A Cop’s Nightmare: Cloning The Ancients

A Cop's Nightmare: Cloning the Ancients is a sci-fi detective thriller unlike anything else. When Morgan Blackwell is involved in two shootings in two days, he begins an odyssey into the world of ancient religions and cultures, both interwoven with modern day battlefield efforts. Looking for a friend who might help him unravel the mystery that seems to grow daily, Morgan finds himself being targeted by religious, military and political assassins.

When he and his friends find out the truth behind Morgan's shootings, they also find the answers to questions originating before the evolution of mankind on planet Earth. Finally, with proper information, financing and weapons, Morgan and his friends are able to strike at the heart of the conspiracy, only to find out that the hydra has more than one heart!

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Comments others have made after reading this book:

-“It’s an interesting new twist to the typical vampire fiction. Suspenseful and riveting. I recommend highly to everyone!”

– “Yeah, I read this book, and it is a most original and interesting piece of vampire fiction.”

Here is an excerpt from the first in this exciting new series:

Visibility became my first concern as I flipped the switches for all my lights. The lightbar lit up with red and blue rotators as well as red flashers and the white takedowns. I stopped my car and put it in reverse in case I had to try to escape the collision, but I didn’t start moving yet. Something wasn’t quite right. The car was moving real slow, across my lane more than toward me in it, and I realized that I could see no driver behind the wheel.

I stayed put and watched the vehicle completely cross my lane, jumping the curb and hitting a small sapling, which was enough to stop it. I saw that it was a taxi and wondered about the occupants. That question was answered just a fraction of a second later as I looked farther down Eastern Avenue to see two men standing in the middle of the road. I guess I was about thirty yards away, but I could plainly see that one man was holding the other by his shirtfront, brandishing a gun in the victim’s face. They were looking directly at me and fear was evident in both sets of eyes.

Recognizing an attempted armed robbery in progress, I dropped my cruiser back down into gear and tromped on the accelerator. The robber, knowing he’d been had, released the victim, and pushed him away, conveniently pushing him out of my line of driving. Turning his gun toward me, the robber fired three shots, two of which entered my windshield almost exactly in the middle of my car. Trying to duck behind the wheel, I pushed harder on the accelerator, having every intention of bouncing this ner-do-well off the hood of my cruiser. He started running the opposite direction, nice enough to stay in the middle of the street. I thought for a moment that he had no way to escape because that portion of Eastern Avenue goes right over a set of railroad tracks and the bridge is at least fifty feet over the tracks. If he ran to the side of the road, he’d go splat shortly after jumping over the concrete barrier.

I was confident. He was mine. The fear on his face was obvious as he looked back, trying to outrun my oncoming cruiser. Finally he realized that he wouldn’t make it, and he veered to the side of the road. Fine with me; I veered as well continuing in my intention to hit him or smear him onto the concrete barriers. When he got to the barricades, he stopped and turned to face me, bringing his weapon back up on line and firing another two shots. Subconsciously I knew that he had fired five of the six rounds his revolver (I was close enough to see it) would hold. I also recognized the fact that those last two rounds had come through my windshield close enough that I felt glass fragments stinging my cheek.

Swerving the car, I jammed on my brakes and came to a stop less than twenty feet from him. In a motion that I’ve practiced too many times to count, I opened the door with my left hand as my right found my gun and drew it from my security holster. A small part of my mind registered that the grips were still warm from my incident in the cemetery, but I don’t know why that thought stuck with me. Circling back to my trunk, I mentally kicked myself for leaving the excellent cover of the steel engine block for the less worthy sheet-metal cover of the trunk panels. Settling my gun over the trunk, I lined the bad guy up in my sights and started to shout a warning. He didn’t give me the chance. His gun was coming back up on line and I wasn’t going to let him fire the last shot.

I stroked my trigger twice, just as I’d been taught, and was temporarily blinded by the muzzle flash from my hot-loaded police issue ammo. When my vision readjusted, I didn’t see the robber anywhere and figured he’d fallen to the road out of my line of view because of my position behind the police car. With my weapon still trained in the direction of the perceived threat, I gradually stood up and realized that he was nowhere to be found.

Now, I’ve shot better than ninety-five percent throughout my police career at distances of up to one hundred feet. I was sure that I’d hit the bad guy with both rounds that I’d fired from less than twenty. Then it dawned on me: the impact of the rounds must have knocked him backwards over the barricades and he’d fallen some fifty feet to the railroad tracks after being shot twice. My heart sunk; it’d be a long night. There was no way he was alive.

Just then, the victim of the attempted robbery came running over, thanking me in jilted English, with a strong Jamaican accent, for having saved his life. I sat him down and got on the radio to call for assistance. In a police shooting, a lot of people got called out: homicide investigators, evidence technicians, the patrol area supervisor, my supervisor, a public information officer and more. Once I’d made the proper notifications on the radio, I went back over to the edge of the bridge. Shining my flashlight down, with my gun alongside just in case, I scanned the area below.

There was no sign of the bad guy. What the hell? I thought to myself. He had to have been hit, and then he fell the equivalent of five stories. He couldn’t have walked away. Could he? When the first unit arrived, I gave him a condensed version of what had happened and together we went down the steep dirt trail that led from the roadside to the railroad tracks. At the bottom, we looked around carefully but found no sign of blood or a body. Once again, I thought, What the hell?


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