Sue Reuben turns, staring in disbelief at the wave. “Oh my God, is that thing real?”

Car horns blast, desperate passengers fleeing their vehicles as the monster wave crests into a 125-foot swell.

The tsunami sweeps up the oil tanker in its rising curl, then breaks atop the enormous steel vessel, pummeling it against the seafloor. The thunderous impact causes the bridge to reverberate as the killer wave crashes upon the Sanibel coastline, the roaring swell pounding everything into oblivion.

Edie drags her nephew and friend toward the deserted tollbooth. Harvey yanks open the door and pulls them inside as the tsunami flattens Sanibel and Captiva Island, its tremendous tidal surge blasting across the bay.

Harvey slides the door closed as Edie pulls Sue down onto the floor.

The tsunami races across the causeway, submerging the tollbooth.

The concrete-and-steel structure groans. Seawater pours in from all sides, filling the four-foot rectangle of Plexiglas. Edie, Harvey, and Sue stand in the torrent, enveloped in cold water and darkness as the water level continues rising, the tsunami’s roar like a freight train, its power shaking the tollbooth loose from its foundation.

The pocket of air fills. Edie squeezes her eyes shut, waiting to die. Her last thought is of Iz, wondering if she’ll see him.

Lungs burning, her pulse pounding in her ears.

And then the roar passes, the sunlight returning.

Harvey kicks open the door.

The three survivors stumble out, gagging and coughing, holding each other against a knee-deep river of water, which continues rushing inland.

Edie grabs hold of Sue, supporting her against the torrent. “Everyone okay?”

Sue nods. “Should we go back?”

“No, tsunamis come in multiple sets. We need to run.”

Locking arms, they wade and stumble down the submerged highway as the tidal surge slows, then suddenly reverses directions, threatening to sweep them into the bay. Grabbing on to a traffic pole, they hold on and pray, fighting to stay alive against the churning river of debris.

Chichén Itza

Cradling the jade object in his hands, Mick stares at the image of the warrior as if looking in a mirror.

A breeze—then a fluttering sound—coming from within the iridium canister.

Mick reaches inside, surprised to find a piece of faded cardboard. His hand shakes as he reads the familiar handwriting.

Michael:

Should destiny take you this far, then right now, you are as stunned as your mother and I were when the object in your hand was first unearthed back in 1981. You were just an innocent child of three, and I, well, for a while I was actually foolish enough to believe the warrior’s image to be of me. Then your mother pointed out the darkness of the eyes, and we both instinctively knew that, somehow, the image was meant to be you.