Please welcome Gregory Gourlay author of Lost Prince

In Lost Prince: Mystery, history, and war. Lost Prince transports the reader from pre-Hispanic 16th century Peru to the modern Peru of today.

REVIEW: Lost Prince

Lost Prince

Gregory Gourlay

978-1-62420-204-9

By Greg Didaleusky

5 Stars out of 5

A perilous adventure for Garrick Connolly in his pursuit for the hidden treasure of an Incas civilization. The author integrated the story of Yahuar Huaccac, priest of Incas. and his determination to hide the treasures of his people during the Spaniard invasion of Peru. It was fast moving novel. I enjoyed every chapter as the author brought you to a unexpected ending. Reviewed by Greg Didaleusky.

EXCERPT: Lost Prince

The four men in U.S. Army combat uniforms stumbled out of the ravine, and trundled through the orderly rows of pomegranate trees at a tired run. Two of them supported a wounded man between them. They halted at the edge of the orchard to quickly scan the stretch of open ground just ahead. Beyond was the extraction place, behind a tumbled down mud brick wall. Camel dung fouled the ground amidst a scattering of aromatic rosemary bushes.

“Go! Go!” panted one of them, a short, black man with sweat rolling down his face in little rivers. “I’ll hang on here. Just get on that radio.”

He slipped a few yards to one side and sank down onto his belly behind a fruit tree.

Garrick Connolly nodded gratefully in the black man’s direction, relief evident on his square, sub-nosed features that someone had taken charge and was making decisions now that the officer was dead. He moved onward without speaking, carrying the wounded man with his remaining comrade.

The wounded man’s right leg dangled horribly. A piece of bone, jagged and gleaming white in the hot sunlight, had erupted through the skin of his thigh. A gobbet of flesh appeared set to fall off.

He was unconscious, but when they fell sprawling on a patch of slippery camel dung, a horrible, bubbling scream issued from his throat.

“Ahhh!”

The other man, Robert Maguire, a tall, weedy youth from South Carolina known simply as “Molly,” scrabbled backwards in quick revulsion. His eyes looked as agitated and unpredictable as storm scud. His big, under-slung jaw quivered like a baby’s set to cry.”Sheeeit!” he spewed, despising his wounded friend for his suffering, and for adding to their danger.

Garrick Connolly eyed him disgustedly. “Go ahead,” he growled. “Get that radio working. I’ll carry him.”

“Yeah, man. Shore.” Molly licked his lips appreciatively at the offer. He darted a glance at the pomegranate orchard to the rear, then left, his skinny body gliding across the dry Afghan ground as quick and as noiseless as a snake.

Grunting softly, Garrick got the injured man up onto his back. In his early twenties, slim-hipped and wide-shouldered, Garrick carried the load easily. With slow, careful movements to ease the wounded man’s injuries, he worked his way along the path Molly had taken.

Molly’s voice on the radio drifted in, giving their situation, the words tumbling out. “We got mortared,” Molly babbled, “got our shit scattered, only four of us left–one hurt bad. Hajis coming up fast. Require extraction soonest! Repeat, soonest!” He gave their position. “Do you read that? Ovah.”

“That’s a Roger, good buddy. Ten minutes.”

Molly threw himself to the ground, flinging sweat from his face. A soft noise sounded and Garrick appeared. He lowered the wounded man gently to the ground.

“Choppah’s comin’,” Molly blurted.

“I heard. Thank Christ!”

Molly kept staring at him. “What’cha think?” he shrilled.

Garrick’s soft hazel eyes, his one truly beautiful feature, narrowed into anxious slits at these signs of panic, and they tightened further when he looked to the wounded man painting crimson patterns on a patch of sparse grass with blood from his smashed leg. It was their responsibility to get him out, and if Molly didn’t keep his head….

“You all right?”

“Shore,” Molly shot back. But the telltale tremor in his lantern jaw was back, so Garrick knew he was lying.

Nothing in boot camp, or in advanced individual training, could possibly prepare a soldier for the shock of his first firefight. The realization that enemy soldiers were actually intent on killing you. Killing you! He winced, hearing again the evil sound mortar rounds make leaving the firing tubes–phafft, phafft–and the shattering karrumpp as the shells sent shrapnel and stones and dirt winging in all directions.

A spine of rock slanted down, providing a narrow place for them to shelter behind, the broken mud-brick wall offered some small protection also. Garrick squatted in the meager shelter and waited. He placed a smoke grenade close at hand, and removed the safety clip from a fragmentation grenade. Then, he fell to checking his rifle with nervous fingers for something to do. Long minutes went by. A soft breeze arrived, fanning his cheek and teasing his nostrils with the combined scent of camel dung and rosemary.

“When’s Simpson coming?” he wondered aloud, referring to the black soldier at the pomegranate orchard. “He should pull back. We’re gonna be outta here soon.”

As if in answer to his question, a lone rifle shot cracked, sounding like one of the World War Two vintage .303s the Taliban sometimes used for longer range work. Garrick’s stomach jumped ever so gently. An eternity dragged by, then a recognizable three round burst from a M4 carbine erupted. That would be Simpson.

REVIEW

Lost Prince

by Gregory Gourlay

Five Stars

Reviewed by Mike Fuller

Yet another foray into the mysterious reaches of foreign lands guided by the inspired writing of Gregory Gourlay. With his previous work, Kindred Passage, we absorbed his vivid story of Africa and now, in Lost Prince, it is the Andes. Inca gold, Spanish armor and a contemporary adventure overlaid with one set over four hundred years before. A civilization conquered in colonial greed and the story within a story of the modern-day search for Inca gold and the truth. Again, Gourlay has written a brilliant novel filled with soaring landscapes, glaring bad guys and heroes vulnerable to their own doubts. Action and adventure, deceit, love, suspense and history rolled into a fast-paced fictional feast for the mind. More Gregory, more.

ALSO BY GREGORY GOURLAY

Buy at: Amazon, Barnes and Noble

In the 1960s while visiting central Africa, Ken Mallory uncovers intriguing information surrounding his great-grandfather, Lucas Lindsay, who fought in the Barotseland Civil War of a century earlier. Delving deeper into the puzzle, Ken begins to identify with Lucas, setting to rest agonizing problems from his recent past. Through the eyes of these two young men, different generations of the same family, Kindred Passage views the native wars of the 1860s, along with Africa’s post-colonial era. Although living one hundred years apart, the similar dilemmas the Zambezi River country and its people impose on both men underscore the basically changeless nature of Africa.

REVIEW:

Kindred Passage

by Gregory Gourlay

Five Stars

Reviewed by Mike Fuller

Explore the African Veldt, the Zambezi River and the minds of people caught up in a hundred-year long story of war, love and evil. This dark tale of frontier Africa from the 1860’s and from the 1960’s is a dual story within a story of family saga; a stinging commentary on race and war. Ken Mallory’s coming of age adventures as a contractor in developing twentieth century Africa are clouded with his self-doubts spurred by a tragic family history. Part of that history is the snippets he knows of his great grandfather who had his own troubles in the same land when Africa was still unsettled and very tribal. Bad guys and good guys all riddled with angst and heroics in a life and death page turning narrative. Some enterprising Hollywood producer needs to put this lively story up on a wide screen and bathe the audience in the beauty of the African palate with the interesting and magnetic characters saying and doing the intriguing things Gregory has written. Don’t pass up this book.

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