Jewel Of Atlantis. Gena Showalter

exam ASAP.

      “The mission. Think only about the mission.” As they had a thousand times before, his boss’s departing words drifted through his mind. We found a book, Gray. The book, actually, titled Ra Dracas. It tells of dragons and vampires and other such nonsense, but the true message is hidden between the text, written in code.

      “The text about dragons and vampires is nonsense,” he mocked. Hindsight sucked major ass.

      Once we broke that code, his boss had added, we learned about the Jewel of Dunamis, a jewel so powerful it can be used to predict the future. A jewel so powerful it can show who’s lying and who’s speaking the truth. Whoever holds it will have the ability to destroy any enemy. Conquer any army.

      Small wonder his government wanted so desperately to own it.

      Gray was to find and steal this precious jewel, then bring it home. If his mission was compromised in any way, he was to destroy it so that no one else got their greedy hands on it.

      It was that simple.

      Simple? Yeah, about as simple as routine brain surgery. Gray paused briefly and sipped from his dwindling canteen of vitamin-enhanced water. The cool liquid slid down his parched throat, offering a much-needed burst of energy before he jolted back into motion.

      For an eternity he pushed himself onward, never slowing, ever conscious of what awaited him if he didn’t find a spot to enable Operation KTB. His gaze darted to his wristwatch, the digital red light barely visible under the dirt and grime covering him. Twenty minutes until showtime, so he had to find a workable patch of land now. He scowled and—

       Watch out for the quicksand.

      His eyes jerked swiftly across his surroundings as he searched for the speaker, a woman. He didn’t duck for cover, didn’t stop walking, preferring instead to be mobile. Plus he didn’t want to scare her with any surprising movement. That’s how trigger-happy fingers were created.

      He did tighten his grip on the machete. The odds were fifty-fifty the woman had a weapon, and even higher that she’d actually use it. Still. A man couldn’t be too careful.

       Are you listening to me? I said, watch out for the quicksand!

      The husky, heavily accented female voice slammed into his mind once again, so richly sensual and commanding he acquired an instant, unwanted, and surprising hard-on—before he promptly began sinking into a large pool of quicksand.

      “What the hell?” Instinctively he attempted to raise his legs, which only caused him to sink farther and faster. He stilled and glared at the ground, watching it slowly rise, covering his feet…his ankles.

      Now you’ve done it. Exasperation clung to the edges of her words. She might even have added, Dumb ass, but he wasn’t sure. I tried to warn you.

      “Where are you?” he asked, using his gentlest, most reassuring tone as he eyed the lush green bushes circling him. The leaves here were thicker than any he’d ever encountered, barely moving in the gentle wind.

      There was no hint of person or clothing peeking from the shrubbery, still no rustle or snap to indicate movement. She’d tried to save him from the quicksand, so she hopefully meant him no harm. God knew he needed all the help he could get right now.

      “You can come out,” he said. “I won’t hurt you. You have my word.”

       Think for a moment, Gray. You don’t hear me with your ears, but with your mind.

      “How do you know my name?” he asked sharply. Then he blinked, shook his head, blinked again. The voice remained, echoing from each corridor of his brain. She was right. Her words were actually inside his mind.

      How was that possible?

      How the hell was that possible?

      “I’m schizo.” The statement burst from his mouth, too shocking and surreal to keep inside. “I’ve finally jumped over the ledge of sanity with thousand-pound weights tied to my ankles.” He’d seen some weird shit in his lifetime, and it had finally caught up with him.

      He should have known it would come in the form of a split personality. A sexy as hell female personality, at that. Her whisky-rich voice…he’d never heard anything quite so erotic.

      Down, down he sank as the sand covered his calves with its gooey wetness. The scent of stagnant water and decaying—he wrinkled his nose. He did not want to guess what was decaying.

      Insane or not, he hadn’t survived two days and nights of torture to die by stinky sand. No matter what he had to do, he’d save his life—or rather, lives—from this mess.

      God, this sucked.

      Unwilling to lose a single supply, he tossed his GPS and machete to dry ground. Careful not to jostle too much or too quickly, he removed his backpack and tossed it beside the blade, wishing to God his propel wire hadn’t been lost during a battle with the Welcoming Committee.

      He scowled for, what…the thousandth time in as many hours? The expression well represented his views of Atlantis. Meanwhile, he continued to sink, slowly, slowly, the wet sand working its way past his knees, up his thighs. The thick liquid grains were cold, and his body temperature fell a couple hundred degrees. His blood pressure was the only thing on the rise.

      Amid the popping and gurgling of wet suction, he searched his surroundings again, this time looking for a lifeline. No branches, no vines were nearby. Only a large white rock, but it was too far away to reach with his hands.

      Take off your shirt, the sensual, I-want-you-naked-and-in-my-bed voice said.

      He snorted derisively. He was sinking toward death, and his new female personality wanted him to strip. Why wasn’t he surprised?

      “Want me to remove my pants, too?” he asked dryly. At least he’d picked a hot, nympho chick to be his mind-companion and not a nasally old man.

      Idiot! she huffed, a blush dripping from her tone. Take off your shirt, clasp the opposite ends in your hands, and hook the material around the rock.

      His eyes widened as he studied the distance of the rock again. That might actually work. For the first time in days, he laughed with genuine amusement. He might be schizophrenic and teetering on the brink of total insanity, but he was also a freaking genius.

      The woman—it was hard to continually think of such a distinctive, seemingly real voice as merely an extension of himself—sighed. Why did the gods have to pick you?

      Her dejection caused his smile to grow. “I could ask myself the same question, babe.”

      Reaching behind him, he gripped the neck of his shirt and tugged it over his head. With one end of the camouflage material in his left hand and the other in his right, he leaned forward and tossed the looped shirt at the rock. He missed.

      He tried again and missed.

      Okay, so he seriously needed to increase the hours he spent at target practice.

      The sand now reached his waist. He continued to lean and toss until the shirt finally anchored solidly. He gave a hard jerk and stopped sinking.

       Now pull.

      “I know what to do.” He pulled, using all of his strength. His arms burned from the strain. The sand grasped at him like strong, greedy fingers, holding him in place.

      Grimacing, he continued to hoist up his two hundred pounds of muscle. His shoulders popped, the weight straining sockets and bones. The sand continued to tighten its embrace, burning the wound in his leg. The teeth marks in his neck throbbed against the exertion, perhaps even split open because he felt a trickle of something warm and wet on his skin.

      Just a little more…almost…there. The sound of ripping cotton and poly filled his ears. With a final yank, his body landed on dry, solid ground. He sucked in a relieved breath.