The Third Temple

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It was just before midnight when Harper Smith climbed to the final rise of the highest sand dune. The air smelled richly of salt, giving him hope the coast was near. By his calculations they should have reached it before nightfall. If he’d made a mistake with his navigation there was no way they would survive long enough to see it corrected. He was badly winded. The muscles of his calves and thighs were hot with pain. He breathed heavily and peered out into the distance to where the Atlantic Ocean should have been. Instead, beneath the silent moonlight he saw nothing but the majestic rolling sand dunes of the Namibian desert.

He swore loudly, cursing his greed. It had already claimed the lives of twelve members of his original party. He felt no guilt at being responsible for their deaths. They knew the risks before they became involved in his treacherous and evil business. The rewards would never have been so high if their task had been less dangerous. Besides, his punishment would come in the morning, when the scorching new sun would send him to his grave — that was, if his pursuers didn’t reach him first.

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