When ancient powers surface, the world will reveal its secrets.

Since the age of fourteen, Jules has searched for his mother’s antique bangle, stolen from her as she died. Several years later, Jules is now an expert treasure hunter, and after following the trail to Prague, he is finally preparing to reclaim his property.

But when the prize is snatched by ruthless businessman Valerio Conchin, Jules links up with the Lost Origins Recovery Institute, an underground group that tracks artefacts from the ancient world, many of which could rewrite our understanding of human history. And Jules’s bangle may unlock secrets dating back to Biblical times.

This quest, however, is only the first step in a bigger scheme to locate a long-forgotten tomb—where Conchin believes he will be imbued with a power that will shake the world, and where Jules will be tempted to succumb to the same greed.

To stop Conchin and reclaim what is his, Jules must find the strength to reject that power, and to accept the help offered, even if he believes he can win on his own.

Tomb of the First Priest is a fast paced action adventure novel introducing the Lost Origins Recovery Institute, and a freelance treasure hunter named Jules. If you are a fan of Matthew Reilly, the Dirk Pitt adventures by Clive Cussler, the Sigma Force novels by James Rollins, or J.F. Penn’s Arkane series, lovers of international thrillers and action-packed page turners should check out this new fantasy adventure novel today.

Tomb of the First Priest will be released in the near future, but an exact date has yet to be confirmed. It may be as early as December 2017 or as late as March 2018, but it WILL be released ahead of a number of planned sequels.

All the books in the series will be accessible as stand-alones but as with any of these types of series reading them in order will be more rewarding.

To be kept up to date with developments and to learn the release date ahead of anyone else, please sign up to the newsletter below.

Just a note to say Tony Davies is also crime writer A. D. Davies (the A. is for Antony), but because violent crime and this brand of upbeat action-adventure are very different genres, the pen names are useful in helping readers decide where they want to look. This newsletter is for Tony Davies only, so you will not be contacted regarding A. D. Davies’s somewhat grimmer work.

Chapter 1








Prague, Old Town

Czech Republic


Four stories above the street, Prague’s ocean of rooftops raced by in a blur as Jules Sibeko sprinted over one snow-dusted eave and rode the wave to its neighbor. While the last of his tracking beacons adhered to the roads at a predictable speed-limit-minus-two-miles-per-hour—the rate at which Jules had rehearsed every likely route—he kept one eye on his phone and one on the next obstacle. The real-world exercise proved more difficult than any dry run, though. He hadn’t expected snow, either; a rare sight in April.

So he adapted. His rubber-soled feet planted more firmly, sought out nooks and crannies protected from the weather, and although it shaved between five and seven percent off his speed, he was still able to traverse the skyscape in pursuit of the thieves. In these moments, whatever the conditions, all that mattered was one foot after the other, timing his jumps so his fingers gripped the lip of the next vent, wall, or recess just so, and to progress smoothly and silently.

It was the closest he ever came to flying.

Even the air gave little resistance as he leaped a sixteen-foot gap to the adjacent building. He barely felt the cold rushing by except through his ski mask’s eyeholes. His midnight-blue bodysuit, a smooth cotton-Lycra blend, custom-made in China, clung to him over thermals and with his backpack coated in the same light-absorbing material it offered better camouflage in the city’s shadows than the matt-black outfits he’d worn in the past. Sure, he resembled a cosplay enthusiast fallen on hard times, but the getup worked for him.

He glided over a ridge of terracotta like a tightrope walker, thankful for the clouds overhead; little danger of his silhouette betraying his position. Toward the edge, he sped up, preparing for the twelve-foot jump to a balcony. As fast as he dared, his foot gripped the peak’s edge, knee bent, and he threw his bodyweight forward.

This time, in addition to propelling himself over the distance, he dropped four feet before landing on the wooden balustrade, only four inches wide, where he slipped on the snow. Momentum pushed him onward faster than predicted. But he spun in mid-air, kicked his legs over his head, and planted both feet firmly on the balcony.

Fluidly resuming his forward motion, he scaled the penthouse skylight at half-speed.

Back clear of tweaks.

Knees bending, straightening; no pain.

Neck retains full motion.

Conclusion: no injuries from the mishap.

At full pace, executing an even riskier shortcut over a series of plush apartment buildings, a casual witness might mistake Jules for a thrill-seeking free runner. But this was no pastime. His years of training with parkour masters, of honing his body and learning every trick of every trade he might need, it could all be about to pay off tonight. That he could, in a couple of days, be kicking back and consuming pizza for the first time since his fourteenth birthday, trying beer for the first time, and perhaps even a melt-in-the-middle chocolate pudding with cream, it caused his mouth to moisten and he lost another three seconds in time.

The tracking beacon halted at a street Jules scouted two days ago, an alleyway housing a fried chicken takeaway and a bookmaker, plus some clothes boutique. From his rooftop perch, he couldn’t quite see beyond the shadows at the back-end of the narrow passage, so he side-stepped to the foot-wide slab running along the bookmaker’s angled roof. Lying flat, the snow crunched beneath his weight and melted into a freezing slush. He peeked over using a rifle scope.

A two-year-old Range Rover, black of course—do these guys ever drive anything else?—ticked over in the chill night. Most tourists were now indoors. Even the drunks. And those snug within the 4×4 showed no hurry to leave.

As if assessing their position.

As if scanning for a tail.

People such as these rarely looked up, though. If they did they might spot Jules, contrasted heavily against the snow, but he was just another vague shape atop a roof in a world of CCTV, covert surveillance teams, and drones. No way would they be looking for Jules four stories above their heads.

The passenger door opened and out stepped a buff Caucasian dude: a dark suit with no tie, blond hair with a neat, trimmed beard. His breath misted as he scouted the scene, pretending to check his watch. The gun under his armpit flashed for less than a second, but Jules recognized the butt of a Sig-Sauer P229. When the guy walked, he favored his right foot by a ratio of less than an inch, indicating a backup piece on the ankle. Barely noticeable, but it was there.

This was no amateur.

The man nodded to the Range Rover and a slender woman with copper hair shining brightly under the fluorescent lights climbed into the street carrying a metallic briefcase and wearing an emerald green trench coat. Head down, age indeterminable, Jules assumed she was Lori, the name he picked up during his recent low-tech surveillance of potential antiquities middlemen.

Red hair.

Emerald green coat.

That’s a bold look.

Shame Jules was about to ruin her day.

He lowered his scope and returned it to his pack.

As the Range Rover departed, the woman marched into the alleyway, and the blond man closed in four feet behind while her free hand remained in her pocket.

From his backpack, Jules removed an extendible baton, currently retracted into a twelve-inch tube, and a three-pronged grappling hook attached to a bungee cord. He slipped the baton into the loop on his belt next to three throwing knives, on the side opposite to a half-dozen dime-sized smoke bombs that made his fourteen-year-old self squeal with delight at the ninja-type equipment. His twenty-three-year-old current self concentrated on the serious business of now.

And there was no squealing. Of delight or otherwise.

After stashing his pack, Jules wedged the grappling hook between two steel rails atop the fire escape, fed out the correct amount of elasticated rope for this height, wound the slack around his hand, and noiselessly positioned himself above the alley, calculating his targets’ pace. As soon as the red-haired woman passed under him, with the bodyguard maintaining his four-foot distance, Jules dropped.

Again, his fourteen-year-old self called from the past to highlight how thrilling this should be, but all that entered modern Jules’s mind was how the cord should slow his descent from one-point-two-five seconds to a full three, depositing him approximately four feet behind the man with the Sig.

Within one second, he was plummeting at ten meters per second. Half a second later, the bungee cord pulled tight around his hand, slowing him to five m/s, and as he neared the ground, it dragged his speed back in fractional increments, until he halted smoothly, touching down with only the tiniest scuff, closer to three feet from the target than his intended four. And that slight break in the silence, his disturbance of the air, was enough to alert the bodyguard.

The Sig appeared in the man’s hand as he spun, safety flicking off in one expert action. Jules let go of the cord, flicking it forward, causing it to behave like a whip. The end snapped in the minder’s face. He winced. The distraction was enough for Jules to fling the baton out of its loop and into the guy’s wrist, releasing the gun. Before it hit the floor, Jules caught the firearm, rolled aside, and aimed at his opponent’s right ankle. Unsure which side the backup piece lay, he fired both outside and inside the limb, striking the gun on the second guess—inside.

As the bodyguard fell, clutching his lower leg and checking for damage, Jules sprinted after the woman who had already taken flight. He caught up with her beside the bookmaker’s, the raised Sig-Sauer enough to halt her in her tracks.

“Hey,” Jules said. “Look at that. You lose.”

She glanced at the man on the ground before fixing Jules with widening green eyes. Younger than Jules expected, between twenty-five and twenty-seven, a couple of years older than himself. Her skin looked pale, red cheeks extenuating the light shade; an English rose in appearance. But when she spoke, she was pure southern-belle; Alabama if Jules wasn’t mistaken.

She held up the case. “Take it. Please. Just don’t hurt me.”

Her bodyguard found his feet, pointing the backup firearm from his ankle holster—a small Walther. “Put it down and back off!” Another American, his accent blander, probably west coast, practically the polar opposite of Jules’s Brooklyn tone.

Jules grinned beneath his mask. “That’s a risky move, friend.”

“Not your friend. And since you went for my leg instead of putting one in my head, I’m guessing you don’t wanna kill anyone here. But I have orders, and I’m not so picky.”

“Army guy, huh? Ex, I’m guessin’. But you can’t shoot me.”

“You won’t be the first to be wrong about that.”

The red-haired woman slowly retracted the case, eyes roving, lips stiff. This wasn’t her regular field of work.

“I don’t mean you’re afraid to kill me,” Jules said. “I mean … aw heck, I’ll demonstrate.”

He swung the gun toward the muscle head. The guy pulled his trigger once, twice, clicking dry both times.

“I wasn’t aimin’ for your leg,” Jules said. “I was takin’ out your backup piece.”

The bodyguard tossed the Walther hard at the wall and advanced, but Jules side-stepped behind the girl and firmed his grip on the Sig, stopping her would-be savior.

Jules returned his attention to the redhead. “Okay. Lori, right? Let’s have it.”

She presented the case in a shaking hand. “I’m not Lori.”

“I don’t want the decoy, hon.”

“Decoy?” Not-Lori took a single step back, a minuscule shake of her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

With his free hand, Jules ruffled her sleeves, then yanked them up all the way to reveal two bare arms. He retreated from her and focused on the man instead.

“Clever,” Jules said. “Hand it over.”

“I thought they’d send more men,” the minder replied.

“Where is it?”

“Where is what? This?”

The man tugged up his left sleeve to expose—pinched tight on his forearm—the item Jules had pursued across the globe for nine long years: a bracelet made of stone, infused with metallic green flecks, spanning a circumference broken only by a half-inch gap, forming a tight letter C. That gap made it technically a bangle, not a bracelet, but Jules didn’t care about the distinction. He concerned himself with one, solitary factor.

It’s mine.

Jules released the Sig’s magazine and popped the chambered round, tossed the gun up onto a second-floor fire escape, and charged at the bodyguard. He pulled up short of a bull-like attack, calming himself in time to prevent what was obviously a well-trained individual from countering early. The man had no such qualms.

He jabbed at Jules’s throat. Jules twisted away and simultaneously shoved the bodyguard off balance, then kicked the guy’s standing foot, dropping him on his backside.

The ex-military man rolled aside and drew a knife from behind his gun holster.

“What is it with you people?” the man asked.

Me people?” Jules said.

“These objects aren’t supposed to be collected like trinkets.”

“I don’t know who you think I’m with, friend. I just want what belongs to me.”

The man harboring Jules’s property relaxed momentarily. “You’re not with Valerio Conchin?”

Jules palmed one of the mini flashbangs from his belt. “I don’t know who that is.”

With a flick of his thumb, he set the smoke bomb to its shortest fuse, and threw it forward. The flash of light and eruption of potassium chlorate made the guy jerk back, drop his knife, and hold his eyes. To his credit, he didn’t scream.

And with the redhead frozen in his peripheral vision, Jules moved in hard: a flat hand to the man’s throat and a heel through his jaw sent the muscle head tumbling, allowing Jules time to grip the bracelet and straighten the man’s arm, locking it in place at the joint. He tugged and twisted, levered the bangle as low as the wrist, but it was stuck there.

“You won’t get it off,” the woman said, taking a single trembling step forward.

Jules maneuvered the arm around and forced his foot into the man’s shoulder blade, so its owner lay face down.

“We had to use a whole load a’ cooking oil just to get it on there,” the woman insisted. “And it hurt like hell.”

Jules strained, pulling up skin, causing the man on the ground to gasp in pain. “I won’t lose it now. Not when I’m so close.”

“Please,” she said. “It belongs somewhere safe. You say you’re not with Valerio, then trust us.”

Jules twisted the object. “I’m taking it with me.”

“No. Please try to understand. If Valerio wants the Aradia bangle, we have to secure it.”

Jules slackened his grip on the stone jewelry, but held his subject firm underfoot. “What did you call it?”

She frowned. Took one step forward. “The Aradia bangle. You own it, but you don’t know what it’s called?”

A hundred questions flew through his mind. Yes, he wanted it back, but that was all he knew. And he would never let it go again. It was his before, and was now his again.

Or, more precisely, “It was my mom’s.”

As the woman’s frown deepened at his words, Jules rolled the ski mask up over his mouth, and spat on the man’s wrist, mashing the stone bangle into the saliva. The man cried out more than before as Jules wrenched at it with all his strength. The movement drew a line of blood, but that aided the slick surface. Jules spat again and, for just a second, the ornament appeared to glow, its flecks of green catching the streetlight.

And then it popped free.

Jules released the man’s arm and skipped away, holding the item that had consumed the whole of his adulthood.

The whole of his adulthood so far, he reminded himself. He had plenty of life ahead of him.

The woman checked on her minder, who sat upright against the wall beneath the door light of the fried chicken place, cradling his damaged wrist. Both glared at Jules.

“Sorry, but the bracelet’s mine,” Jules said, and turned to find himself face-to-face with a third person.

“My sentiments exactly,” the man replied in a deep-throated Australian accent.

The newcomer stood at least six-eight, almost a foot taller than Jules and twice as wide, most of it muscle. Dark-haired, he possessed a jaw the shape of a shovel. Ten local cops moved into place behind him.

“Now hand over the Aradia bangle, and Mr. Conchin promises no one else’ll get hurt.”


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