Free Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) by J Robert Kennedy

descendent from the Roman
Thirteenth Legion sworn to protect the world from the supposed destructive
powers of the crystal skulls, they had heard nothing since.
    Not a
peep.
    Even
their good friend and member of the organization, Detective Inspector Martin
Chaney of Scotland Yard had gone incommunicado. Chaney’s former partner and now
INTERPOL Special Agent, Hugh Reading, also a close friend of Acton’s, had grown
concerned and discovered Chaney had taken an indefinite leave of absence before
he had left England to claim their find, the excuse given that he needed more
time to recover from being shot at this very dig site. It was reasonable
considering he had only come out of his coma a few days before filing his
request.
    Yet
despite that they were all concerned.
    And
there was nothing they could do about it except hope Chaney was okay, and that
he was merely on Triarii business.
    Acton
knew his good friend Reading was climbing the walls over this, he very close to
the younger Chaney, almost thinking of him as a son. Acton didn’t know him as
well, but a bond under fire had been formed that could never be broken, and it
left him thinking of Chaney frequently, wondering just what had happened to the
man.
    A
thumping sound in the distance had him freeze in the shower, cocking his head
to see if what he thought he had heard was real. The hair standing up on the
back of his neck and the goose bumps spreading across his body was all the
indication he needed. He quickly rinsed himself off then shut off the water as
the thumping got louder. He pushed aside the wood door to the shower and
stepped out into the open as he wrapped a towel around him, nobody noticing his
momentary nakedness as all eyes were on the horizon.
    “There
it is!” yelled one of the students, pointing to the east.
    Acton
looked and his heart leapt into his throat as a large chopper cleared the rise,
heading straight for them. The security team, led by former SAS Lieutenant
Colonel Cameron Leather, raced into position, an alarm sounding that sent the
students scrambling, weapons being broken out as everyone, well-drilled, took
up defensive positions.
    Acton
raced toward the main tent, plunging through the double canvas entrance,
pulling on a pair of shorts, shoving his feet into his boots, then running back
outside with the satellite phone and the Egyptian walkie-talkie. As he burst
from the tent he nearly ran headlong into Laura who was now packing a Glock 22
on her hip, a second in her hand along with several magazines.
    “Expecting
anyone?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
    “No,”
she said, shaking her head. “Here.” She handed him the spare weapon and mags,
he handing her the satellite phone and radio. “Let’s go!”
    The two
of them sprinted toward where the helicopter was landing, and as they rounded
the tents, finally giving them a full view of the massive vehicle up close,
Acton’s eyebrows shot up at the white paint job with blue lettering.
    United
Nations?
    Sand was
being whipped around, causing them to stop and shield their eyes as the vehicle
bounced to a landing. The engines immediately began to power down as the side
door was slid open, two crew members jumping to the ground, followed by a man
in a business suit then a woman in a skirt and heels.
    Both
looked and were completely out of place.
    As the
wind died down, Acton and Laura stepped forward as the man waved to them. The
woman made several false starts then finally bent over, removed her heels and
tossed them into the open helicopter. The man extended his hand to Laura as he
approached, the helicopter now quiet, its blades still spinning, but slow
enough to now watch the hypnotic rhythm.
    “Professor
Palmer?” asked the dark-skinned man, his accent British.
    “Yes,”
replied Laura, exchanging a quick, quizzical glance with Acton as she accepted
the man’s hand.
    “And you
must be Professor Acton,” said the woman, pure southern drawl giving away her
country of