Sandstorm (Sigma Force)
The explosive first event in James Rollins' bestselling Sigma strength series!
A freak explosion within the British museum in London ignites a deadly race for an earth-shaking energy resource buried deep underneath the sands of background. Painter Crowe is an agent for Sigma strength, a covert arm of the protection division tasked with retaining risky clinical discoveries out of enemy arms. whilst an historic artifact issues the best way towards the mythical "Atlantis of the Sands," Painter needs to commute internationally looking for the misplaced city-and a damaging energy past imagining.
But Painter has festival. A band of ruthless mercenaries, led through a former good friend and best friend, also are motive on claiming the prize, and they're going to smash somebody who will get of their way.
Ancient historical past collides with state-of-the-art science-with the protection of the realm at stake!
Static electrical energy did little to light up it. The smell of burned flesh nonetheless tinged the air. The past caution in their advisor crammed her middle with terror. Black ghosts…the nisnases. “Papa!” yet her father was once mired within the deeper, more suitable currents of the whirlpool, not able to flee. The column’s aspect brushed over him because it grew and unfold. His eyes met hers, frantic no longer for himself, yet for her. move, he mouthed—then he was once long past, vanished into the darkness that stuffed the satan. “Papa…!”.
second. “I’m miles out of your place. carry tight. I’m coming.” Static erased from now on reception. Safia pressed the ship button and held the radio to her lips. “Painter, when you can pay attention me, don’t come! don't come! Did you listen me?” She published the button. in simple terms static. He hadn’t heard. She stared out on the netherworld of typhoon, hearth, and wind. It used to be demise to shuttle these sands…and Painter used to be coming the following. 6:05 P.M. CASSANDRA CROUCHED with of her males. Gunfire rattled and.
Down the corridor. one other masked gunman. He held an odd pistol in his fist. Safia had visible any such machine before…in video clips, now not in genuine lifestyles. A tazer. A silent technique of dispatch. Safia persisted scrambling backward, her heels slipping at the slick marble. She remembered her preliminary fright while leaving her workplace. She had suggestion she had heard a person, observed a flicker of sunshine within the Byzantine gallery. It hadn’t been her apprehensive mind's eye. The determine dropped the discharged tazer and strode.
On one hand, putting through the opposite. Her shoulder and hands wrenched. in simple terms then did she spot the shooter at the flooring under. a well-known determine. the yankee. He stood along with his ft planted huge at the marble, aiming up at her. She became her face upward. The pane of glass her attacker were status on had crackled right into a thousand items, held jointly purely by means of the security coating. The thief stumbled backward, fumbling and wasting the pistol. It flew excessive, then landed challenging upon the shattered.
Moonlight. one other presence. mountain climbing the wall. Cassandra had dropped down and away, her again to the palace, a pistol in every one hand, dual black matte Glocks, pulled from shoulder holsters. She stuck the sight of the cloaked determine crusing over the outer wall. long past. An murderer? somebody had shared the backyard with her…and she’d been unaware. rattling silly… Anger quickened her concepts as she recalculated the night’s plan. With the commotion within the curator’s room, the possibility of absconding.