#1 New York Times Bestseller An ancient relic is unearthed during an archaeological dig. A Minnesota college professor is keeping a secret that could change the world’s history as we know it. For Virgil Flowers, the link between the two is inescapable—and his investigation, more dangerous and far-reaching than he can possibly imagine. Praise for Storm Front   “One of the best in that series so far . . . [it is] exciting, complex and funny . . . There are no missteps. It is entertaining reading all the way.”— Huffington Post   “With another gritty storyline and appealing characters, Sandford has penned another winner, one sure to shoot to the top of the best-seller lists.”— Richmond Times-Dispatch   “Clever, quirky . . . unusually good-natured intrigue distinguishes this outing.”— Publishers Weekly (starred review)   Praise for Mad River   “The best entry in a stellar series” – Booklist (starred review)   “A high-octane thrill ride. Virgil pulls out all the stops.” – Publishers Weekly   “There are few events more welcome in the literary world than the appearance of another John Sandford book. Mad River is shot through with dark humor from all sides [and] the violence that is the driving force of the book ratchets up the suspense to an almost excruciating degree.” – Bookreporter.com   Praise for John Sandford and Storm Front “Sandford writes great, unapologetic guy fiction.”—Stephen King “[Virgil] Flowers works with gruff charm and Spenser-like efficiency, a winning combination.”— Entertainment Weekly “Move over Dan Brown...With another gritty storyline and appealing characters, Sandford has penned another winner.”— Richmond Times-Dispatch John Sandford is the pseudonym of  Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist John Camp. He is the author of the Prey novels, the Kidd novels, the Virgil Flowers novels, The Night Crew , and Dead Watch . **This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof.** 1 His bags were packed and sitting by the door. Nobody thought that was strange, because four diggers were jammed into each small living suite. With two eight-by-ten bedrooms feeding into a tiny sitting and kitchen area, and an even tinier bathroom, there was hardly anyplace to keep clothing, so they kept it in their bags. Elijah shared a room with a middle-aged volunteer from Ala­bama named Steve Phelps. When Elijah’s cell phone vibrated at two o’clock, his first move was to roll up on one shoulder, turn it off, and listen to Phelps breathe. Phelps was a sound sleeper, and he was sound asleep now. Eli­jah often got up to pee at night, and hadn’t awakened anyone doing that for two weeks—the days and the sun were exhausting, and once his roommates were familiar with his night moves, they never twitched. When he was sure of Phelps, Elijah rolled out of bed, mov­ing as quietly as he could. He’d loaded all of his personal items— wallet, passport, small cash—into his pants the night before, so all he had to do now was get into them. His socks were already rolled into his shoes, which he would put on outside. When he was dressed, he listened again to Phelps, then eased through the door into the sitting area. Here was the tricky part. Another of the diggers, who slept in the adjoining room, had keys to one of the dig cars—and the keys were sitting on a radiator in his room. Elijah stepped to the door of the other bedroom, and again, listened for a moment. Both of the men snored, which was why they’d been put together. When he was sure that he could distin­guish the separate snoring, he eased open the door (he’d put a dab of Crisco on the hinges the night before, when the others were out) and stepped silently into the room. The men continued to snore, which helped cover his move­ment as he stepped barefooted across the room and picked up the car keys. Two seconds later, he was out of the room; a minute after that, he was outside with his bags, in the cool of the Israeli night, sitting on the steps, tying his shoes, and again, listening and watching. It had been an exciting day—maybe somebody else had been restless? But nothing moved anywhere on the kibbutz as far as he could tell. He’d been through one tricky part, and now here was the second one. When his shoes were tied, he walked down to the first floor with his bags—a nylon backpack and a leather satchel—and around behind the dormitory to a low wooden building used to sort and classify pottery and other finds at the dig. There were no lights inside the building. He reached into his bag, took out a large screwdriver, and pried open the door. Inside, navigating without lights, he went to a row of metal lockers, felt for the fifth handle down, and with the same screwdriver, pried open the locker door. A stone sat on the locker shelf. He couldn’t see it, much, but he could feel it, and it was heavy. He put it in his leather satchel, closed the locker door and the outer door. A half hour later, Elijah the Mankato-ite sped west in a stolen ca