By James Patterson
Retail ePub from OverDrive
Wedding bells ring
Detective Alex move and Bree's marriage ceremony plans are wear carry whilst Alex is termed to the scene of the peerlessly done assassination of 2 of Washington D.C.'s so much corrupt: a filthy congressmen and an underhanded lobbyist. subsequent, the elusive gunman starts off identifying off different crooked politicians, sparking a blaze of theories--is the marksman a hero or a vigilante?
A assassin returns
The case explodes, and the FBI assigns agent Max Siegel to the research. As Alex and Siegel conflict over jurisdiction, the murders proceed. It turns into transparent that they're the paintings of a pro who has specified wisdom of his victims' movements--information that just a Washington insider may possibly possess.
Caught in a deadly pass hearth
As Alex contends with the sniper, Siegel, and the marriage, he gets a decision from his deadliest adversary, Kyle Craig. The Mastermind is in D.C. and won't relent until eventually he has eradicated go and his relatives for reliable. With a supercharged mixture of motion, deception, and suspense, Cross Fire is James Patterson's such a lot visceral and interesting Alex pass novel ever.
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Extra resources for Cross Fire (Alex Cross, Book 17)
Turgut Bora of Istanbul University. My great hope in making this story public is that it may find at least one reader who will understand it for what it actually is: a cri de coeur. To you, perceptive reader, I bequeath my history. Oxford, England January 15, 2008 Part One How these papers have been placed in sequence will be made manifest in the reading of them. All needless matters have been eliminated, so that a history almost at variance with the possibilities of later-day belief may stand forth as simple fact.
I’ve seen pictures of that. You could say she’s a sort of ghost—she probably lives in a very small village. ” I kept my face glued to the window. No more ghosts appeared, but I didn’t miss a single view of the miracle that did: Ragusa, far below us, an ivory city with a molten, sunlit sea breaking around its walls, roofs redder than the evening sky inside their tremendous medieval enclosure. The city sat on a large round peninsula, and its walls looked impenetrable to sea storm and invasion, a giant wading off the Adriatic coast.
Emona was built on Bronze Age pilings along a river now lined with art-nouveau architecture. During the next day or two, we would walk past the mayor’s mansion, past seventeenth-century town houses trimmed with silver fleurs-de-lis, past the solid golden back of a great market building, its steps leading down to the surface of the water from heavily barred old doors. For centuries, river cargo had been hoisted up at that place to feed the town. And where primitive huts had once proliferated on the shore, sycamores—the European plane tree—now grew to an immense girth above the river walls and dropped curls of bark into the current.