Going Back by Neil Lancaster

 Going Back

Going Back by Neil Lancaster
English | 2020 | Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 2.9 MB

Neil was born in Liverpool in the 1960s. He recently left the Metropolitan Police where he served for over twenty-five years, predominantly as a detective, leading and conducting investigations into some of the most serious criminals across the UK and beyond.

The war is over, but some scars never heal…
Novak is back.
Answering a call from his old friend and comrade-in-arms, Mike Brogan, Tom Novak finds himself back in the one place he does not want to be, the home of his childhood nightmares: Sarajevo.
Undercover and thrust into the centre of a Black Op, Tom and his team are double-crossed and forced to rely on their wits as a deadly new threat emerges.
Forced into a race against time to stop a terrifyingly effective new weapon, can Tom fight against the odds once more to save not just those he loves, but the world as we know it?

Davud Babić stood in the middle of the disused and decaying industrial estate, projecting pure menace at the wiry form of Goran Pavlović.

It was a look he had perfected over many years, from being a member of Arkan’s Tigers, through his time in the Serbian special forces, and later when he managed to get a hold on crime in Belgrade and beyond. He had spent the last few months staring down the scum of Serbia in the Central Prison and had always prevailed. He feared no man; particularly not this unknown, skinny pencil-neck who, despite his comparatively diminutive stature, returned his hard stare with an underlying trace of humour.

Babić was angry: really angry. He did not appreciate being ripped off, especially when it was his own people who had made the deal possible in the first place. One thing was for sure: if Pavlović thought he was paying the full price for those machine-guns, then he was sadly mistaken.

‘Do you have the merchandise we agreed?’

‘Yes. It’s all here, just as you ordered, do you have the funds ready to transfer?’ Pavlović had a flat and yet resonant tone with no discernible accent.

Babić stared at him, failing to understand how the little shrimp was so relaxed; he was used to people being far more intimidated by his presence and, unbelievably, Pavlović had come alone. His Ford van behind him sagged tellingly at the rear, indicative of the weighty cargo it carried. Babić feared no man, but there was no way that he would hand over thousands of dollars’ worth of military hardware without some degree of support. For his part, he knew that the reassuring presence of Risto glowered from the driver’s seat of his own pickup.

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