Arhkangel by James Brabazon
English | 2020| Mystery/Thriller| ePUB | 3.1 MB
The brutally authentic, tense and terrifying thriller from bestselling author and frontline journalist James Brabazon.
Officially, Max McLean doesn’t exist.
An off-the-books assassin for the British government, he operates alone.
But when a routine hit goes badly wrong, a cryptic note on a $100 bill prised from his target’s dead fingers suggests there’s more to the mission than meets the eye.
Is someone from Max’s former life trying to send him a message?
From Paris to Jerusalem and on to the frozen wastes of north-west Russia, Max is forced into a desperate race for the truth – with unknown enemies determined to stop him at any cost.
And when the secret coded into the banknote is finally revealed, only one thing is certain: with the fate of the world in his possession, failure is not an option . . .
A razor-sharp action thriller with the raw inventiveness of I Am Pilgrim and the breathless pace of movies like John Wick and James Bond, Arkhangel sees James Brabazon stake his claim alongside Lee Child, David Baldacci and Gregg Hurwitz as a master of the genre.
roar berating the headland.
The nearest house was five hundred metres to the north-east. It had been empty for a year – an unwanted holiday home languishing in negative equity. The track to its front door wound off to the main road four hundred metres further on. Seven hundred metres to the south-east a couple from Birmingham gazed out over Ulster in the midst of their retirement. Good luck with that. Drongawn Lough lay due south. Everywhere else was just rough sea or sodden turf.
I spent twelve hours in the gully. Out of habit I clicked a little pebble I’d picked off the beach against the back of my teeth. I didn’t need it: the rainwater kept my throat moist and my head clear.
It was a two-man job. But, as usual, I was flying solo: the details – and the consequences – were on me alone. While I’d snatched moments of sleep a night vision camera picked out in electric green the whitewashed walls of his self-imposed prison.
A week-long reconnaissance was just enough to establish a pattern of life, and short enough not to cause suspicion by hanging around: the target was secluded – no bystanders in the way and none to threaten the operation; the holiday park owners were glad to take a week’s rent out of season and asked no questions. If it blew up, there were only two people at risk: me and him.
Colonel Ellard – who’d drilled me hard as a new recruit – had been fond of reminding me that the enemy has a vote. ‘He won’t do what you expect him to just because you want him to.’ That was day two of training and a lifetime ago. But Ellard would have agreed there was no point figuring out what this target’s plan was. He’d made a choice, and he was going to have to live with it, however briefly. The fact that he’d chosen to come here, now, was the only certainty, the only fact to consider. I assumed he was armed, and that the doors might be rigged. But only one of us was going to leave the cottage, and on the current balance of probabilities that was going to be me. ‘Surprise,’ concluded the colonel, ‘neutralizes ignorance. Briefly.’