Darkness. Absolute and suffocating. The heavy thud of the cellar door slamming shut echoed in the small space, cutting them off from the world above. For a moment, the only sound was their own ragged, panicked breathing, amplified in the confined chamber. The air was thick with the smell of centuries of decay—damp earth, rotting wood, and the faint, dry scent of what might once have been paper. It was the smell of a tomb.
Above them, they heard the sharp crunch of tires coming to a halt in the sand. Heavy car doors opened and slammed shut. The sound of multiple pairs of heavy boots landed on the ground, their footsteps moving with a disciplined, almost military, precision.
"They know we are here," Sara whispered, her voice trembling in the pitch black. She was pressed against a damp stone wall, trying to make herself as small as possible. The academic thrill of discovery had vanished completely, replaced by a raw, primal fear. "What do we do now?"
Mayra clicked on her flashlight. The sudden, narrow beam cut through the darkness, revealing a small, stone-walled room. It was filled with the debris of history—rotting wooden shelves lay collapsed on the floor, their contents spilled out in a messy pile. Broken crates, their stenciled markings long faded into illegibility, were stacked against one wall. It looked as though the place had been hastily abandoned a hundred and fifty years ago and never touched since.
"Jerome, is there another way out of this cellar?" Mayra asked, forcing her voice to remain calm, to project a leadership she did not entirely feel. Panic was a luxury they could not afford.
Jerome, already in his element, swept his own powerful flashlight beam around the small space, his technical mind assessing the structure. "These old warehouses were often connected to the river for loading goods… tunnels, drainage systems… Yes! Look there!"
He pointed his beam to the far corner of the room. Set into a thick stone wall was a round, iron door, sealed with rust and time. It looked like the entrance to a sewer tunnel or an old aqueduct.
"That could be an escape route," he said, his voice a mixture of hope and doubt. "But opening it… it looks like it has been sealed for centuries."
Just then, a loud, heavy impact sounded from above. The wooden cellar door shuddered violently, sending a shower of dust and splinters down on them. They were trying to break it down. The sound was brutal and methodical.
"We are out of time!" Mayra said, her mind racing. "Jerome, get to work on that iron door! Sara, help me!"
Mayra and Sara grabbed a heavy, ancient wooden table—a solid piece of oak that had somehow survived the decay—and dragged it across the floor. With a great effort, they managed to wedge it against the cellar door, a desperate, flimsy barricade to buy them a few more precious seconds. Meanwhile, Jerome was already at the round iron door, examining its locking mechanism. It was a simple, heavy wheel, but it was completely seized by rust.
"It will not budge!" Jerome said, grunting as he put his entire body weight against the wheel. "It is completely fused!"
Another deafening crash came from above. This time, a long crack appeared in the wooden cellar door, and the sound of muffled, angry voices filtered through. The voices were not speaking Arabic. Mayra caught a few words, spoken in a harsh, guttural language she could not place. It sounded Eastern European, perhaps.
Mayra scanned the room frantically. Her eyes landed on a long, iron rod sticking out from a broken shelving unit. It might have been a support beam or part of a piece of old machinery. "Jerome, get back!"
She pulled the heavy rod free with a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength. It was almost six feet long and incredibly heavy. "Sara, help me!"
Together, they wedged the end of the iron rod between the spokes of the rusted wheel, using it as a lever. They both put their full weight on the rod. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a painful, groaning screech of tortured metal, the wheel moved. Just an inch.
"Again!" Mayra yelled, her muscles screaming in protest.
The door above them was on the verge of splintering apart. They could hear the men shouting at each other, their voices filled with aggressive impatience.
Mayra and Sara gave one last, desperate push with all their might.
With a loud crack, the rusted mechanism inside the lock broke, and the heavy iron door swung inward by a few inches, just enough for a person to squeeze through. A gust of cool, damp air flowed into the cellar, carrying the faint smell of the river.
At that exact moment, the wooden cellar door above them shattered, crashing inwards in a shower of splinters. The blindingly bright beams of several flashlights danced in the darkness, and three figures clad in black tactical gear, holding silenced pistols, jumped down into the cellar.
"Stay right there!" one of them shouted in heavily accented English.
But they were too late.
Mayra shoved Sara through the narrow opening into the tunnel. "Go! Run!"
Jerome had already scrambled inside. As Mayra was about to follow, a bullet struck the stone wall right next to her head, sending stone fragments flying through the air. Without thinking, she dove headfirst into the tunnel.
"Jerome, the door! Close it!" she screamed from the darkness.
Jerome pulled the heavy iron door from the inside. The men outside tried to force it open, but Jerome, using the last of his strength, managed to slam it shut. There was no latch on the inside, but at least they had put a solid iron barrier between themselves and their attackers.
They were in a tight, dark tunnel. The air smelled of river water and mud. The ground was slippery and uneven.
"Keep moving!" Mayra urged, her voice echoing in the confined space. "They will break through that door too!"
They scrambled forward, guided only by the narrow beams of their flashlights. The tunnel was ancient, its brick walls covered in a thick layer of green slime. They had no idea where this path was leading, only that it was away from the men with guns.
After what felt like an eternity but was likely only ten minutes of frantic running, they saw a faint light ahead.
"An exit!" Sara said with a gasp of hope.
They ran towards the light. The tunnel opened into a small cave, and the mouth of the cave led directly out onto the dry riverbed, which was now a vast, sandy plain. They had emerged a significant distance from the ruins.
They paused for a moment, gasping for breath, their bodies aching.
"We… we made it," Jerome said, leaning against the cave wall.
But as soon as the words left his mouth, their relief was instantly shattered.
Standing just outside the cave, as if he had been waiting for them all along, was a man.
It was the same man. The man from the Land Cruiser in Baghdad, with the calm, mysterious smile on his face. He was dressed in the same simple, unassuming clothes. His hands were empty. He was just standing there, with an expression that suggested he knew they would emerge from this exact spot at this exact moment.
Behind him, parked silently on the sand, were the black sport utility vehicles of their attackers. But there was no movement from them. The armed men were nowhere to be seen.
Mayra, Sara, and Jerome froze in place. They had escaped one trap only to fall into another, much stranger one.
"Who… who are you?" Mayra finally managed to ask, her voice hoarse.
The man did not answer. Instead, he smiled and tossed a small, old leather satchel towards them. It landed softly in the sand at Mayra's feet.
"In here is what you need," the man said, his voice calm and deep, resonating with a strange authority. "But this is not a gift. This is a test."
Mayra was baffled. What was happening?
Who were these attackers, and why were they not engaging with this man?
And what could possibly be inside that satchel that was not a gift, but a test?