James W. Hall
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When her parents were murdered, Hannah Keller was 3,000 miles away, on leave from her job with the Miami Police Department. Her family's only survivor on that deadly day was Hannah's six-year-old son Randall. While fishing on the dock behind his grandparents' house, the boy glimpsed the killers, and later discovered his grandparents' bullet-riddled bodies. Five years later the trauma of that day still haunts the boy. He lives in terror that the killers will return for him. Hannah is no longer a cop but now works full time as a novelist, and is trying to do whatever she can to heal her son's wounds. But when she receives a coded message apparently from her parents' killers, the entire episode explodes again. Teaming up with a maverick FBI agent from the Miami field office, Hannah begins to track the killer. As she moves deeper into the labyrinth, she discovers, to her horror, that she and her son are being used as pawns in an elaborate scheme - a trap designed to catch one of the world's deadliest assassins. Hannah and Randall become entangled in a bitter feud, a burning vendetta, and the mind of a bloodthirsty professional killer.
he touched you, Misty. You’re a big girl. That’s part of the job.” “Asshole can do anything he wants to me, I got to stand there and take it? You rewrite the Constitution, did you, Jesus? I lost my inalienable rights all of a sudden?” “You have a problem with a customer you come talk to me. That’s how it works.” “Oh, yeah. I’ve seen whose side you come down on, Jesus.” “Misty, you poured a beer on this man. He’s sitting there doing business with his clients and you embarrassed him. You ruined
be aggressive by all the super-aggressive assholes around her, she finally made it to the far-left lane. Ten minutes later, she was at the light at Sunset, waiting her turn to go left when Randall dropped the book on the floor at his feet. He sat there looking straight ahead. “So?” she said. “You figure it out?” “Yeah.” “You’re kidding.” “I’m not kidding. It’s a simple code.” “Well, what’s it say?” He kept his eyes on the traffic. The light finished its cycle, turned yellow, then red. Five
where I live anyway?” On the floor above them, there was a party in 206. There was always a party in 206. And they always played the same Moody Blues album, smoked the same cigars to cover up the odor of their potent dope. His tie-dyed neighbors. Sheffield and Helen Shane sat side by side in the canvas directors’ chairs which Frank left out in the elements on his small cement porch. The chairs had started out maroon, but in the ten years he’d had them, they’d weathered to a pale pink, always
to his face. He’d gouged the thumbtack into the flesh of Ed Keller’s forehead to hold in place the eight-by-ten glossy of J. J. Fielding, banker, money launderer, fugitive. “Randall!” She pushed herself back upright and edged across the room toward the bedroom. She hopped through the door, swinging the pistol from side to side. The bed was made, the room tidy. Light streamed in through the French doors that opened onto the patio. “It’s me, Randall. It’s Mommy.” At the foot of the bed, the
and bang, he’s gone. Not a good-bye kiss, see you later, it’s been nice being your dad, nothing, not one word.” “And your mother? Does she know where he is?” “Go pinch her nipple if you want to find out. I don’t talk to my mother. We stopped seeing eye-to-eye some time back.” The man moved the gray glow down to her belly and rested it there. A palm-top computer with a black-and-white screen no bigger than a wallet. A tiny aerial sprouting from one edge. Misty squinted at the thing. She didn’t