A cold chuckle flowed from the figure, as if the man read Nassor’s thoughts. “There is nowhere to run …”

Nassor tried. He turned toward the tunnel that led to the surface. He had to get the Eye of Ra away from this monstrous man. If he could reach the surface, get it back to his museum …

He took a step—or at least tried to take a step. But his feet suddenly went dead cold and refused to obey. He stared down, then gasped in disbelief. His shoes had turned to stone and were melding to the limestone floor.

No, not just his shoes.

Coldness traveled up his body. He watched his legs turn to stone, then his waist. He fought to move, to twist away. Then the coldness swept over his belly and chest—and out along his arms.

Stone fingers now clutched the ruby eye.

“No,” he moaned in horror.

Terrified, he stared across at the row of Egyptian warriors and realized that his expression now matched theirs. He suddenly understood why he had been summoned here.

“The curse …” the figure rasped at him, “… upon whoever tries to take the Eye from its resting place.”

The voice drew up behind him. Nassor could not even turn as the petrifying coldness froze his neck. He had been tricked, brought here to draw the curse to himself.

Nassor fought against it, crying out, “YOU MUST NOT—” But his frantic plea died as his tongue turned to stone.

“Ah, but I must …” the figure whispered in his ear.

An arm reached around, and iron fingers settled on the fiery gem. The Eye of Ra was pried from Nassor’s stony grip. Nassor wanted to turn, to see the face of the man who had doomed him; but he could no longer move, no longer speak, no longer breathe. As his ears turned deaf and his vision grew black, Nassor heard the man whisper a final threat—not against Nassor, but against someone else. The cold words followed him down into the darkness.

“With this, I will make Jake Ransom suffer.”

PART ONE

Three Weeks Later

1

EYES OF FIRE

Most days, people don’t kick you in the head.

For Jacob Bartholomew Ransom, it was just another Monday. He lay flat on his back on the blue practice mat. His ears rang, and bits of light fluttered across his vision. He’d been a second slow in blocking the roundhouse kick from his opponent.

“Are you okay?” the other boy asked.

Brandon Phan was two years older than Jake and the star pupil of the North Hampshire School of Tae Kwon Do, a junior black belt. He held out a hand to help Jake to his feet. Brandon was half Vietnamese, evident only from a slight pinch at the corners of his eyes, as if he were just about to laugh. Like Jake, he wore a belted white uniform called a gi.