Mr. Tomb sped through the seven-star hotel’s opulent grounds. He ran frantically zigging and zagging like he was in a minefield. Unaware that his client, former CIA Section Head, Aunt Virginia, whom he called “Princess Doom” had ceased her attack, believing that he was dead.
Mr. Tomb knew where many of Aunt Virginia’s skeletons were buried (after all, he had buried them, of course on her say so). He was certain she would take steps to ensure that she had “retired” him from her service.
Therefore he raced clutching at palm branches, knocking them out of his path. Feverishly, he brushed aside the copious Bird Of Paradise plants, their pointed blooms, assaulting his torso.
Mr. Tomb muttered to himself that fate was still at odds with him for his multitudinous misdeeds, taunting him. First with his still smoldering Off Road Jeep Wrangler as a makeshift funeral pyre, and now the floral opulence that hampered his escape, encamped around him like a living funeral wreath.
Suddenly he remembered that he still wore the communication earpiece Aunt Virginia had provided.
“…Blast! That’s how she tracked me!”
And with that revelation, Mr. Tomb fished the communication earpiece from his left lobe. He lobbed the earpiece into the nearest metal trash can and ran full speed into the shadows of Dubai’s early dawn…
…straight into, a too far away to be seen, impending sand storm.
Meanwhile in the shadows at the edge of the opulent hotel shrubbery…
Mr. Tomb was unaware that a shadowy figure had been watching and tracking him for the past two days!
The shadowy immortal had been hired by an unknown client on the Internet’s dark web to track Isabella. He had watched in silence one day ago while Mr. Tomb wirelessly rigged Isabella and Old Sisyphus’ Odin’s eye high-tech goggles to malfunction.
This shadowy figure, a slim muscular Egyptian —the last living member of the fearless Fashua Tipi tribe was a tracer for hire as he called his special “abilities.” He could track anyone by their DNA signature even into the nether realms. His name—Maatu, which in his mother tongue meant, “he who shall survive us.”
As the story goes, long ago, one night, a young woman in the Fashua Tipi tribe gave birth to a boy she named Maatu. Maatu was not expected to survive the night. Innocently and out of desperation, the boy’s mother spoke an incantation she had heard the village Shaman speak over another dying child that came back to life for another month and then died.
You see, none of the tribe’s newborns in the twenty years prior to that ill-fated night of Maatu’s birth, had survived beyond their first three months of life.
The tribe’s elders believed that they were being punished for an unholy incantation the whole village had performed to find a missing child of the village decades earlier.
Nevertheless, on that ill-fated night, hundreds of years ago the young mother from the Fashua Tipi tribe uttered the same incantation Isabella had used recently.
Miraculously, the boy child Maatu survived. And, when the day for payment came, the young mother paid the harpies’ price. She took on the name and role of their dying monarch, Setho Zang. Her screams could be heard all night throughout her village as Maatu’s mother transformed into half eagle, half woman.
His mother’s story was no secret to Maatu throughout his young adult life in his village. Every year on the anniversary of that ill-fated night, Maatu was told the story of his mother, what she did, and who she became, as a cautionary tale.
Several years later as time squandered the lives of all around him in the village, ultimately Maatu was left alone.
Then, on the one-hundred-year anniversary of that ill-fated night of his birth, Maatu left his crumbling village, a ghost town to this day some say, and he never looked back.
Back in Dubai…present day
As Isabella and Old Sisyphus spiraled clinging to each other in the Dubai night sky, the now three-hundred-year-old Maatu saw it all from his vantage point at the end of the bridge between the seven-star hotel and Jumeriah beach, a short distance away.
Maatu watched as Isabella and Old Sisyphus’s sail parachute exploded. Furthermore, he witnessed the two spies hurtling to their impending death.
And, Maatu saw her, Setho Zang, queen of the harpies save their lives.
Meanwhile across the bridge from the seven-star Burj Al Arab hotel as midnight walked into dawn on Jumeirah beach…
“Time to ditch these goggles, my friend. They might be tracking us through them?” mused Isabella.
“Yep, no doubt. But don’t you want them to find us and end this once and for all. They think we are dead, let us use that…” Old Sysphus replied, rubbing his nose.
“Good idea let’s set a trap, shall we?”
Isabella giggled blushing as she looked at Old Sisyphys sneezing. His eyes squinted as he let loose his usual protracted sneeze like a violin warming up for La Traviata’s opening orchestral sequence!
“There’s a sandstorm coming.” Said Old Sisyphus wiping his long drips of oozing snot on his hand-made Emporio Armani jacket sleeve.
“I’ll take your word for it. I know how you are with swirling dust. Let us find shelter and prepare for our uninvited guests.”
Snubbing her nose in the air at Old Sysphus wiping his nose on his jacket, Isabella quipped, tongue-in-cheek laughing as she looked down at her now sand-encrusted Vera Wang white evening gown’s hemline and bare feet,
“I can’t take you anywhere nice, old friend, look at… look at what you just did to that jacket!”
“Hachewzeewwee…” Old Sisyphus “replied,” still sneezing as his massive dark blue wings tattoed with the all seeing eye of his Overlord, Armageddon, sprouted momentarily and then vanished back into his spine… before anyone noticed…
****To Be Continued Next Sunday****