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  Jack’s hand snaked out and grabbed hold of the Arab’s shoulder, pulling him back to safety. “Quit screwing around,” he snapped.

  Zahir hugged the wall like a lost lover. He wasn’t screwing around.

  Jack reached a window at the second story. He used the steel ball of his cane to smash through the glass. They dropped into a dark room. Old floorboards creaked beneath them, along with the crunch of freshly broken glass.

  By now, night had fallen and they were in darkness, with just the dim shadows of the light outside coming into the room.

  Jack used the tip of his cane as a guide, discovered a wall and then a door. He opened it, peered out cautiously and found an empty hallway.

  The coast was clear. Jack led the way out of the room and into the hall, which was lined with many doors. Obviously, this was an inn above the coffee shop below. Zahir stuck close to Jack, glancing around in the shadows. Irritated, Jack pushed the frightened gas station owner away.

  They rounded a corner, coming face to face with a huge man wielding a long, curved scimitar.

  Zahir yelped and turned to run, only to slam hard into a thick wooden beam. He collapsed in a heap of robes, totally worthless.

  Jack sighed at the pathetic, unconscious Arab, but he had no time to waste. He quickly turned his attention back to the menacing man in front of him. The two slowly circled each other in the wide hallway. Jack held his cane expertly before him like a sword.

  Jack lunged first, meaning to drive the ball of his cane straight into the man’s gut. But the large man easily parried the attack. Sparks flew as cane and scimitar collided.

  Jack struck again, this time swinging the cane like a baseball bat. His opponent blocked this blow easily as well. The two fenced as if using swords, each extremely skilled.

  Zahir finally sat up and rubbed his banged-up forehead. He watched the ferocious fighting in the hallway, clearly awed by Jack’s considerable talent.

  Gasping, Jack leaned over, wheezing for air. Then he realized the giant hadn’t tried to counterstrike him. The man stepped back instead. From the hallway behind him, Jack heard the sound of hands slowly clapping.

  An exhausted Jack turned. Smiling and still clapping stood Rashid Ramalah, Tehran’s Chief of Police. He leaned casually against a wall, smoking a cigar. “You are very skilled, Jack, but he won’t fight you. You, my friend, are of more use to us alive than dead.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The room at the inn was especially creepy and dark. Zahir, more than Jack, disliked the ambiance of the lion and tiger skins on the wall. They stood alone in the room, which was lit only by candles burning from wall sconces.

  Zahir continued to anxiously glance around. In the corner, he spotted a green vine. But he didn’t notice as it slowly slithered along the wooden floor. Much like a green snake, the vine undulated along and began to work its way up the Iranian’s pant leg.

  “Jack?” Zahir said nervously.

  “Yeah?” Jack asked, saving his energy for whatever came next.

  “You tugged my pants, right?”

  “I most certainly did not tug your—”

  Zahir turned, saw the slithering green vine out of the corner of his eye. He screamed in terror. The vine, seemingly reacting to him, retracted quickly back across the floor and into the strange plant in the corner of the room.

  Zahir was completely freaked out. He turned to flee, but stumbled over the edge of a rug and pitched forward. He landed on his face...directly in front of the head of a skinned tiger. The creature’s massive jaws were fierce in a wide, silent snarl. Zahir screamed again.

  Jack grabbed his new friend roughly by the shoulders and easily lifted Zahir to his feet. “Will you quit clowning around?”

  Zahir, for once, was speechless. He pointed with a shaking finger at the plant in the corner. Scowling, Jack turned to see what Zahir was pointing at.

  The same vine advanced and hovered next to Jack. Jack, however, was more curious than afraid. He reached out tentatively with his hand, and made contact with the apparently intelligent plant. The vine curled through Jack’s fingers, coiling slowly over the back of his hand, his wrist and up his arm. Like a boa constrictor. Jack watched in wonder as the tentacle-like vine continued up over his shoulder, neck, and finally around his forehead.

  “It likes you, Jack.”

  Jack turned carefully so as not to scare the thing away. Behind him stood the Chief, along with a small number of villagers, filing into the room. Zahir backed into the far corner.

  With the vine still wrapped around him, Jack faced Chief Ramalah. “At the risk of sounding impudent,” Jack said, “who exactly are you people, and where the hell did you get this plant?”

  The Tehran Chief of Police stood calmly in front of the others in the room. “We are the Keepers, Jack.”

  “Keepers of what?”

  Ramalah didn’t answer immediately, and Jack was engrossed with playing with the vine. Suddenly, his eyes widened with a dawn of understanding.

  “Is this...” he gulped, “is this from the Garden of Eden?”

  The Chief raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  “You are the Keepers of Eden,” Jack realized.

  “I guess we’ll have to kill him now,” Ramalah said to the others.

  Zahir gasped. “Please, no...I have heard nothing! What is a Keeper? I do not even understand—” The Iranian moved closer to Jack for protection.

  Jack rested a hand on Zahir’s forearm. “Relax, bud. The Chief is joking.” He paused a second. “You’re joking, right?”

  Ramalah chuckled. “Of course, my friend.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Jack frowned, confused. “You work in Tehran, as the Chief of Police.”

  Ramalah nodded. “Indeed. And we have others working elsewhere, as well. We are the eyes and the ears of the Keepers.”

  “But...I still don’t understand.”

  “Then let me help you,” the Chief offered. “We are the Keepers of Eden, sworn to protect the Garden for all eternity. In particular, the Tree of Life.”

  “But why?” Jack asked. Zahir, seeing that he wasn’t in any immediate danger, moved to Jack’s side, curious himself now.

  “To put it simply, Jack,” the Chief explained, “the Tree of Life is the source of all life on Earth.”

  Jack might have needed more convincing if it weren’t for the sentient plant currently interacting with him. Playing with such a plant made it easier for Jack to believe the Chief’s story.

  “So, the Bible stories are true.”

  “True enough,” Ramalah answered. The Chief’s demeanor became serious now. “As you are aware, the Russian billionaire is closing in on the Garden. He’s found the Garden Temple, which is the first step into Eden...and with their recent acquisition, we fear they will break through all the way.”

  “Break through?” Jack and Zahir asked in stereo.

  Ramalah nodded gravely. “Into Eden.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed protectively. “And I suppose the recent acquisition is Tess.”

  The Chief gave Jack a disappointed look. “You were supposed to help her, Jack, not lose her. But you can still be of use to us.”

  * * *

  Hands bound in front of her, Tessla Morgan was led up the long, winding path to the temple built into the side of the cliffs of the volcano. A full moon sat high above, and the night sky glittered with stars. Men poured in and out of the temple, working through the night with lit torches.

  Tess, while sympathetic to these obvious slaves, paid little attention. She was captivated by the great Mountain of God, which dominated the landscape vibrantly, yet ominously.

  As she entered the temple halls, torches flickered everywhere. She noted with disdain that the interior was badly damaged, columns and archways crumbled from the slaves’ haphazard work. She was amazed at the number of workers, loading and removing broken stone blocks with wheelbarrows.

  The guards shuffled her through hallway after hallway. Ev
entually, she came to a chamber, a place she recognized from her father’s research as the Garden Chamber. She looked around in wonder. Relief carvings of majestic plants, flowers and vines were scrawled all over the walls’ surfaces.

  And, Tess recognized with utter joy, in the corner or the main temple room, a cute little dark-haired boy, happily playing with stone bricks. Her son, Ricky!

  But directly in front of Tess now stood Boris Karakov, her ex-husband Morrie, Abdullah the slave master, and a handful of armed men. She tore her eyes mournfully away from her son—who didn’t know she was there—to the men facing her.

  Tess Morgan disregarded her ex-husband completely and looked Karakov straight in the eye.

  Karakov regarded Tess with contempt, although he tried to maintain some courtesy. “This is as far as we’ve gotten, Miss Morgan. We’ve reached an impasse.” He waited for a response but got none. He continued, “We know, according to your father’s research, that this temple leads into Eden. However, we cannot find the elusive entrance.”

  Tess couldn’t help it—she was trying to catch a better glimpse of her son playing just outside the Garden Room. One of the guards shook her violently. Tess turned and glared at Karakov, eyes smoldering. “So, what do you want with me?”

  Morrie-the-ex stepped forward to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She immediately shrugged it off.

  Still, he spoke to her gently. “We think you might be able to find the entrance, or portal, or whatever the blasted thing is. Your father’s research is surprisingly unclear when it comes to this.”

  “He knew better,” Tess asserted. “He also knew that there was only one way to find the portal.”

  After a fit of hacking and coughing, Karakov wiped his mouth with a soiled handkerchief. He was clearly unwell and getting worse. He looked at Tess with watery eyes. “Do tell, Miss Morgan.”

  Tess was nonchalant. “Trial and error,” she said coldly. “There’s a reason the passage is secret.”

  Karakov’s expression turned stony. “I don’t have time for trials,” he told the woman. Then he flicked his gaze over to her son, who was still playing and humming contentedly in the next room. “And, for his sake, there is no room for errors.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Later that night, Jack, Zahir, Chief Ramalah and a handful of other Keepers emerged from a stairway and into the inn’s basement. The Chief paused before an ancient, heavy but intricately carved door. “This is a secret underground entrance that leads directly to the mountain temple. The Russian bastard will hardly be expecting you,” he told Jack.

  Jack glanced sidelong at his congenial but useless new partner. “We’re going alone?”

  “The tunnels are too narrow for our horses and weapons,” Ramalah said.

  “I don’t understand.” Jack was a hero, but he was also self-protective.

  “We will be attacking at dawn,” the Chief told him. “Find your friend, save her and the child, and get the hell out of there, Jack.”

  “Easy for him to say,” Zahir mumbled.

  Chief Ramalah pulled open the heavy door, revealing a dark tunnel beyond. A cold draft blew onto Jack and Zahir. Zahir shivered, and took a peek inside, frowning at the dark and endless tunnels ahead. “Can I go home now?” he asked the Chief. His request was denied.

  As soon as the Chief sent Jack and Zahir on their way, he ordered the horses to be readied. He instructed his small army to dress in desert tan, armed to the teeth, and make ready to ride at dawn. The Keepers prepared themselves with rifles and scimitars, eager to head up the narrow trail that cut through the mountain pass.

  * * *

  Jack and Zahir, each holding a flickering torch, made their way through the dark and narrow tunnel. Jack’s cane clicked loudly. Zahir, irritated and nervous, glanced over at the cane. “Can you stop doing that?” he asked.

  “Doing what?” Jack asked back.

  Zahir pointed to the cane. “Making all that noise.”

  In an instant, Jack sliced his cane through Zahir’s robe sleeve and tore it off. He wrapped the cloth around the bottom of his cane to muffle the clicking sound. Jack walked on, pleased, while Zahir followed, even more irritated.

  They soon came to a fork in the tunnel, one that branched off into three directions. The two men stopped.

  “We go left,” Jack stated.

  “No,” Zahir argued, “the Chief said we take the middle.”

  Exasperated, Jack stood his ground. “We take the middle at the next fork in the passage.”

  Zahir shook his head. “We take the left at the next fork.”

  “Christ,” Jack swore, “Now, you’re confusing me. Let’s flip for it.”

  “I don’t have any coins,” Zahir complained.

  Jack searched his pockets but found nothing. He spied Zahir’s pathetic undershirt, reached over and plucked off one of the Persian’s buttons.

  “Hey!” Zahir said. “Why don’t we start using your shirt for supplies?”

  Jack ignored the man’s protest and showed him the button, turning it over. “The dark side is heads,” Jack told him. “And the lighter side is tails.”

  “Fine.”

  Jack continued, “Heads, we go left. Tails, we go down the middle.”

  “Fine,” Zahir repeated.

  Jack flipped the button, caught it and opened his palm. The dark side showed on top.

  “We go left,” Jack announced smugly.

  But Zahir still protested, “If you want to die a slow and miserable death wandering endlessly through...” Zahir looked up.

  Jack was already gone, heading up the left tunnel.

  “Hey, wait for me!” he cried.

  * * *

  It was early morning, and both Jack and Zahir were long covered in dust. They crawled through a small opening and emerged into an empty stone chamber. Zahir, following Jack, crawled out and kissed the dusty floor of the chamber in thanks to be out of the claustrophobic tunnels.

  Then Zahir looked up to see a frightening statue. He recognized it as a replica of the stone cherubim that guarded the original entrance to the Garden of Eden.

  Zahir screamed, but Jack immediately covered the Arab’s mouth with his hand. “Quiet, you idiot!” Jack hissed. He suspected they were getting close. To what, exactly, he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

  The lives at stake were Tess, after all, and her son. Not to mention their own.

  When Zahir calmed down, Jack eased over to a stone doorway and peered out. Another gloomy hallway, but voices drifted from it.

  “Listen,” Jack said.

  The voices they heard were coming from the Garden Chamber Room. Tess, Karakov, Abdullah and many adequately armed thugs were all clustered together in the center of the room.

  “The time has come, Miss Morgan,” Karakov’s voice was menacing.

  “I told you,” Tess argued, “my father’s research made no mention of the location of the portal.”

  “I do not believe you,” the Russian said. “It was purposefully left out of his research. Perhaps stored in a safe place?” He gave her a grim smile. “I think that safe place was with you, my dear,” he finished.

  Karakov snapped his fingers, and little Ricky was brought into the room. He ran to Tess and hugged her tightly.

  “If you value the life of your son, I suggest you find the portal,” the Russian told her.

  Tess smiled at her son. A single tear slid down her cheek but she made sure Ricky didn’t see it. A guard stepped forward; she only had a minute with the boy.

  “I’ll see you soon, my love,” she told Ricky. “Go back and play.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jack and Zahir moved carefully, quietly through the empty corridor. Lining the walls were stone pilasters and strange carvings of extinct animals.

  “I feel like I’m in a stone petting zoo,” Zahir remarked.

  “Just don’t pet anything,” Jack cautioned, listening. “C’mon, this way.”

  Both m
en were nervous and jumpy as they continued through the passageways. Zahir was grateful that the tap of Jack’s cane was still muffled by his torn shirt sleeve.

  Just ahead of them, around a slight bend in the temple’s tunnel, two armed guards stood outside an ornate entrance into what looked to be an inner sanctuary.

  “They’ve got to be in there,” Jack said. “We need a distraction.”

  Jack headed back the way they had come, ducking into smaller chambers that were now used as storerooms.

  “What are we looking for?” Zahir asked dubiously.

  “I’ll know it when I see it,” Jack answered.

  They stepped into the next room, Zahir holding the torch for Jack. Suddenly, Jack smiled broadly. Curious, Zahir looked down. The flickering light revealed a crate of dynamite.

  “Bingo,” Jack said, moving the torch a safer distance away.

  * * *

  Jack and Zahir were lugging the crate of explosives down the passageway when they heard an angry voice behind them. “Hey, you two!”

  A foreman, dressed in a long robe, approached them, suspicious. “What are you doing with those explosives?” he demanded in Farsi.

  Jack kept his head lowered, even though he wore a head cloth. Zahir, not exactly cool under pressure, spoke for the both of them. “We’re um, going to blow something up.”

  Apparently, this was commonplace at the huge dig site. “Never mind that,” the foreman said, “We need diggers now.”

  He handed Zahir a shovel. Zahir reached for it—and dropped his end of the heavy crate of dynamite. The crate crashed to the ground, and Jack’s eyes bugged out of his skull. “The dynamite!” The words were out before Jack could stop himself. And he’d blurted them out in English.

  The foreman turned to Jack. “Remove your head cloth,” he commanded.

  “Sir?” Jack said meekly in Farsi.

  “I said, remove your—”

  Zahir tapped the foreman on the shoulder. As the man turned, Zahir whacked him upside the head with the flat end of the shovel, knocking him out cold. The shovel vibrated violently in Zahir’s hands.