By Desmond Bagley
Well-known and acclaimed for his or her quickly velocity and wealthy neighborhood colour, event thrillers via the vintage motion writer are presented here in double doses, each one quantity together with specific bonus materialsRunning Blind: The task starts with an easy errand—a parcel to carry. yet to Alan Stewart, status on a abandoned street in Iceland with a murdered guy at his toes, it seems to be something yet uncomplicated. The desolate terrain is difficulty adequate, but if Stewart realizes he has been double-crossed and that the competition is gaining floor, his easy venture turns out very unlikely. The Freedom Trap: The Scarperers, a brilliantly prepared gang that will get long term inmates out of legal, spring a infamous Russian double agent. the path leads Owen Stannard to Malta and to the clever killer masterminding the group. Face-to-face eventually along with his competitors, Stannard needs to try and outwit either men—who don't have anything to lose and every little thing to achieve via his dying. formerly unpublished, the fast tale "A subject of Months" can also be incorporated, a few homicide in a on line casino.
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Extra resources for Running Blind/The Freedom Trap
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Nicht die Frau in Spokane, die ihren Anwalt zu sprechen verlangte, die Frau, die alle mit den Morden belasten wollten. Schon wieder schniefend, lehnte Alvarez sich auf ihrem Stuhl zurück. Man jagte ihr nicht so leicht Angst ein, doch heute empfand sie eine Furcht, die sie von Herzen gern verleugnet hätte. Das Grauen lag vor ihr, in Form der farbigen Hochglanzfotos von den Opfern. Insgesamt fünf. Beziehungsweise fünf, von denen wir schon wissen, dachte sie und griff nach dem Foto von Theresa Kelper, dem ersten Opfer.
Wurden realer, deutlicher. Diese Schulhofrüpel hatten recht. Ihr Zustand war absonderlich. Jetzt folgte sie dem Weg bis zu ihrer Haustür und sah, dass sie halb offen stand. Im Haus war es kalt, denn die uralte Heizung war den arktischen Temperaturen nicht gewachsen, die der heulende Wind ins Haus trieb. Sie schloss die Tür hinter sich, schaltete das Licht an und schlüpfte aus ihren Stiefeln. Sie war überreizt. Kribbelig. Übernervös. Sie hängte ihren Mantel in den Garderobenschrank, warf ihren Morgenrock über und zog den Gürtel straff.
Sie kochte vor Zorn. Stinksauer war sie. Sie umfasste das Steuer ihres Jeeps so krampfhaft, dass ihre Knöchel weiß wurden, biss die Zähne fest zusammen und sah starr auf die Straße, als könnte ihr zornfunkelnder Blick das Bild des herzlosen Schweinehunds heraufbeschwören, der sie in diesen Zustand namenloser Wut versetzt hatte. �Mistkerl«, zischte sie. Die Reifen ihres Dienstwagens gerieten auf dem vereisten Abhang leicht ins Rutschen. Ihr Herz raste, ihre Wangen waren trotz der Minustemperaturen draußen gerötet.