Gold: a Thriller

Prologue

Disgraced veteran and part-time librarian Auralie Quinn was going to die in the desert a few miles from Timbuktu, and she was going to die because of a manuscript, a promise, and greed. She gripped the small child’s hand holding onto her own, urging them both forward, toward the car, not that she could see it. Sand was a thousand-fingered monster, roaring around them, choking them. The wind slashed and screamed, throwing sand relentlessly. It was the sound of the sandstorm that was most terrifying. Tiny rocks should not be that loud. Wind should not make her want to lie down and cover her head and beg for mercy. Even through a cloth over her mouth and nose, the sandstorm was suffocating. Every time she breathed in, she imagined the tiny particles cutting into her lungs, ripping open the soft, life-sustaining air sacs, popping them like balloons. If the sandstorm didn’t kill her, then the local gang of wannabe terrorists would, who were after the little girl, and dozens like her.

Auralie tried to yell to the little girl to keep moving forward, but she was panicked. Auralie didn’t need to speak  Bambara to know that she screamed for her mother.

The truck.

She just needed to get to the truck.

But no landmarks were visible. Nothing to guide Auralie. Her radio was down because of the storm, and the others were not in sight.

She should have left when she was in Mecca. She should have trusted her instinct, should have known Robin would betray her; a man who built his life on lies was not one to trust. She had the chance; she had the flight ticket in her hand, and she threw it away. She should have—

Auralie screamed as she plummeted toward the ground, yanking the girl with her. She had tripped over a rock. The sand blotted out the light in the sky, and she could barely see her hand in front of her face, let alone the rock on the ground.

She crawled, making her way across the sand. Even through her clothes, the sand felt like bb pellets. She found a boulder and crouched under it, pulling the girl toward her.

“Cover your eyes!” she screamed, covering the little girl’s face.

Auralie closed her own and thought of her grandmother. How she would never know what happened to her. How she would probably die, now that Auralie wouldn’t be there to pay for her medicine or check on her. Auralie realized with sudden, brutal clarity that Dahlia wouldn’t die from any complication from her diabetes. It would be from a broken heart.

Because her granddaughter was never going to make it out of the Sahara.