2009, ISBN: 9780860079132
Gebundene Ausgabe
CENTURY. Very Good. 6.38 x 1.38 x 9.45 inches. Hardcover. 2009. 384 pages. <br>It's a deadly game of blackmail. And they're makin g him play. Kyle McAvoy is one of the outst… Mehr…
CENTURY. Very Good. 6.38 x 1.38 x 9.45 inches. Hardcover. 2009. 384 pages. <br>It's a deadly game of blackmail. And they're makin g him play. Kyle McAvoy is one of the outstanding legal students of his generation: he's good looking, has a brilliant mind and a glittering future ahead of him. But he has a secret from his past , a secret that threatens to destroy his entire life. One night t hat secret catches up with him in the form of a deeply compromisi ng video of the incident that haunts him. Kyle realises that he n o longer owns his own future - that he must do as his blackmailer s tell him, or the video will be made public, with all the unplea sant consequences. What price do they demand for Kyle's secret? I t is for Kyle to take a job in New York as an associate at the la rgest law firm in the world. Kyle won't be working for this compa ny, but against it - passing on the secrets of it's biggest trial to date, a dispute worth billions of dollars to the victor. Full of twists and turns and reminiscent of The Firm, The Associate i s vintage John Grisham. Editorial Reviews Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 The rules of the New Haven Youth League required that each kid play at least ten minutes in each game. Exceptions were allowed for players who had upset the ir coaches by skipping practice or violating other rules. In such cases, a coach could file a report before the game and inform th e scorekeeper that so-and-so wouldn't play much, if at all, becau se of some infraction. This was frowned on by the league; it was, after all, much more recreational than competitive. With four minutes left in the game, Coach Kyle looked down the bench, nodde d at a somber and pouting little boy named Marquis, and said, Do you want to play? Without responding, Marquis walked to the score rs' table and waited for a whistle. His violations were numerous- skipping practice, skipping school, bad grades, losing his unifor m, foul language. In fact, after ten weeks and fifteen games, Mar quis had broken every one of the few rules his coach tried to enf orce. Coach Kyle had long since realized that any new rule would be immediately violated by his star, and for that reason he trimm ed his list and fought the temptation to add new regulations. It wasn't working. Trying to control ten inner- city kids with a sof t touch had put the Red Knights in last place in the 12 and Under division of the winter league. Marquis was only eleven, but cl early the best player on the court. He preferred shooting and sco ring over passing and defending, and within two minutes he'd slas hed through the lane, around and through and over much larger pla yers, and scored six points. His average was fourteen, and if all owed to play more than half a game, he could probably score thirt y. In his own young opinion, he really didn't need to practice. In spite of the one-man show, the game was out of reach. Kyle Mc Avoy sat quietly on the bench, watching the game and waiting for the clock to wind down. One game to go and the season would be ov er, his last as a basketball coach. In two years he'd won a dozen , lost two dozen, and asked himself how any person in his right m ind would willingly coach at any level. He was doing it for the k ids, he'd said to himself a thousand times, kids with no fathers, kids from bad homes, kids in need of a positive male influence. And he still believed it, but after two years of babysitting, and arguing with parents when they bothered to show up, and hassling with other coaches who were not above cheating, and trying to ig nore teenage referees who didn't know a block from a charge, he w as fed up. He'd done his community service, in this town anyway. He watched the game and waited, yelling occasionally because th at's what coaches are supposed to do. He looked around the empty gym, an old brick building in downtown New Haven, home to the you th league for fifty years. A handful of parents were scattered th rough the bleachers, all waiting for the final horn. Marquis scor ed again. No one applauded. The Red Knights were down by twelve w ith two minutes to go. At the far end of the court, just under the ancient scoreboard, a man in a dark suit walked through the d oor and leaned against the retractable bleachers. He was noticeab le because he was white. There were no white players on either te am. He stood out because he wore a suit that was either black or navy, with a white shirt and a burgundy tie, all under a trench c oat that announced the presence of an agent or a cop of some vari ety. Coach Kyle happened to see the man when he entered the gym , and he thought to himself that the guy was out of place. Probab ly a detective of some sort, maybe a narc looking for a dealer. I t would not be the first arrest in or around the gym. After the agent/cop leaned against the bleachers, he cast a long suspiciou s look at the Red Knights' bench, and his eyes seemed to settle o n Coach Kyle, who returned the stare for a second before it becam e uncomfortable. Marquis let one fly from near mid- court, air ba ll, and Coach Kyle jumped to his feet, spread his hands wide, sho ok his head as if to ask, Why? Marquis ignored him as he loafed b ack on defense. A dumb foul stopped the clock and prolonged the m isery. While looking at the free-throw shooter, Kyle glanced beyo nd him, and in the background was the agent/cop, still staring, n ot at the action but at the coach. For a twenty-five-year-old l aw student with no criminal record and no illegal habits or procl ivities, the presence and the attention of a man who gave all ind ications of being employed by some branch of law enforcement shou ld have caused no concern whatsoever. But it never worked that wa y with Kyle McAvoy. Street cops and state troopers didn't particu larly bother him. They were paid to simply react. But the guys in dark suits, the investigators and agents, the ones trained to di g deep and discover secrets-those types still unnerved him. Thi rty seconds to go and Marquis was arguing with a referee. He'd th rown an F-bomb at a ref two weeks earlier and was suspended for a game. Coach Kyle yelled at his star, who never listened. He quic kly scanned the gym to see if agent/cop No. 1 was alone or was no w accompanied by agent/cop No. 2. No, he was not. Another dumb foul, and Kyle yelled at the referee to just let it slide. He sat down and ran his finger over the side of his neck, then flicked off the perspiration. It was early February, and the gym was, as always, quite chilly. Why was he sweating? The agent/cop hadn 't moved an inch; in fact he seemed to enjoy staring at Kyle. T he decrepit old horn finally squawked. The game was mercifully ov er. One team cheered, and one team really didn't care. Both lined up for the obligatory high fives and Good game, good game, as me aningless to twelve- year- olds as it is to college players. As K yle congratulated the opposing coach, he glanced down the court. The white man was gone. What were the odds he was waiting outsi de? Of course it was paranoia, but paranoia had settled into Kyle 's life so long ago that he now simply acknowledged it, coped wit h it, and moved on. The Red Knights regrouped in the visitors' locker room, a cramped little space under the sagging and permane nt stands on the home side. There Coach Kyle said all the right t hings-nice effort, good hustle, our game is improving in certain areas, let's finish on a high note this Saturday. The boys were c hanging clothes and hardly listening. They were tired of basketba ll because they were tired of losing, and of course all blame was heaped upon the coach. He was too young, too white, too much of an Ivy Leaguer. The few parents who were there waited outside t he locker room, and it was those tense moments when the team came out that Kyle hated most about his community service. There woul d be the usual complaints about playing time. Marquis had an uncl e, a twenty-two year-old former all-state player with a big mouth and a fondness for bitching about Coach Kyle's unfair treatment of the best player in the league. From the locker room, there w as another door that led to a dark narrow hallway that ran behind the home stands and finally gave way to an outside door that ope ned into an alley. Kyle was not the first coach to discover this escape route, and on this night he wanted to avoid not only the f amilies and their complaints but also the agent/ cop. He said a q uick goodbye to his boys, and as they fled the locker room, he ma de his escape. In a matter of seconds he was outside, in the alle y, then walking quickly along a frozen sidewalk. Heavy snow had b een plowed, and the sidewalk was icy and barely passable. The tem perature was somewhere far below freezing. It was 8:30 on a Wedne sday, and he was headed for the law journal offices at the Yale L aw School, where he would work until midnight at least. He didn 't make it. The agent was leaning against the fender of a red J eep Cherokee that was parked parallel on the street. The vehicle was titled to one John McAvoy of York, Pennsylvania, but for the past six years it had been the reliable companion of his son, Kyl e, the true owner. Though his feet suddenly felt like bricks an d his knees were weak, Kyle managed to trudge on as if nothing we re wrong. Not only did they find me, he said to himself as he tri ed to think clearly, but they've done their homework and found my Jeep. Not exactly high-level research. I have done nothing wrong , he said again and again. Tough game, Coach, the agent said wh en Kyle was ten feet away and slowing down. Kyle stopped and to ok in the thick young man with red cheeks and red bangs who'd bee n watching him in the gym. Can I help you? he said, and immediate ly saw the shadow of No. 2 dart across the street. They always wo rked in pairs. No. 1 reached into a pocket, and as he said That 's exactly what you can do, he pulled out a leather wallet and fl ipped it open. Bob Plant, FBI. A real pleasure, Kyle said as al l the blood left his brain and he couldn't help but flinch. No. 2 wedged himself into the frame. He was much thinner and ten yea rs older with gray around the temples. He, too, had a pocketful, and he performed the well- rehearsed badge presentation with ease . Nelson Ginyard, FBI, he said. Bob and Nelson. Both Irish. Bot h northeastern. Anybody else? Kyle asked. No. Got a minute to talk? Not really. You might want to, Ginyard said. It could be very productive. I doubt that. If you leave, we'll just fo llow, Plant said as he stood from his slouch position and took a step closer. You don't want us on campus, do you? Are you threa tening me? Kyle asked. The sweat was back, now in the pits of his arms, and despite the arctic air a bead or two ran down his ribs . Not yet, Plant said with a smirk. Look, let's spend ten min utes together, over coffee, Ginyard was saying. There's a sandwic h shop just around the corner. I'm sure it's warmer there. Do I need a lawyer? No. That's what you always say. My father is a lawyer and I grew up in his office. I know your tricks. No tr icks, Kyle, I swear, Ginyard said, and he at least sounded genuin e. Just give us ten minutes. I promise you won't regret it. Wha t's on the agenda? Ten minutes. That's all we ask. Give me a clue or the answer is no. Bob and Nelson looked at each other. Both shrugged. Why not? We'll have to tell him sooner or later. G inyard turned and looked down the street and spoke into the wind. Duquesne University. Five years ago. Drunk frat boys and a girl. Kyle's body and mind had different reactions. His body concede d- a quick slump of the shoulders, a slight gasp, a noticeable je rk in the legs. But his mind fought back instantly. That's bullsh it! he said, then spat on the sidewalk. I've already been through this. Nothing happened and you know it. There was a long pause as Ginyard continued to stare down the street while Plant watche d their subject's every move. Kyle's mind was spinning. Why was t he FBI involved in an alleged state crime? In second-year Crimina l Procedure they had studied the new laws regarding FBI interroga tion. It was now an indictable offense to simply lie to an agent in this very situation. Should he shut up? Should he call his fat her? No, under no circumstances would he call his father. Ginya rd turned, took three steps closer, clenched his jaw like a bad a ctor, and tried to hiss his tough- guy words. Let's cut to the ch ase, Mr. McAvoy, because I'm freezing. There's an indictment out of Pittsburgh, okay. Rape. If you want to play the hard-ass smart -ass brilliant law student and run get a lawyer, or even call you r old man, then the indictment comes down tomorrow and the life y ou have planned is pretty much shot to shit. However, if you give us ten minutes of your valuable time, right now, in the sandwich shop around the corner, then the indictment will be put on hold, if not forgotten altogether. You can walk away from it, Plant said from the side. Without a word. Why should I trust you? Kyl e managed to say with a very dry mouth. Ten minutes. You got a tape recorder? Sure. I want it on the table, okay? I want e very word recorded because I don't trust you. Fair enough. Th ey jammed their hands deep into the pockets of their matching tre nch coats and stomped away. Kyle unlocked his Jeep and got inside . He started the engine, turned the heat on high, and thought abo ut driving away. Excerpted from THE ASSOCIATE by John Grisham P ublished by Doubleday Reprinted with permission of the publisher. Copyright © 2009 by Belfry Holdings, Inc. From the Hardcover ed ition. --This text refers to the paperback edition. From Publish ers Weekly Bestseller Grisham's contemporary legal thriller offer s an action-and-suspense plot reminiscent of that of his breakout book, 1991's The Firm, in contrast to 2008's didactic The Appeal , which served as a platform for his concerns about the corruptin g effects of judicial elections. Kyle McAvoy, a callow Yale Law S chool student, dreams of a public service gig on graduation, unti l shadowy figures blackmail him with a videotape that could reviv e a five-year-old rape accusation. Instead of helping those in ne ed, McAvoy accepts a position at a huge Wall Street firm, Scully & Pershing, whose clients include a military contractor enmeshed in a $800 billion lawsuit concerning a newly-designed aircraft. M cAvoy can avoid exposure of his past if he feeds his new masters inside informati, CENTURY, 2009, 3, Ballantine Books. Very Good. Mass Market Paperback. 2007. 384 pages. <br>Award-winning author Cherry Adair broke thrilling new ground with On Thin Ice-her stunning romantic suspense hardco ver debut. Now Cherry's turning up the temperature, amping up the action, and raising the degree of danger and desire to irresisti bly hot new heights. Diamonds-jewels of every kind, in fact-are Taylor Kincaid's best friends. The only thing she enjoys more is the challenge of stealing them, at which she excels like few othe rs in the world. And specializing in plundering precious stones f rom wealthy international criminals just makes it all the more sa tisfying . . . and dangerously exciting. So for Taylor, there's n o resisting the double allure of snatching the elusive Blue Star diamonds-a prize she has pursued across three continents-from the South American stronghold of the murderous Morales terrorist org anization. The heist goes down without a hitch. Until Taylor dis covers she has made off with more than she bargained for, namely the secret security-system codes that provide access to a South A frican diamond mine-packed with enough gems to sink a battleship. Suddenly, Taylor's no longer just an ultrachic freelance jewel t hief, but a reluctant player in a high-stakes cat-and-mouse game against elite global trouble-shooters and bloodthirsty terrorists . There's nothing reluctant, however, about Huntington St. John, the top T-FLAC operative who's hot on Taylor's trail. And in Tay lor's opinion, just plain hot. The feeling, emotional and otherwi se, is very mutual. Though they're on opposite sides of the law, Hunt and Taylor swiftly come to appreciate each other's well-hone d skills. But since ecstasy is fleeting, and diamonds are forever , Taylor soon slips from the sheets and hits the streets . . . to reclaim the jewels she stashed overseas. And true to his name, H unt is close behind-but this time, he's after more than the codes . With the clock ticking, and two groups of terrorists closing fa st, they'll have to mix pleasure with some very risky business. I f they can survive danger at every turn, outwit the ultimate high -tech security system, and somehow conquer each other . . . they just might get everything they desire. Editorial Reviews Review PRAISE FOR CHERRY ADAIR A breathtaking ride . . . I couldn't tu rn the pages fast enough! No one does hot romance, ice-cold villa ins and nonstop adventure better. -Mariah Stewart, author of Dead Even, on On Thin Ice Sexy, funny, and wild! Hang on and enjoy t he ride! -Andrea Kane, author of Scent of Danger, on In Too Deep A thrilling, mysterious, sexy read. -Stella Cameron, author of K iss Them Goodbye, on Hide and Seek A sexy, snappy roller-coaster ride! -Susan Andersen, author of Shadow Dance, on Kiss and Tell About the Author USA Today bestselling author Cherry Adair has g enerated numerous awards for her innovative action-adventure nove ls, which include On Thin Ice, Out of Sight, In Too Deep, Hide an d Seek, and Kiss and Tell. A favorite of reviewers and fans alike , she lives in the Pacific Northwest. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by pe rmission. All rights reserved. One August 10 San Cristóbal South America Dressed in black, shrouded by the night, T-FLAC opera- tive Huntington St. John melded with the darkness of the fetid al ley behind the adobe jail. Night vision glasses made it possible to observe every inch of the inky interior of the cell through a narrow barred window high in the wall. Empty. Where in the hell was the prisoner? It had taken six long, bloody months to disco ver this woman's identity. Six months, and the considerable resou rces of the counterterrorist organization Hunt worked for. It had n't been easy, by God, and he was not leaving without her. He ne eded a thief. Someone resourceful, cunning, and unscrupulous. Som eone at the top of his game. Hunt wanted the best. Nothing less w ould do. Determined to find the right thief, T-FLAC's crack team had scrutinized past burglary victims for the last five years. L imiting their search to individuals, or companies, with collectio ns of fine gems who had the most sophisticated, advanced security systems. They'd compiled lists comprising thousands upon thousan ds of names. They'd cross-matched friends of the victims, relativ es, staff, and lifestyle to find a common denominator. Three hun dred names had cross-matched, and 118 people appeared on more tha n six lists. A deep background check on those suspects turned up an interesting anomaly. Seventeen of the women had identical, or nearly identical, backgrounds. Or, rather, one woman had seventee n identities. No one, other than himself and a few select T-FLAC operatives, even knew the thief was a woman. They'd finally conn ected the dots. Hunt had his thief. But where the hell was she? An hour after ascertaining who she was, and with an educated gu ess, where she might be, he was wheels up and headed for South Am erica. It was highly suspect that she just happened to be in the very city he needed her to be in. San Cristóbal. In flight he'd knew she'd robbed José Morales followed by a quick arrest minutes before he touched down in San Cristóbal. So, it was a fait acco mpli. A quick, thorough search of her hotel room revealed nothin g. Not a hint, not a clue. No surprise there. She never left clue s. Ever. Which is why it had been so fucking hard to discover who she was in the first place. This woman wasn't merely extraordin arily good at what she did, she was a phenomenon. And fearless. She was the one he wanted. And by God, he'd have her. Even if, as he suspected, she'd been hired by someone else. Despite intel t o the contrary, her absence from the cell could be explained by o ne of three options: she'd been moved to another location, the ot her party had already extracted her, or she'd been killed. Now t hat would be bloody inconvenient all around. He'd already investe d enough time and energy. He wasn't about to start looking for so meone else now. Suddenly, footsteps echoed down a hallway. Clear , loud, deliberate. Two pairs-heavy, booted. And the odd, incongr uous sound of chains rattling, like something out of a bad horror film. One of the guards kicked open the cell door. It slammed a gainst the adobe wall and let in muted light from the hallway to illuminate the cramped cell. This time, bruja, the jailer threate ned in Spanish, you will not get free. Hunt's mouth flattened in to a thin line as he took in the tableau in the doorway. Trussed up in chains, the woman couldn't brace herself as the guards flu ng her through the open door and onto the floor with a thud. Her head bounced on the cement and she let out a startled grunt of pa in. Hunt bit back a curse. This was precisely why he disliked wo men involved in missions. They were vulnerable and easily broken. He hated like hell seeing someone soft and delicate hurt. The c hains wrapped around her sounded almost musical as she rolled acr oss the floor, until, stopped by the opposite wall, she lay still . The two guards observed their prisoner for a few minutes from the doorway, speculating in rapid-fire Spanish as to whether the woman was a witch. Or worse. So, she'd attempted an escape, had s he? He shook his head. Nice try, but no cigar, sweetheart. This p rison built on the outskirts of town housed political prisoners, as well as the dregs of humanity. No one, including apparently a pro like her, had ever escaped. Hunt was about to change that. Listening to the conversation between the guards, Hunt shook his head. She'd given it her best shot five times. 5-0 wasn't a great track record, but it sure took guts. No wonder the men were piss ed. No wonder they had a mile of bicycle chain wrapped around her body, and God only knew how many gleaming new padlocks fastened down her back. She'd be lucky to draw in an unrestricted breath, let alone stand. The metal door clanged shut and the key ground harshly in the lock. Sorry to disappoint, hombres, but she's mine . He listened to the guards' footsteps retreat down the hallway t oward the front of the jail. The crunch of tires on gravel drift ed between the buildings down the narrow alley where he waited. H eadlights strobed over the single-story structures as cars and tr ucks pulled into the unseen parking lot of the seedy nightclub ac ross the alley behind the jail. Vehicle doors slammed. Glass cli nked. Laughing voices rose. A band tuned up their instruments. Th e door of the dive opened and slammed. Opened and slammed. Opened , letting out the raucous sounds of the crowd warming up for the evening. All music to Hunt's ears. He knew the bar would soon be packed to the rafters. The band would be loud enough to deafen a nyone within a hundred yards, and the secondhand smoke would make a five-pack-a-day smoker look like a piker. This was almost too easy. The night air felt thick and oppressive. Not even a glimme r of a star broke the blackness of the sky overhead. San Cristóba l in midsummer was not for the fainthearted. He'd been here sever al years ago on another op. The sprawling city on the edge of the rain forest was too damn crowded for his liking. Known for its t opless beaches and raunchy night life, it wasn't one of Hunt's fa vorite places. The atmosphere was a South American version of sp ring break-noise, people, skin, and excessive drinking. The combi nation usually turned things ugly before midnight. It was a quart er till. In the distance, a dog's barks turned to mournful howls . A car backfired. Lights continued strafing the roofline as more vehicles turned into the parking lot of the club. A steel guitar riffed in a jangle of bad chords, followed by the thump of stick s on the drum as the band continued its warm-up. The chains wrap ped around the woman chinked. Good. If she could move, she wasn't too badly hurt. As far as Hunt was concerned, as long as she cou ld talk and think long enough to tell him what he wanted to know, that was sufficient. In theory, he had no problem with her capt ivity. She was where thieves belonged. But not where he needed her to be for the moment. Oblivious to the muggy heat causing hi s dark shirt to stick to his back, he gave a quick tug to the cla mps he'd hooked to the bars earlier, making sure they were secure . A clever T-FLAC invention, the device, small enough to fit in h is pocket, it consisted of a complex series of pulleys and thin m etal cable, and needed very little pressure to act as a fulcrum. The band segued into their first number. What the group lacked i n talent they made up for in volume. The ruckus from the club wou ld drown out all but an atomic bomb. Thanks, Hunt muttered dryly as he exerted the small hand movement necessary to activate the tool. Inside the cell the chinking of the chains abruptly stopped . He stepped aside as window frame, bars, and chunks of plaster came out of the old adobe wall with a grinding thunk. Two San C ristóbal What, the icy voice in Theresa Smallwood's ear dripped fury, do you mean there was nothing there? You arranged for the a rrest immediately when she got back to her hotel, like I told you , didn't you? Sweat pooled in the small of Theresa's back as she pressed the receiver against her ear. The sound of the long-dist ance-distorted voice crawled over her skin like the tiny feet of a dozen spiders. The cramped phone booth stunk of pee, sweat, and fear. Theresa was responsible for two out of the three. She shu ddered, knuckles white as she clenched the receiver, and forced h erself to respond. Forced her voice to remain steady. Competent. No more than three seconds, she assured her boss. She prayed she didn't sound as scared as she felt. They both knew how important this assignment was. How dare that fucking thief put her life i n danger? Theresa thought, still shaken with anger. She'd asked t he girl to work for her. She'd offered to pay her, and pay her we ll, to retrieve the contents of Morales's safe. Which, for Christ 's sake, she was going to do anyway. The girl refused Theresa fla t out. Smallwood? Theresa swallowed fear-thick spit. She'd bare ly closed the door when the Federales grabbed her. She hadn't had a chance to hide anything. And Christ knew, she was too damn sli ck to have gone to all that trouble to hand it over to the police . Theresa had waited a few minutes to make sure no one saw her, then tossed the hotel room. Politely. Professionally. No-one-woul d-suspect carefully. Nothing. Not a fucking thing. Nada. Zip. Th en you have what I want, the voice said smoothly in her ear. Not a question. Never a question. Theresa's armpits prickled with dr ead and her mouth went bone dry. She needed a drink, she needed o ne bad. I'll meet with our Rio contact as planned. Tomorrow, she said with utmost conviction, the answer implicit. The air seemed to vibrate menacingly around Theresa as the silence on the other end of the phone lengthened. When she heard a click instead of t he ass-reaming she expected, she let the phone drop and slumped b ack against the bullet-riddled glass of the phone booth as though she were a puppet with her strings cut. She'd find the bitch if it was the last thing she did. She exited the phone booth, then strode across the gravel lot of the abandoned gas station to the rental car. Oh, she'd find the girl all right. She'd find the g irl, retrieve what she'd stolen, and then slice her skin from her skinny body in one long ribbon like peeling a fucking apple. The resa hadn't gotten where she was by letting emotions get in the w ay of business. Business was brutal. If she had to screw the bra ins out of every cop in this godforsaken city to find out where t he woman was being held, she vowed she'd do it. Theresa was prou d of the small elegant black rose tattooed on the small of her ba ck. One day soon she would have more petals added, and she'd be t he Black Rose. Until then she'd do her job, and do it well. And w hen the time came, she'd carve that full-blown rose tattoo off th e current Black Rose's skin. She opened the car door, slid behin d the wheel, and buckled up for safety as she pulled out of the d ark lot. For more immediate gratification, she thought of the thi ef's big black eyes, that smooth, dusky skin, and decided she'd l eave the girl's face for last. Three Hear me now, do you, sweet heart? a man said softly in the darkness. Well, yeah. He'd just k nocked down the wall and his, Ballantine Books, 2007, 3, LONDON: ORBIT(FUTURA). Moderate wear on cover edges. Bottom corner section folds/creases on a few pages. Tanned and slightly foxed pages. Clean pages. Strong binding. No inscriptions. Science Fiction short story anthology. All British authors. Features stories by John Wyndham, Kingsley Amis, Colin Kapp, Bob Shaw, Arthur C. Clarke, Fred Hoyle, Kenneth Bulmer, Brian Aldiss, J.G. Ballard, Michael Moorcock, Keith Roberts, Philip E. High, James White, Arthur Sellings. Location: FC/3 Size: 12mo - over 6¾" - 7¾" tall . Good. Mass Market Paperback. First Edition. 1977., ORBIT(FUTURA), 1977, 2.5<
nzl, n.. | Biblio.co.uk |
1977, ISBN: 9780860079132
Taschenbuch
Futura Publications, Taschenbuch, Auflage: 1, 378 Seiten, Publiziert: 1977-09-01T00:00:01Z, Produktgruppe: Buch, Kategorien, Bücher, Fremdsprachige Bücher, Featured Categories, Englische … Mehr…
Futura Publications, Taschenbuch, Auflage: 1, 378 Seiten, Publiziert: 1977-09-01T00:00:01Z, Produktgruppe: Buch, Kategorien, Bücher, Fremdsprachige Bücher, Featured Categories, Englische Bücher, 7c9a6c79-19ea-4dea-90da-d7d47042d341_2301, 7c9a6c79-19ea-4dea-90da-d7d47042d341_0, Arborist Merchandising Root, acc906d0-2585-4921-a56f-3ff277850936_4901, acc906d0-2585-4921-a56f-3ff277850936_0, Special Features Stores, Taschenbücher, acc906d0-2585-4921-a56f-3ff277850936_4201, Ashley, Michael, Futura Publications, 1977<
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1977, ISBN: 9780860079132
Taschenbuch
Futura Publications, Taschenbuch, Auflage: 1, 378 Seiten, Publiziert: 1977-09-01T00:00:01Z, Produktgruppe: Buch, Kategorien, Bücher, Fremdsprachige Bücher, Featured Categories, Englische … Mehr…
Futura Publications, Taschenbuch, Auflage: 1, 378 Seiten, Publiziert: 1977-09-01T00:00:01Z, Produktgruppe: Buch, Kategorien, Bücher, Fremdsprachige Bücher, Featured Categories, Englische Bücher, 7c9a6c79-19ea-4dea-90da-d7d47042d341_2301, 7c9a6c79-19ea-4dea-90da-d7d47042d341_0, Arborist Merchandising Root, acc906d0-2585-4921-a56f-3ff277850936_4901, acc906d0-2585-4921-a56f-3ff277850936_0, Special Features Stores, Taschenbücher, acc906d0-2585-4921-a56f-3ff277850936_4201, Ashley, Michael, Futura Publications, 1977<
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The Best of British SF 2 - Taschenbuch
1977, ISBN: 9780860079132
Editor: Michael Ashley, Orbit, Paperback, 378 Seiten, Publiziert: 1977-09-01T00:00:01Z, Produktgruppe: Book, Verkaufsrang: 2985381, Subjects, Books, Orbit, 1977
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2009, ISBN: 9780860079132
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CENTURY. Very Good. 6.38 x 1.38 x 9.45 inches. Hardcover. 2009. 384 pages. <br>It's a deadly game of blackmail. And they're makin g him play. Kyle McAvoy is one of the outst… Mehr…
CENTURY. Very Good. 6.38 x 1.38 x 9.45 inches. Hardcover. 2009. 384 pages. <br>It's a deadly game of blackmail. And they're makin g him play. Kyle McAvoy is one of the outstanding legal students of his generation: he's good looking, has a brilliant mind and a glittering future ahead of him. But he has a secret from his past , a secret that threatens to destroy his entire life. One night t hat secret catches up with him in the form of a deeply compromisi ng video of the incident that haunts him. Kyle realises that he n o longer owns his own future - that he must do as his blackmailer s tell him, or the video will be made public, with all the unplea sant consequences. What price do they demand for Kyle's secret? I t is for Kyle to take a job in New York as an associate at the la rgest law firm in the world. Kyle won't be working for this compa ny, but against it - passing on the secrets of it's biggest trial to date, a dispute worth billions of dollars to the victor. Full of twists and turns and reminiscent of The Firm, The Associate i s vintage John Grisham. Editorial Reviews Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 The rules of the New Haven Youth League required that each kid play at least ten minutes in each game. Exceptions were allowed for players who had upset the ir coaches by skipping practice or violating other rules. In such cases, a coach could file a report before the game and inform th e scorekeeper that so-and-so wouldn't play much, if at all, becau se of some infraction. This was frowned on by the league; it was, after all, much more recreational than competitive. With four minutes left in the game, Coach Kyle looked down the bench, nodde d at a somber and pouting little boy named Marquis, and said, Do you want to play? Without responding, Marquis walked to the score rs' table and waited for a whistle. His violations were numerous- skipping practice, skipping school, bad grades, losing his unifor m, foul language. In fact, after ten weeks and fifteen games, Mar quis had broken every one of the few rules his coach tried to enf orce. Coach Kyle had long since realized that any new rule would be immediately violated by his star, and for that reason he trimm ed his list and fought the temptation to add new regulations. It wasn't working. Trying to control ten inner- city kids with a sof t touch had put the Red Knights in last place in the 12 and Under division of the winter league. Marquis was only eleven, but cl early the best player on the court. He preferred shooting and sco ring over passing and defending, and within two minutes he'd slas hed through the lane, around and through and over much larger pla yers, and scored six points. His average was fourteen, and if all owed to play more than half a game, he could probably score thirt y. In his own young opinion, he really didn't need to practice. In spite of the one-man show, the game was out of reach. Kyle Mc Avoy sat quietly on the bench, watching the game and waiting for the clock to wind down. One game to go and the season would be ov er, his last as a basketball coach. In two years he'd won a dozen , lost two dozen, and asked himself how any person in his right m ind would willingly coach at any level. He was doing it for the k ids, he'd said to himself a thousand times, kids with no fathers, kids from bad homes, kids in need of a positive male influence. And he still believed it, but after two years of babysitting, and arguing with parents when they bothered to show up, and hassling with other coaches who were not above cheating, and trying to ig nore teenage referees who didn't know a block from a charge, he w as fed up. He'd done his community service, in this town anyway. He watched the game and waited, yelling occasionally because th at's what coaches are supposed to do. He looked around the empty gym, an old brick building in downtown New Haven, home to the you th league for fifty years. A handful of parents were scattered th rough the bleachers, all waiting for the final horn. Marquis scor ed again. No one applauded. The Red Knights were down by twelve w ith two minutes to go. At the far end of the court, just under the ancient scoreboard, a man in a dark suit walked through the d oor and leaned against the retractable bleachers. He was noticeab le because he was white. There were no white players on either te am. He stood out because he wore a suit that was either black or navy, with a white shirt and a burgundy tie, all under a trench c oat that announced the presence of an agent or a cop of some vari ety. Coach Kyle happened to see the man when he entered the gym , and he thought to himself that the guy was out of place. Probab ly a detective of some sort, maybe a narc looking for a dealer. I t would not be the first arrest in or around the gym. After the agent/cop leaned against the bleachers, he cast a long suspiciou s look at the Red Knights' bench, and his eyes seemed to settle o n Coach Kyle, who returned the stare for a second before it becam e uncomfortable. Marquis let one fly from near mid- court, air ba ll, and Coach Kyle jumped to his feet, spread his hands wide, sho ok his head as if to ask, Why? Marquis ignored him as he loafed b ack on defense. A dumb foul stopped the clock and prolonged the m isery. While looking at the free-throw shooter, Kyle glanced beyo nd him, and in the background was the agent/cop, still staring, n ot at the action but at the coach. For a twenty-five-year-old l aw student with no criminal record and no illegal habits or procl ivities, the presence and the attention of a man who gave all ind ications of being employed by some branch of law enforcement shou ld have caused no concern whatsoever. But it never worked that wa y with Kyle McAvoy. Street cops and state troopers didn't particu larly bother him. They were paid to simply react. But the guys in dark suits, the investigators and agents, the ones trained to di g deep and discover secrets-those types still unnerved him. Thi rty seconds to go and Marquis was arguing with a referee. He'd th rown an F-bomb at a ref two weeks earlier and was suspended for a game. Coach Kyle yelled at his star, who never listened. He quic kly scanned the gym to see if agent/cop No. 1 was alone or was no w accompanied by agent/cop No. 2. No, he was not. Another dumb foul, and Kyle yelled at the referee to just let it slide. He sat down and ran his finger over the side of his neck, then flicked off the perspiration. It was early February, and the gym was, as always, quite chilly. Why was he sweating? The agent/cop hadn 't moved an inch; in fact he seemed to enjoy staring at Kyle. T he decrepit old horn finally squawked. The game was mercifully ov er. One team cheered, and one team really didn't care. Both lined up for the obligatory high fives and Good game, good game, as me aningless to twelve- year- olds as it is to college players. As K yle congratulated the opposing coach, he glanced down the court. The white man was gone. What were the odds he was waiting outsi de? Of course it was paranoia, but paranoia had settled into Kyle 's life so long ago that he now simply acknowledged it, coped wit h it, and moved on. The Red Knights regrouped in the visitors' locker room, a cramped little space under the sagging and permane nt stands on the home side. There Coach Kyle said all the right t hings-nice effort, good hustle, our game is improving in certain areas, let's finish on a high note this Saturday. The boys were c hanging clothes and hardly listening. They were tired of basketba ll because they were tired of losing, and of course all blame was heaped upon the coach. He was too young, too white, too much of an Ivy Leaguer. The few parents who were there waited outside t he locker room, and it was those tense moments when the team came out that Kyle hated most about his community service. There woul d be the usual complaints about playing time. Marquis had an uncl e, a twenty-two year-old former all-state player with a big mouth and a fondness for bitching about Coach Kyle's unfair treatment of the best player in the league. From the locker room, there w as another door that led to a dark narrow hallway that ran behind the home stands and finally gave way to an outside door that ope ned into an alley. Kyle was not the first coach to discover this escape route, and on this night he wanted to avoid not only the f amilies and their complaints but also the agent/ cop. He said a q uick goodbye to his boys, and as they fled the locker room, he ma de his escape. In a matter of seconds he was outside, in the alle y, then walking quickly along a frozen sidewalk. Heavy snow had b een plowed, and the sidewalk was icy and barely passable. The tem perature was somewhere far below freezing. It was 8:30 on a Wedne sday, and he was headed for the law journal offices at the Yale L aw School, where he would work until midnight at least. He didn 't make it. The agent was leaning against the fender of a red J eep Cherokee that was parked parallel on the street. The vehicle was titled to one John McAvoy of York, Pennsylvania, but for the past six years it had been the reliable companion of his son, Kyl e, the true owner. Though his feet suddenly felt like bricks an d his knees were weak, Kyle managed to trudge on as if nothing we re wrong. Not only did they find me, he said to himself as he tri ed to think clearly, but they've done their homework and found my Jeep. Not exactly high-level research. I have done nothing wrong , he said again and again. Tough game, Coach, the agent said wh en Kyle was ten feet away and slowing down. Kyle stopped and to ok in the thick young man with red cheeks and red bangs who'd bee n watching him in the gym. Can I help you? he said, and immediate ly saw the shadow of No. 2 dart across the street. They always wo rked in pairs. No. 1 reached into a pocket, and as he said That 's exactly what you can do, he pulled out a leather wallet and fl ipped it open. Bob Plant, FBI. A real pleasure, Kyle said as al l the blood left his brain and he couldn't help but flinch. No. 2 wedged himself into the frame. He was much thinner and ten yea rs older with gray around the temples. He, too, had a pocketful, and he performed the well- rehearsed badge presentation with ease . Nelson Ginyard, FBI, he said. Bob and Nelson. Both Irish. Bot h northeastern. Anybody else? Kyle asked. No. Got a minute to talk? Not really. You might want to, Ginyard said. It could be very productive. I doubt that. If you leave, we'll just fo llow, Plant said as he stood from his slouch position and took a step closer. You don't want us on campus, do you? Are you threa tening me? Kyle asked. The sweat was back, now in the pits of his arms, and despite the arctic air a bead or two ran down his ribs . Not yet, Plant said with a smirk. Look, let's spend ten min utes together, over coffee, Ginyard was saying. There's a sandwic h shop just around the corner. I'm sure it's warmer there. Do I need a lawyer? No. That's what you always say. My father is a lawyer and I grew up in his office. I know your tricks. No tr icks, Kyle, I swear, Ginyard said, and he at least sounded genuin e. Just give us ten minutes. I promise you won't regret it. Wha t's on the agenda? Ten minutes. That's all we ask. Give me a clue or the answer is no. Bob and Nelson looked at each other. Both shrugged. Why not? We'll have to tell him sooner or later. G inyard turned and looked down the street and spoke into the wind. Duquesne University. Five years ago. Drunk frat boys and a girl. Kyle's body and mind had different reactions. His body concede d- a quick slump of the shoulders, a slight gasp, a noticeable je rk in the legs. But his mind fought back instantly. That's bullsh it! he said, then spat on the sidewalk. I've already been through this. Nothing happened and you know it. There was a long pause as Ginyard continued to stare down the street while Plant watche d their subject's every move. Kyle's mind was spinning. Why was t he FBI involved in an alleged state crime? In second-year Crimina l Procedure they had studied the new laws regarding FBI interroga tion. It was now an indictable offense to simply lie to an agent in this very situation. Should he shut up? Should he call his fat her? No, under no circumstances would he call his father. Ginya rd turned, took three steps closer, clenched his jaw like a bad a ctor, and tried to hiss his tough- guy words. Let's cut to the ch ase, Mr. McAvoy, because I'm freezing. There's an indictment out of Pittsburgh, okay. Rape. If you want to play the hard-ass smart -ass brilliant law student and run get a lawyer, or even call you r old man, then the indictment comes down tomorrow and the life y ou have planned is pretty much shot to shit. However, if you give us ten minutes of your valuable time, right now, in the sandwich shop around the corner, then the indictment will be put on hold, if not forgotten altogether. You can walk away from it, Plant said from the side. Without a word. Why should I trust you? Kyl e managed to say with a very dry mouth. Ten minutes. You got a tape recorder? Sure. I want it on the table, okay? I want e very word recorded because I don't trust you. Fair enough. Th ey jammed their hands deep into the pockets of their matching tre nch coats and stomped away. Kyle unlocked his Jeep and got inside . He started the engine, turned the heat on high, and thought abo ut driving away. Excerpted from THE ASSOCIATE by John Grisham P ublished by Doubleday Reprinted with permission of the publisher. Copyright © 2009 by Belfry Holdings, Inc. From the Hardcover ed ition. --This text refers to the paperback edition. From Publish ers Weekly Bestseller Grisham's contemporary legal thriller offer s an action-and-suspense plot reminiscent of that of his breakout book, 1991's The Firm, in contrast to 2008's didactic The Appeal , which served as a platform for his concerns about the corruptin g effects of judicial elections. Kyle McAvoy, a callow Yale Law S chool student, dreams of a public service gig on graduation, unti l shadowy figures blackmail him with a videotape that could reviv e a five-year-old rape accusation. Instead of helping those in ne ed, McAvoy accepts a position at a huge Wall Street firm, Scully & Pershing, whose clients include a military contractor enmeshed in a $800 billion lawsuit concerning a newly-designed aircraft. M cAvoy can avoid exposure of his past if he feeds his new masters inside informati, CENTURY, 2009, 3, Ballantine Books. Very Good. Mass Market Paperback. 2007. 384 pages. <br>Award-winning author Cherry Adair broke thrilling new ground with On Thin Ice-her stunning romantic suspense hardco ver debut. Now Cherry's turning up the temperature, amping up the action, and raising the degree of danger and desire to irresisti bly hot new heights. Diamonds-jewels of every kind, in fact-are Taylor Kincaid's best friends. The only thing she enjoys more is the challenge of stealing them, at which she excels like few othe rs in the world. And specializing in plundering precious stones f rom wealthy international criminals just makes it all the more sa tisfying . . . and dangerously exciting. So for Taylor, there's n o resisting the double allure of snatching the elusive Blue Star diamonds-a prize she has pursued across three continents-from the South American stronghold of the murderous Morales terrorist org anization. The heist goes down without a hitch. Until Taylor dis covers she has made off with more than she bargained for, namely the secret security-system codes that provide access to a South A frican diamond mine-packed with enough gems to sink a battleship. Suddenly, Taylor's no longer just an ultrachic freelance jewel t hief, but a reluctant player in a high-stakes cat-and-mouse game against elite global trouble-shooters and bloodthirsty terrorists . There's nothing reluctant, however, about Huntington St. John, the top T-FLAC operative who's hot on Taylor's trail. And in Tay lor's opinion, just plain hot. The feeling, emotional and otherwi se, is very mutual. Though they're on opposite sides of the law, Hunt and Taylor swiftly come to appreciate each other's well-hone d skills. But since ecstasy is fleeting, and diamonds are forever , Taylor soon slips from the sheets and hits the streets . . . to reclaim the jewels she stashed overseas. And true to his name, H unt is close behind-but this time, he's after more than the codes . With the clock ticking, and two groups of terrorists closing fa st, they'll have to mix pleasure with some very risky business. I f they can survive danger at every turn, outwit the ultimate high -tech security system, and somehow conquer each other . . . they just might get everything they desire. Editorial Reviews Review PRAISE FOR CHERRY ADAIR A breathtaking ride . . . I couldn't tu rn the pages fast enough! No one does hot romance, ice-cold villa ins and nonstop adventure better. -Mariah Stewart, author of Dead Even, on On Thin Ice Sexy, funny, and wild! Hang on and enjoy t he ride! -Andrea Kane, author of Scent of Danger, on In Too Deep A thrilling, mysterious, sexy read. -Stella Cameron, author of K iss Them Goodbye, on Hide and Seek A sexy, snappy roller-coaster ride! -Susan Andersen, author of Shadow Dance, on Kiss and Tell About the Author USA Today bestselling author Cherry Adair has g enerated numerous awards for her innovative action-adventure nove ls, which include On Thin Ice, Out of Sight, In Too Deep, Hide an d Seek, and Kiss and Tell. A favorite of reviewers and fans alike , she lives in the Pacific Northwest. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by pe rmission. All rights reserved. One August 10 San Cristóbal South America Dressed in black, shrouded by the night, T-FLAC opera- tive Huntington St. John melded with the darkness of the fetid al ley behind the adobe jail. Night vision glasses made it possible to observe every inch of the inky interior of the cell through a narrow barred window high in the wall. Empty. Where in the hell was the prisoner? It had taken six long, bloody months to disco ver this woman's identity. Six months, and the considerable resou rces of the counterterrorist organization Hunt worked for. It had n't been easy, by God, and he was not leaving without her. He ne eded a thief. Someone resourceful, cunning, and unscrupulous. Som eone at the top of his game. Hunt wanted the best. Nothing less w ould do. Determined to find the right thief, T-FLAC's crack team had scrutinized past burglary victims for the last five years. L imiting their search to individuals, or companies, with collectio ns of fine gems who had the most sophisticated, advanced security systems. They'd compiled lists comprising thousands upon thousan ds of names. They'd cross-matched friends of the victims, relativ es, staff, and lifestyle to find a common denominator. Three hun dred names had cross-matched, and 118 people appeared on more tha n six lists. A deep background check on those suspects turned up an interesting anomaly. Seventeen of the women had identical, or nearly identical, backgrounds. Or, rather, one woman had seventee n identities. No one, other than himself and a few select T-FLAC operatives, even knew the thief was a woman. They'd finally conn ected the dots. Hunt had his thief. But where the hell was she? An hour after ascertaining who she was, and with an educated gu ess, where she might be, he was wheels up and headed for South Am erica. It was highly suspect that she just happened to be in the very city he needed her to be in. San Cristóbal. In flight he'd knew she'd robbed José Morales followed by a quick arrest minutes before he touched down in San Cristóbal. So, it was a fait acco mpli. A quick, thorough search of her hotel room revealed nothin g. Not a hint, not a clue. No surprise there. She never left clue s. Ever. Which is why it had been so fucking hard to discover who she was in the first place. This woman wasn't merely extraordin arily good at what she did, she was a phenomenon. And fearless. She was the one he wanted. And by God, he'd have her. Even if, as he suspected, she'd been hired by someone else. Despite intel t o the contrary, her absence from the cell could be explained by o ne of three options: she'd been moved to another location, the ot her party had already extracted her, or she'd been killed. Now t hat would be bloody inconvenient all around. He'd already investe d enough time and energy. He wasn't about to start looking for so meone else now. Suddenly, footsteps echoed down a hallway. Clear , loud, deliberate. Two pairs-heavy, booted. And the odd, incongr uous sound of chains rattling, like something out of a bad horror film. One of the guards kicked open the cell door. It slammed a gainst the adobe wall and let in muted light from the hallway to illuminate the cramped cell. This time, bruja, the jailer threate ned in Spanish, you will not get free. Hunt's mouth flattened in to a thin line as he took in the tableau in the doorway. Trussed up in chains, the woman couldn't brace herself as the guards flu ng her through the open door and onto the floor with a thud. Her head bounced on the cement and she let out a startled grunt of pa in. Hunt bit back a curse. This was precisely why he disliked wo men involved in missions. They were vulnerable and easily broken. He hated like hell seeing someone soft and delicate hurt. The c hains wrapped around her sounded almost musical as she rolled acr oss the floor, until, stopped by the opposite wall, she lay still . The two guards observed their prisoner for a few minutes from the doorway, speculating in rapid-fire Spanish as to whether the woman was a witch. Or worse. So, she'd attempted an escape, had s he? He shook his head. Nice try, but no cigar, sweetheart. This p rison built on the outskirts of town housed political prisoners, as well as the dregs of humanity. No one, including apparently a pro like her, had ever escaped. Hunt was about to change that. Listening to the conversation between the guards, Hunt shook his head. She'd given it her best shot five times. 5-0 wasn't a great track record, but it sure took guts. No wonder the men were piss ed. No wonder they had a mile of bicycle chain wrapped around her body, and God only knew how many gleaming new padlocks fastened down her back. She'd be lucky to draw in an unrestricted breath, let alone stand. The metal door clanged shut and the key ground harshly in the lock. Sorry to disappoint, hombres, but she's mine . He listened to the guards' footsteps retreat down the hallway t oward the front of the jail. The crunch of tires on gravel drift ed between the buildings down the narrow alley where he waited. H eadlights strobed over the single-story structures as cars and tr ucks pulled into the unseen parking lot of the seedy nightclub ac ross the alley behind the jail. Vehicle doors slammed. Glass cli nked. Laughing voices rose. A band tuned up their instruments. Th e door of the dive opened and slammed. Opened and slammed. Opened , letting out the raucous sounds of the crowd warming up for the evening. All music to Hunt's ears. He knew the bar would soon be packed to the rafters. The band would be loud enough to deafen a nyone within a hundred yards, and the secondhand smoke would make a five-pack-a-day smoker look like a piker. This was almost too easy. The night air felt thick and oppressive. Not even a glimme r of a star broke the blackness of the sky overhead. San Cristóba l in midsummer was not for the fainthearted. He'd been here sever al years ago on another op. The sprawling city on the edge of the rain forest was too damn crowded for his liking. Known for its t opless beaches and raunchy night life, it wasn't one of Hunt's fa vorite places. The atmosphere was a South American version of sp ring break-noise, people, skin, and excessive drinking. The combi nation usually turned things ugly before midnight. It was a quart er till. In the distance, a dog's barks turned to mournful howls . A car backfired. Lights continued strafing the roofline as more vehicles turned into the parking lot of the club. A steel guitar riffed in a jangle of bad chords, followed by the thump of stick s on the drum as the band continued its warm-up. The chains wrap ped around the woman chinked. Good. If she could move, she wasn't too badly hurt. As far as Hunt was concerned, as long as she cou ld talk and think long enough to tell him what he wanted to know, that was sufficient. In theory, he had no problem with her capt ivity. She was where thieves belonged. But not where he needed her to be for the moment. Oblivious to the muggy heat causing hi s dark shirt to stick to his back, he gave a quick tug to the cla mps he'd hooked to the bars earlier, making sure they were secure . A clever T-FLAC invention, the device, small enough to fit in h is pocket, it consisted of a complex series of pulleys and thin m etal cable, and needed very little pressure to act as a fulcrum. The band segued into their first number. What the group lacked i n talent they made up for in volume. The ruckus from the club wou ld drown out all but an atomic bomb. Thanks, Hunt muttered dryly as he exerted the small hand movement necessary to activate the tool. Inside the cell the chinking of the chains abruptly stopped . He stepped aside as window frame, bars, and chunks of plaster came out of the old adobe wall with a grinding thunk. Two San C ristóbal What, the icy voice in Theresa Smallwood's ear dripped fury, do you mean there was nothing there? You arranged for the a rrest immediately when she got back to her hotel, like I told you , didn't you? Sweat pooled in the small of Theresa's back as she pressed the receiver against her ear. The sound of the long-dist ance-distorted voice crawled over her skin like the tiny feet of a dozen spiders. The cramped phone booth stunk of pee, sweat, and fear. Theresa was responsible for two out of the three. She shu ddered, knuckles white as she clenched the receiver, and forced h erself to respond. Forced her voice to remain steady. Competent. No more than three seconds, she assured her boss. She prayed she didn't sound as scared as she felt. They both knew how important this assignment was. How dare that fucking thief put her life i n danger? Theresa thought, still shaken with anger. She'd asked t he girl to work for her. She'd offered to pay her, and pay her we ll, to retrieve the contents of Morales's safe. Which, for Christ 's sake, she was going to do anyway. The girl refused Theresa fla t out. Smallwood? Theresa swallowed fear-thick spit. She'd bare ly closed the door when the Federales grabbed her. She hadn't had a chance to hide anything. And Christ knew, she was too damn sli ck to have gone to all that trouble to hand it over to the police . Theresa had waited a few minutes to make sure no one saw her, then tossed the hotel room. Politely. Professionally. No-one-woul d-suspect carefully. Nothing. Not a fucking thing. Nada. Zip. Th en you have what I want, the voice said smoothly in her ear. Not a question. Never a question. Theresa's armpits prickled with dr ead and her mouth went bone dry. She needed a drink, she needed o ne bad. I'll meet with our Rio contact as planned. Tomorrow, she said with utmost conviction, the answer implicit. The air seemed to vibrate menacingly around Theresa as the silence on the other end of the phone lengthened. When she heard a click instead of t he ass-reaming she expected, she let the phone drop and slumped b ack against the bullet-riddled glass of the phone booth as though she were a puppet with her strings cut. She'd find the bitch if it was the last thing she did. She exited the phone booth, then strode across the gravel lot of the abandoned gas station to the rental car. Oh, she'd find the girl all right. She'd find the g irl, retrieve what she'd stolen, and then slice her skin from her skinny body in one long ribbon like peeling a fucking apple. The resa hadn't gotten where she was by letting emotions get in the w ay of business. Business was brutal. If she had to screw the bra ins out of every cop in this godforsaken city to find out where t he woman was being held, she vowed she'd do it. Theresa was prou d of the small elegant black rose tattooed on the small of her ba ck. One day soon she would have more petals added, and she'd be t he Black Rose. Until then she'd do her job, and do it well. And w hen the time came, she'd carve that full-blown rose tattoo off th e current Black Rose's skin. She opened the car door, slid behin d the wheel, and buckled up for safety as she pulled out of the d ark lot. For more immediate gratification, she thought of the thi ef's big black eyes, that smooth, dusky skin, and decided she'd l eave the girl's face for last. Three Hear me now, do you, sweet heart? a man said softly in the darkness. Well, yeah. He'd just k nocked down the wall and his, Ballantine Books, 2007, 3, LONDON: ORBIT(FUTURA). Moderate wear on cover edges. Bottom corner section folds/creases on a few pages. Tanned and slightly foxed pages. Clean pages. Strong binding. No inscriptions. Science Fiction short story anthology. All British authors. Features stories by John Wyndham, Kingsley Amis, Colin Kapp, Bob Shaw, Arthur C. Clarke, Fred Hoyle, Kenneth Bulmer, Brian Aldiss, J.G. Ballard, Michael Moorcock, Keith Roberts, Philip E. High, James White, Arthur Sellings. Location: FC/3 Size: 12mo - over 6¾" - 7¾" tall . Good. Mass Market Paperback. First Edition. 1977., ORBIT(FUTURA), 1977, 2.5<
1977, ISBN: 9780860079132
Taschenbuch
Futura Publications, Taschenbuch, Auflage: 1, 378 Seiten, Publiziert: 1977-09-01T00:00:01Z, Produktgruppe: Buch, Kategorien, Bücher, Fremdsprachige Bücher, Featured Categories, Englische … Mehr…
Futura Publications, Taschenbuch, Auflage: 1, 378 Seiten, Publiziert: 1977-09-01T00:00:01Z, Produktgruppe: Buch, Kategorien, Bücher, Fremdsprachige Bücher, Featured Categories, Englische Bücher, 7c9a6c79-19ea-4dea-90da-d7d47042d341_2301, 7c9a6c79-19ea-4dea-90da-d7d47042d341_0, Arborist Merchandising Root, acc906d0-2585-4921-a56f-3ff277850936_4901, acc906d0-2585-4921-a56f-3ff277850936_0, Special Features Stores, Taschenbücher, acc906d0-2585-4921-a56f-3ff277850936_4201, Ashley, Michael, Futura Publications, 1977<
1977
ISBN: 9780860079132
Taschenbuch
Futura Publications, Taschenbuch, Auflage: 1, 378 Seiten, Publiziert: 1977-09-01T00:00:01Z, Produktgruppe: Buch, Kategorien, Bücher, Fremdsprachige Bücher, Featured Categories, Englische … Mehr…
Futura Publications, Taschenbuch, Auflage: 1, 378 Seiten, Publiziert: 1977-09-01T00:00:01Z, Produktgruppe: Buch, Kategorien, Bücher, Fremdsprachige Bücher, Featured Categories, Englische Bücher, 7c9a6c79-19ea-4dea-90da-d7d47042d341_2301, 7c9a6c79-19ea-4dea-90da-d7d47042d341_0, Arborist Merchandising Root, acc906d0-2585-4921-a56f-3ff277850936_4901, acc906d0-2585-4921-a56f-3ff277850936_0, Special Features Stores, Taschenbücher, acc906d0-2585-4921-a56f-3ff277850936_4201, Ashley, Michael, Futura Publications, 1977<
The Best of British SF 2 - Taschenbuch
1977, ISBN: 9780860079132
Editor: Michael Ashley, Orbit, Paperback, 378 Seiten, Publiziert: 1977-09-01T00:00:01Z, Produktgruppe: Book, Verkaufsrang: 2985381, Subjects, Books, Orbit, 1977
ISBN: 9780860079132
Paperback. Good., 2.5
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Detailangaben zum Buch - Best of British Science Fiction: v. 2 (Orbit Books)
EAN (ISBN-13): 9780860079132
ISBN (ISBN-10): 0860079139
Gebundene Ausgabe
Taschenbuch
Erscheinungsjahr: 1977
Herausgeber: Ashley, Michael, Futura Publications
Buch in der Datenbank seit 2008-01-10T14:43:04+01:00 (Berlin)
Detailseite zuletzt geändert am 2023-12-22T17:49:19+01:00 (Berlin)
ISBN/EAN: 9780860079132
ISBN - alternative Schreibweisen:
0-86007-913-9, 978-0-86007-913-2
Alternative Schreibweisen und verwandte Suchbegriffe:
Autor des Buches: ashley mike, kenneth clarke, kenneth bulmer, john bulmer, amis john, science fiction, john wyndham, arthur clarke, michael moorcock, aldiss
Titel des Buches: the best british, abeitet, arbeitet, orbit science fiction
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