so long ago now. So young. And in his way so innocent. She remembered the look of desolate grief and fury in his eyes as he had held his gun pointed at her head. Perhaps you can finally find some king of peace now.

Lara sighed softly, stepping around him. Her gaze alighted on the great central console of flesh that Croag had been fused into. The control centre, she surmised. She stared at the stone basin rising out of its grotesque looking mass – and more especially at the source of the orange light that sat atop it, flickering intermittently. The power source.

Aguilera's bullet had damaged it obviously, though not to the point where it was no longer functional.

For a moment she was torn about what to do next.

Croag, she decided, sticking to the original plan. She hadn't felt that he'd been fleeing when he ran out. More like he'd been going to fetch something. And it seemed like he'd been gone a hellishly long time.

Taking a deep breath, clearing her head of all the anxieties and fears that tried to crowd it, Lara moved towards the door that Croag had exited through, AK-47 held at the ready.

The door contracted shut behind her with a soft, fleshy whisper.

She found herself in another corridor. This one curved down and to the right. The slick, spongy flesh beneath her feet silenced her footsteps, and irregular pulses of bloody red light passed overhead, throwing outlandish shadows across the grisly walls. She tried to listen ahead of her, but all she was able to hear was that interminable throbbing heartbeat, vibrating through every nerve fibre.

As she rounded the corner she stopped in her tracks at the sight before her. Croag was ready and waiting for her. She could see his cold, humourless smile – feel his icy grey eyes as they bored into her – even across a distance of getting on for fifty yards.

He wasn't alone. One of Natla's new breed was crouched before him on all fours like a giant-sized, skinless attack dog. It was one of the familiar cat-human hybrids, and it hissed deep in the back of its throat at the sight of her. There was a second, identical creature standing at Croag's shoulder, this one raised up on its back legs, towering over him by more than a foot.

"Hello again Lara."

Then the two mutants were rushing towards her at frightening speed.

Walking backwards, as controlled as she could manage in the circumstances, she concentrated the fire of the Kalashnikov on the creature in front. The gap between them closed hellishly quickly despite the fact that her aim was unerring. Chunks of flesh and spurts of blood flew as each and every bullet hit home, but it kept right on coming. The gap between them was down to less than five metres by the time she jumped back around the corner and it exploded in a greasy, foul smelling fireball.

From the weight of the gun in her hands it felt like she was now down to less than a quarter of a clip of ammunition.

The second creature didn't pause to mourn the death of its twin. It was round the corner in a flash, howling like a demon from the blackest pit in Hades.

Lara's burst of gunfire cut it in a diagonal from the centre of its chest to its shoulder, but at least three bullets found only empty air. Then she was dry firing and it was still coming straight at her, seemingly unaffected.

She threw the now useless assault rifle hard into its face. Backing away from it as quickly as she could she pulled Aguilera's pistol, desperately trying to create as much space between the creature and herself as possible.

It batted the AK-47 aside contemptuously, though it did break its stride. The slight distraction allowed Lara to put another bullet directly beneath its jaws, snapping its head back violently. Shrieking and hissing its pain and anger, it stretched out a clawed hand, palm first.

Lara just about had time to dive to the floor before a glob of red plasma seared through the air above her. She could feel the scorching heat as it exploded against the wall a couple of metres behind her, then she was rolling desperately to stay out of the creature's reach.

A second ball of plasma ripped into the ground even closer than the first, the explosion half winding her, reddening her skin as though with sunburn. Then the creature was rearing up, directly over her, claws stretched high above its head, ready to bring crashing down into her flesh. She emptied her last four bullets into its skull and neck.

For a moment the monstrous thing continued to stand above her, poised to strike. Then it started to topple forwards like a felled tree.

She scrabbled back from it frantically, curling herself tightly into a protective ball. The explosion still felt as though it came from directly on top of her though, and she was flung hard into the wall, cracking her head.

Her vision swam and blurred with red and black patterns, but she just about clung onto consciousness by her fingernails. Her body felt as if it had been stamped on by the feet of giants and it was painful even to draw breath. Despite the desperate commands of her brain, nothing was responding to its urgings.

When finally – after a period of time that she couldn't be sure of – her vision began to clear and her body started to work again, Lara saw Croag kneeling over her. His expression was impassive. Before she could begin to react the butt of his pistol slammed into her temple and her vision went dark.

. . .

. . .

She was vaguely aware of being dragged along, back into the central chamber. Then she was thrown none too gently onto the stone floor. When the daze eventually began to fade, consciousness finally returning to stay, she found herself staring directly into the blank one-eyed gaze of his Desert Eagle; its distinctive triangular barrel inches from her face.

"So Lara, here we are. Alone at last." Croag was smiling that cold rattlesnake smile. His pale eyes glittered. "I've been waiting for this moment for a long time." His words had a hard, sardonic edge. He appeared to be a fraction saner now that he was no longer conjoined with the console.

Lara coughed and spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva that tasted of copper pennies and salt. She ran her tongue around her teeth, but none of them were missing or even loose.

"I don't know whether to be annoyed or impressed Lara," he continued. "I mean, two of them at once. I now begin to see how Kayser could have failed."

She pulled herself up into a sitting position. "I think that you'll find, Mr. Croag, that those things are either terminally stupid or have a complete lack of any self-preservation reflex. They look a lot more terrifying than they actually are."

Croag gave a dry chuckle. "Don't worry Lara. I think that you'll find that they're more than adequate for the purposes I have in mind. After all, not everyone is quite as capable – or well armed – as yourself. No, I am far from disappointed. Quite the reverse in fact."

Lara tried not to wince at the pain stabbing through her head. "What exactly do you hope to accomplish – if you don't mind me asking? I mean there are what, thirty or so hatching bays in this place? Without the Scion, even if you run the place non-stop for a year you're only going to be able to produce a few thousand of the things at the most. That's hardly an army with which to rule the world is it? Then, before long, someone will find your operation and crush you like the pathetic bug you are."

Croag laughed loudly, actually appearing genuinely amused.

"You know nothing, do you Lara? Your level of ignorance frankly astonishes me." He started pacing across the floor, but his gun never strayed from her for a moment. "The true degree of Jacqueline Natla's genius was astounding. I know. I have it all inside me now. That console implanted the knowledge directly into my head, so it feels as if I've always known. How it did it I don't know. Maybe some kind of genetic memory transference? I'm not a scientist though, so I couldn't say for sure. Ultimately it doesn't really matter."

Croag's penetrating grey eyes fixed her again. "It has also granted me complete control of this facility. Every creature born in these walls after I first touched the console is imprinted to my will – each of them genetically bound to obey my slightest whim in an instant, without me having to even give voice to a command. Compared to the knowledge I received though, that is almost a small gift.

He paused for a moment, resuming his pacing. "I'll grant you that the loss of the Scion is a blow Lara. The ability to create more of these facilities; to create new and improved forms of creature – that would be really worth having. Maybe some of the scientists allied to our organisation will come up with an alternative. But I digress. I apologise. Occasionally all the new stuff I have up here – " He tapped the side of his forehead. " – makes it difficult for me to concentrate properly."

He stopped directly in front of her again. "A question Lara. You weren't actually stupid enough to think that Natla created these things infertile. . . Were you?"

The shock of it hit her like a hammer blow. She really hadn't considered that. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she admonished herself inwardly.

"Not only are they fertile, they're hermaphrodites too. They can fertilise each other, and themselves if necessary. They're able to become pregnant from the moment of hatching, and – given enough raw energy intake – the gestation period can be as little as a week. They give birth to up to four babies at a time, and the youngsters will grow to maturity in slightly less than a month, when they too will become fertile. The adults can become pregnant again as soon as they drop their litter as well. The only downside to this insanely hyperactive metabolism is that it means the poor things must kill and kill and kill constantly to keep it up.

He laughed, the sound like grating metal. "From my point of view that hardly even qualifies as a downside. I will control every single one of them completely after all. A few thousand, Lara? Try a few million, even if they're not reproducing at optimum rate."

Lara felt physically sick. No wonder Qualopec and Tihocan were so desperate to shut Natla down – even at the expense of their entire civilisation if necessary. That many new breed, sweeping across the face of the earth. . . "So, as I said earlier, it's your intention to continue Natla's work then. To pit these freaks against humanity in the hope that the struggle will toughen us up and accelerate our evolution?"

"No." There was a strange, almost haunted look in his Croag's eyes, which she was unable to place. "I have no interest at all in human evolution."

A brief tremor passed across his face but he controlled it quickly. "Are you one of those people who are too stupid to realise what the world really is Lara? One of those idiots with a touching faith in the nature of humanity and a naïve belief that everything will turn out right in the end?"

She contemplated him for a moment – the heavy triangular barrel of his gun. "What is the world then, really? I'd love to know. Seeing as how you suddenly appear to be so all knowing and wise." His questions had been rhetorical she knew, but she had no interest playing compliant sounding board to his rantings. If he got angry maybe he would make another mistake.

Or maybe he'll just kill me all the quicker.

The flash of anger and hate that his expression revealed was chilling. It was a moment before Lara realised that this fury wasn't even directed at her.

"Hell," he said simply. "The world is hell."

There was silence for a moment – save for that ceaseless heartbeat.

"Do you think otherwise Lara? We are born into hell and live there – live here – every moment of our lives until we eventually die. Then we are born again. We try to delude ourselves otherwise of course – to make ourselves believe that we really live in a green and pleasant, and above all just world. That is what helps to make it such an infernally devious place of torment. Some of us even comfort ourselves that we are being watched over by a benevolent and sympathetic god. Let me tell you Lara, if there is a god he is far from benevolent. He gazes down upon us and laughs – glories in our pain and anguish. You don't believe me do you? I see it in your eyes – the expression on your face."

She said nothing. She didn't think there was anything to say.

"Where else but hell could a man be fighting in a pointless war in some infernal green abyss – performing heroics for his country whilst all around him his friends die horribly? Be captured by the enemy and suffer torture and torment, seemingly without end. Then, one day – when he has just about given up hope and can take no more – be rescued and taken home. Except that when he gets home he finds that it is a million times worse than the place he has just been rescued from. That his wife and the three children he loved – who were the only thing that kept him sane through all that suffering – have been butchered by the random insanity of a serial killer. And no-one anywhere gives a shit about what he has been through. Where else but hell Lara?"

It took him a moment to regain his composure, his breath coming in ragged bursts. "The worst thing is Lara, this isn't even anything remarkable. Every day a million things happen to a million different people all over the world which are just as bad, and in some cases far, far worse. Yet still we smile and sit around and bleat about 'what a lovely place this is' and 'how lucky we are'.

"So don't try to tell me we aren't in hell Lara. You're just as deluded as all the rest." Finally he seemed to regain control, his face smoothing over as the stony mask covered up the darkness that lay behind.

"But I haven't answered your original question, have I Lara? And now you're probably wondering just exactly what kind of madman am I?" He smiled. It wasn't pleasant. "What I intend to do Lara, is remake the world. Nothing more and nothing less. To wipe the slate clean of all the greed and hate and suffering, and begin things afresh, building everything anew to the designs of my Great Queen. Hell will be cleansed and made into a place where we can truly live. God will be spited. Billions may suffer in the present I will grant you, but they suffer already without realising it. And compared with the untold numbers yet to come they are but a tiny splash in the great ocean. The few must sacrifice themselves for the good of the many. It is the only way that makes sense."

Lara just stared at him until she was finally able to find her voice. "I'm sorry. You have my pity." There was no way to argue with the kind of bleak insanity she'd just heard.

For a moment she thought those were going to be the last words she ever spoke. Then Croag managed to rein in his anger.

"Stand up Lara." His voice was absolutely flat as he gestured with his gun. "Time to get down to business I think, much as I have enjoyed our little chat."

Lara did as instructed, trying to hide the pain and stiffness from showing on her face. There was more chance of successfully tackling him if she was on her feet.

"You may want to take a closer look at our friends in the tubes." Croag gestured to one of the giant, flayed, multi-appendaged foetus things. It twitched slightly in its bath of glutinous bluish liquid. "Fascinating are they not?"

"I've seen more attractive specimens in my time."

Croag chuckled dryly. "Natla called them incubus. They were one of her few outright failures. But extremely interesting failures nonetheless."

"I'm sure."

"You see, Natla created them as a kind of last resort. An insurance policy against the destruction of her work when it became clear that her enemies were closing in. Each incubus contains a kind of mutagenic serum, which they can inject into the human bloodstream. It was Natla's idea that she could use them to create more of her new breed, even if the Scion fell out of her grasp and all of her hatching chambers were destroyed. Unfortunately the effects of the mutagen were a bit more unpredictable than she anticipated.

Croag smiled again, moving to stand beside the hideously tangled and twisted lump of flesh that Lara had noticed earlier and taken pains to avoid. He nudged it with the toe of his boot. "Not that it was entirely useless you understand. This, for example, used to be Agent John Metzler. Before he got a little careless that is."

Lara felt the bile rising in her throat as she stared at it. Oh dear God. There was no way she had even dreamed that this twisted mess could have started out as a human being.

Croag was amused by her reaction. "Oh this is not the finished article by any means. Agent Szalecki here got a bit squeamish after a minute or two and shot Metzler before he truly started to flower. According to Natla's notes the mutation process can go on for up to seven days in extreme cases, resulting in some truly weird and wonderful things. It wasn't a question of her not being able to get the mutation started – more that she just couldn't get the process to stop until the subject died.

"You may find it interesting to know that – according to Natla – all of her test subjects remained at least partially aware of what is happening to them right throughout the entire mutation process. And, as far as she was able to tell, in excruciating agony for the entire duration."

It was an effort to hold back the tide of horror that welled up inside her – to keep the panic under control. She knew exactly what was going to come next. At least this place goes bang in about fifteen minutes.

"I must say Lara, I really do have a burning curiosity to witness the entire process, from to start to finish. And now I seem to have the perfect subject available."

"Me?" Lara's tone was resigned.

"How well you appear to grasp the situation." Croag bent to retrieve a gore encrusted .38 calibre pistol half buried beneath the grotesque bulk that had once been Metzler. "I feel the need to restrict your mobility a little. You really are remarkably fast and agile."

He gave Metzler's pistol a quick check. Lara readied herself – tried to sublimate the fear.

"Better not use the Desert Eagle I think. Even a leg wound from that can easily kill. And we wouldn't want that to happen, would we?"

Their eyes locked and Croag raised the .38, pointing it at her right leg just above her knee.

"By the way, if you're taking any comfort from the fact that you've wired the hatching chamber with explosives, please don't. Whilst you were still secured to the wall a couple of my mutants hatched. I had them start dismantling everything that you'd so carefully set up. At the rate they were going they should have finished about, ooh, twenty seconds ago." He smiled at her. "So you don't get to play the martyr I'm sad to say."

Which is why he was willing to talk for so long, she realised numbly. So I'd hold off on the last ditch heroics. She looked at his now calm, smiling expression. How much of what he'd told her had been just an act to hold her attention? How much real?

He pulled the trigger.

Perhaps it was Metzler's spirit extracting a small measure of revenge.

More likely it was because of the residue of half-dried blood and liquidised skin that made the grip a little slippery; the fact that Metzler didn't maintain his guns very well, so that this one pulled a fraction to the left. Whatever, as Lara flung herself desperately to the side, Croag's bullet missed her by about half an inch.

Instead, it slammed into the glass tube behind her.

It was the cracked tube. The others might have withstood a single .38 calibre bullet. This one literally exploded.

Broken glass and glutinous bluish liquid went everywhere in a rushing cascade. The incubus was deposited onto the stone floor with a dull, wet thud. Every battered muscle and bone in Lara's body shrieked in simultaneous protest as she rolled to her feet.

She found herself directly between the incubus and the central console; backed away from the thing slowly as it rose up onto its feet. Its beady little eyes fastened onto her immediately and it let out a hiss like an alien alley cat. The four needle tipped tentacles sprouting from its back writhed in the air like snakes.

It began to stalk towards her in short skittering bursts.

Lara could feel her heart thudding inside her chest. Her hands wanted to go for guns she no longer had. You couldn't have gone for Croag, could you?

Then she felt her back press against a combination of warm, gently pulsating flesh and cold, hard stone. She could feel the throbbing heat of the power source near her head, and out of the corner of her eye she could see Croag looking on in fascination. Both of his weapons were trained carefully upon the incubus.

Fear almost overwhelmed her.

She saw the incubus tense an instant before it pounced at her with unbelievable speed and power; just managed to flatten herself enough so that its whipping tentacles missed her by a fraction as it catapulted over her head. Instead of hitting her it rammed hard into the stone basin, flailing to get a grip.

One tentacle knocked the fiery crystal sphere.

Lara was too busy trying to put as much as ground as she could between herself and the incubus to see the glowing object fall. In the few fractions of a second she had available she dove desperately to one side. Croag though watched the entire sequence of events in dawning horror. His gaze followed the crystal's descent as time seemed to slow to a crawl.

It impacted onto hard, unforgiving stone.

Already cracked and splintered from Aguilera's bullet, the crystal shattered like the most delicate of glass, giving off a high pitched ringing note. An instant later there was a brilliant flash of light.

The incubus, closest to the epicentre, was flung all the way across to the room, two of its tentacles ripped free of its body. It slammed into the wall and fell limply to the floor, blackened and smoking and completely motionless. Croag was knocked backwards, and Lara threw an arm across her eyes to shield them from the blinding light. A wave of heated air battered and buffeted her.

As the brilliance faded Lara thought she glimpsed the figure of a voluptuous female angel, picked out in pinpricks of orange light. It hovered directly above the central console for a moment, then disintegrated before she could be certain she wasn't just imagining things though. An unearthly shrieking wail filled the air, retreating rapidly into the far, far distance and eventual silence.

The quiet left in the explosion's wake was shocking.

The ever-present throbbing heartbeat that had reverberated through the entire storehouse was gone, and the light was now dim and eerie, deep pools of shadow on all sides. Everything around her suddenly felt lifeless and dead. She could hear her own breathing again.

Lara pulled herself quickly to her feet, knowing that this was the only chance she was going to get. She came face to face with Croag across the console.

In the dim crimson glow his face was a demon mask, twisted with rage and madness. A couple of splinters of crystal shrapnel had embedded themselves in his forehead, glinting redly. Blood pulsed down the side of his face.

"What the fuck have you done, bitch?" His shout was filled with a depth of fury that bordered on the elemental.

What have I done? Talk about selective memory.

She ducked as he started blazing away at her with his Desert Eagle, though she probably needn't have bothered. His shots were so wild and uncontrolled he would have had trouble hitting the side of a barn. Flesh flew from the walls in huge chunks.

"You had to go and ruin everything, didn't you, you stupid little whore!" Then he was charging at her, four more bullets going wide by varying degrees of inches and feet.

He threw the Desert Eagle furiously aside as it came up empty, then simply launched himself bodily at her, teeth bared in an animal snarl.

Lara tried to sweep his legs out from under him, using his momentum against him as her martial arts training had taught her. He took no notice – simply buried her.

They fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs, rolling over and over until Croag came out on top, trying to crush her with his extra weight and strength. Two short, violent punches into her stomach blasted the wind from her body. Then he drove his forehead hard into her face, knocking the back of her head jarringly against the stone floor and making her vision swim with stars.

His fists continued to pummel into her body, and his face descended again, mouth snarling and gnashing as if he was trying to rip her throat out with his teeth.

Desperately Lara caught his forehead in her hands, scarcely able to breath through the pain in her ribs. She ground the crystal splinters hard into his flesh, sending a redoubled flow of blood into his eyes. He didn't even seem to notice though.

Lara could feel Metzler's .38, stuck through Croag's belt, gouging hard into her hip. She didn't have a hope of getting at it in the position she was in though. Another agonising blow pounded into the side of her ribcage.

It was all going to be over in seconds if she couldn't do something to change the situation fast.

She clawed at his eyeballs, provoking a bellow of pain and outrage and buying herself an instant to work with. His hand caught hers halfway to the gun though, smashing it against the stone so forcefully that she heard the bones of her knuckles crack – felt a sunburst of agony.

Crying out, both from the pain and as a means of focusing, she drove her knee as hard as she could into Croag's groin, three times in rapid succession. His crushing grip loosened just a fraction, and, using all the strength she could summon, she just about managed to twist free of his grasp.

His boot caught her hard on the hip as she tried to pull herself to her feet, spinning her round and sending her sprawling onto her hands and knees. She screamed as she landed on her broken hand.

When she rolled over onto her back, he was standing directly over her. His breath came in ragged, hissing gulps and his face was streaked in blood. Hands shaking he pulled Metzler's gun, aiming it down at her from a distance of no more than three feet. Even in his current state he couldn't miss from that range.

"And now you die Lara. I really hope it was all worth it." Croag's voice sounded almost calm.

Lara caught a flash of movement in the periphery of her vision: a cobra striking.

Croag's eyes went wide, his whole body stiffening. A low, shocked gasp came from his mouth and the gun clattered from nerveless fingers. Lara rolled out from under him as he dropped down onto his knees, his hands clutching at his pierced calf muscle.

With her good hand she sought out the fallen weapon.

As she got to her feet again she used it to pump three bullets directly into the oversized head of the incubus, which was dragging its blackened and torn form remorselessly around Croag towards her. With a soft whoosh it erupted into fierce orange flame.

Thank Christ for that. Shudders of relief wracked her.

She became aware Croag's eyes upon her. Sweat was running in rivulets down his face, his shoulders shaking. There was no pleading or begging for mercy and his expression was impassive. The rush of sweat intensified as she watched, and he struggled to conceal a grimace of discomfort.

Lara sighed softly to herself.

Hands shaking, her left one swollen to almost double its normal size – she manage to extract the clip from the .38, removing all of the remaining bullets except for one. Then she slotted the clip firmly back into place. She extended the weapon, grip first towards Croag. "Go on. Take it"

After a fractional pause he accepted the weapon wordlessly. His hands shook even worse than hers did, his skin turning slowly purple.

When she spoke she sounded surprisingly composed.

"There is one bullet in that gun Mr. Croag. I'm going to turn around and walk out of here now. You could, if you wanted I suppose, use that bullet to shoot me in the back. If it was me though – " Her voice cracked. " – I'd find a different use for it."

Croag managed a silent nod.

Lara turned away from him and didn't look back. The single shot rang out as she neared the doorway, ringing in her ears. She flinched but didn't falter, heading out of the storehouse and towards a sky she longed to see again.

* * * * *

Epilogue

Emil and Lara looked back as the dull reverberations of the explosion shook the ground beneath them. Clouds of brilliantly coloured birds flew up from the treetops, screeching and cawing. Finally it was finished.

For Emil it had been a long, long time.

Thugwane's mercenaries had broken camp and departed by the time Lara emerged from the storehouse, leaving almost half of their supplies behind. There was no sign of the locals who had been hired to help with the excavation work either. No one could guess why they had all departed, but then again no one thought too hard about it. You didn't tend to inspect that kind of good fortune too closely – just in case it didn't bear up to close scrutiny.

After a night's recuperation they had gone back into the storehouse to reset the explosives. At least Lara and the three CIA agents had – Emil was still in no fit condition. It had been pretty nightmarish, creeping – on constant edge – through the silent red-tinged gloom, waiting to be attacked at any moment. But they'd managed to deal with the two remaining active mutants without sustaining any further casualties. The rest of the work had gone pretty smoothly after that: reconnecting all of the plastic explosive in the once again dormant hatching chamber, then spreading out the remainder – plus the contents of an unused cache that had been left over from Croag's digging operation – throughout the rest of the structure. Particular attention had been placed on the central console chamber. None of them wanted the smallest part of that to survive intact.

Of Thugwane there had been no sign. Escaped out the back way no doubt. It was too much to hope for otherwise.

Now Lara and Emil walked side by side, leaning together, each with an arm around the other, as much for the physical support it gave as anything else.

They still had a long way to walk and neither of them was in what could be described as pristine physical condition. Emil's right shoulder was heavily strapped and bandaged, his right arm folded across his chest and immobilised. Lara's left hand, meanwhile, was splinted and tightly bound. There were a hundred other little injuries too – both inside and out.

Each tried to draw strength from the other.

"It feels strange you know," Emil said after a while.

"What does?" She studied the profile of his face intently, trying to read what was there.

"Everything I guess," he answered eventually. "I don't know. Chasing Croag has been my whole life for so long now. I guess I never really expected it to be over. Or at least not with me still alive afterwards." He looked around at her. "It's a relief. . . I suppose. But there's no feeling of satisfaction. No triumph. A bit of gladness that it's finished and I'm still just about in one piece perhaps. I find myself wondering what on earth do I do now though? Its not something I really considered."

He really is very handsome, she observed clinically. It wasn't something she'd had much time to notice over the past frantic few days. She smiled ever so slightly. "You build yourself a new life. Start living for the present and future, rather than in the past."

"You make it all sound so simple."

"Well, most people seem to be able to manage it, after a fashion. I'm sure you've got many, many talents you could successfully apply to a new career."

A small grin spread across his lips in answer to her smile. "I'll be sure to give it my best shot."

Ahead of them the CIA agents had almost disappeared from sight amid the dense jungle vegetation. They started to walk after them again before they were left entirely behind.

"Emil?" Lara said eventually.

They stopped, facing each other, looking into each other's eyes.

"Thank you Lara. . ." Emil started to say, but he wasn't allowed to finish.

Lara cut him off – kissed him tenderly on the lips.

* * *

In a hospital in Switzerland a small, balding, ordinary looking man stirred in his bed. The doctors had been amazed he was still alive. Ninety-nine out of a hundred people suffering from the same injuries would have been dead.

As it was, he still looked as though he was propping open Death's door. Three of his limbs were in plaster and metal plates had been inserted into both of his legs. The bed he was strapped to was the sort used for patients suffering from severe spinal injuries and there was a tube running up his nose attached to one drip. Another connected to a needle in his left wrist. The cardiograph he was hooked up to gave slow but regular blips.

He must have one hell of a constitution, they had said, slightly disbelieving.

After a time watery hazel eyes flickered open and stared impassively up at the ceiling.

The End