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Saturday 09:11 Hours: A blast rocks a London hospital and thousands are dead or injured...
10:09 Hours: Joe Ledger arrives on scene to investigate. The horror is unlike anything he has ever witnessed. Compelled by grief and rage, Joe rejoins the DMS and within hours is attacked by a hit team of assassins and sent on a suicide mission into a viral hot zone during an Ebola outbreak. Soon Joe and the Department of Military Sciences begin tearing down the veils of deception to uncover a vast and powerful secret society using weaponized versions of the Ten Plagues of Egypt to destabilize world economies and profit from the resulting chaos. Millions will die unless Joe meets this powerful new enemy on its own terms: fighting terror with terror.
This edition of the book is the deluxe, tall rack mass market paperback.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
Jonathan Maberry is the multiple Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Patient Zero, The Dragon Factory, Ghost Road Blues and Rot & Ruin, among others. He also wrote the novelization of the movie The Wolfman. His work for Marvel Comics includes Captain America, Punisher, Wolverine, DoomWar, Marvel Zombie Return and Black Panther. His Joe Ledger series has been optioned for TV by Sony Pictures. He has been inducted into the International Martial Arts Hall of Fame.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Harley Street, London
Seven Weeks Ago
“Unless you do exactly what you’re told,” whispered a voice, “we’ll kill your wife and daughter.”
The words dug into Trevor Plympton’s brain like railroad spikes. He sat on the chair, wrists bound to the arm rests with plastic pipe ties, ankles tied to the wheeled feet of the chair. A hood over his head that let in no light. He was lost in a world of darkness and fear. And those words.
He could barely remember what happened. He’d taken the elevator to the basement parking garage, clicked open the locks on his Vauxhall Astra, felt a sharp burn against the back of his neck and then nothing. When he finally woke up he was already lashed to the chair. He’d cried out in alarm, tried yelling for help.
A heavy had belted him across the face. A savage blow, made worse by the absolute surprise of it. He couldn’t see it coming, could not even brace against it or turn away.
Then the whispering voice.
“W...what...?” It was the best response he could muster. Nothing made sense; the world was a confusion of disorientation, fear and pain.
“Did you understand what I said?” asked the voice. A male voice. Was there an accent? It was hard to tell with the whisper.
“Yes,” Plympton gasped.
“Tell me what I said.”
“T-that you’d k-kill my family--.”
A hand clamped onto Plympton’s crotch and squeezed with sudden and terrible strength. The pain was white hot and immense. The grip was there and gone, as abrupt as the snap of a steel trap.
“That’s incorrect,” said the voice. “Try again.”
Plympton whimpered and then suddenly flinched backward, imagining another grab or blow. But there was nothing. After a handful of seconds Plympton relaxed a little.
Which is when the hand grabbed him again. Harder this time.
“Shhhh,” cautioned the whisperer. “Or next time I’ll use pliers.”
The scream died in Plympton’s throat.
“Now,” said the whisper, “tell me what I said.”
“You...said that...” Plympton wracked his brain for the exact words. “Unless...I did exactly what you said, you’d...kill my wife...and daughter.” The words were a tangle of fishing hooks in his throat. Ugly words; it was impossible that he was saying them.
When the hand touched him again it was a gentle pat on the cheek. Even so, Plympton yelped and jumped.
“Better.” The man smoothed the hood over Plympton’s cheek.
“W-what do you want me to do?”
“We’ll get to that. What concerns us in this minute is whether you will agree to do whatever I ask. It will be easy for you. It will be just another day at work.”
A million dreadful possibilities flooded Plympton’s mind.
The whisperer said, “I’m going to remove the hood because I want to show you something. If you turn your head, your family will die. If you yell or try to escape, your family will die. Do you understand me?”
“God,” Plympton said again. Then, before the whisperer could punish him again he said, “Yes.”
“There won’t be a second warning.”
The whisperer placed his hand on Plympton’s head; fingers splayed like a skullcap, and then slowly curled them into a fist around a fold of the hood. He whipped it off so violently that it tore a handful of hairs from Plympton’s scalp.
Plympton almost screamed with the pain, but the warning was too present.
“Open your eyes,”
Plympton obeyed, blinking against the light. As his eyes adjusted he stared in shock and confusion.
He was in his own house, tied to the chair in his own office. The desk before him was neat and tidy, as he’d left it, but the computer monitor had been turned away. No reflection, he thought with bizarre clarity.
Plympton could not se the man, but he could feel him. And smell him. An odd combination of scents--expensive cologne, cooked meat, gasoline and testosterone. The overall effect was of something large and powerful and wrong behind him, and with a jolt Plympton realized that he’d started to think of his captor as a thing rather than a person. A force.
“I want you to look at some pretty pictures,” the stranger whispered.
The man’s hand came into Plympton’s peripheral vision. Thick forearm, thick wrist, black leather glove. The man laid a photograph down on the desk. The hand vanished and returned with a second picture, and a third, and more until there were six four by six inch photos on the green desk blotter. What Plympton saw in those pictures instantly separated him from the pain that still hummed in his nerve endings.
Each picture was of a different woman or teenage girl. Three women, three girls. All nude. All dead. The unrelenting clarity of the photos revealed everything which had been done to them. Plympton’s mind rebelled against even naming the separate atrocities. To inventory such deliberate savagery was to admit that his own mind could embrace the knowledge that his mind could understand them, and that would be like admitting kinship to the devil Himself. It would break him, and he knew it, so he forced his eyes not to see, his mind not to record. He prayed with every fiber of his being that these things had been done to these women after they were dead.
Though...he knew that wasn’t true.
The arm reappeared and tapped each photo until it was neat and square with the others in a neat line.
“Do you see?” he asked. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
“God...” It was all Plympton could force past the bile in his throat.
“See this one?” The whisperer placed a finger on the corner of the third photo. One of the teenagers. “She was the same age as your daughter.”
“Please!” Plympton cried. “Please don’t hurt my daughter! For the love of God, please don’t hurt my little girl...”
Pain exploded in Plympton’s shoulder. It was only after several gasping, inarticulate moments that he was able to understand what had just happened. The whisperer had struck him on a cluster of nerves in the valley between the left trapezes and the side of his neck. It had been fast and horribly precise. The whole left side of his body seemed to catch fire and go numb at the same time.
“Shhhh,” cautioned the whisperer. After a long moment the man patted Plympton’s shoulder. “Good. Now...I have two more pictures to show you.”
“No,” sobbed Plympton. He closed his eyes, but then the whisperer’s lips were right there by his ear.
“Open your eyes or I’ll cut off your eyelids, yes?”
Plympton mumbled something, nodded.
The whisperer placed two more four-by-six photos on the desk, arranging them in the center and above the line of six prints. A strangled cry gurgled from Plympton’s throat.
The photos were of his wife and daughter.
In the first photograph, his wife was wearing only a pair of sheer panties and a demi-cup bra as she leaned her hips against the sink and bent close to the mirror to apply her make-up. Her face wore the bland expression of someone who believes they are totally alone and who is completely absorbed in the minutiae of daily routine. The picture had been taken from behind so that she was seen from the backs of her knees to above her head, with the front of her from hips to hair in the mirror. Plympton’s heart sank. Laura looked as pale and beautiful now as she had when they’d first met twenty-two years ago. And he loved her with his whole heart.
That heart threatened to tear loose from his chest as he looked at the second picture.
His daughter, Zoë. Fifteen years old and the image of her mother, except that instead of mature elegance Zoë had a lush coltish grace. In the photo, Zoë was naked, her young body steaming with hot water as she stepped out of the shower over the rim of the tub, on hand raised to push aside a shower curtain that had a pattern of swirling stars. Plympton saw his daughter in her unguarded nakedness and it awoke in him a hot fury –an inferno of murderous rage that flooded his arms with power. His whole body tensed, but then the whisperer said: “We have someone watching them both right now. We are watching them every minute or ev...
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Book Description St. Martin's Press, 2016. Mass Market. Condition: New. MASS MARKET Legendary independent bookstore online since 1994. Reliable customer service and no-hassle return policy. Fiction and Poetry>Popular Fiction>Contemporary Thrillers. Book: NEW, New. Bookseller Inventory # 01978125009283000. Seller Inventory # 01978125009283000
Book Description St. Martin's Paperbacks, 2016. Condition: New. book. Seller Inventory # M1250092833