The Giza Cipher (Shane Riley Adventure Thrillers Book 2), page 1
THE GIZA CIPHER
SHANE RILEY ADVENTURES
BOOK 2
NICK THACKER
CONTENTS
1. Shane
2. Clive
3. Jack
4. Jack
5. Shane
6. Shane
7. Jack
8. Shane
9. Jack
10. Shane
11. Jack
12. Shane
13. Jack
14. Shane
15. Shane
16. Shane
17. Shane
18. Jack
19. Shane
20. Shane
21. Clive
22. Shane
23. Jack
24. Jack
25. Shane
26. Clive
27. Shane
28. Shane
29. Shane
30. Shane
31. Jack
32. Shane
33. Shane
34. Shane
35. Shane
36. Jack
37. Shane
38. Shane
39. Shane
40. Shane
41. Shane
42. Shane
43. Natia
44. Jack
45. Natia
46. Natia
47. Shane
48. Shane
49. Shane
50. Shane
51. Jack
52. Shane
53. Jack
54. Jack
55. Jack
56. Shane
57. Shane
58. Jack
59. Jack
60. Jack
61. Jack
62. Shane
63. Jack
64. Shane
65. Jack
66. Shane
67. Jack
68. Clive
69. Shane
70. Shane
71. Jack
72. Shane
73. Jack
74. Shane
75. Jack
76. Jack
77. Jack
78. Shane
79. Clive
80. Shane
81. Shane
82. Clive
83. Jack
84. Shane
85. Jack
86. Shane
87. Shane
88. Jack
89. Shane
90. Shane
91. Shane
Epilogue
Afterword
Books by Nick Thacker
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
SHANE
Shane Riley was conflicted. As he sat in the booth in the far back of the dimly lit pub, back to the wall facing the door—as always—he frowned. He stared down at his hands, resting on the table, a bottle of ginger beer in each hand.
He took the one on the left, took a swig, chewed it a bit, then swallowed. It was spicy, but perhaps too much bitterness. The aftertaste was pleasant but had a sort of yeasty unpleasantness to it.
His wife was dead. Unceremoniously dumped, car and all, into the ocean off the coast, not 20 miles from here. She'd been murdered, and he had taken a vow to find the vehicle and his wife's remains.
As an experienced diver, getting down there wouldn't be the problem. It was figuring out what to do once he was down there… once he had found it.
He took a swig of the bottle in his right hand. It had a sharpness to it, sweeter than the last but also without any of these tenets. It tasted fake, perhaps. As if it had been cooked up in a laboratory rather than made from fresh ingredients. Still, neither was a bad choice.
And then there was the issue of his wife's best friend, Michaela Everly. Beautiful, smart, and, judging by how she composed herself while with Shane in North Korea a month ago, capable of taking a beating and coming out the other side stronger for it.
Was he falling for her? Would he feel the same way if he hadn't had his wife brutally taken from him?
Two choices, two complex solutions. Going back to his wife obviously wasn't an option, but moving on from her?
He wasn't sure he was capable of that.
He'd told Michaela as much the last time they'd spoken, in a tea shop in Seoul, South Korea. She'd tearfully explained that she wanted more, wanted him. He'd done his best to pour his heart out as well—feats made even more difficult by the fact that Shane Riley wasn't the kind of person to show his emotions.
For a long time, he actually believed he didn't have emotions to show. That he truly was capable of tamping them down, brushing them under the rug. Only, unlike others, they wouldn't come bursting forth at a later date when you least expect it.
He lived his life like this—ignoring his emotions and eventually finding that they had gone away completely. This time had been different.
Maybe North Korea had broken him.
He grabbed the first bottle again just as Jason, the pub's owner and bartender, strode over. He looked the part—jeans, long-sleeved black buttoned shirt. He had a white towel slung over his left shoulder as if he were ready to wipe down any surface at any time with only a moment's notice. Shane wondered how many gunslinger-like standoffs there were between the bartender and a beer-splashed wall.
"Figure out which one's best?" Jason asked, his broad accent thick with a New South Wales flair and nearly impossible to understand. But Shane was Australian and had plenty of practice deciphering Jason's drawl.
He raised an eyebrow, flicked his head over toward the bartender, and offered a small smile. "They taste the same."
Jason scoffed. "Now I know you're bullshitting me, Riley."
Shane sighed. "How the hell are you supposed to decide between two options that both seem right?" This time it was Jason's turn to frown. "I mean… both make sense, right? I guess there's a bitterness to both, but one option seems like it should be sweeter. I think that's the one I'd want, but I can't figure out which one it is."
Jason strode over and closed the distance, the towel falling from his shoulder. He held it loosely, making small circles over the table on the far side of Shane. It was a habitual movement, the kind that told Shane Jason was about to lay a wisdom nugget on him.
Jason was only about five years older than Shane, but he knew all too well that the type of man who opens a bar and could be found inside 24/7 is the kind of man who’s ready to provide whatever sort of therapy — liquid or otherwise — is needed.
"We're not talking about the ginger beer, are we?" Jason asked.
There was a knowing smile on his face. Shane had known Jason almost as long as he had been in this corner of Australia. Jason's pub was not just Shane's local watering hole; it was the closest bar to his house. Shane usually visited after a dive or an excursion of any sort, or when he just needed to think.
Or to get out of his house.
His house wasn't much to look at. It was an upstairs shack fashioned from thin slivers of wood holding up a sheet metal roof that threatened to blow away with a big gust, the entire thing encased in screen material.
A freestanding hammock was Shane's bed, a tiny futon his dinner table and chair. It made sense that someone living there would spend most of their time outside their home.
"Were we ever?" Shane asked, glancing back up at Jason.
Jason laughed. "At first, yeah. I was hoping you wouldn't overthink this. Got two new ginger beers and I can only afford to stock one. I need to know which one Shane 'the Ginger King' Riley thinks.”
"Please don't call me that."
"Yeah, right. We can workshop that nickname a bit."
Shane pushed the bottle in his left hand forward. "This one, then. It's more yeasty or something, but tastes more natural. The other one has a weird mouthfeel to it, like drinking thin cough syrup."
Jason nodded, grabbing the bottle out of his hand and examining the label. "I think I would've gone that direction, too."
CHAPTER 2
CLIVE
The sun beat down on the back of his neck with a vengeance. Even though Clive Hewitt wore a wide-brimmed hat with a neck guard, the glowing orb above him seared right through it. He raised a dry, cracked hand and rubbed at the spot, already feeling it becoming raw.
He had aloe back at his truck, but he needed more sunscreen now. He felt around his cargo pants pockets, not finding the small tube he usually stashed in one of the pockets. He dropped the hand trowel he'd been holding and stood up straight, cracking his back and knees.
How the hell do archaeologists do this all day, every day? he wondered.
He was playing the role of an archaeologist today, against his will. He had been sent out here to go through the findings the actual archaeologists had uncovered yesterday.
The archaeologists and crew who were now dead.
His eyes scanned the 12' x 14' rectangular indentation in the earth, hard-packed sand and small pebbles piled 100 feet away. Ropes and strings staked across the hole measured the space, but it didn't take a trained archaeologist to know there was nothing here. At least nothing of value.
He shook his head in disgust, once again rubbing at the space he knew was going to be a problem this evening. He couldn’t wait to be done here for the day — perhaps he could make the argument that there was nothing here without actually investigating? He would do almost anything for a shower right now.
The job was simple. He was trying
But a single word had caught Clive's eye upon reading the report, a word that had thrust him into action and led him to heading out into the middle of this godforsaken desert.
Osiris.
If there was anything about Osiris to be found here, he wanted to know. He needed to know.
Much of the major sites in Egypt have been excavated well enough to know the basics of the stories of their creation. The pyramids and Sphinx at Giza, the tomb of King Tutankhamen, and other such monuments stood as gateways to the past, museums exalting the rulers who built them—and sometimes were buried inside them.
But to Clive, that only scratched the surface. It only hinted at the true nature of these sites. So many questions had gone unanswered since the Egyptian government had gotten the wild idea to begin controlling information related to the proliferation of antiques and historical records.
They wanted to perpetuate the idea that Egyptology could only be pursued by Egyptians — a misguided, if noble, concept.
It gave nearly unlimited power to the Egyptian government to control the narrative as to the nature of ancient sites, as well as anything anyone find inside them. To Clive and the group he co-led, it was an egregious overstepping of authority, effectively a censorship of ideas not already accepted by the mainstream Egyptological community.
He believed the Egyptian government was oppressing and withholding information, not interested in exalting Egyptian scholars. He believed they were covering up major revelations that might not fit into the accepted narrative, claiming the discoverers were either delusional, ignorant, or both.
Clive cursed under his breath and stood up. Enough of this, he thought. I can tell there’s nothing here.
That Osiris was mentioned was no surprise — the god of the afterlife and underworld, Osiris was often invoked during the building of worship sites, including pyramids. Frankly it would be surprising if there were no mention of the ancient god at an Egyptian site, so the fact that the archaeologist’s grant mentioned Osiris was not a complete surprise.
The surprise had actually something entirely different — that this site was even being looked at as a potential dig site. He spun a slow circle, not understanding.
There’s absolutely nothing here, he realized.
No pyramid, no Sphinx, no buildings of any kind. Sure, it was possible the structure they were all here to find was still buried underground, but there was no way to know that. In every direction he just saw dust and sand, ripping heat waves stretching upward along the horizon.
He’d already checked the dead archaeology crew’s notes. Nothing there, either. Just mundane, boring accounts of digging holes in the dirt and sand. No mention of Osiris, other than the line that had first caught his attention — written in the email sent to the journalist covering the dig.
…Could point to signs of Osiris’ real-life counterpart…
That was why he was here. To prove that Osiris was a real, living, breathing human being. To prove that Osiris was not just a mythological man-creature, invented as a form of ritualistic worship and to give explanation to questions of the afterlife.
He wanted to find that proof.
He wanted to find Osiris.
CHAPTER 3
JACK
"You've done a fantastic job explaining your position, Professor," the older man in the front row said. His voice belied an intention Professor Jack Lindstrom didn't appreciate. “Exactly how would you define the term… pseudoscience?"
There were a few chuckles throughout the auditorium.
Lindstrom sighed. It always came down to this. No matter how thorough his research, no matter how well articulated his opinion, someone always made a crack implying he was no more than some quack dealing in pseudoscience, positing facts easily dismissible by more important facts.
And this question wasn’t even well-crafted.
But Dr. Jack Swain was no stranger to the academic speaking circuit – he had 30 years' experience, after all – and because he was never one to shy away from confrontation, arguably the reason he was in this position to begin with, he could handle these situations with grace and aplomb.
Or at least by poking a little fun at the man who’d asked the question.
"I suspect I define pseudoscience much like you do," he said, "Mr.…" he let his voice trail off. He knew exactly who the man was, and he knew he was no lowly ‘mister.’
Dr. Flanders Fielders, one of the most unfortunately named men in academia, had a bone to pick with anyone who didn't agree explicitly with his own opinions. Students, peers, and professional historians and archaeologists alike.
Everyone, essentially.
But Dr. Flanders Fielders certainly did think quite highly of himself and his own opinions.
Fielders shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable and unprepared for the slight. "It's… Dr. Flanders — I thought we –"
“Ah, yes, Dr. Fielders," Swain said, squinting and putting a hand over his forehead as if he hadn't seen the man because of the bright auditorium lights shining on him. In truth, he could see him quite clearly, and had known to expect a question like this from him. It was intended to throw him off, to get him to look as uncomfortable as Fielders likely now felt, but more importantly, to make Fielders feel good about himself amidst peers in the audience.
"While I'd be happy to discuss your thoughts on pseudoscience at another time, I would much prefer to keep the focus on the matter at hand, as I want to ensure we have enough time for questions from those in the audience interested in these theories, their implications, and not matters related to your professional interests.” Fielders opened his mouth and Swain expected another insult tossed his way, but he closed it quickly instead.
Jack already saw a short line forming behind the mic stand in both aisles. He offered a hand to the young woman standing first on his left. "What is your question, young lady?"
"Jessica Parks, archaeology undergrad. I'm fascinated by your research and theories, and I feel like you do put together compelling evidence.” She tossed a look at the back of Fielders’ head, much to Swain’s amusement, and then continued. “Today was no exception – thank you so much for your presentation — but one thing I would love to hear, and I doubt I'm alone in this, is what potential rebuttals you think could invalidate your theory of the Orion connection."
Jack’s eyebrows rose. Academics like Fielders' assumed that anything out of Professor Swain’s mouth was preposterous and nothing short of pseudoscience, but the younger undergraduate population often treated his theories exactly the way he intended — as interesting ideas worth more than a cursory glance.
The coed half of the student body often gave him a bit of extra attention, as well. He didn't want it, but he knew how he looked, especially compared to the stereotypical stuffy professor. Thick and medium-length salt-and-pepper hair, rectangular glasses perched on a longish, sloping nose, and wrinkles that only seemed to make his eyes twinkle when he got passionate about a subject.
Individually, these weren't features he would've guessed handsome or desirable, but together they apparently had the effect of making him look like some sort of academic George Clooney, somehow getting better with age.
He was also fit, tall, and had a deep, clear voice, all additional physical characteristics that made certain nerdy types swoon. He had to admit the attention felt nice, but knowing he was sometimes twice their age turned him off a bit. He wasn't married, so there was no moral hang-up as to why he couldn't participate in the university's dating game a bit, but relationships were certainly frowned upon where mixing students and teachers was concerned.
And while he detected a bit of that sort of swooning in the young woman standing in front of him, the question still took him by surprise. It wasn't just a babbling of incoherent words she forgot to think through just so she could get some face time with him, it was a question he had actually asked himself many times over.
