"Well are the Franklin cops going to be in attendance as promised?" asked Jackie. "There are supposed to be four of them, from what I gathered earlier."

"Yes, they will still be there...but...."

"Well, why don't we at least make an appearance there, and if I get a feeling of danger, we'll leave immediately," advised Fiona, drawing a quizzical look from Ed. He obviously was counting on her support of his not so subtle suggestion to cancel our Carnton visit. "I promise, Ed, if I get even the slightest sensation that anything's amiss, we'll immediately leave."

"Well, that's what I was afraid of," he said, frowning. "I brought eight bullet proof vests. Sorry I couldn't procure enough to cover both your group and the camera crew...someone will have to be extra careful."

He looked at me, and suddenly the frown lifted toward a slight smile. I guess it wouldn't take a rocket scientist to determine who would be asked to take one on the cheek for the team. But, h.e.l.l, I was used to this. After all, I was the only one not afforded an escort the summer before last, before anyone knew that it was our partner, Angie, who had gone on a killing spree against any and every soul connected to Candi Starr.

"Hey, I'm game for going commando," I said, drawing looks of horror from my dear wife and Jackie, and amused loathing from our friendly neighborhood d.i.c.k. "And, my hunch is we won't hear from these crazy a.s.sholes tonight. But, I guess there's only one way to find out."

And with that I politely excused myself from Detective Silver's presence and rejoined my buddies waiting to find out what the fuss was about. My confident smile did little to ease their fears that Mr. Ed's presence was synonymous with more tragedy on the way.

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Plague of Coins.

The Judas Chronicles, Book One.

(Please read on for a sample).

When I regained consciousness I couldn't move. Rope-bound to a wooden chair, my arms and hands were pulled tightly behind me. Only my head, lower legs, and my feet were free. Obviously, someone intended for me to stay put when I came to. Feeling disoriented, my head throbbed like a mother. I tried to recall the unclear events that had brought me to this point.

Something about a dangerous secret mission, a burned-out car, and the Garden of Eden. That last part seemed to energize my recovery, and as the fog cleared from my mind I steadily remembered everything.

"So, William Barrow, we meet again," said a middle-aged man from behind me.

The voice was mellow and yet at the same time ice cold. Like fine German ale kept in a freezer...undrinkable. Likewise, I pictured the owner of the voice to be just as disagreeable. But the man wasn't German, the accent was too thick....Russian. And the familiarity was profound...both with this a.s.shole knowing my name and my own recognizance of his unsavory persona.

"Viktor?" I said, weakly. My mouth and throat felt as dry as sandpaper, like I hadn't drunk anything for several days. "Where in the h.e.l.l am I?"

"How easily you remember me, William." The man's mellowness gave way to a frigid influx of disdain. He stepped around me and moved over to where a group of five other men and a woman stood near the door, his boot heels clicking softly upon the linoleum covered floor. "It appears I might not have wasted my time waiting for you to wake up these past two days."

Huh?

Once he moved past me, I fully confirmed it was Viktor. Viktor Kaslow, ex Lieutenant Colonel in the Soviet Union's army from twenty-five years ago, and captain for one of Moscow's most feared KGB death squads even after the Cold War ended. This man was among the Soviet's most feared a.s.sa.s.sins, garnering that reputation based upon his supreme pa.s.sion for his vocation.

"You are in some trouble, my friend. We caught you and your father, Alistair, trespa.s.sing. As well as the archaeologist's daughter. But have no worries, William. After you and my subordinates get acquainted, all three of you shall exit this world promptly and join your less fortunate CIA predecessors in the afterlife."

They-the Russians-had awaited my arrival. Viktor's words alone confirmed that, but also a quick glance around the room affirmed the same conclusion. This had to be one of the trailers I spotted from my higher vantage point earlier. A double-wide large enough to fit several oversized pieces of furniture, including a large mahogany desk that sat close to the only door in the room. Both windows-each on opposite walls-were covered with thick draperies, making it impossible to tell whether it was morning or night.

Other furniture included a long table that sat next to a suspended fireplace. Despite the oppressive heat outside and an inefficient air conditioner wall unit, small flames danced within the hearth. A row of shiny sharp cutlery, specially designed for either surgery or torture, was laid out upon a blood-spotted white sheet that haphazardly covered the table.

Oh joy! ...Such fun and games to look forward to!

"I take it that a plea of neutrality-that neither you nor we own the land we're squatting upon will make a difference?" I countered, my tone upbeat despite my growing unease.

For the other men and the woman eyeing me coldly, I'm sure they found the smirk on my face especially annoying. But then, none of them had ever witnessed the Amazing Willie Boy Barrow regenerating lost digits from fingers, toes, and genitalia. Such antics have brought several prominent members of the Spanish Inquisition to their knees in past centuries. It could very well be where the whole 'Father of Vampires' legend originated from. Either that, or maybe witnessing a lopped off arm or hand reappear after the initial blood geyser was what gave birth to the happy horses.h.i.t about being the very first 'real' blood drinker.

Viktor had never witnessed that side of me, though. Not even when he gashed me pretty good back in 1993, when we squared off in Algeria.

Thinking about this infused my smirk, until I noticed my son and Amy Golden Eagle bound similar to me. Secured to wooden chairs pushed against the wall to my right, both looked haggard and sported red welts upon their faces and arms. Their clothes were soiled from dirt and sweat, and Amy's blouse had been torn open. I couldn't tell if that was a sign of s.e.xual a.s.sault, or if it was an initial threat to slice open a sensitive region of her body to gain proprietary info concerning her CIA contacts and such. The lack of blood on her blouse negated the latter notion, at least for now, though I did see a few red lines just below her chin that indicated knife cuts. From the array of deadly toys laid out on the nearby table, I could tell it wouldn't be long before a full menu of entrees like that were served up for me.

It added credibility to the premise I'd actually been out of commission the past three days. I noticed then that Alistair bore more bruises than Amy, and I was greatly alarmed by the angry red ring around his neck. Obvious ligature marks, he looked at me with pleading eyes. It broke my heart to see him like this, and I silently lamented that I allowed us to get suckered into this a.s.signment. Despite the terrible torture and discomfort he had already endured, I could tell he was fighting to hold his even-keeled disposition together. Probably the same thing was true for Amy, whose shivering body revealed the dire distress she hid admirably beneath her defiant countenance.

Yet, I doubt she even understood how little the Russian agents in the room cared about hers or Alistair's courage one way or another.

"No, you only are the squatters, as we have already made legitimate claims with the Iranian government," said Viktor, stepping back toward me from the others.

Time had been kind to the former chief adversary for the KGB. Although more than a dozen years had pa.s.sed since we last faced off, he still carried the same virile air. His slicked back blonde hair bore just a slight hint of gray along the temples, and his steel blue eyes gleamed with the same malice I remembered. If not for the chiseled bone structure in his face that had held up remarkably well since our last encounter, there would be no hiding the monster that lurked within.

"If the Iranian people knew what you guys were up to, I doubt your claims would remain legitimate for long." I hoped my bravado and intense dislike of this man didn't translate to a quick demise for the two kids under my care and supervision. "That's the problem with you and any other Soviet-once an arrogant jacka.s.s, then always an arrogant jacka.s.s."

Yes, I was definitely stoking the fire here-which might seem in direct contradiction to what I just advised about my concern about our future. Yet, two members of this group-the youngest male and the lone female-had just moved over to the table and picked up a pair of branding irons and placed them into the burning hearth. I didn't have to look over at Alistair and Amy to know they were terrified.... I felt their rising panic as it radiated toward me. Being 'contraire' was the only thing I could think of to buy us more time...more time to think up a better plan.

"You are quite incorrect!" said a booming voice from behind me. "I would say that being an 'arrogant jacka.s.s' is an American trait-an exclusive American quality!"

I couldn't turn my head far enough to see who it was, but a moment later an immense human being appeared beside my chair. Petr Stanislav's hulking frame loomed above me. Even uglier than the photograph Michael Lavoie had shown to me, his image must have been retouched. Or, more than likely, there was a much greater distance between his hideous mug and the camera lens when the picture was taken as compared to my unfortunate eyes right then. Not even the Amosu beige casual suit he wore could save him.

He bent down toward me, his big bushy head of reddish blonde hair encroaching into my personal s.p.a.ce. His breath smelled like a sour outhouse, and the joyless mirth in his eyes told me that he greatly relished my discomfort by his presence. The ant.i.theses to Viktor's deadly charms, though both were venomous vipers at heart.

"Why else would you so foolishly come here?" he continued. "You, who are supposed to be such a great American spy, and yet failed miserably in carrying out a simple surveillance... Not to mention your CIA's inept plan for your father, Alistair, and Stephen Golden Eagle's daughter to infiltrate our operation. You are all arrogant jacka.s.ses!"

His deep voice rumbled with delight. I guess it didn't take much to amuse this abhorrent giant. At least that was my initial impression, until he grew serious, eyeing me with ever-deepening contempt.

"Well, then, humor me big guy." I leaned away from him to avoid the halitosis fumes. "What else could we have done, since you've done a poor job of keeping things secret? Very soon, the entire free world will know what you and your buddies have been up to around here!"

Not a guarantee, but chances of our Russian captors keeping satellite images secret were becoming increasingly difficult. One good network hacker is all it would take, and then the outer s.p.a.ce images of a mountainside disappearing on earth could go viral on the internet in under a day.

The surprised look I received from Petr Stanislav confirmed my a.s.sertion's accuracy.

"You could have simply cancelled, and not come out here!" Sneering, he turned away and moved over to the table, where he picked up a long serrated knife. "I would gladly tell you more about what all of this means for our future-the improved lot of my Soviet brethren as well as the overdue demise for your American government-but I have already grown weary of your presence!"

He chuckled as he returned his gaze to me, and this time the heavy soulless timber from his throat sent an icy chill up and down my spine.

At first I had nothing more to say...no more clever replies. But then I thought about the brethren he referred to-the peaceful Russian populace who are as kind and n.o.ble as any other people I've ever encountered. Except for their KGB faction.

"Okay, lay it on me, then," I said brazenly. "I'd love to hear the tale of how what you're doing here in Iran will actually benefit your Russian brothers and sisters."

He glared in response, but that was it. Stanislav had already made up his mind. With no appeals left, it was time for a miracle. Viktor's added snicker further heightened my dread.

"I have run out of patience with you. So, we shall leave your fate to Vera and Nicholas." Stanislav moved past me and motioned for the rest of his team to follow him out of the building. The two a.s.sistants he referred to grabbed a fiery branding iron apiece and approached me from either side. "Have fun Mr. Barrow. The rest of your life is now in the hands of my most ruthless subordinates. That should give you something to think about while they sear the very flesh from your bones!"

"Bye-bye, William!" crooned Viktor, his tone rapturous. Honestly, I expected a little more respect from him, but I guess some wounds from long ago were still fresh. "Maybe we'll meet again, eh? Perhaps eventually in the afterlife?"

Not if I can help it, you sorry sack of s.h.i.t!

It was the last calm thought I had before Vera and Nicolas reached my chair.

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Cades Cove: The Curse of Allie Mae.

The Cades Cove Series, Book One.

(Please read on for a sample).

"M-m-u-u-r-r-der-r-r-er-r-r!"

David opened his eyes, awakened by the whisper that pa.s.sed over his face. The room was completely dark, and not even the parking lot lamps' glow penetrated the murkiness. He noticed the curtains' unusual thickness when he turned up the heater before retiring, a.s.suming it was the motel's way of compensating its guests for the spa.r.s.e insulation. At least one couldn't be bothered by any car or truck lights coming in late, as most of the motel's patrons seemed to be in the long-haul transportation business.

The television was blank and silent, and David couldn't make out its outline. The heater's comforting hum was also absent. It left the room in a hostile stillness. Suddenly, the sound of a deep sigh filled the air above the s.p.a.ce between the two beds. Something floated there.

He raised himself, fully aware of his distinct disadvantage against whoever was here with him. Peering into the darkness where the sigh came from, he reached for the lamp switch next to his bed.

"Don't do it!"

The feminine voice surreal, the accent and the fact it sounded both near and far was familiar.

"Allie Mae?"

The air around him was already chilled from the lack of heat, but it now grew even colder. The presence was drawing near to him. A brilliant blue eye appeared, aglow in the darkness less than a foot away. The eye was especially beautiful, and it squinted. Perhaps it scrutinized him, or more likely, its owner was seriously p.i.s.sed.

"What do you want from me?" David tried to remain calm despite his terror, but found it impossible to control the unsteadiness in his voice.

The eye moved closer, and as it did he became aware of a soft gurgling sound. It reminded him of the tiny streams he used to find in the mountain valleys of Colorado. Cold drafts of air brushed against his face, and the eye came within a few inches of his own eyes, as if the head shrouded by darkness positioned itself to kiss him. The smell of raw meat filled his nostrils. He pushed himself back against the bed's headboard.

"To take back what you've stolen," the voice replied. It was softer and almost normal, erupting from the gurgling noise and sending an icy spray upon him. "And, kill the wicked seed once and for all!"

"I didn't steal your bag of treasures, and I'll happily give it back!" He clutched his bedspread tightly, and shrunk away from the eye, the smell, and the gurgling. "I'll do whatever it takes to make things right!"

"It's too late to give it back," replied the garbled voice, sending forth another spray of chilled droplets onto his face. David cringed in response and closed his eyes. "It's too late to give back my life, Billy Ray-y-y-y!"

A splash of icy liquid against his throat and T-shirt emphasized the fervency of this last statement. Ever fearful, he opened his eyes. Another eye as grotesque as the first eye was lovely had since joined it. Its mutilated cornea and iris glowed as a ruptured ma.s.s of fire and blood within the torn edges of the socket.

"I'm not Billy Ray! My name's David!!" he shouted.

"Ya are what ya are and always will be, Billy Ray-y-y-y!" the voice hissed in anger. "Y'all and yer seed have killed and taken whatever ya've pleased! But, no more!! There ain't no more hidin' from yer sins!!!"

"No, you've got the wrong guy! I've never done anything to you-"

"M-m-m-u-r-r-r-der-r-r-er-r-r!!"

He threw up his hands to protect himself as she shrieked her condemnation over and over, the echo resounding loudly throughout the room before returning to where he lay huddled against the headboard. Iciness gripped the base of his bed and steadily moved up toward him, chilling the bones in his feet, legs, and thighs as it touched him. Out of the darkness the two eyes suddenly looked up at him from his waist, revealing the ent.i.ty now caressed his body like a famished lover, moving from his feet to his genitals and on up to his face. He whimpered in horror as something cold, wet and slimy crept inside his shirt toward his throat.

Screaming in terror, he slapped at himself, falling out of the bed. He grabbed the nightstand, pulling the top drawer out while groping for the lamp's pole. A pair of frigid arms embraced him from behind, and even icier hands pinched his nipples. Coldness beyond anything he'd ever known flowed through him from behind, freezing his lungs to where he couldn't breathe. He began to pa.s.s out. Turning on the light switch was the last thing he remembered.

David awoke lying on the floor between the two beds. The nightstand lamp was on, and his head throbbed worse than any migraine he could remember. He groggily stood up and moved over to the clock, which still faced his bed. It read 3:38 a.m.

After replacing the nightstand's drawer in its slot, and checking to make sure the heater still worked, he set the thermostat and blower on high and went into the bathroom. He intended to splash water in his face and take something for his pounding headache. But, when he looked in the mirror, he could only stare at his reflection.

His face and T-shirt were covered with blood.

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About the Author:.

Aiden James resides in Tennessee with his lovely wife, Fiona, their two sons, Christopher and Tyler, and a feisty terrier named Gypsy. An avid researcher of all things paranormal, he spends much of his time investigating haunted locales throughout the Deep South. Please visit his website: www.aidenjamesfiction.com.

BOOKS BY AIDEN JAMES.

CADES COVE SERIES.

Cades Cove.

The Raven Mocker.

THE TALISMAN CHRONICLES.

The Forgotten Eden The Devil's Paradise.

GHOSTHUNTERS 101 SERIES.

Deadly Night.

The Ungrateful Dead THE DYING OF THE DARK SERIES.

The Vampires' Last Lover.

The Vampires' Birthright Blood Princesses of the Vampires Scarlet Legacy of the Vampires.