Dan Kotler Box Set Read online

  The Book of Lost Things

  Dan Kotler: Books 1-3

  Kevin Tumlinson

  Copyright © 2019 by Kevin Tumlinson - Author

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Foreword

  I almost always skip the foreword, so I admire your dedication, and I appreciate you giving me a moment. I won’t take long.

  This collection pulls together the first three volumes of my Dan Kotler Archaeological Thrillers. And though I didn’t actually start out to write this series in themed triads, it does appear to have worked out that way (more or less).

  So, if you enjoy this collection, there are more on the way. And if you’d like to keep up with my new releases, take a second to visit this URL:

  https://www.kevintumlinson.com/joinme

  When you do, you can sign up and get a free Dan Kotler short story, and you’ll be join my mailing list. I like to share special deals and free stuff and fun stories with my subscribers, so I promise, you won’t regret it.

  Happy reading,

  Kevin Tumlinson

  Also by Kevin Tumlinson

  Dan Kotler

  The Coelho Medallion

  The Atlantis Riddle

  The Devil's Interval

  The Girl in the Mayan Tomb

  The Antarctic Forgery

  The Stepping Maze

  The God Extinction

  The Spanish Papers

  The Hidden Persuaders

  Dan Kotler Short Fiction

  The Brass Hall - A Dan Kotler Story

  The Jani Sigil - FREE short story from BookHip.com/DBXDHP

  Dan Kotler Box Sets

  The Book of Lost Things: Dan Kotler, Books 1-3

  The Book of Betrayals: Dan Kotler, Books 4-6

  The Book of Gods and Kings: Dan Kotler, Books 7-9

  Citadel

  Citadel: First Colony

  Citadel: Paths in Darkness

  Citadel: Children of Light

  Citadel: The Value of War

  Colony Girl: A Citadel Universe Story

  Sawyer Jackson

  Sawyer Jackson and the Long Land

  Sawyer Jackson and the Shadow Strait

  Sawyer Jackson and the White Room

  Think Tank

  Karner Blue

  Zero Tolerance

  Nomad

  The Lucid — Co-authored with Nick Thacker

  Episode 1

  Episode 2

  Episode 3

  Standalone

  Evergreen

  Shorts & Novellas

  Getting Gone

  Teresa's Monster

  The Three Reasons to Avoid Being Punched in the Face

  Tin Man

  Two Blocks East

  Edge

  Zero

  Collections

  Citadel: Omnibus

  Uncanny Divide — With Nick Thacker & Will Flora

  Light Years — The Complete Science Fiction Library

  YA & Middle Grade

  Secret of the Diamond Sword — An Alex Kotler Mystery

  Wordslinger (Non-Fiction)

  30-Day Author: Develop a Daily Writing Habit and Write Your Book In 30 Days (Or Less)

  Watch for more at kevintumlinson.com/books

  Contents

  The Coelho Medallion

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part II

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part III

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  The Atlantis Riddle

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part II

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part III

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  The Devil's Interval

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part II

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Part III

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  A Note at the End

  Here’s how to help me reach more readers

  Keep the Adventure Going!

  About the Author

  Also by Kevin Tumlinson

  Prologue

  Prime Alert Fire Safety Products, Inc. — New Mexico

  Alarms were already blaring, echoing through the canyons of corrugated aluminum among the outbuildings and warehouses of Prime Alert Fire Safety Products.

  Alarms were a bit unusual here. The facility was located in an expanse of desert nestled in among a collection of foothills in New Mexico, near the Colorado border. The closest town only had a few hundred people, officially. Unofficially, maybe a few hundred and fifty. None of them had any interest in breaking into a bunch of warehouses a hundred miles south of anywhere, where nothing better than smoke detectors were manufactured and stored.

  Except for tonight.

  Henry “Hank” Lott was pretty sure this would turn out to be a case of some bored teenagers getting a little too drunk and a little too rowdy. He figured he would find them next to one of the metal outbuildings with a can of spray paint and more than a few bottles of beer, tagging the giant metal canvases of the warehouses to show their virility before slinking off to diddle each other in the brush.

  Guys and girls, Hank figured. Kids.

  Hank was the night shift here, and he had no issues with that. It was hours and hours of being alone, with nobody but Hank Williams Jr. and Johnny Cash and a few other bad seeds for company. And that was a bit of alright for Hank. He’d had enough of most folk
s. They could keep their Facebooks and Tweeters. Hank would stick to a good book and a country music soundtrack.

  It helped quite a bit that the job was pretty routine. Nothing much ever changed, and Hank liked it that way. He made his rounds in the same beat-up Chevy pickup that the company had issued him almost three decades ago. He stared out at the same New Mexico desert, night after night, and woke up around noon every day to go fishing in the same creek, with the same rod and reel he’d used for thirty years. And every so often he ran off the same sort of teenagers who were probably causing all the ruckus tonight.

  The monitoring service had called just 20 minutes ago, and Hank rolled out from his little spot overlooking the mountains and the flat-pan of the surrounding desert. He was a bit grumpy about putting down the book he was reading—a Nick Thacker thriller that was really killing the hours. But he so rarely saw any activity here, it was tough to be mad for too long. There was always the chance he might catch some burglars trying to steal computers from the offices or something. He'd be a hero, in the morning. Maybe he'd get a bonus or a raise. He hadn't seen either of those for a few years now.

  He pulled up to Building Three, one of the staging warehouses where boxes of smoke detectors were stored before shipping. From here, Prime Alert reached out to the Walmarts and Targets and Home Depots of most of the United States, selling a reliable and inexpensive product to the masses. Hank felt a certain amount of pride, working for a company that actually did save lives—even if it was indirectly.

  The roll-top door of Building Three’s front entrance was open when Hank arrived, and a large moving truck—one of those that could be rented from a home storage center—was backed up to the bay. From his vantage point, Hank saw two men moving within the barely-lit interior of the warehouse. They were using hand trucks to load stacks of boxes into the moving van as rapidly as they were able.

  Hank shut off his radio and then stepped out of the Chevy as he drew his weapon—an aged .45 that he’d had since he left the service. It was his personal weapon, and much more comforting to him than the little .9mm pea-shooter the company had tried to issue him. It would make a big bang and a big hole, if the need arose. Thankfully the need never had.

  Hank also took out his mobile phone and dialed 911. In a whispered rush he told the operator the situation and his location and said that there was a robbery in progress. He advised them that he was armed, and about to engage the suspects. Before the operator could tell him to stand down and stay put, he hung up. The police wouldn’t be here for quite a while—the facility was at least half an hour from the closest police station. But by then Hank hoped to have these guys rounded up and held at gunpoint. He might have to lock them in one of the offices in the back of the warehouse, he figured. That was, as long as they didn’t try anything.

  He stepped away from the Chevy without closing the door and crept quietly toward the gap between the moving truck and the door frame of the loading bay. When he was close enough, he saw that there were actually four men moving around inside, not just two. They were quickly loading the hand trucks and then rolling boxes of smoke detectors into the van, before speeding back to reload.

  “That’s enough,” he said loudly, aiming his weapon at the men, who were clustered around the next batch of boxes.

  They froze and then turned on him.

  They were dressed all in black except for olive drab coats, which looked to be military surplus. Their faces were covered in black ski masks so that only their eyes were visible, and their hands were sheathed in black gloves.

  Definitely not kids, Hank thought. For the first time, he was feeling as if this might have been a mistake. Four masked men, and only one Hank. At least he had the gun.

  “Just step away from the boxes with your hands in the air. Get down on your knees, out here in the open floor.”

  Hank had stepped through the gap and into the loading area of the warehouse, and he kept the gun trained on the men, as he moved. His mind was racing with the possibilities of what he should do with them. He glanced to the back of the warehouse to Eugene Spencer’s office and realized that all of the keys were hanging from the ignition of the Chevy at the moment.

  Dammit, you old fool, Hank thought. He’d have to keep them on the floor and wait for the police to arrive.

  The men made no move to do as he had ordered.

  In fact, it almost seemed like they had no idea what he was even saying.

  There was a sound then, from behind him. It was a series of clicks that Hank immediately recognize, and it sent goosebumps up his back and made him break out in a sweat. Hank had heard that sound before, back in the war. He knew what it meant.

  It meant he was a damned fool for not checking the truck.

  “Lower your weapon,” a voice said from behind him. It was strongly British, and the man sounded a bit young. But it was firm and left no room for doubt as to what the owner of that voice would do if Hank didn’t do as he was told.

  Hank raised his left hand even as he knelt down and placed his weapon on the ground. When he stood up again, he raised his right hand and turned slowly to look into the back of the moving van.

  A man stood among the stacks of boxes that the burglars had already loaded. It was quite a number of boxes, actually. In the short time it had taken for Hank to put down his book and get to Building Three, these men had systematically emptied a substantial portion of the warehouse. There were thousands of smoke detectors already loaded into the van.

  “You called the authorities, I assume?” the man asked. He, too, was wearing a mask and gloves, as well as the olive drabs. And he had a weapon aimed directly at Hank’s head.

  “Yeah,” Hank said. “They’ll be here any minute. So I’d …”

  “You couldn’t have called them more than ten minutes ago. It will take half an hour at best for anyone to get here.” The man stepped carefully down from the back of the truck, the weapon, trained on Hank, never wavering. “We have ample time.”

  “They’ll be here any—”

  Before Hank could finish, the man raised the weapon and fired a single shot, striking Hank in the chest. He flinched back and then fell, slamming to the ground. He clutched at the wound, coughing and sputtering from the pain. He rolled and tried to crawl away, but the man stepped forward until he was practically hovering over him.

  Hank looked up at him, rolling onto his back. The man stood above him, held the weapon in one hand, and put a bullet in Hank’s head.

  With the deed done, the man said something in Arabic to two of his men, and they rushed to move Hank’s body out of the way, then scrambled back to the boxes. In moments they had emptied the warehouse and sped away into the night even before the sound of sirens rose in a warble somewhere distant in the New Mexico night.

  Memorial Park — Houston, Texas

  Dr. Evelyn Horelica tried to ignore the pain in her wrists as the thin zip ties cut into them.

  She ignored the gag in her mouth as well—as best she could—and concentrated only on breathing as steadily and calmly as she could around the gag pulled tight over her mouth. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes were wide with fear. Her heart was thumping hard enough that she could hear it pulsing in her ears.

  She had no idea why she had been kidnapped. She feared rape, but the kidnappers had given no sign that they were even remotely interested in that. They had simply grabbed her, with no warning, before she’d even fully realized they were there.

  She had been nearly finished with her run—the full three-mile circuit around Houston’s Memorial Park Golf course—when two men had rushed out of the tree line, gagged and tied her, and dragged her into the woods before she could even react. They'd been so fast, and so efficient, Evelyn hadn't even put up a fight. It was over before she'd realized she was in danger.

  Once they had her trussed up, they swiftly lifted her onto their shoulders and rushed her into the woods, emerging into a secluded clearing where the van waited.

  The graphic on the si
de of the van read “Menton Landscaping and Irrigation.” Evelyn had seen vans like this a thousand times around Houston. She used Menton for her own landscaping, in the rental house she was using during her time here. The guys who showed up were always nice and polite, even if most of them didn’t speak English. She’d never felt unsafe around them.