Can she reveal her fiance's murderer...before she's killed as well?
Dr. Priscilla Hackling finds
herself thrown back into the murder investigation of her fiancé, Trey
Whittington. While she was a suspect three years ago, she’s now working
with the police to find the murderer, Egyptian artifact trafficker,
Zarka El-Din.
During a sting operation in
Siwa, she and Agent Donnie Barnes are drawn to each other but Priscilla,
overcome by personal ghosts from her past, decides a relationship isn’t
possible.
Priscilla realizes she’s the
bait in the ruse and uncovers others involved with El-Din. Will she and
Donnie reconcile and unravel the reason behind Trey’s death before
El-Din kills her, too?
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EXCERPT
Copyright 2014 © Victoria Pitts-Caine
Priscilla Hackling chiseled
and brushed away the crusted dirt of thousands of years when voices
echoed above her. One she recognized, Rayhan, her trusted assistant.
They grew louder, closer, but she chose to ignore them. She glanced at
her chronometer—three o’clock. Her descent, right after day break, into
the yawning mouth of the aperture had occurred without incident and
brought her to the colorful glyphs which ran in vertical strips on a
wall deep within the cavern. She studied them with care, assured she’d
found a sealed compartment, the final burial place. She had worked for
months at Sakkara just outside of Cairo, a section of the great
necropolis of Memphis, the old kingdom capitol. In early 2010 the
Department of Antiquities and the Cairo Museum had gained access to this
area, the tomb of a lesser scribe of Unas. The stark, summer sunlight
shifted across the opening of the dig.
The argument above ground
intensified. She sighed, stored her tools in their worn, leather case,
and walked across the expanse of the antechamber. She reached the ladder
and, as it did every time, a quick flash played in her memory. The day
she climbed out of a dig in southern Egypt, where Trey lay in a pool of
his own blood, the twelve-jeweled breastplate of the priest torn from
his fingers.
“Priscilla. Priscilla, can you come topside?” Rayhan’s urgent voice met her ears. She stood frozen on the first rung.
What could go wrong now? Her
permits were in order, she had clearance from the Egyptian
government—in fact, in a way worked for them—but this entire dig had
been trouble. She gripped the worn wood and crawled out into the
unrelenting afternoon heat. Rayhan stood not fifteen feet from her as he
argued with a uniformed official and others roped off the area. From
her experience, this dig would soon be over.
Priscilla took a patterned
bandana from the hip pocket of her knee-length cargo pants and wiped her
face and hands, then jammed the red fabric into her satchel. She
extended her hand to the middle-aged officer.
“Priscilla Hackling.” She removed the hat from her short, strawberry blonde curls. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“I’m Captain Johnson.” He shifted his cap to shade his eyes and pointed toward the dig. “We need to close this project.”
Priscilla scrutinized the officer. Egyptian decent. English last name. “Johnson?”
“My father was English.”
She bit her bottom lip to
squelch a smile. “At least we have that in common.” She waited for him
to comment and when he didn’t, she continued. “The permits are in order.
I’m working for the museum.”
“I know who you are, Dr. Hackling.” The captain crossed his arms over his chest and spread his legs into a defensive stance.
Anxiety fluttered in her
chest. Why now? An important discovery lay under her feet; countless
hours of work lost. “Then why are you shutting down my project? I’m
right on the precipice of a major find.”
“I’m not. I’m preserving it. I’ll have guards on site day and night. No one will touch your dig while you’re needed elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere? This is my work. The museum has invested a large sum of
money into the project hoping I’d find out who this scribe was and his
importance to Unas. I’m certain the tomb is the architecture of
Imhotep.”
“As I’ve said, the dig will be untouched. We’ve reopened the
investigation of the murder of your fiancé, Trey Whittington. I need you
to come with me.”
Priscilla gasped. An unexpected jab twisted in her chest. Trey, the
remarkable, handsome man she’d planned to spend the rest of her life
with died three years ago. He had been a part of her since they’d met at
the University of Cairo. They were both from England and in love with
Egypt and each other. With limited success she’d moved on. She had to or
she might as well have been buried with him. She’d told the authorities
everything then. Why were they dredging it all up again?
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