By Gregg Loomis

A scientist in Amsterdam—murdered. one other scientist in Atlanta— murdered, and his magazine stolen. firstly Lang Reilly the single connection. in any case, either scientists labored for his origin. but if anyone took a shot at Lang to scare him away, it purely made him extra decided to discover the reality. Lang’s seek will lead him alongside a twisted path to Brussels, Cairo, Vienna, Tel Aviv…and deep into the secrets and techniques of the earlier. What’s the relationship among the murdered scientists and an historic parchment, lately unearthed? What revelations does it include, and what robust team is keen to kill to ensure its secrets and techniques stay hidden? With the stability of strength within the center East in danger, Lang has to stick alive lengthy sufficient to discover the reply to a secret that has wondered historians for hundreds of years.

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Additional resources for The Sinai Secret (Lang Reilly Thrillers)

Example text

He paused, switched on the flashlight, and searched among the vertical posts, along the horizontal supports. On the catwalk, I ducked my head behind the storage chest. A moment later the probing light swept over me, east to west, back again, and then away. Although Boo had moved past me and stood with his head through a gap in the railing, watching the giant, he remained visible only to me. When the searcher had moved out of sight into the labyrinth of posts and purlins and struts, I rose to my feet.

I propped the flashlight on his chest. Because his head was raised on a mound of sand, the bright beam bathed him from chin to hairline. If something like Godzilla woke in a Pacific abyss and decided to come ashore to flatten our picturesque community, this guy’s face would dissuade it from a rampage, and the scaly beast would return meekly to the peace of the deeps. With the fog-diffused lights of town to guide me, I slogged across the wide beach. I did not proceed directly east. Perhaps Flashlight Guy had told the pier crew that he was on the shore due west of some landmark, by which they could find him.

Eye of newt. Wool-of-bat hair. Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips. A lolling tongue like a fillet of fenny snake. He was not exactly Odd Hours 51 ugly, but he looked peculiar, as if he’d been conjured in a cauldron by Macbeth’s coven of witches. When he had fallen, a slim cell phone had slid half out of his shirt pocket. If he was in league with the trio at the pier, he might have called them when he heard me swimming ashore. After rolling him onto his side, I took the wallet from his hip pocket. Supposing he had summoned help moments before I had come ashore, I needed to move on quickly and could not pore through his ID there on the beach.

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