Mark Ramsay is on a mission, but he cannot remember what it is. Several people he doesn’t know are trying to kill him; some of them succeed. Torn between an uncertain but dangerous future as a fugitive with the woman he loves and a past full of suffering, war, bloodshed, and death, he is forced to make a decision that will echo in the past, stretch into the future and profoundly affect the here and now.
He is an assassin and an alchemist. His past is full of terrible memories. But he doesn’t know that. Why? Because he has suffered a serious memory loss. The memories of his past go back a few hours when the story begins. While he is trying to figure out who he is, what he is, and what he is doing in America, his long-time associates come after him. They are bent on saving him even if it kills him. In fact, one of them wants to kill him for personal reasons. Another wants to kill him out of curiosity. And a third wants to kill him for fun.
As his memory slowly returns in bits and pieces, he becomes more and more unhappy with not only his current plight as a prisoner, but his circumstances in life in general. If ever a man found himself in a lose/lose situation, it is Mark Ramsay.
He is far too old to have been caught so easily in such a predicament. If he stays, he dies. If he returns, he dies. If he runs, he dies. This is no time for romance but try telling his hormones that. As a senior member of an elite Council of Warrior Monks left over from the Crusades, it looks like old age is going to get the better of him. How many times does he have to die before it is over?
Targeted Age Group:: Adult
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I am inspired by the history of the Crusades, time travel, immortality, romance, and ancient history topics. I love to follow conspiracy theories such as those presented about prehistoric locations, i.e. Gobekli-Tepi, Stonehenge, Karnak, Babylon, etc. I like the age of chivalric romance, monks, monasteries and mysteries. I wanted to combine all these things into a series of action/adventure novels strictly for entertainment purposes. If my readers learn something by accident, all the better.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
My characters are all based on people I have known in my life. I have personally known every type of person from preachers to murderers and Marines to child molesters. I have taught teenagers in a classroom setting. I have worked twenty years behind bars with maximum security offenders. I have attended college, traveled as much as possible, and studied many topics from Masonry to Angelic Magick. All these diverse traits and characteristics go into my characters.
“Your order is dying, Sir Ramsay,” she told him sadly. “There is no place left for your kind in the world. It is time to share your secrets with us and the whole world. I’m not greedy like some people I know.”
“You and your friend have me confused with someone else,” he said.
She laughed and her laughter reminded him of Pixies or some other faery from his homeland. Homeland? Pixies were legends… of what land? Home. Home! Faeries and Pixies?
She was not the only one here, who was not quite right in the head. An almost hysterical laugh escaped his lips, confirming his thoughts.
She leaned in quickly and kissed his forehead before examining the cut above his eye.
“I should think after all these years and all the horrors you have seen; you would be more… solemn or bitter. But you are nothing like I expected.”
What horrors? His only horror was still clomping about under the trees. The big man popped into view again and stood with his hands on his hips looking down at them.
“I say we dump him here and be done with it,” he grumbled. "He ain't the right one."
“That’s ridiculous,” she objected and frowned. “He’s wearing the rings.”
Mark looked down at his hands. He wore two rings. He turned his left hand over and found a gold ring with a triangular white shield on top with a blood-red cross inlaid in the white stone.
Something tugged at his memory and a disorienting scene flashed in his head. He saw a line of horses and riders in full battle armor. Each rider held a white triangular shield painted with the same red cross as his ring. The horses snorted and pranced uneasily; dust clouds rose behind the closely packed line as they advanced. His head swam and the image disappeared. On his right little finger, he wore a silver ring engraved with Latin letters: IAAT. Those were not his initials. The rings meant nothing to him, but they were important clues to his identity. "Not mine."
She laughed again.
“I know he can't be the right one,” the man argued. “He’s too stupid to be an assassin…. bullshit! He’s probably a Mormon or a Gee Hovah’s Witness or something. If he was so all-fired dangerous, how the hell did we get the drop on him like that?”
“Don’t be silly, Maxie. You sound like an old movie,” she said and winked at Mark as if the man were an errant child. “He just wasn’t expecting us. That’s all.”
Mark wiggled his fingers as the proper color returned. Already, the greater part of his aches and pains had subsided. He had no intention of sitting still while the man carved him up for the buzzards. This morbid thought produced another very short, but vivid memory of another place and time that left him with the distinct impression he could easily dispatch this disgusting brute with his pocket knife, if he could get his hands to cooperate. He could take off his head with one blow and hang it from one of the tree limbs for the carrion crows. He could cut out his heart and leave his carcass for the vultures. He could disembowel him and… Mark shook his head and the hideous visions vanished, along with his hope, as the man pulled a pistol from his pocket.
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