Dr. Steven Carning and his team continue their work in Egypt, translating and deciphering the greatest find of their careers, despite the murder of a team member. In the midst of this chaos, Steven is called back to New York to explain this tragic event and provide an update on the status of the dig to his mysterious sponsor. There, Steven reconnects with his childhood friend, Daniel Sotis, a hood who deals in black market antiquities. Back at the dig site, Lee-Ann and George continue digging and searching for a lost world, 13,000 years old.
That world, now dark and wet, is thirteen years after the great cataclysm where half of mankind either drowned in the flood, or died in the pestilence and famine that followed. Princes Dias and Heracles are forced to face their own demons, while working toward the survival of the remnants of Atlantis and her people. Meanwhile, Pharaoh Horus attempts to broker a marriage between King Sundiata’s daughter Jenga and Prince Philo of Ceftiu, as he himself is infected with the affliction of passion for a young woman with an uncertain past. Unperceived by the surviving centers of light, in the east, Queen Lila, thought to be long defeated, re-emerges desiring nothing less than blood and vengeance, while continuing the mysterious plans of the Annunaki.
Dark Tides is the highly anticipated continuation of the exciting Chronicles of Atlantis series.
What People Are Saying
Dark Tides Prologue
Brooklyn, New York
“I can’t believe this! I still can’t believe this!” The whiny tone coming from a middle-aged man wearing designer jeans and Italian loafers didn’t surprise Andrew. Normally, all of the attention on this street would be focused on the perfectly lined trees shadowing the finely cut brownstone faces of homes occupying this neighborhood. In this wealthy section of Brooklyn Heights, some of these brownstones were over a century old, but their rich red and brown color would fool the keenest of eyes to their true age.
Today, the attention was on the two police cars and half dozen officers roaming the block. The blue uniforms continuously moved in and out of the home belonging to Mr. Whiny Butt, the sharply dressed gentleman. Andrew took the last drag from his cigarette, with one leg out of the half-opened driver side door of his sedan. He threw the finished cigarette onto the freshly tarred street. The brown butt clashed sharply with clean black tar.
He rose and stood next to the black sedan with federal plates, then closed the car door and straightened out his suit jacket and tie. Despite how often he might dry-clean his tie and suit, that dingy odor of old cigarettes never left. Nor could a designer suit hide a growing belly.
“You must be Agent McDonald.” A clean-cut New York City police officer, in a freshly pressed blue uniform, nodded at him.
“Yes, Andrew McDonald, FBI,” replied the middle-aged federal agent. “Where are you from, son?”
The young officer straightened proudly. “I grew up in Brooklyn most of my life, Canarsie to be exact. My family moved down to Virginia after I finished high school. Yourself, sir?”
“Your accent did sound a bit New Yorker to me,” Andrew said. “As for me, I grew up in Wisconsin, not too far from Green Bay. So, whatever your opinions are about the Packers, keep ‘em to yourself! You out of the academy long, officer?” Andrew gazed at the younger man, feeling a bit envious. So young, so fit, so enthused—still—about the law.
“Six months, sir. I served in the navy for four years prior to my joining the department,” he replied proudly.
“Good for you. I served too, army ranger for five years. Went on to special ops for a bit. Then I decided to come back to civilization,” Andrew added jovially.
“Yes, sir.” The officer smiled faintly as he walked Andrew up to the front of the rich brownstone. “The detectives are right up ahead.”
“Thank you, officer, and good luck with your career.”
The young man tipped his police cap in thanks.
Andrew walked up the red steps. “Good morning, gentleman, Andrew McDonald, FBI,” he announced while holding up his federal ID.
“Mornin’, Agent McDonald.” A portly detective gazed at him from the door.
“Lieutenant Detective Pole and this is my partner, Detective Timeas. I received word of you coming down just a couple of hours ago. Not that I mind feds pissing in my pond, but would you mind telling me why you’d be interested in a simple heist?” Detective Pole took a big sip from his coffee cup, impatiently waiting for an answer.
Andrew appreciated the detective’s irritation. “I apologize, detective, for the short notice, but I am not… pissing in your pond… as you say. This robbery may be a part of a larger criminal enterprise I am afraid,” replied Andrew.
The broad smiles from the two New York City detectives irritated Andrew. “I say something funny,” he asked.
“Criminal fucking enterprise,” asked Detective Timeas. The West Indian accent quickly gave away his origins. “Come on, agent, this was a straight up smash and grab. The coins and artifacts stolen were worth about a hundred grand all in all. This isn’t too complicated.”
Smug little shit.
“Smash and grab, you think? Okay then, walk me through the scene,” gently ordered Andrew.
The two detectives just nodded, and Andrew walked behind them into the main entrance of the house. Two grey pigeons flew right over the federal agent, and all he could do was put his hands on his thinning hair to prevent any surprise contributions of bird droppings.
The foyer entrance was short, leading into a wide living room with a ceiling that had to be fifteen feet tall. The multi-layered chandelier above the three men glimmered in the partial sunlight entering from the door and large front window. “There’s more gold and silver on the chandelier than in a jewelry store… damn.” Pole gazed up at the lighting fixture, mouth open.
The trio continued up a rich, mahogany staircase. The carved images of flowers and vines gently indented Andrew’s hand as he held the fine banister. At the top of the stairs, another officer stood writing some quick scribbles for a report. He greeted the high-ranking trio with a quick “good morning.”
The wide hallway was impressive. It was hard for Andrew to imagine all of the space hidden in these old brownstones, some edging up to five thousand square feet.
The second door to the right led into a study. The walls were studded with enlarged playbills, encased in protective glass and wood. Large white and black letters, superimposed on colorful images of various plays struck Andrew. A White Christmas and West Side Story were some of the more familiar names.
“The owner of the house is a Broadway writer and producer. He’s been involved in some very large musicals and plays,” Timeas said.
“I can see that,” added Andrew.
The far-right corner of the large study caught Andrew’s gaze immediately. The wall panel was out. Andrew couldn’t help himself and walked eagerly ahead of his hosts up to the site of the crime. This section of the wall opened up and came about a foot forward compared to the rest of the wall on that side of the room. “Amazing! A secret room!”
“Yep. A lot of these old brownstones have secret rooms or stairwells. The victim kept his collection of coins and artwork in here. I guess it didn’t do him much good,” Pole commented.
Andrew walked into the open space. Just empty shelves and placeholders remained, but no sign of violence or damage. He ran his hands down the pristine mahogany shelves of the room -- not a dent or a scratch. The walls were a freshly painted coffee brown, and as clean as they would have been when the room was first built. Andrew chuckled to himself. “How does he do it?”
“Sorry, Agent McDonald, did you say something,” sarcastically asked Timeas.
“Fellas, let’s stop here,” announced Andrew. The detectives looked at the FBI agent with a bit too much apathy for Andrew’s taste. “You said this was a straight up smash and grab?”
“Yes, that’s right,” confidently replied detective Timeas.
“Fantastic, then can you tell me where the … um... smash part is,” Andrew asked.
The detectives went quiet.
“I’ll tell you why you can’t answer the question because there is not a smashed part of this grab. No, this guy is too good, way too good,” Andrew replied confidently. He knew this type of crime scene; he knew this crime.
“Wait, so you know who burgled this house,” Pole asked.
Andrew nodded, frankly impressed at the crime. “Yeah, I have an idea who -- Nachos Boy.”
“Nachos Boy? Who the hell is that,” asked Timeas.
Andrew started walking out of the room, and before leaving turned to his colleagues. “Detectives, I would call off the Crime Scene Unit and the Fingerprint Team. This guy and his crew didn’t leave anything. Trust me.”
“They always leave something, McDonald. Is this thief that brilliant? The perfect criminal,” asked Pole.
“In short… yeah, he is…” Andrew pulled another cigarette from the crumpled box, crushed inside his suit jacket pocket.
Nachos Boy -- a challenge for sure. Andrew pulled in the smoke through lips bared into a near-smile.