Jason M Burns:Hat Trick
- Livro de bolso 2013, ISBN: 9780982360620
Pocket Star. Very Good. 4.19 x 1 x 6.75 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2009. "480 pages. <br>Colossal in concept, dazzlingly plotted, filled w ith vivid, jaw-dropping violence,… mais…
Pocket Star. Very Good. 4.19 x 1 x 6.75 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2009. "480 pages. <br>Colossal in concept, dazzlingly plotted, filled w ith vivid, jaw-dropping violence, Sins of the Assassin confirms R obert Ferrigno as the modern master of the futuristic thriller. In the second book of Ferrigno's spectacular Assassin Trilogy, R akkim Epps battles radical fundamentalist forces in a futuristic America, now a divided blood-soaked dystopia. Will he survive? Ca n America ever be unified again? The year is 2043. New York and Washington, D.C., have been leveled by nuclear bombs. New Orlean s is submerged beneath fifty feet of water and treasure hunters s cavenge its watery ruins. The United States no longer exists, and in its place two new nations maintain an uneasy coexistence. T o the west stretches the Islamic Republic, seemingly governed by a moderate president but hollowed from within by the violent, rep ressive Black Robes, a shadowy fundamentalist group intent on cru shing all those who do not follow Allah's path. In this frighteni ng world, freedom is controlled by the state, and non-Muslims are either second-class citizens, hidden underground, exiled, or exe cuted. To the east and south lies the Christian Bible Belt, its elf torn by conflict from warring factions, each claiming to be m ore righteous than the others. Meanwhile the former United States is being nibbled away at the edges: South Florida, known as ""Nu evo Florida,"" is independent; the Aztlán Empire, formerly Mexico , encroaches from the south; and Canada has laid claim to huge sw aths of territory along the United States's former northern borde r. What stability exists between the warring empires is threate ned when the president of the Islamic Republic discovers that a B ible Belt warlord, known simply as the Colonel, is searching for a superweapon hidden inside a remote mountain decades earlier by the old United States regime. Rakkim Epps, retired shadow warrior , is sent on a perilous mission to infiltrate the Belt and steal or destroy the weapon. Accompanying Rakkim is Leo, a naive ninete en-year-old whose technologically enhanced brain is crucial to th eir success.Together they sneak through the Belt, a lawless terri tory where a bloodthirsty, drug-addled militia prepares for the E nd-Times. When Rakkim and Leo finally reach the Colonel's mount ain, Epps is forced to rely on his shadow warrior's ability to ki ll any and all who would halt his quest. Opposing him is the Colo nel's enforcer, a sadistic, carbon-skinned killer named Gravenhol tz, and the Colonel's wife, the alluring, sexually rapacious Baby , who wants -- and gets -- more of everything. Meanwhile, the Old One, the ancient and immensely rich Muslim fanatic who seeks to rule both American nations, plots his attack from the safety of h is ocean liner. Rakkim Epps, he realizes, must be stopped, contro lled, or killed. A terrific stand-alone read, Sins of the Assas sin is a cinematic feast of action and plot, and verifies Robert Ferrigno's Assassin Trilogy as a monumental imaginative work of s uspense. Editorial Reviews Review ""White-knuckle suspense."" - - Chicago Sun-Times ""Provocative, unpredictable, and nuanced... .Sins of the Assassin is terrific -- all killer, no filler."" -- The Seattle Times About the Author Robert Ferrigno was born in S outh Florida, a tropical backwater rife with mosquitoes and flyin g cockroaches. After earning college degrees in philosophy, film- making, and creative writing, he returned to his first love, poke r. He spent the next five years gambling full-time and living in a high-crime area populated by starving artists, alcoholics, thie ves, and drug dealers, becoming friends with many people who woul d later populate his novels. Over the next several years he flew jets with the Blue Angels, drove Ferraris, and went for desert su rvival training with gun nuts. He ultimately gave up his day job to become a novelist, and his first book, The Horse Latitudes, wa s called ""the fiction debut of the season"" by Time. He lives in Washington with his family. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Sins of the Assassin Chapter 1 Moseby ne eded to slow down. His haste stirred up a gray confetti of silt, disintegrating paper, and pulverized glass from the neon sign tha t once flashed OYSTER PO’ BOYS, TREAT YO MOUTH. The tiny halogen beams on either side of his face mask bounced back from the confetti, the light made useless by his excitement. Mose by drifted in the warm water of the Gulf, waiting. Plenty of time , no need to rush. He easily got four hours out of a three-hour t ank. More if he stayed calm and clear. Mama’s Home Cookin’ lay crumbling on its foundation, roof gone , the concrete-block walls scoured clean by the tide. A couple of red leatherette stools still sat upright, the floor carpeted wit h gently waving sea grass. He thought of the crowd at the LSU hom ecoming game last month, Annabelle on her feet beside him, pom-po ms shaking as she cheered louder than anyone. He smiled around hi s mouthpiece. The cash register was sprung open on the counter, s oggy bills hanging out like fingers from the till. Old money. Wor thless. Mama’s didn’t hold any treasu re. The oyster shack was just a marker, an indicator that he was close to what he sought. Moseby floated in place, listening to t he sound of his own steady breathing. Easy to get spooked fifty f eet under, a swimmer alone with the dead. It took patience to sur vive in the drowned city. More than patience, it took faith. Mose by pulled at the chain around his neck, clasped the small gold cr ucifix between thumb and forefinger. He silently asked the blessi ng of Mary, mother of God. Asked her to intercede on behalf of al l who had lost their lives in the city below. Asked the dead for their permission to take what they no longer needed. A man could never pray too much. Particularly a man like Moseby, who had much to atone for. He let go of the crucifix, drifted again, shiverin g in the warm water. Unlike Moseby, most scavengers used electri c sleds in their explorations, racing around at full power, churn ing up debris. Greedy, frightened men chopping their way through the city, so eager to get back to the surface that they ruined mo st of what they brought up. Dangerous work under the best of circ umstances. Rebreathers failed. Floors and ceilings gave way. Wall s collapsed. Jagged metal sliced through wet suits, the rush of b lood attracting the barracuda and morays that lurked in the mossy grottos of the French Quarter and the collapsed Superdome. More dangerous than anything else to the scavengers was the panic, men disoriented by the darkness, and the fractured geometry of wreck ed buildings. Gulping air, swimming frantically, they got lost in the concrete maze, adding themselves to the long list of dead. The streets below were almost beyond the reach of sunlight, obscu red further by thousands of automobiles leaking oil even after al l these years. Murkier still in the houses and restaurants, the g rand hotels where the easy spoils lay. Afraid of the deep, the sc avengers used ever more powerful lights, blinding themselves, los ing all perspective in the undersea tableau. Men had died for a c rystal doorknob they mistook for a massive diamond, gotten trappe d reaching for a sterling punch bowl far from their grasp. Fright ened of the dark and the loneliness, frightened most of all by th e ghosts. Commuters floating in their vehicles. Lovers in their h otel beds, honeymooners huddling in the lavish bathrooms where th ey had taken cover. Hard to pluck a gold Rolex off a bony wrist u nder those watching eye sockets. Hard not to hurry, to drop the g oods and fumble to find them again. Easy to breathe too fast, to let the nitrogen build up in the bloodstream, to overestimate the air supply. This year alone sixty-seven men had died or disappea red. Most scavengers focused on the French Quarterâ€""the f ancy stores and tourist emporiums had been picked over, but their familiarity offered some illusion of safety. Not Moseby. His cr ew worked the untouched areas, the mansions and banks and busines ses outside the central core, places where the flood had been mos t ferocious, leaving behind a deadly jumble of concrete and steel and twisted rebar. They were the most successful crew working th e city, bringing up gold coins and jewelry, carved stonework, vin tage brandy, and Creole memorabilia. Steering wheels from classic cars had been particularly hot this yearâ€""most of them s old to collectors in Asia and South America. Moseby trained his m en himself, taught them as much as they could handle. The men wer e carefulâ€Â¦but they still died. Not as often as the men wo rking the supposedly safer parts of the city, but too often, for Moseby. That’s why he dove alone today. Men had the right to risk their lives to feed their families, but Moseby was n’t seeking treasure today. At least none that woul d be sold or bartered. He switched off his light. Gave in to the darkness. Waiting. Moseby closed his eyes. Patient. When he open ed them again, he could see. Not clearly, even his eyes werenâ 364;™t that good, but he could see. Now that Mamaâ€&# 8482;s had oriented him, the shapes and shadows seemed laid out b efore him, the messy grid on the city’s outskirts. St. Bernard’s Parish in the Ninth Ward, where the l evee had failed first. The old government had raised the levees two times after Hurricane Katrina inundated the city. Built them higher and higher, trying to keep up with the rising sea level an d the ever more powerful hurricanes spawned by the warming. Septe mber 23, 2013, thirty years ago, Hurricane James, a category 6 hu rricane, predicted to miss the city, had suddenly veered west in the middle of the night and struck New Orleans at sunrise. The le vees gave way as though made of tissue, the waters of the Gulf co vering the city under fifty feet of water. Most of the estimated 300,000 dead were stuck in traffic trying to flee. Hurricane Jame s was the most violent storm ever recorded. Until Hurricane Maria two years later. He glided over the road, his no-wake flippers almost living up to their name. Brightly colored fish ignored him , twisting and turning as they darted past him, weaving in and ou t the open windows of the barnaclecrusted vehicles strewn below. The houses in the immediate area were small and falling down, but the land rose slightly toward the north, where the homes were la rger, many of them surrounded by iron fences and stone walls. Thi s was where Sweeny would have lived. Annabelle couldn†482;t remember much from her visit to her eccentric uncle†™s houseâ€""she was barely fiveâ€""but there ha d been an ancient banyan tree in his backyard dripping with Spani sh moss, and a swing set already rusted, squeaking loudly, one le g of the swing lifting off the ground as she had rhythmically pum ped away. She remembered Sweeny taking her and her mother to a lo cal po’boy joint, a hole-in-the-wall specializing i n oysters drenched in fresh lime juice, bourbon, and Tabasco. Swe eny said he ate two po’boys for lunch every day, pr oudly watched as his niece devoured one of her own, smacking her lips with pleasure in spite of the blistering hot sauce. Moseby h ad spent months searching for New Orleans take-out joints special izing in the Cajun delicacy, months of scouring local guidebooks and newspaper articles. Last week he got lucky, ran into an old-t imerâ€Â¦a regular at Mama’s in the old days. Moseby’s eyes adjusted even further to the dim ligh t. Annabelle said if it had been him instead of Jonah swallowed b y the whale, Moseby wouldn’t have needed divine int ervention to find his way out of its innards. He checked his watc h. Plenty of time. Plenty of air. He passed over a small backyard , a line of laundry drooping but still standing. Shirts and pants and dresses, their colors faded, eaten through with time, ragged pennants rippling in the current. Another yardâ€Â¦the scree n door thrown open, torn half off its hinges, and Moseby wondered if the family inside the house had made it out alive, had clung to a boat, a skiff, an inflatable swimming pool; he wondered if t hey had gotten lucky, awakened from a nightmare before dawn, and raced ahead of the raging floodwaters. Annabelle said her uncleâ €™s house had been large, with a high river-rock fenc e and white pillars; he had become a rich man down on his luck by then, his house the remnant of his fortune as the neighborhood s unk into squalor. She and her mother had never gone back after th at first visit. Sweeny had taken offense at something her mother saidâ€Â¦or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, he r uncle and the house were a dim memory. The marble bust of the womanâ€Â¦that was a different story. Annabelle remembered it vividly. The stone queen, that’s what she had call ed the statue. A beautiful woman with a head full of tight curls, her expression distant and dreamy, as though she had seen someth ing that no one else had ever seen, and the sight had changed her . The world would never be quite fine enough for the woman now. A nnabelle said she thought the stone queen must have looked into h eaven and couldn’t wait to go there. Moseby knew be tter. He and Annabelle had sifted through photos on the Net until she narrowed down what she remembered. If she was right, the sta tue was Greek, probably early classical, in the style of Aphrodit e of Melos. Priceless. Moseby was going to surprise Annabelle wit h it for their anniversary tonight. For weeks he had been searchi ng for it, not even telling his daughter, Leanne. A gro, Pocket Star, 2009, 3, Outlaw Entertainment, 2009-08-04. Paperback. Acceptable. Ex-library book with typical stickers and stampings. Binding has been repaired. Creases on cover. Some crinkling of pages from use. Priority or international shipping available on this item., Outlaw Entertainment, 2009-08-04, 2.5<
