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Getaway

Getaway

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Getaway

оценки:
3/5 (7 оценки)
Длина:
47 pages
42 minutes
Издатель:
Издано:
Sep 5, 2017
ISBN:
9781501192548
Формат:
Книге

Описание

In this short story from the International Thriller Writers’ anthology MatchUp, bestselling authors Nelson DeMille and Lisa Scottoline—along with their popular series characters John Corey and Bennie Rosato—team up for the first time ever.

It was getting colder, and he was tired from the long drive, and he was feeling naked without his gun…

When former NYPD homicide detective and Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force agent John Corey finds himself recuperating at a remote lakeside cabin, the last thing he expects is trouble. Then tough-as-nails lawyer Bennie Rosato comes running out of the woods with masked men on her trail. With no phone reception and unknown dangers lurking, can these two alpha personalities work together to survive the night?

For more exciting pairs, check out all eleven short stories in MatchUp.
Издатель:
Издано:
Sep 5, 2017
ISBN:
9781501192548
Формат:
Книге

Об авторе

Nelson DeMille is the New York Times bestselling author of twenty-one novels, six of which were #1 New York Times bestsellers. His novels include The Deserter (written with Alex DeMille), The Cuban Affair, Word of Honor, Plum Island, The Charm School, The Gold Coast, and The General’s Daughter, which was made into a major motion picture, starring John Travolta and Madeleine Stowe. He has written short stories, book reviews, and articles for magazines and newspapers. Nelson DeMille is a combat-decorated US Army veteran, a member of Mensa, Poets & Writers, and the Authors Guild, and past president of the Mystery Writers of America. He is also a member of the International Thriller Writers, who honored him as 2015 ThrillerMaster of the Year. He lives on Long Island with his family.

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Getaway - Nelson DeMille

GETAWAY

JOHN COREY, FORMER NYPD HOMICIDE detective, and former Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force agent, sat in an Adirondack chair with his fingers wrapped around a glass of Dewar’s, contemplating the possible end of his third career—with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group—and his second marriage. Was it possible, he wondered, that his career and marital problems were of his own making? No. Shit just happens. He took a sip of scotch and stared into the gathering twilight toward Lake Whackamole. That wasn’t the name of the lake, he knew, but it was some gibberish Indian name. P.C. correction. Some melodious Native American name.

Whackyweed?

No, that’s marijuana.

Anyway, it was a lake. A small one in upstate New York, in the middle of nowhere, and the closest town was Nowheresville, about forty miles away.

It had taken him nearly ten hours from Manhattan to get to this godforsaken place in what was called the North Country, sometimes called God’s Country, and he wondered why he was there. He was a city boy and nature made him nervous. So maybe this wasn’t a good place to relax. It sounded good in theory but he should have known better. He sipped more scotch. The familiar smell and taste of it made him relax, even before the alcohol hit his brain.

He looked again at the darkly mirrored lake and the woods around it. He could make out a few other cabins set back from the opposite shore but they were dark. The only lit one, aside from his own, was the one he could see through the trees about two hundred yards to his left. He wondered who his neighbor might be. With any luck, he’d never find out. But maybe it was a hot babe on the lam from city problems, as he was. Or maybe it was a local girl, single or divorced, no kids, great cook, and looking for a drinking buddy.

And she drank scotch.

Most likely, though, it was some backwoods Deliverance psycho who had a collection of chain saws that he wanted to show his new neighbor.

Dick Kearns, Corey’s former police buddy who’d loaned the cabin, had assured him that no one would be at the lake in late October, and if anyone was, they’d keep to themselves.

Good.

So he sat back and stared at the trees.

There were a lot of them. More than in Central Park. In fact, he was actually in a park—Adirondack State Park, a sparsely populated stretch of land bigger than Vermont—and much of it was designated as Forever Wild, meaning he’d have a hard time finding a pub.

He’d been in this neck of the woods a few years before on a case involving a guy named Bain Madox who owned a lodge called the Custer Hill Club. Madox was a billionaire nut job who tried to start

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