Conspiracy in Kiev (The Russian Trilogy, Book 1)
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A shrewd investigator and an expert marksman, Special Agent Alexandra LaDuca can handle any case the FBI gives her. Or can she? While on loan from the U.S. Department of the Treasury, Alex is tapped to accompany a Secret Service team during an American Presidential visit to Ukraine. Her assignment: to keep personal watch over Yuri Federov, the most charming and most notorious gangster in the region. Against her better judgment―and fighting a feeling that she’s being manipulated―she leaves for Ukraine. But there are more parts to this dangerous mission than anyone suspects, and connecting the dots takes Alex across three continents and through some life-altering discoveries about herself, her work, her faith, and her future. Conspiracy in Kiev―from the first double-cross to the stunning final pages―is the kind of solid, fast-paced espionage thriller only Noel Hynd can write. For those who have never read Noel Hynd, this first book in The Russian Trilogy is the perfect place to start.
street, blocking passage. The cabbie pulled up hard and brought the taxi to an unsteady jolting halt. Then in the fraction of a second before anything happened, Chuck knew that he was a dead man and Susan wouldn’t fare much better. Another car screeched up behind them. Chuck heard car doors open and slam shut. At the same time, his lateral vision caught the movement of a fourth man emerging from between two parked cars to the side. Chuck started yelling. Loud, accusatory, and profane. Chuck
and Susan felt the weight of their own cab change as both the driver and the woman, knowing what was happening, bolted and fled, leaving their doors open. Susan’s voice, high and anguished, “What the—?” Chuck’s voice followed close, frenzied. “It’s a trap!” he screamed. With one hand, Chuck worked his door handle. It was locked. His other hand groped for a gun, the one that he had chosen not to carry that night because so many of the clubs did searches. In his peripheral vision, he saw two
and not feeling much compassion. He glanced at the disgraceful film poster above the body, one that turned immorality drug addiction into a joke. Cheech and Chong. The Corsican Brothers. Who was kidding whom? If one of these potheads wanted to meet some real Corsican brothers, Rizzo could arrange it. And as for this dead guy being a singer-musician, well, Sinatra and Pavarotti had been singers. Gino Paoli was a singer. The current pop star Zucherro was a singer. This guy was just a dead guy.
“Guests are expected to shoot their shot,” Friedman advised with a smile. “Sipping is wimpy. You okay with this?” “Someone else is driving me back to the hotel, right?” “Yes, and it won’t be me.” Three toasts went back and fourth. Alex bailed after that. Two more followed. Ambassador Drake set the tone by conspicuously leading the consumption of shots. It was no surprise that he was popular among the locals and his staff, as well as whoever sold the vodka to the embassy. Toward 11:30, the
“Similar but different. Like a tiger to a mountain lion.” “Look, tomorrow morning you’ll get a briefing. If you want to say no, you’ll get the chance.” Alex and Robert split a sea bass that Gus had grilled to perfection. Midway through the meal, Alexandra looked up and saw a man at the end of the bar whom she thought she recognized. She caught him watching her. Rather than smile or acknowledge her, he looked away. She was always noticing details: where someone stood, what they wore, who was