Sandstorm

7:35 P.M.

OMAHA STOODon the sandy path out in the courtyard. It had taken a minute to sweep the trail so it reached the cradled sphere. Safia stood before the four-foot-wide globe of red iron.

The skies raged above.

Safia approached the sphere. She rubbed her palms, then reached between the glass fingers of the sculpture.

Omaha saw her shoulder flinch, the bullet wound paining her. He wanted to rush to her side, pull her away, but she bit her lower lip and placed both palms on the sphere.

As her skin touched metal, a crackling blue flash arced over the iron’s surface. Safia flew back with a yelp.

Omaha caught her in his arms and helped her gain her feet on the sand.

“Thanks.”

“Sure, babe.” He kept one arm around her and helped her back to the palace. She leaned on him. It felt good.

“The grenade is set on a two-minute timer,” Painter said. “Get to cover.” He had planted the explosive charge at the base of the sculpture. The plan was to blast the sphere free.

Gravity would do the rest. The avenue beyond the palace flowed all the way to the lake. Purposeful, Safia had said. The ball, once freed, was meant to roll to the lake on its own.

Omaha helped Safia back into the main room.

A blindingly bright flash flared behind them, burning their shadows on the far wall of the main room. Omaha gasped, fearing it was the grenade.

He jerked Safia to the side, but there was no explosion.

“One of the static bolts,” Coral said, rubbing her eyes. “It struck the sphere.”

Safia and Omaha swung around. Out in the courtyard, the iron’s surface shimmered with blue energies. They watched the glass sculpture melt slowly, tilting on its own. The hand spilled the ball onto the courtyard floor. It bobbled, then rolled toward the arched entry.

It passed through and continued on.

Coral sighed. “Beautiful.” Omaha had never heard so much respect uttered in one word.

He nodded. “That queen would have made a great professional bowler.”

“Down!” Painter shoved them all to the side, clotheslining Omaha across the neck.

The explosion deafened. Glass shards spattered into the room from the courtyard outside. Painter’s grenade had gone off on schedule.

As the blast echoed away, Omaha met his eyes. “Good job there.” He patted Painter on the shoulder. “Good job.”

“It’s still rolling!” Danny called from above.

They all hurried up the stairs to the upper balcony, where everyone else was gathered.

Omaha pushed forward with Safia.

The course of the iron sphere was easy to follow. Its movement drew bolts from the roof, zapping it again and again. Its surface glowed with a cerulean aura. It bounced, rolled, and wended its way down the royal avenue.

Forked lightning struck and dazzled-but it kept rolling to the lake.

“It’s energizing itself,” Coral said. “Drawing power into it.”

“Becoming the depth charge,” Danny said.

“What if it blows up as soon as it touches the lake?” Clay asked, hanging back, ready to duck into the palace at the first sign of trouble.

Coral shook her head. “As long as it keeps dropping, moving through the water, it’ll only leave a trail of annihilation. But the reaction will end as soon as the ball moves on.”

“But when it stops, rests at the bottom…” Danny said.

Coral finished: “Then the weight of all the water above it, pressing on the stationary object, will trigger a localized chain reaction. Enough to light the proverbial fuse on our depth charge.”

“Then boom,” Danny said.

“Boom indeed,” Coral concurred.

All eyes remained on the glowing ball.

All eyes saw it reach the halfway point, roll along a ramp, hit a tumbled pile of debris from Cassandra’s bombardment… and stop.

“Shit,” Danny mumbled.

“Shit indeed,” Coral concurred.