Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.Prague, Czech Republic "He's going to catch fire when the motorcycle hits the back of the overturned car?" Annja Creed asked in disbelief. "Yeah. But the real trick is when he catches fire." Barney Yellowtail calmly surveyed the wrecked cars in the middle of the narrow street between a line of four-story buildings that had seen far better days. "When?" Annja asked, still trying to grasp the whole idea. "When is important," Barney continued. He was in his late forties, twenty years older than Annja, and had been a stuntman for almost thirty years. "If Roy catches on fire too late, we've hosed the gag." Gags, Annja had learned, were what stunt people called the death-defying feats they did almost on a daily basis. "And if you hose the gag," Annja said, "you have to do it over and risk Roy's life again." Barney grinned. He claimed to be full-blood Choctaw Indian from Oklahoma and looked it. His face was dark and seamed, creased by a couple of scars under his left eye and under his right jawline. He wore rimless glasses that darkened in the bright sunlight, and a straw cowboy hat. His jeans and chambray work shirt were carefully pressed. His boots were hand-tooled brown-and-white leather that Annja thought were to die for. Annja was five feet ten inches tall with chestnut hair and amber-green eyes. She had an athlete's build with smooth, rounded muscle. She wore khaki pants, hiking boots, a lightweight white cotton tank under a robin's-egg-blue blouse, wraparound blue sunglasses and an Australian Colly hat that she'd developed a fondness for to block the sun. "That's not the worst part," Barney assured her. "That's not the worst part?" Annja echoed. "Naw," Barney replied, smiling wide enough to show a row of perfect teeth. "The worst part is that the director will be mad." "Oh." Barney looked at her as if sensing that she wasn't completely convinced. "Mad directors mean slow checks. They also mean slow work. If you can't hit your marks on a gag, especially on a film that Spielberg's underwriting, your phone isn't going to ring very often." Annja wondered if you had to be certifiable to be a stuntman. "C'mon, Annja," Barney said. "I've read about you in the magazines, seen you on Letterman and kept up with what you're doing on Chasing History's Monsters. You know life isn't worth living without a little risk." Annja knew her life hadn't exactly been risk free. Actually, especially lately, it seemed to go the other way. As a working archaeologist, she'd traveled to a number of dangerous places, and those places were starting to multiply dramatically as she became more recognized. She thought about her job at Chasing History's Monsters. Most days she wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse. The syndicated show had high enough ratings that the producers could send Annja a number of places that she couldn't have afforded on her own. The drawback was that the stories she was asked to cover—historical madmen, psychopaths, serial killers and even legendary monsters—were usually less than stellar. Fans of the show couldn't get enough of her, but some of the people in her field of archaeology had grown somewhat leery. None of that, though, had come without risk. "Okay," Annja admitted. "I'll give you that. But I've never set myself on fire." "Roy's not going to set himself on fire," Barney said. "I'm going to do that for him." "Oh." "It's just that timing is critical." Barney stepped to one side as his cell phone rang. "Excuse me." Annja nodded and surveyed the street. The film crew had barricaded three city blocks in Prague's Old Town. A few streets over, the Vltava River coursed slowly by and carried the river traffic to various destinations. Prague was a new experience for Annja, and she was thoroughly enjoying it. Getting the job on the movie had been as unexpected as it was welcome. She'd done a bit of work with props before, but never on a motion picture of this magnitude. Kill Me Deadly was a new spy romp that was part James Bond and part Jason Bourne. The hero even carried the same J.B. initials—Jet Bard.Annja hadn't quite understood the plot because a lot of the details were still under wraps. She was of the impression some of them were still being worked out, which was causing extra stress on the set. Three cars occupied the middle of the street. Two of them were overturned. All of them were black from where they'd been burned. The stuntman was supposed to hit the upright car, catch on fire and turn into a human comet streaking across the sky. When Annja had heard about the stunt and had received an invitation from Barney to attend, she'd thought about gracefully declining. Then she'd found she couldn't stay away. Now her stomach knotted in anticipation. She'd gotten to know the young daredevil who was about to become a human fireball. He was a nice guy and she didn't like the idea that something bad might happen to him. "Okay," Barney said as he stepped back to rejoin her. His gaze remained on the street while he adjusted his headset. "I'm going to need you to stay quiet for a moment, Annja." "Sure." Annja gazed down the street anxiously. Camera operators lined the street from various points of view. All of them remained out of each other's line of sight. The crews had worked on the setup for hours. Before that, they'd measured and mapped the distances on a model of the street and the cars. According to the computer programs Barney and the other stunt people had run, everything would go fine. To Annja, it was a lot like exploring a dig site she'd read about. Even though she knew the background and the general layout, there were far too many surprises involved to guarantee everything was safe. Some of the early Egyptian-tomb explorers had quickly discovered that. "On your go," Barney said softly. He held up an electronic control box in both hands. "I'm with you." He flicked a switch. Immediately a half-dozen fires flamed to life within the pile of wrecked cars. They burned cheerily and black smoke twisted on the breeze. "We've got fire in the hole, Roy," Barney declared. The throb of the motorcycle's engine rumbled into Annja's ears. She watched with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Roy Fein was one of the top stuntmen in the game. Barney had said that a number of times over the past few days. She didn't know if he'd been trying to reassure her or himself. "Steady," Barney said. "Okay, you're on track. Now increase your speed to seventy-eight miles per hour." The exact speed had been a big concern, Annja knew. Too much and the impact angle would be wrong and the motorcycle might flip end over end. Too little and Roy would fall short of the air bag that waited at the other end of the jump. The motorcycle roared into view. Roy Fein, dressed in dark blue racing leathers and a matching helmet, had raced around the corner. A car followed only inches behind him. "You're on," Barney said. "Hit the Volkswagen and I'm going to light you up." At that moment, the pursuit car slowed and slewed sideways. Actors inside the vehicle leaned out the windows and fired weapons."I got you, kid. I got you." Barney's voice was soft and reassuring. "Get that fire-suppression unit ready." The motorcycle rider popped a slight wheelie just before he hit the Volkswagen. Effortlessly, the motorcycle climbed the specially altered vehicle. "Now," Barney said. His finger flipped one of the switches on the electronics box. Immediately, the motorcycle and rider were enveloped in flames. But something was wrong. Instead of arcing gracefully across the distance, the motorcycle went awry. "Kick loose, kid!" Barney yelled. "Lose the bike!" He dropped the electronics box and ran toward the street. Roy pushed free of the motorcycle and spread-eagled in the air like Superman. But he wasn't flying—he was falling. Flames twisted and whipped around his body. He threw his arms out and tried to adjust his fall as gravity took over and brought him back toward the pavement. Annja ran after Barney, though she didn't know what she was going to do. There was no way she could help Roy. But she couldn't just stand there, either. The motorcycle spun crazily, nowhere near the trajectory it was supposed to maintain to get near the air bag designed to break Roy's fall. Then it blew up. The force slammed Annja to the ground. She tucked into a roll and came to her feet instinctively. Slightly disoriented, she glanced up to see where the flaming pieces of the motorcycle were coming down. She saw Barney was on his side. His face was twisted in agony as he reached toward a bloody gash soaking his shirt. Annja went toward him. She yelled for help, but couldn't hear her own voice. She tried again. Her ears felt numb, then she realized she was deaf. She dropped beside Barney and surveyed the wound. An irregular furrow ran along his ribs. She tried to tell him that he was going to be all right but knew that he couldn't hear her, either. She yanked his shirt from his pants and rolled the tails up to his wound, then leaned on the folds to put pressure on the wound in his side. One of the other stunt coordinators joined Annja and dropped to his knees. His mouth was moving. She knew he was shouting something. He was young, tall and gangly, and he was in shock. Annja grabbed one of his hands and directed him to take hold of the makeshift pressure bandage she'd created. For a moment he froze. With authority, Annja caught his face in her palms. She met his eyes with hers and struggled to remember his name. "Tony," she said. "It's Tony, right?" She couldn't hear herself. "I can't hear you," he said. Annja read his lips. "It's okay," she told him. "Your hearing will come back." She hoped that was true. Sirens, muted and faraway sounding, reached her and gave her hope that her hearing hadn't been permanently destroyed. Tony nodded, but he didn't look any less scared. "He's hurt," Annja told Tony. "Hold the pressure on the wound. Like this." She guided his hands. "Okay," he sa...

### Product Description It started as a dream—a redheaded warrior king fought and died for his men centuries ago. The dream would lead archaeologist Annja Creed to the king's undisturbed corpse...and one of England's greatest mythical artifacts. Deep in an archaeological dig in England's Midlands, Annja locates a braided necklace around a mummified king's neck. Made of an unusual material—not quite obsidian, but gleaming with multihued color—the torc is an astonishing find. But someone knows exactly what the torc means. And he will do anything to get his hands on the Tear of the Gods. When the dig is compromised and innocent archaeologists are slain, even Annja herself is left for dead. Now she is fleeing for her life, not knowing the terrifying truth about the relic she risks everything to protect—or the devastating consequences should it fall into the wrong hands.... ### Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Myrrdin sat high astride his horse and stared down the slope of the hill at the Roman army amassing in the valley below. What was left of his command was gathered at his back, but it was pitifully small compared to the enemy presence before him. It was hard to believe that things had gone wrong so swiftly. Less than a week before, he[HTML_REMOVED]d been war leader to Queen Boudica herself and had led an army of more than eighty thousand souls across Britannia, carving a path of destruction in their wake. They had destroyed the colony at Camulodunum and had marched against first Verulamium, and then Londinium itself, sacking each city and slaying as many of the invaders as they could find. Blood flowed like a river wherever they went, appeasing the anger of the gods at the presence of the Roman invaders and bestowing blessings upon the Iceni as a result. Nothing, it seemed, could stand in their way. Nothing, that was, until the coming of Gaius Suetonius Paulinus. Even thinking of the Roman[HTML_REMOVED]s name was enough to make Myrrdin curse aloud and spit on the ground. He longed to carve the man[HTML_REMOVED]s flesh from his bones and feed it the crows. He prayed to the gods that he would get his chance before the battle was over. What a difference seventy-two hours made. Less than five thousand men remained of the army that had met Paulinus and the soldiers of the XIV _Gemina _on the field of battle three days before. Few, if any, of his senior commanders still lived, for they had stood their ground and fought on even when the battle had turned in the Romans[HTML_REMOVED] favor. Myrrdin would have gone down fighting alongside them if the queen hadn[HTML_REMOVED]t ordered him to retreat, to ensure that someone still remained who could rally the remnants of the Iceni and see to it that their people[HTML_REMOVED]s sacrifice was not in vain. How he wished he had never left her side! He reached up and fingered the torc he wore about his neck, the one Boudica had entrusted to him before the battle. She[HTML_REMOVED]d always claimed it to be the root of her power, that the metal from which it was formed, the metal given to them by the very gods themselves, protected her time and time again. But Boudica was dead now, poisoned by her own hand while in Roman custody rather than be handed over to Paulinus[HTML_REMOVED]s troops as a plaything for their amusement. When word reached him earlier that morning of her fate, he wept, wondering if he[HTML_REMOVED]d condemned her to death simply by taking the torc. Not that it mattered now; what was done was done. Myrrdin was a good enough tactician to know that at this point there was no way the Iceni could win. They were outnumbered and the Romans were not only better armed but better armored, as well. If he hadn[HTML_REMOVED]t been able to beat them with eighty thousand warriors at his command, there was no way he was going to be able to do so with only five thousand. But there was no question of retreat. He would rather die on the field of battle, sword in hand, than be hunted down like a dog in the weeks to come. And perhaps, Awran willing, he could take a few Romans with him as an offering before it was his time to die. He let his gaze roam over the soldiers gathering on the field below. Unlike his ragtag band of warriors, who often wore as little into battle as possible, the Romans were all dressed in identical coats of chain armor worn over a short jerkin with thick-soled leather sandals on their feet. They each carried two iron-tipped spears, pilums he[HTML_REMOVED]d heard them called. The short swords were designed primarily for stabbing in close-quarter combat. The soldiers also held large rectangular shields, big enough to cover a man from ankle to chin. The legion[HTML_REMOVED]s standard, a charging boar on a field of crimson that was so dark as to be almost purple, flapped in the afternoon breeze, the Romans arrogantly claiming this land on behalf of the Emperor. Myrrdin turned and surveyed the men assembled behind him. What a sharp contrast to those they were about to face. Where the Romans were tall and muscled from years of disciplined labor, his men were smaller and wiry in nature, built for speed and dexterity. Where the Romans were armored and carried multiple weapons, many of his men were naked or nearly so, their fair skin decorated in blue woad. They clutched swords made of iron and carried small, round shields of leather stretched over wooden frames. Of his illustrious horse soldiers, less than fifty remained. They sat stiffly in the saddle off to his right, weary from the days of fighting and the long chase they had endured so far, yet none hesitated to return his gaze or gave any sign they would shy away from the confrontation to come. As he turned away, one thought was prominent in his mind. We don[HTML_REMOVED]t stand a chance. Myrrdin shook his head, clearing it of such defeatism. The simple fact was he no longer had any choice; there was nowhere else to run. He[HTML_REMOVED]d never get his men through the bogs on the other side of the hills before the enemy could catch up with them. He had no choice but to stand and fight. Like all good commanders, Myrrdin wanted that fight on his terms, not the enemy[HTML_REMOVED]s, which was why he[HTML_REMOVED]d assembled his men along the crest of the hill while the Romans attempted to set up camp in the valley below. He hadn[HTML_REMOVED]t been able to choose the field on which they would meet, but he[HTML_REMOVED]d be damned if he wouldn[HTML_REMOVED]t choose the time. And that time was now, before the enemy got themselves organized and settled in. He brought his horn to his lips and blew a long blast. The sound echoed across the valley, like a great voice shouting from the hilltop, and Myrrdin smiled in defiance as he watched the Roman soldiers milling about in response. Behind him, his men took up the call to battle, pounding the flats of their swords against their shields, calling up a frightful racket, letting the spirits know that there would soon be newcomers, friend and foe alike, entering the land of the dead. Bare-breasted women moved among the ranks, screaming in hatred at the Romans massed below and whispering words of encouragement to their men, stoking the twin fires of courage and power. Myrrdin let it build for a few minutes, allowing his men to whip themselves into a killing frenzy, and then, when he judged the time was right, he raised his right arm above his head, his fist clenched for all to see, and then brought it slashing downward. Like a breaking wave his army surged into motion, pouring down the hill toward the enemy, shrieking their war cries as they went. With a joyous shout, Myrrdin spurred his horse and joined them, thundering down toward the rapidly forming enemy line. Behind him came the rest of his horse soldiers, their voices raised in harmony with his own. Ahead of them the Romans stood shoulder to shoulder in a long, unbroken line, waiting with disciplined ease for the enemy to make contact, their oversize shields held before them to form a wall. As the Iceni warriors closed in, the Romans unleashed a blistering rain of stones and spears from behind the protection of that wall, hoping to blunt the force of the attack. The Iceni had faced the Romans before, however, and they were ready, having expected just such a move. Almost as one they bent low over their mounts, their heads sheltered by the animals[HTML_REMOVED] long necks, and as a result the majority of them made it through the storm unscathed. Mere yards separated the two forces and Myrddin felt his lips peel back from his teeth as he bared them at the enemy like a wild animal defending its den. Heart racing, blood pumping, he let out another shout of defiance and drove his horse right into the ranks of the enemy, smashing aside that wall of shields, trampling those foolish enough to stand firm in the face of the attack under the hooves of his battle-hardened mount. Beside him, his horse warriors did the same, smashing aside the Roman line, creating a breach for their foot soldiers to exploit as they caught up with the charging cavalry. In seconds the orderly nature of the Roman defense had dissolved into chaos. The air was full of the coppery scent of fresh blood, the smell of leather and sweat, the screams of the injured and the dying. Myrrdin slashed about him with his sword, hacking at anyone who got close enough, striking down as many of the enemy as he could, driving his horse relentlessly forward, doing all he could to widen the gap, to give his people a fighting chance at survival. If they could break through the other side of the Roman battle line, some of them might survive to fight another day. A tall Roman rose up on his right side, his battle-ax already in motion, but Myrrdin took the blow on the buckler strapped to his left arm. The shield shattered, smashed to pieces by the force of the blow, but it served its purpose, giving Myrrdin time to thrust his sword deep into the other man[HTML_REMOVED]s chest, killing him where he stood. The Iceni chieftain turned in the saddle, searching for his next foe. The spear came out of nowhere, whistling through the air with all the grace of a weapon of war doing just what it had been designed to do. It struck him high in the right side. As luck would have it, he[HTML_REMOVED]d been in the midst of turning and the projectile drove into the narrow gap his mail coat failed to cover at his armpit, burying itself deep in his chest. It was like being buried in an avalanche of ice, his sword falling away from fingers gone suddenly numb, his grip on the saddle loosening as he lost the feeling in his legs, and he tumbled from his mount to lie in the mud of the battlefield as the fight raged on around him. As his vision began to narrow and the darkness closed in, Myrrdin could have sworn he felt the torc about his neck pulse in time with his heartbeat. Annja Creed studied the decapitated heads on the table in front of her. Two of them had their eyes closed, as if they[HTML_REMOVED]d died peacefully in their sleep, but Annja knew better than to trust in simple appearances. There had been nothing peaceful about their passing; the fact that they were sitting on the table minus the rest of their bodies was proof of that, she thought wryly. The eye...

An ancient order tied to the Vatican... A blood fortune buried in the caves of France... A conspiracy of power, greed and darkest evil... Archaeologist and explorer Annja Creed's fascination with the myths and mysteries of the past leads her to a crypt in the caves of France, where the terrifying legend of the Beast of Gevaudan hints at the unimaginable. What she discovers is shattering: an artifact that will seal her destiny; a brotherhood of monks willing to murder to protect their secret; and a powerful black-market occultist desperate to put his own claim to centuries-old blood money. Annja embarks on a high-tension race across Europe and history itself, intent on linking the unholy treachery of the ages with the staggering revelations of the present. But she must survive the shadow figures determined to silence her threat to their existence.

A sword, a stone and a deadly legacy... The theft of a whetstone from a Welsh museum and the murder of a curate during a grave robbery seem, at first, like random crimes. But the troubling deeds are linked by a precarious thread. An unusual collection of rare and scattered British antiquities has become a target--and the relics' value lies in something much more dangerous than money.... Annja Creed, archaeologist and host of television's Chasing History's Monsters, is in the U.K. when her mentor, Roux, interrupts her sojourn with news of the thefts. He's certain that the thirteen Treasures of Britain are wanted for their rumored power. Roux tasks Annja with locating and protecting the treasures before the wrong person finds them, meaning she must stand against a woman fueled by madness and the fires of her ancient Celt blood--and a sword as powerful and otherworldly as Annja's own.

A sword, a stone and a deadly legacy. The theft of a whetstone from a Welsh museum and the murder of a curate during a grave robbery seem, at first, like random crimes. But the troubling deeds are linked by a precarious thread. An unusual collection of rare and scattered British antiquities has become a target - and the relics’ value lies in something much more dangerous than money. Annja Creed, archaeologist and host of television’s Chasing History’s Monsters, is in the U.K. when her mentor, Roux, interrupts her sojourn with news of the thefts. He’s certain that the thirteen Treasures of Britain are wanted for their rumored power. Roux tasks Annja with locating and protecting the treasures before the wrong person finds them, meaning she must stand against a woman fueled by madness and the fires of her ancient Celt blood - and a sword as powerful and otherworldly as Annja’s own.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.The four men approached Annja Creed like a well-oiled machine. Their actions told her they'd done this before.She didn't break stride or change direction, heading toward the Mailboxes & Stuff store that she used to mail and receive packages. In her career as an archaeologist, she often received items for study and sometimes for authentication. A handful of museums and private collectors paid her to do certificates of authenticity on items they were putting on display.Although everything added up, payment for the certificates wasn't much. However, the benefits included free access to those museums and private collections, and the goodwill of curators who were valuable sources of information when she was doing research.The four men moved with determination, without speaking. They were young and athletic, casually dressed and instantly forgettable. She guessed that they had military training.Everything's already been planned, Annja thought. Adrenaline spiked within her, elevating her heart rate and her senses. She stayed within the flow of the lunch crowd flooding out of the buildings onto the street. Everyone was hurrying to try to make it back on time.She knew the four men had been waiting for her, and wondered if they had followed her from her loft. She hadn't been home in weeks. A dig in Florida had consumed her and given her a brief respite from the dregs of winter that still hovered over New York. She'd quickly dropped off luggage and headed back out.Layered in dark winter clothing—a thigh-length navy wool coat, sweater over a long-sleeved top, and Levi's, with a knitted black beanie and wraparound blue-tinted sunglasses, her backpack slung over one shoulder—Annja figured the team had watched her closely to recognize her. But at five feet ten and with chestnut-colored hair that dipped below her shoulders, she forgot she had a tendency to stand out in a crowd.Nikolai, the manager at the shipping business, had left messages with her answering service to let her know she had a number of packages waiting for pickup.So why hadn't they picked her up at the airport? Annja mulled that over and realized that they weren't law-enforcement personnel. Maybe they hadn't wanted to draw attention to themselves.Then why hadn't they nabbed her at her loft? If they knew about Mailboxes & Stuff, they surely knew where she lived. That thought led to a whole new line of questions.Although it stunk to the high heavens, the situation made Annja curious, and curiosity had driven her through most of her life.Annja took her cell phone out of her pocket and punched in numbers."Mailboxes & Stuff," a friendly male voice answered."This is Nikolai. How may I help you?" His Russian accent was charming, but Annja knew it was fake. Nikolai had been born and raised in Brooklyn."It's Annja.""Ah, Annja, it is so good to hear from you." Nikolai lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "You would not believe what has been going on."Annja stopped at the newsstand at the corner across the street from Mailboxes & Stuff. She waited in line as customers ahead of her picked out newspapers, magazines and snacks.Checking the reflections in the windows of the nearby coffee shop, Annja watched the four men attempt to lose themselves in the crowd of pedestrians. If she hadn't already made them, she knew she wouldn't have noticed them."So tell me," Annja invited."A man came into the store," Nikolai said. "He showed me government credentials and claimed that he needed a package that was supposed to be delivered to you."The newsstand owner dealt with his clientele quickly. The line shrank faster than Annja wanted."What kind of credentials?" Annja asked."I don't know. I didn't get a good look. They tried to intimidate me. Something with a photograph and badge.""Do you remember his name?""Agent Smith." Nikolai cackled. "I thought it was very humorous. I asked him if he'd seen The Matrix."Nikolai was a die-hard science fiction fan. He spoke Klingon and was constantly trying to teach phrases to Annja."What did he do?" Annja asked."He was not amused. Then he threatened me. So I told him he had to have a court order before I gave any package to him. He didn't produce a court order," Nikolai said. "So I called the police.""You called the police?""Sure. I'm not going to play around with them. You get expensive things here, Annja, but you're not the only client I have that does.""Right. So what did Agent Smith do?""What did he do? He left is what he did.""Did the police come?""An hour or so later, sure. Evidently my call wasn't very important.""Did you file a report?""I did. But I kept your name out of it. I just told them that someone using government ID wanted to go through the packages.""What did the police say?" Only two people separated Annja from the newsstand vendor."Just to let them know if the guy showed up again. They really don't like people jacking around with official identification and pretending to be police officers.""Have you seen him today?" Only one person remained in front of Annja."No. Why?"The last customer moved off after buying copies of Time and Newsweek."Hang on a second." Annja asked for copies of Cosmopolitan, Wired, National Geographic and People. If she ended up in some government agency's interview room, it would be nice to have reading material while she waited for her attorney to arrive."Are you at the newsstand?" Nikolai asked.Annja paid for the magazines and said thanks. Then she returned to the phone conversation. "Yes."Across the street, Nikolai peered through the Mailboxes & Stuff window. He had shoulder-length dark hair, beard stubble, a checked shirt under a sleeveless sweater and deep blue eyes."Do you see Agent Smith?" Annja slid the magazines into her backpack, two on either side of her notebook computer to provide extra cushioning. The backpack was built around an impact-resistant core case, but it never hurt to be prepared.Nikolai scanned the crowd waiting for the light. "Maybe. He's wearing different clothes today."Annja was aware of the four men closing in on her. "Who was the package from?""Mario Fellini."The name surprisedAnnja and took her back a few years. When she'd finished school, she'd worked at a dig at Hadrian's Wall in England. The Romans had built the eightymile-long wall to cut the country in half, walling out the Picts.Mario Fellini had been on the dig after completing a double major in fine arts and archaeology. He was Italian, from a large family in Florence, with four older sisters determined to marry him off.During her time there, Annja had struck up a close friendship with Mario but it hadn't gone any further than that.Annja didn't know why he would send her something. They hadn't been in touch in years."Annja?" Nikolai said."Yes?""The light is green."Annja became aware of the pedestrians flowing around her, crossing the street. She stepped off the curb and continued across."Do you know this Fellini?" Nikolai asked."Yes. At least, I did. We haven't talked in years." Annja's pulse quickened."Would he send you anything illegal? Like contraband, maybe?""If he's still the same guy I knew, then no, he wouldn't.""This is good," Nikolai said. "Some of my customers, I'm not so sure. I try to stay away from trouble.""I know. I'm sorry you're caught up in this.""You're more caught up in it than I am. That is Agent Smith behind you and to your right."Great, Annja thought. She took a deep breath. "Is the package there at the store?""No. With all the interest in it, I thought perhaps I could arrange a more private delivery. I've got it put away for safekeeping."Annja smiled. "Thank you." "Is no problem, Annja. For you, anything. If you hadn't gotten so famous doing that show, maybe you wouldn't attract strange people, you know?"Annja knew Nikolai was referring to Chasing History's Monsters, the syndicated show she cohosted. During the trip to Florida she'd worked the dig site involving Calusa Indians. Although now extinct, the Calusa had been Glades culture American Indians who had lived on shell mounds.Doug Morrell, Annja's producer on Chasing History's Monsters, had turned up a story of a ghost shark that protected the sunken remnants of Calusa villages. Annja had covered the legend of the ghost shark—which, as it turned out, most of the local people hadn't even heard of—while she'd been on-site.As a result of the television show, Annja had ended up being known by a lot of strange people around the world. Sometimes they sent her things."You remember the shrunken head the Filipino headhunter sent you?" Nikolai asked."Yes." There was no way Annja was going to forget that. It wasn't the shrunken head. She'd seen those before. The troublesome part was that it turned out to be evidence in a murder case against a serial murderer who had liked the show. That had involved days spent with interviewers from several law-enforcement agencies.To make matters worse, in the end the investigators found out that the head shrinker had intended to send the head to Kristie Chatham, the other star of the television show. Kristie was known for her physical attributes rather than her intellect. Annja had to admit Kristie's enormous popularity sometimes bothered her."That was a mess," Nikolai sighed. "I thought I would never get the smell out.""I'm sure it's not another shrunken head," Annja said."I hope you're right."Annja's mind was racing. She was usually a quick thinker even under pressure. "Can you make a fake package about the same size as the one I was sent?" "Y...

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.Tomb of the Mad Emperor "Oops," Annja Creed said as she felt something give beneath the cleated heel of her Red Wing walking shoe. The floor of the passageway was caked inches thick in dust. Annja couldn't see the trigger. She had sensed more than heard something like a twig snapping. Already in motion, Annja dived for the floor. She heard a grind, a rumble, a rusty creaking. Then with a hefty metallic sound something shot from the stone walls above her. Catching herself on her hands, Annja looked around by the light of her bulky hand lantern, which lay several feet ahead of her. She spotted three bronze spears spanning the two-yard-wide corridor a yard above the floor. They were meant to impale any unwary intruder. That included her. Annja shook her head. "Emperor Lu may or may not have been crazy," she muttered. "But he sure was paranoid." The echoes of her words chased each other down the slanting corridor, deep into the earth's dark recesses. Cautiously Annja wiggled forward. As her weight came off the hidden floor plate the spears began to retract into the walls. By the time she reached her lantern they had vanished. The stone plates that covered the ports through which the spears had thrust out swung back into place. Coughing on the dust she had stirred up doing her snake act, Annja sat up and shone her light on the walls. She could see no sign of where the spears had come from. The walls had been painted with some kind of murals, perhaps once quite colorful. They had faded to mere swirls and suggestions of faint color. They worked to camouflage the trap, though. She shook her head and picked herself up. "Got to move," she told herself softly as she dusted off the front of her tan shirt and khaki cargo pants. This would be her only shot. With the construction of a giant dam nearby, the floodwaters were rising. By tomorrow they would make the subterranean tunnels unsafe. With redoubled caution she made her way deeper into the lost emperor's tomb. The corridor walls were hewed from a yellow limestone. Tests showed it had been quarried in some hills several miles away. The passageway air was cool and dry. It smelled of stone and earth. Some indeterminate distance down, as Annja began to feel the weight, not just of years, but of millions of tons of earth pressing upon her, the corridor leveled. It had taken several bends and a couple of doglegs, and had plateaued briefly, as well. Annja wasn't sure whether the zigs and zags had some ritual significance, were meant to additionally befuddle an interloper or were simply to prevent a cart full of spoil from running all the way back down to the bottom during the digging of the corridor. She suspected it was all of the above. Far down the hallway, in which she could just stand upright, Annja saw that something was blocking the way. Could that be the door to Lu's actual tomb? she wondered. Her heart beat quickened. According to the ground-penetrating radar scans, it could be. The last Chinese team to come down here had intended to open the bronze door to the burial chamber proper. She had no idea whether they had or not. The Beijing University officials who had hired Annja suggested that they felt the last team had indeed made some major discoveries and had then departed by some currently unknown entrance to the great mound before vanishing. There was nothing intrinsically unlikely about that. Such huge structures often had multiple entrances. But she was being asked to play archaeology cop—to find out if the tomb had been plundered and, if possible, to trace the thieves. She was certainly willing enough. Like any real archaeologist she had an unremitting hatred of tomb robbers. "Of course that assumes a lot of ifs," Annja said aloud. Her voice, echoing down the chamber, reassured her. Something about the place bothered her. She flashed her light down the corridor. She thought she saw a hint of green from the obstruction. She knew that was consistent with bronze doors. The copper in the alloy turned green as it oxidized. Otherwise bronze wasn't prone to corrosion, as iron and steel were. I wonder if I should have looked more closely for bloodstains around those spear traps, she thought. The two expeditions that had returned had warned about various booby traps. But she wasn't here to do forensic work. Time pressed. So did the billions of tons of water that would soon be rushing to engulf the mound. As she moved forward toward the door she became aware of a strange smell. A bad smell, and all too familiar—the stench of death. It grew stronger as she approached the door.And then she fell right into another of Emperor Lu's little surprises. The floor tipped abruptly beneath her. The right side pivoted up. She dropped straight down. Without thought she formed her right hand into a fist. Obedient to her call, the hilt of the legendary blade of Joan of Arc filled her hand. Falling, she thrust the sword to her left and drove it eight inches into the pit's wall. It was enough. Grabbing the hilt with her left hand, as well, she clung desperately and looked down. The hint of scent had become a foul cloud that enveloped her. She choked and gagged. The floor trap was hinged longitudinally along the center. The pit was twenty feet long and sank at least twelve feet deep. Bronze spearheads jutted up from the floor like snaggled green teeth. Entangled and impaled among them, almost directly below her, lay a number of bodies. She couldn't tell exactly how many; they had become tangled together as they fell onto the spears. The glare of her lantern, which lay tilted fortuitously up and angled in a corner, turned them into something from a nightmare. One man hung alone to one side, bent backward. His mouth was wide open in a final scream at the spearhead that jutted two feet upward from his belly. The remnants of what looked like a stretcher of sorts, possibly improvised out of backpack-frames, lay beneath him. At the shadow-clotted base of the pit she could just make out the dome of a skull or the multiple arch of a rib cage protruding from ages of drifted dust. The missing Chinese archaeology team were not the first victims. She looked up. She had fallen only a couple of yards below the pit's lip. The sword had entered the wall blade-vertical. It flexed only slightly under her weight. She knew it could break—the English had done it, when they burned its former holder at the stake—but it didn't seem strained at the moment. Unwilling to test it any longer than she had to, she swung back and forth experimentally, gaining momentum. Then she launched her legs back and up and let go. Whatever kind of graceful landing she was hoping for didn't happen. Her legs and hips flopped up onto the floor. Her head and upper torso swung over empty space—and the waiting bronze spearheads. As her body started to topple forward she got her hands on the rim of the pit and halted herself. Her hair escaped from the clip holding it to hang about her face like a curtain. With something like revulsion she threw herself backward. She sprawled on her butt and elbows, scraping the latter. Then she just lay like that awhile and breathed deeply. The sword had vanished into the otherwhere. One thing her life had taught her since she had come, unwittingly and quite unwillingly, into possession of Joan of Arc's Sword was to bounce back from the most outlandish occurrences as if they were no more significant or unusual than spilling a cup of coffee. "That got the old heart rate going," she said. She slowly got to her feet. The trapdoor swung over and began to settle back to the appearance of a normal, innocuous stretch of floor. As it eclipsed the beam of her lost lamp, shining up from the pit like hellfire, she reached up to switch on her headlamp. Its reassuring yellow glow sprang out as the glare was cut off. It wasn't very powerful. The darkness seemed to flood around the narrow beam, with a palpable weight and presence. "It'll be enough," she muttered. "It has to be." Putting her back to the left-hand wall, she edged down the corridor. The dust, which had settled in the past few weeks, hiding the doomed expedition's footsteps, had been dumped into the pit, except for a certain quantity that still swirled in the air and rasped her lungs like sandpaper. The clean patch of floor, limned by the white light shining from below, made its end obvious. Cautiously she moved the rest of the way down the corridor toward the green door. No more traps tried to grab her. As she'd suspected, the door was verdigrised bronze. It had a stylized dragon embossed on it—the ancient symbol of imperial might. She hesitated. She saw no obvious knob or handle. Reaching into her pocket for a tissue to cover her hand, she pushed on the door. It swung inward creakily. She had to put her weight behind it before it opened fully. A great wash of cool air swept over her. Surprisingly, it lacked the staleness she would have expected from a tomb sealed for two and a half millennia. Bending low, she stepped inside. The tomb of Mad Emperor Lu was almost anticlimactic. It was a simple domed space, twenty yards in diameter, rising to ten at the apex, through which a hole about a yard wide opened through smooth-polished stone. Annja wondered if had been intended to allow the emperor's spirit to depart the burial chamber. Dust covered the floor, a good four inches deep, so that it swamped Annja's shoes. In the midst of the dust pond stood a catafalque, four feet high and wide, eight feet long. On it lay an effigy in what appeared to be moldering robes, long cobwebbed and gone the color of the dust that had mounded over it, half obscuring it. A second mound rose suggestively by the feet. Annja dug her digital camera from her pack. She snapped several photos. The built-in flash would have to do. Feeling time and the approaching floodwaters pressing down, Annja moved forward as cautiously as she could through the dust. Her archaeologist's reflex was to disturb things as little as possible. But that wasn't the reason for...

With one small chess piece, the game begins. For archaeologist and TV host Annja Creed, a late-night phone call from the NYPD means one thing: there’s been a murder and the police need her expertise. The only link between a dead body and the killer is a small elephant of white jade. An artifact that’s gone missing. Once belonging to Catherine the Great of Russia, the elephant was key in a risky political gambit all those years ago. But there is another story attached to the artifact - a rumor of an ancient hidden treasure. And for a cruelly ambitious media mogul with a penchant for tomb-raiding, the elephant is nothing short of priceless. Annja must make her move quickly, traveling across several continents with only the assistance of her extraordinary sword - purportedly the same sword wielded by Joan of Arc - and a mysterious temple monk. It’s a deadly battle of wits, and one wrong move could mean game over.

VOLATILE RELATIONS A new era of friendship between the Syrian and US governments is threatened when American high-tech weapons go missing en route overseas. Determined to destroy the stolen arms before they can be used, Mack Bolan discovers nothing is what it seems between the Syrian regime and the loyalists–including the beautiful double agent working with him. Getting to the weapons alive is only one of Bolan’s problems. Tracking down the enemy behind the theft–without starting a war–will put his years of experience to the test. But discretion is of the utmost importance, and the lives of millions are at stake, which makes the Executioner the only man for this mission.

VOLATILE RELATIONS A new era of friendship between the Syrian and US governments is threatened when American high-tech weapons go missing en route overseas. Determined to destroy the stolen arms before they can be used, Mack Bolan discovers nothing is what it seems between the Syrian regime and the loyalists–including the beautiful double agent working with him. Getting to the weapons alive is only one of Bolan’s problems. Tracking down the enemy behind the theft–without starting a war–will put his years of experience to the test. But discretion is of the utmost importance, and the lives of millions are at stake, which makes the Executioner the only man for this mission.

A local superstition or one of history’s monsters come to life? Deep in the Bavarian forest, archaeologists unearth a medieval human skull with a brick stuffed in its mouth. When Annja Creed catches wind of the strange discovery, the TV host and archaeologist rushes to join the dig. But the superstitious locals are furious, fearing the excavation has angered one of the chewing dead - those who rise from their graves to feast on human flesh and blood. And soon she and her colleagues are facing down violent mobs and death threats. As far as Annja is concerned, though, the vampire myth is a load of bunk. Then a child goes missing. Suddenly ensnared in the Czech Republic’s black market underworld, Annja has no trouble believing that someone wants blood. But in this world, evil comes in human form, and Annja has no choice: she must wield Joan of Arc’s sword to protect the innocent.