Sunday, 27 February 2011

The Bestselling Author CHASING THE NIGHT is giving us, Eve Duncan Aficionados, another thrilling time with Eve Duncan - 16th April, 2011.

Have a peek at our favourite forensic sculptor in the whole world...

Malua, Samoa

Present Day

TWO MINUTES.

The explosive was in place beneath the back veranda of the house. The charge set.
Agent Art Benkman slid behind the garden wall that surrounded the pool and house and waited.
No mistakes this time. His superior wouldn't tolerate another near miss. It had been made clear that Black must be destroyed. He was a monster who knew too much.
No, he'd seen Paul Black go into the house an hour ago. It was the best time for the kill. Only one person in the house beside that son of a bitch. A housekeeper who occupied the end bedroom of the rambling bungalow. He'd seen her light go out two hours ago. She'd be asleep by now.
Good night.
And good-bye.
No one would survive this blast. He'd had to be sure.
One minute.
The flames from the blast would probably reach the top of those palm trees hovering over the roof.
"I've got you, Black," he murmured. "Burn in--"
Pain.
He was flipped over and was looking up at the man who had sent the needle- sharp stiletto deep into his back.
Black. But it couldn't be Paul Black. He was in the house.
No, he was here. That dark, devil's face . . .
"Who sent you?" Black asked. "Who told you I was here?" He was searching in Benkman's pockets, pulling out his wallet, and the e-mail that he'd received two days ago. He glanced at it and smiled. "Very explicit. And you obeyed blindly like a good agent? Never mind. You don't have to answer. I don't need you now."
"Kill you . . ." Benkman whispered. "I have to--"
"Die," Black supplied as he picked up Benkman as if he were a child. "That's all you have to do." He was carrying him over to the house. "How do you feel about cremation?"
"No!" He started to struggle as panic overcame pain. "Don't leave me here. It's going to--"
"Blow?" Black dropped him on the floor of the great room. "In about forty seconds." He looked down at him. "Why don't you see if you can make it through the French doors and out onto the terrace? You might survive then." He turned and strolled out of the house.
Bastard.
Benkman rolled over and started to crawl toward the French doors.
Pain.
The blood was pouring out of the wound as he moved.
Weak.
The blood was slippery . . .
He was dying.
No, he'd be okay. He was always okay. He just had to get out of this damn house.
So slow. He was moving so slow.
He reached the French doors. Now crawl out onto the veranda. He was almost there . .
And then he saw Black standing by the garden wall and watching him. He was smiling.
He tapped his watch.
Too late, Benkman realized frantically. He was too late. Time had run out.
"Don't leave me!" he howled. "Get me out of--"
The house exploded and became an inferno.
"HERE'S THE REPORT, SIR. Shall I call Atlanta and give it to her?"

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