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Back The Desert of Glass Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. BY MICHAEL C. GRUMLEY
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. EPILOGUE
  82. II
  83. III
  84. IV

Mawra’s phone rang, but she continued watching Mona as she accepted the call and raised the phone to her ear.  “This is Mawra.”

The exchange was brief.  “It’s the officer.  He’s asking if there are any requests for where to tow the car.”

Mona rose from the chair, facing the double doors as she fought to keep her mind from the image of Omar on the other side, being wheeled into surgery.

“Tell them I’ll be right there.”

50

50

Viewed by many as a living presence, Cairo’s street names reflected a unique and deep sense of the city’s history and memories, a veritable kaleidoscope of events for both the ancient capital and its millions of inhabitants.  Surprisingly, many streets were named by the people of the city, not the authorities, including the 26th of July Corridor, where Mona eased her car to a stop less than a hundred feet from the accident site.

Pushing the gearshift into park, she stared despondently through the windshield at the scene, watching Omar’s dark blue BMW being slowly dragged up onto the flatbed of a large tow vehicle.  Her stomach roiled as though she were going to vomit.

The entire front of the car was demolished, mangled beyond recognition up until the driver’s door, which appeared to have been cut into multiple pieces, likely to extricate Omar as quickly as possible.

Glass and debris were scattered over the street and the giant sidewalk next to it, and one of the rescue crew was in the process of sweeping it up.

She couldn’t move.

Inside her own car, Mona struggled even to move so much as her hand forward to the door latch.  Instead, she sat frozen, caught in a moment in time, unable to keep her mind from replaying the event as it must have happened.  The impact, followed by the slow-motion destruction of the first half of the car, with Omar trapped inside like a crash test dummy.

By pure instinct, her trembling fingertips finally found the latch and pulled, her grip shaky as she pushed the door wide open and fumbled for the seat belt.

When she stepped out, the scent of oil mixed with gasoline assaulted her nostrils, causing her to fight back another, more substantial wave of nausea.

Determined, she strode forward, unbalanced and leaning, unable to look away from the vehicle on the ramp as it gradually pitched forward with a loud mechanical whine.

She forced her eyes closed and turned to the side before reopening her lids, forcing herself to look somewhere else—at the building or the sidewalk, where dozens of people were gathered gawking at the remnants of Omar’s vehicle with several already beginning to stroll away.