Spy Trade: A Spycatcher Novella
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When a mission goes awry in Syria, senior CIA officer Bob Oakland is captured by aspiring members of ISIS, who demand the release of one of their own, Arzam Saud, in U.S. captivity. When their hands are tied by Washington's refusal to negotiate, the CIA turns to MI6 officer Will Cochrane to find out what's really going on. The threats are escalating quickly, and in order to save the CIA officer, Cochrane must uncover why Saud is truly so important . . .
wife and daughters that I’m sorry.” The Chechen leader took a step closer to the bench and Oakland. “Go out of this world with dignity, not regret! I won’t give you a quick death unless your final words deserve it.” Bob smiled. Better final words? He recalled his trek in the desert, a walk wholly unlike that of T. E. Lawrence in magnitude but not in spirit. At least, not according to the David Lean movie depiction of the Englishman. A line from the movie stuck in his head. “My final sentence
man wrenched her arms away from her face, thrust her bed’s pillow on her mouth, and put his full body weight behind his hand. She lashed, punched, and scratched at the man’s arms and body, but he held her firm, pressing even harder as he squeezed the life out of her. No air in her lungs, which were now convulsing in agony. Her mind was exploding. Eyes and throat, too. It felt like an hour, but in one minute her body gave one final convulsion, her back arched, and Nadia was dead. Signor
unrecognizable as a human being. Even with no weapons, the Russian’s combat expertise was such that time and time again he’d been able to use his hands, feet, knees, and other body parts to make men and women’s bones break, their hearts stop, and their brains shut down forever. He stopped close to a clearing at the easterly end of the pond. Crouching to one side of a bush, he saw the operative talking on his cell phone as he walked along the park’s footpath. The man was oblivious to the nearby
forearm, and eased the needle of the first syringe into Safa. “The first one’s always the more painful one, isn’t it?” Safa nodded, his teeth gritted together. “Just two more; smaller needles; almost no pain.” The medicine was administered. Many times Safa had asked what was in the pills and syringes; always his guardian had answered, but the names he used to describe the medicines were in Latin and so long that Safa could never remember them. Still, all that mattered was that his doctors and
part of an assault course. Bob took up the challenge, partly because he too was bored and more important because he wanted to find out if it was true that his tongue would freeze to the metal. Mitten-covered hands either side of a head that was adorned with a knitted velvet hat, Oakland gripped the four-inch-wide bar and bit. His mouth didn’t freeze solid to the metal. But fingernail-sized flakes of iron entered his mouth, and they tasted of blood. He hated the taste of iron then; and he