by Matt James
A large, naturally cut chamber greeted him at the end of the trek. He took a moment to collect himself. He felt good.
He stopped, tipped his head up, and breathed. Freedom never smelled so sweet. Never in his adult life did he think he’d be on his own, away from the Nazis, and his beloved SS. Himmler loved his role and his men. However, his love for Hitler’s rule had waned over the years.
The one thing that still bothered Himmler more than anything was the Fuhrer’s supposed death. Himmler himself was alive because his faithful body double had been captured instead of him. They had made the switch at the last second. The decision had saved Himmler from a crippling fate.
Yesterday, April 29th, Hitler declared that both Himmler and General Hermann Goring, creator of the Nazi secret police, the Gestapo, were traitors to the Reich. After the Fuhrer went into hiding, abandoning his duties, Goring prematurely attempted to take over the party. Hitler had been furious.
And like me, the Fuhrer always had his stand-in close by.
There was a chance that the body the Allies found in Berlin wasn’t Adolf Hitler’s. Himmler knew, for a fact, that the Fuhrer’s dental records and other crucial medical records had been falsified years ago. He knew this because his own files had been covertly changed as well. Himmler forced away the nerve-racking thought and explored more, making it to the center of the room with ease.
If only I had my journal, he thought, regretting sending it to Elias Schmidt. He would’ve loved to add to it while he was here.
A crack of thunder exploded all around him, and he flopped to the ground. The last thing he saw before his vision faded into nothingness was Klaus Wagner standing over him, smoking pistol in hand.
“Sorry, Heinrich,” Klaus said, “but I can’t let you have any of this.”
Henrich Himmler was dead.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MATT JAMES is the international bestselling author of more than twenty action-packed titles (published in multiple languages), including THE FORGOTTEN FORTUNE, CRADLE OF DEATH, DARK ISLAND, SUB-ZERO, THE DRAGON, and the intense DEAD MOON post-apocalyptic series. Matt has also partnered with USA Today bestselling author David Wood, co-writing BERSERK, SKIN AND BONES, and LOST CITY.
He dabbles in some graphic design work, creating book covers for authors all over the world. He has designed the vast majority of his own releases.
Matt lives in South Florida with his wife and daughters, enjoying pizza, cold beer, and the work of his favorite authors (Greig Beck, Jeremy Robinson, Ernest Dempsey, Matthew Reilly, and James Rollins).
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Matt James’ CRADLE OF DEATH is Indiana Jones, James Bond, and the X-Files rolled into one. This action-packed adventure is an exciting experience for all audiences, especially those that enjoy the “what if” of ancient history.
PROLOGUE
Giza, Egypt
2559 B.C.
Building Khufu’s pyramid was no small task. Luckily for Zadmarr, the king’s Grand Architect, he was given the power of the gods. He didn’t quite understand what the object was, but he did know how to wield its might. Still, even with the added strength, it had taken him fourteen long years to get to this point. Now, all he had to do was raise the precious capstone, and his work would finally be complete.
It was going to be Zadmarr’s greatest challenge, but also his greatest accomplishment. He felt the strain on his soul. His very essence was being drained, stripped away into the cosmos. Being the empire’s architect was an honorable position to hold. Unfortunately, for Zadmarr, and those that came before him—and after him—it was also a death sentence.
The sun scorched his exposed skin, yet Zadmarr felt cold. His skin was paler than usual too. He knew his lifeforce was nearly gone, but he still had a job to do, a calling to fulfill.
With the ‘Will of the Gods,’ I will complete what I started.
Zadmarr knew more about the gods than most. The pharaoh had given him insight into who they were. Though, he knew he hadn't been told everything. Unknown to most, a collection of archaic texts was handed down from king to king. They explained, to an extent, who had provided Egypt’s great dynasty with the Will of the Gods. Holding the object up, Zadmarr was lost in its electric green glow.
Within the cube-shaped artifact was a strobing, swirling viscous liquid. It crackled with the energy of a thousand lightning strikes and softly vibrated in Zadmarr’s hands. Only he, his apprentice, and the pharaoh could feel it. It proved that they, like their king, were of an ancient, royal bloodline. There were more like them too, but they wanted the Will of the Gods for more nefarious purposes.
Gratefully, Khufu ordered that sect to be put to death for fear of losing his prize, a prize that was to be buried with him in his pyramidal tomb. Zadmarr didn’t agree with his king’s decision to break tradition and steal away the object back to heaven. He believed that it should be passed on to the next pharaoh to be used to construct a better, vaster empire…as well as a deterrent against the kingdom’s enemies.
And they had many.
But Khufu felt differently. Time had worn him down. He was perpetually sad, speaking of atrocities in his sleep, horrors that he said that he was responsible for. Zadmarr didn’t know of anything in his king’s past that was that atrocious. As far as he knew, Khufu had been an honorable leader.
What’s he hiding? Zadmarr asked himself. Stop it! he scolded. You still have a duty to your king.
Cradling the Will of the Gods in the crook of his left arm, Zadmarr closed his eyes, pulled it into his chest, and held out his right hand, palm down. He tapped into the artifact’s power and felt an invisible force tug on his stomach. Slowly, he turned his hand over and raised his open hand to the sky. From beside the base of Khufu’s pyramid, the enormous, beautiful capstone, and the strange mechanism hidden within it, rose.
The mechanism had been found with the Will of the Gods. The artifact had been locked into place and could only be moved when the current pharaoh grasped it.
There was more to the Will of the Gods than power. Within the object was a living source of energy. At least, that’s what they believed. No one quite understood the artifact, not entirely, anyway. Legend says that it was discovered by accident by Khufu’s predecessor’s army, Sneferu. He slowly realized what he found in the caves beneath the future pyramid grounds. He had accomplished it through intense prayer and experimentation.
He begged the gods to give him the ability to remove the object. Eventually, Sneferu’s prayers were answered, but in the form of Khufu.
The Will of the Gods and mechanism weren’t the only thing they had found down there. The cavern was the single largest, enclosed space anyone had ever seen. Within it was something no one could adequately describe. No one within the kingdom had ever laid eyes on such a…vessel. They were so engrossed with it that they had attempted to recreate it. They called them “solar barges,” and they were used for ceremonial purposes, to ferry the deceased to the sun god, Ra, in the afterlife. Zadmarr wondered what else the gods used the impossibly large vessel for.
And what else could the Will of the Gods be? Zadmarr asked himself, gripping the relic tight.
He was in control of it, but he was also in agony. His steadfast beliefs and determination let him push through it, however. Refocusing, he lifted his outstretched hand higher and higher. With each passing heartbeat, Zadmarr felt his life slip away. He knew he was going to die, and it didn’t bother him in the least. He would perish for a noble cause. Not only was he about to complete his king’s tomb, but he was also finishing construction on the Will of the Gods’ final resting place.
Khufu’s army had dug up the artifact’s dock based on a location proven by the king himself and transferred it to Giza. Khufu refused to say how he knew where to find it. The
re was no evidence of it anywhere in their collection of texts. Then, Zadmarr and a team of the best and brightest went about designing and constructing the exquisite capstone covering.
Just…a little…higher.
Zadmarr’s vision blurred and his head swam. He collapsed, but not before lowering the capstone into place. Folding in on himself, he handed over the Will of the Gods to his protégé and breathed his final breath. Hopefully, Mankesh would do as he’d been trained to do. If he didn’t, the world would feel his failure.
Within that final exhalation, Zadmarr prayed to Ra above to protect his apprentice and guide him in his journey. He was now the empire’s Grand Architect.
Mankesh stood, cradling the Will of the Gods like a newborn child. His eyes were wide, filled with wonder and anticipation. He knew he could do more with the artifact than his master ever could. Mankesh was bigger, faster, and stronger. He had a warrior’s heart. Not only would he fulfill his destiny as the next Grand Architect, but he would also help usher in the next great army of the world…even if the pharaoh were unaware.
The thought of a group of devout followers, his prophets, infiltrating the kingdom made him smile. On its face, he’d do everything that was asked of him. But behind closed doors, in the cover of night, Mankesh had plans to change the world as they knew it. He’d dug deep and found a beautiful truth about the gods.
He didn’t know how, but as the new Grand Architect, he would bring the gods home even if it meant sacrificing the population of half the known world to do so. Genocide was a small price to pay to bask in his master’s light.
Mankesh looked up to the heavens and closed his eyes and visualized the lands of Egypt being turned into a raging inferno.
Let it be done.
Qumran National Park, West Bank
Modern Day
Shoving his assistant deeper into the cave, Elliot Oxley retook his position just inside its entrance, gripping the only weapon he had in one of his gloved hands. Under normal circumstances, a tactical knife wouldn’t do much good against the four extremists wielding AK-47 assault rifles.
Unless you were a man of Elliot’s talents, that is.
Some forty feet in the air, Elliot had a perfect view of the landscape below. The low-roofed cave, like a handful of the other Dead Sea Caves, was situated halfway up a steep rock face. The only way inside was with climbing gear. In his mind’s eye, Elliot imagined the last people to step foot inside the natural opening, some 2,500 years ago. They would’ve been forced to rappel down the peak of the rock formation with nothing more than a crudely fashioned rope and a handful of men holding the daring adventurer aloft.
No thanks, he thought, spying on the commotion below.
Beneath his perch was a long, bowl-like valley of stone and sand that stretched and wound on for miles. Elliot was kneeling atop one of the valley’s highest, northernmost points. If he left his post, there’d be no way of escaping the twisting bathtub of a labyrinth without first running into the men with the guns. Unless he retreated to the cave, he’d be stuck in an oversized, overheating desert ditch with a small army of radical assholes.
Decisions, decisions…
But there was no decision to make now, because Elliot had already made up his mind. And even after having removed himself from the combat world over a decade earlier, he was trained to engage the enemy, regardless of any circumstances. The present situation was no different.
“Get back and keep quiet,” he whispered, speaking to the only other person with him.
Still surveying the newly christened battlefield, Elliot quickly took stock of everything it offered in the way of cover. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much besides the naturally formed offshoots, random boulders, and rises. Five people were already dead, including one of the five gunmen.
He knew about the unfolding chaos via radio when one of the park’s security team had informed Elliot before he had been silenced. The dreadfully understaffed outfit, stationed at the edge of the excavation, had been completely overwhelmed in seconds.
Elliot’s assistant, a Brit named Harry, was twenty-five years his junior. Typically, the younger man was full of piss and vinegar, eager to show Elliot and the others how awesome he was at life—a real pompous “college bro.” Just thinking about it made Elliot’s eyes roll. But even at twenty years of age, the forty-five-year-old archaeologist still ran circles around the entitled brat.
“You hear me?” Elliot asked, annoyed by his assistant’s lack of response. Borderline angry, he forcefully shoved his two-way radio into the boy’s shaking arms, stirring him awake.
Harry snapped out of his stupor, and emphatically nodded his head. Tears streamed down his dust-covered face. The twin streaks reminded Elliot of Eric Draven, the Crow. The intern had none of Elliot’s background, just the me-first attitude of someone who’d been coddled his entire young-adult life. The kid looked like he was going to pee down his leg, and honestly, Elliot wouldn’t have blamed him if he did.
Taking a deep breath in the stale cave air, Elliot reeled back in disgust. It stunk of ammonia. Harry had already pissed himself.
Why me? he asked himself.
“What…are you…going to do?” Harry asked in between blubbers.
Elliot grumbled a series of incoherent curses to himself.
“What?” Harry asked, not hearing them.
The archaeologist quickly snapped up an open hand, hopefully silencing any other incoming queries. “It was nothing… Just stay here until I’m done, and,” he shoved his walkie into Harry’s chest, “radio in what you see.”
The Brit’s eyebrow raised. “Done with what?”
So much for not being questioned.
Elliot sighed. “What I was trained to do.”
Sucking in another deep gulp of air, Elliot made his move.
Bolting out of the low, trapezoidal entrance, he clipped onto the braided rappelling line. He needed to get to ground level before he was spotted. Without wasting another second, he leapt out over the three-story drop, already planning out his next move. Unlike with Harry’s frantic, emotional outburst, Elliot stayed calm. In times like this, the world around him slowed to a crawl.
Falling like a bomb, he reached his gloved left hand around his back and squeezed the line with just enough pressure to arrest his descent. His landing was hard—harder than he would’ve preferred. He was out of practice, after all. But he successfully turned the jarring impact into a graceful roll, finishing off the maneuver up onto one knee. Weapon up in a backhanded grip, he scanned the grounds before him and waited.
“Just like riding a bike.” Elliot groaned as he stood. “A rusty bike…”
His Volbeat shirt was caked in dirt, and the seam across his left shoulder was torn. His worn blue jeans had survived the fall, looking as tattered as usual.
Instead of attempting to skirt around the shooters and head for the nearest encampment, as any sane person would do, Elliot went straight for the closest gunman. He was just under a hundred yards away from him, a distance he wasn’t excited about. It’d be a miracle if he made it without being seen. Gliding heel-to-toe on the dry terrain, the only noise he made was the slightest of grinds and crunches.
The sun was on Elliot’s back. Even if the gunman turned and spotted him, the sun’s low, blinding rays would make Elliot all but invisible.
Happily, the killer never took that look behind him.
Lucky me.
The Cradle of Death is available from Amazon here!