As you may have noticed from Sunday’s Prayer for Authors post, this November we have just one full-length novel releasing (though Jody Hedlund’s free ebook novella, Out of the Storm is also available—be sure to check it out!).
So, for this month’s New Release Announcement, let me introduce you to…The Patmos Deception by Davis Bunn. Just this year, Davis was inducted into the Christy Hall of Fame, and later this month, he’ll be answering questions on the blog about his writing career.
His latest novel combines a romance with international intrigue, following three characters as they uncover the island of Patmos’s ancient secret.
Nick Hennessy, a young Texas journalist looking for his big break, finds himself in Europe—his assignment, to investigate the alarming disappearance of Grecian antiquities. Nick has the credentials—and cover ID—to unearth the truth. And he knows just the researcher to help him.…
Carey Mathers, fresh from her studies in forensic archeology, has accepted a job with the Athens Institute for Antiquities—a dream come true, since the Greek isle of Patmos, where the Apostle John received his vision of the Apocalypse, was a focus of her research.
Dimitri Rubinos, a native of the Greek islands, holds on to the family charter boat business by a thread. But his country’s economic chaos isn’t the only thing that has turned his world on its head.
But why read about the plot when you can read part of the book itself? The following excerpt is taken from the early chapters of The Patmos Deception:
Carey decided not to open her case and drag out her coat for fear of getting everything inside wet. She stood in the taxi line arguing with herself. She would have preferred to take a bus. Her thrifty nature disliked the extra expense, but the Institute’s location was just some address on a scrap of paper. She could read a little Greek, yet it was ancient Greek, and the spoken language was well beyond her. She would never be able to figure out the bus markings.
The taxi driver looked to be about eighty, with a three-day stubble and clothes that smelled of cigarette smoke. He stood by the taxi’s rear and stared mournfully at Carey’s suitcase. She got the message and lifted it into the trunk herself. She set her backpack on the rear seat and grimaced at the tobacco stench. The driver accepted her sheet of paper, squinted at the address written in Greek, said something, and shook his head. She pointed to the address and spoke one of her few Greek phrases, “I want to go there.”
The driver grunted a response, which launched a coughing fit that lasted through starting the engine and setting off.
As he drove around the square fronting the station, she noticed the beggars. They didn’t swarm like the ones she had seen in documentaries about Africa or the Indian sub-continent. These people held to a grim sense of place, sitting or squatting along the curb and the benches and the empty fountain. They lifted up packets of tissue or gum or single cigarettes. They were clumped together by race and culture. Africans formed a colorful mob, dressed in rainbow hues of mismatched jackets and trousers and mittens and scarves and caps. The Greeks were mostly old, with faces so seamed their eyes vanished in the folds. Then came the largest group of all, swarthy and dark-eyed and bleak. The taxi driver scowled through his side window as he waited for the light to change and pretended to spit. “Gyftos.”
She recognized the word for Gypsy, and at the same moment she noticed the pendant dangling from his rearview mirror. It was stamped with the political symbol for Golden Dawn, the neofascist organization that had pushed its way into parliament with the last elections. Carey huddled deeper into her seat, stared at the rain-swept world beyond her window, and grimly held on to her dream.
She was so glad to step out from the taxi that she didn’t even flinch at the cost. She paid the man, ignored his frown over the lack of a tip, and hauled her case from the trunk. She recognized the Institute immediately. The stone building matched the image on their website. The taxi had already driven away by the time she noticed the chains wrapped around the gates, locked in place.
The front drive passed through the stone pillars where she stood, swept through a front garden knee-high in weeds, and circled a dry fountain. Two of the Institute’s ground-floor windows were broken, revealing internal bars. A trio of papers in transparent folders, lashed to the front gates with plastic ties, flapped in the wind.
Carey stared through the gate at the broken windows and watched her dreams trickle away with the cold, wintry rain.
Interested? Read the first three chapters here.
One fun aspect of international thrillers is that they take you to places like Greece that you might not have visited in person. If you won a plane ticket that you could use to travel to any foreign country, where would you go?