By Richard Castle
Derrick typhoon is back--this time with a crack staff of ghost CIA operatives. those former brokers have all faked their very own deaths and now paintings for the CIA on a strictly mystery foundation, taking over harmful and unlawful jobs the corporation would possibly not formally perform. They're headed to the Molguzar Mountains to seem for sixty billion dollars' worthy of gold hidden by way of the KGB ahead of the cave in of the Soviet Union, and taking a deadly detour to rescue FBI agent April Showers from a sociopathic torturer. yet Storm's loyalties are placed to the attempt because the venture starts off to solve right into a bloody mountaintop showdown, and he and Showers needs to discover the demanding manner that their task will not be what they notion it was...
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Extra resources for A Bloody Storm (Derrick Storm, Book 3)
He pulled a panatela out of a desk drawer, unwrapped, bit off the end and spit it into the wastebasket. ” I said, “Mr. Walkie-Talkie intrigues me. Not a friendly sort. ” “Or his charge was the person she was waiting for and he’d slipped away to attend to the boss. Someone she was eager to be with from the way she kept looking at her watch. ” “Girl in designer duds and a diamond watch wouldn’t hang with Joe Sixpack. ” “And Black Suit could’ve chauffeured the two of them—his clothes would fit a driver, too.
It’s not that she projected vulnerability—maybe she did. She also looked like someone who should be famous but neither of us could place her. She kept checking her watch but when we left no one had showed up. And Mr. ” He pulled out his pad. ” I told him and he scrawled. “The waiter might know if anyone showed up. He was paying pretty close attention to her. Some temp named Neil. ” “I don’t know. ” “Her clothes and the watch say she was way out of his league but some guys don’t convince easily.
Thirties, tall, broad, with short yellow hair, he flashed us a slit-eyed appraisal before returning to watching the empty street. His suit was black and it draped his bulk uneasily. An interesting bulge swelled his breast pocket, a spiral cord ran from an earpiece down the back of his collar. ” I said, “Good question. ” “Some flies are kept like pets. ” Something made me turn back to Mr. Black Suit. His head jerked away quickly and he studied the sidewalk; he’d been watching us. Despite the theatrical apathy, his shoulders were tight, his profile less animate than Rushmore.