The Cotten Stone Omnibus: It started with The Grail Conspiracy... (The Cotten Stone Mysteries) Read online

  Praise for The Grail Conspiracy

  Winner of the ForeWord Magazine’s 2005 Book of the Year Award for Mystery

  “. . . this page-turner is bound to show up on Da Vinci Code read-alike lists at public libraries across the country.” —Library Journal

  “Gripping!” —Mystery Scene

  “. . . the authors create an almost breakneck pace that keeps the reader turning pages waiting to see the greatest battle in history rejoined.” —Denver Post

  “ An absorbing, exciting and often thought-provoking thriller.” —The Oakland Press

  “Religion and science battle through a spectacular hold-your-breath conclusion when The Holy Grail supplies the blood of Christ to the forces of evil.” —M. Diane Vogt, Author of Six Bills

  “The Grail Conspiracy is an auspicious debut . . . you’ll want Cotten Stone, this gutsy, intelligent and engaging heroine at your side.” —Christine Kling, author of Cross Current and Surface Tension

  “If you liked The Da Vinci Code, run out and buy this book! Modern technology mixed with mythology make for a fast read. This globe-trotting adventure story with biblical undertones will keep you hooked!” —Nancy J. Cohen, author of the Bad Hair Day mysteries

  Praise for The Last Secret

  “A suspenseful thriller from first page to last!” —James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author

  “Fascinating and breathless, The Last Secret by Lynn Sholes and Joe Moore will leave you glued to your chair.” —Gayle Lynds, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Spymaster

  “Hold on tight to The Last Secret—and enjoy the ride!” —Nelson Erlick, author of The Xeno Solution

  Praise for The Hades Project

  “Fans of religious-themed thrillers like The Da Vinci Code will enjoy.” —Library Journal

  “A riveting blend of early Christian lore and high tech. Don’t plan on putting this one down.” —Greg Loomis, author of Gates of Hades

  “An exceptional novel, a dark labyrinth of suspense, international intrigue, and apocalyptic horror.” —Douglas Preston, coauthor of The Book of the Dead

  Praise for The 731 Legacy

  “Far superior to Angels and Demons, [The 731 Legacy] has a bit of everything found in popular thrillers: destruction of civilization, ancient religious lore, modern science, and non-stop action.” —Mystery Scene

  “From the very first chapter, The 731 Legacy wraps a rope around your neck, pulls it tight, and never lets go! This is what masterful storytelling is all about!” —Brad Thor, # 1 New York Times bestselling author

  “What an outrageous and terrifying read. I can’t get enough of Cotten Stone!” —Lincoln Child, New York Times bestselling coauthor of Relic

  “The 731 Legacy is a labyrinth of mystery, crisply plotted and paced, with throat-grabbing twists. Enjoy.” —Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author of The Templar Legacy

  “The authors’ breakneck pacing and tension-elevating style will have you asking for more.” — Nancy J. Cohen, author of the Bad Hair Day mysteries

  Carol Moore

  Joe Moore (Florida) spent twenty-five years in the television postproduction industry where he received two regional Emmy® awards for individual achievement in audio mixing. As a freelance writer, Joe reviewed fiction for the Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel, the Tampa Tribune, and the Jacksonville Florida Times Union. He is a member of the International Thriller Writers, the Authors Guild, and Mystery Writers of America.

  Alexis Natan

  Lynn Sholes (Florida) is the writing coach for Citrus County Schools in South Florida. Writing as Lynn Armistead McKee, she penned six historical novels set in pre-Columbian Florida. As Lynn Sholes, she has changed genres and is writing mystery/thrillers. Lynn is a member of Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, Florida Writers Association, the Authors Guild, Sisters in Crime, and the National Council of Teachers of English.

  Copyright Information

  The Cotten Stone Omibus © 2014 by Joe Moore and Lynn Sholes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2014

  E-book ISBN: 9780738746920

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  eBook created by Steffani Sawyer

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.midnightinkbooks.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Contents

  The Grail Conspiracy

  The Last Secret

  The Hades Project

  The 731 Legacy

  Excerpt from The Phoenix Apostles

  Dedicated to:

  Nancy for the match

  Gary Givens for the spark

  Carol and Tommy for the flame

  Copyright Information

  The Grail Conspiracy © 2010 by Lynn Sholes and Joe Moore.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2010

  E
-book ISBN: 9780738716084

  Book design by Donna Burch

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.midnightink.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  The authors wish to thank the following for their assistance in adding a sense of realism to this work of fiction.

  Dr. Mark A. Erhart, Ph.D.

  Professor of Molecular Biology

  Chicago State University

  Dr. Ken Winkel, Ph.D.

  Director, Australian Venom Research Unit

  Department of Pharmacology

  University of Melbourne, Australia

  Dr. Joseph W. Burnett, M.D.

  Professor and Chair

  Department of Dermatology

  University of Maryland School of Medicine

  J. H., whose professional ethics guided his decision

  to remain anonymous.

  “The prince of darkness is a gentleman;”

  —William Shakespeare,

  King Lear, Act III, Scene iv

  prologue

  After creating the heavens and the earth, God produced, in his own image, the first man, and named him Adam. He then commanded all the legions of Heaven, the Angels and Archangels, to bow before Adam and pay him homage and respect, for God was to give Adam control over all the earth and its creatures. But Lucifer, the most beautiful angel of all, became jealous and refused to bow before Adam. He gathered others around him who felt as he did, and they formed a massive army rebelling against the Creator. A vicious battle raged between God’s angels and those who had turned their backs on Him. So much blood was shed that it formed two mighty rivers flowing across the scorching desert. In the end, the great warrior, Michael the Archangel, along with the Host of Heaven, defeated Lucifer and drove him and his rebels out of paradise.

  The Fallen Angels, Nephilim as they were called in the Bible, were forbidden to ever enter heaven again. So they descended to the Earth and furtively walked among men. Down through the ages, their hatred grew, and Lucifer vowed that someday he would have his revenge.

  But there was one among them who repented and secretly sought the Creator’s forgiveness. His name was Furmiel, Angel of the 11th Hour. For his remorse, God agreed to give him mortality and let him live the rest of his existence as a man. Since Furmiel’s spirit could never return to Heaven, God allowed him a daughter who would be taken at birth to assume her father’s place among the Angels. But because God sensed that the time of Lucifer’s revenge was at hand, he permitted Furmiel’s wife to give birth to twins, the second daughter to live upon the Earth. She grew to adulthood unaware that the blood of the Nephilim coursed through her veins.

  And because of that bloodline, she was destined to be called upon.

  abandoned

  Nineveh, Northern Iraq

  “Get out!” The Iraqi driver’s thin, high-pitched voice filled the car. Sand and dust spewed up as the vehicle skidded to a stop.

  Jarred awake, Cotten Stone sat upright. “What?” She tried to focus in the gathering twilight.

  “Out! I drive no American.”

  The radio blared the frantic-paced voice of an Iraqi announcer.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  The driver threw open his door and ran to the rear of the car.

  Cotten tugged the rusty door handle until it finally gave with a squeak. “Hey, what are you doing?” she called, jumping out.

  He opened the trunk and tossed her two bags onto the shoulder of the highway.

  “You can’t leave me here,” she said, coming around to the back of the car. “This is the middle of the damn desert.”

  The driver cocked his head toward the voice on the radio.

  She picked up the duffle bag that held her videotapes and chucked it back into the trunk. “Listen, I gave you all the cash I have. I don’t have any more.” She turned her pocket inside out. It was just a little lie. She had squirreled away close to two hundred dollars and stuffed it inside an empty film container. Her emergency stash. “Do you understand? See, no more money. I paid you to take me to the border.”

  The driver jabbed her shoulder with a stiff forefinger. “End of ride for American.” He yanked the bag out again and slammed it into her chest, sending her stumbling backward. Then he was around the car and in the driver’s seat, grinding the gears and spinning the old Fiat around.

  “I don’t believe this,” she said. Cotten dropped the bag on the ground beside her other one and threaded a loose strand of tea-colored hair behind her ear, watching the taillights fade.

  The soft whisper of the desert wind carried the first chill of the evening as the January sky turned from rose to indigo. Cotten pulled the hooded parka from her carryall and slipped it on, feeling the cold already creeping through her.

  She jogged in place, hands stuffed deep in her pockets. Darkness, thick as Iraqi crude, poured over the desert. Someone was bound to come along—had to come along, she thought.

  Ten minutes passed with no sign of another vehicle. Finally, she grabbed the handles of her two carryalls and started walking. Gravel and sand crunched like glass chips under her field boots. She glanced behind, wishing for the glow of headlights, but there was only dark, barren desert.

  “I should have known better than to trust that guy.” Her voice cracked from the dryness. Whatever he’d heard on the radio must have spooked the shit out of him. Cotten knew U.S. forces were gearing up for an invasion. The rumors had been flying around the foreign press corps. for weeks as the war drums grew louder in Washington and London. It was no secret that there were already small insertion teams of American and British forces in the country. The invasion might still be months away, but it was hard to hide the buildup of forces in the Arab countries bordering Iraq to the south. The local Arab news buzzed with sightings of Special Forces and Army Rangers appearing and disappearing in the middle of the night. There were even strategic flyovers of fighters, Predator drones, and high altitude recon aircraft testing the vulnerabilities of the Iraqi missile and radar installations.

  Cotten hoisted the strap higher on her shoulder. “It’s your own fault,” she said. “You’re so damn headstrong.”

  A few weeks ago she had stood in the office of SNN’s news director, Ted Casselman, and begged for the assignment to cover the effects of economic sanctions on the women and children of Iraq. It was an important story, she thought, and she didn’t care how unstable the region was. Americans needed to see what sanctions did to innocents. And, she told Casselman, if the U.S. had plans to attack Iraq, she wanted to be there, right smack in the center of the action.

  Cotten didn’t mention that she also needed to put some distance between her and Thornton Graham. She didn’t tell Casselman because she knew she would probably fall apart if she had to explain. The emotional wound was still too raw. Her request to do the story made perfect sense as it was—an eager, hungry reporter—and she wanted an assignment that would make world headlines.

  The Satellite News Network didn’t send rookies on assignments in such volatile locations, Casselman told her repeatedly. Yes, he conceded, she had talent and promise. Yes, he felt she could manage the pressure. And yes, he agreed that a Middle East assignment right now wa
s a perfect opportunity to launch a successful career. However, not only was she a rookie, she was a woman, and a woman in Iraq in the current conditions was out of the question. Once the war started, the only journalists would be those chosen in advance by the military and embedded with the troops. And they would only be male. The rules were set, and the answer was no.

  She became incensed and began a tirade about the unfairness of it all.

  Casselman cut her off with another firm, “No.”

  After she calmed down, Cotten finally got him to agree to let her tag along with a group of reporters as far as the Turkish border. From there she could cover the plight of any refugees fleeing north once the conflict began.

  He was furious when he learned she went on to Baghdad.

  Then his call came this morning ordering her to leave. “Things are going to get dicey. Get your sweet ass out of there any way you can. And I want to see you as soon as you get back. Clear?”

  She tried to reason with him and buy more time, but he hung up before she could make her case.

  When she got home he was going to I-told-you-so, I-should-fire-you her to death. That was if she got home. Cotten shivered. She was stranded and freezing in the middle of the Iraqi desert.

  * * *

  Charles Sinclair stared out his office window at the sprawling campus surrounding the BioGentec laboratories near the University of New Orleans. The blue of Lake Pontchartrain lay beyond. He watched the small army of groundskeepers with their John Deere mowers and golf cart utility vehicles moving across the lawn and among the gardens—manicured and in perfect order. He liked perfect order.

  The phone on his desk chirped, and he jumped, spilling a few drops of the chicory coffee onto the Persian rug.

  “Yes?”

  “Dr. Sinclair, you have an international call on line eight,” his secretary said.