Dead Centre (Nick Stone, Book 14)
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The new Nick Stone thriller from the bestselling author of Bravo Two Zero.
January 2005: Nick Stone is in tsunami hit Banda Aceh on a job to retrieve incriminating evidence of an oil deal. When looters arrive a fight breaks out and a man, Mong, is killed. Nick makes a promise to his dead friend to protect his widow, Tracey.
March 2011: Nick is in Moscow filling his days at a private gun range when he is lifted by heavies and taken to meet an oligarch. The oligarch wants Nick to track down his kidnapped wife and son. It transpires that the oligarch has married Tracey and so Nick is given the opportunity to fulfil his promise to Mong. Nick follows the trail from Mogadishu to Nairobi, from Courchevelski to Bristol, on a mission to unravel this complex and explosive plot. He eventually tracks down Tracey and her son and leads a rescue mission, all guns blazing, only to find that Tracey is dead and the boy is missing.
There's only one man the boy can be with, and one place, which only Nick knows... Nick goes after him, and he has vengeance to wreak.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
government-designated fast lanes and beat the Moscow jams. Lads with red plates were never stopped. About a month ago, the police had a clamp-down on their illegal use. They pulled over a genuine red-plated wagon: the diplomat’s BGs jumped out and overpowered them, spread the officers on the ground, weapons confiscated. How were they to know the police were genuine? But even if they were black-market gear, I still had to worry. These things cost at least twenty-five thousand dollars – more if
finances the South Ossetian independence movement. He helps them attack Tbilisi in any way they can. He’s not short of cash. It looks like he has fingers in every pie. Oil, gas, real estate. He backed Putin when he reorganized things. He’s no good guy, but he has class. He doesn’t own a football club or run for provincial governor. He keeps himself to himself. For him, it’s all about business, all about the deal.’ ‘Are you sure he’s the one?’ ‘I’ll send a picture.’ ‘What about you, Anna? You
had been stuck to the walls. A couple of dangle bars hung on nylon webbing. It looked like a gymnast’s idea of heaven. My Timberlands squeaked on the laminate flooring as I walked into the no-frills living room. There was a big fuck-off TV, and that was about it. The rest was open space. It wasn’t as if Crazy Dave needed an armchair. French windows opened onto the garden, accessed via another ramp. I followed a narrow path of B&Q’s best fake Cotswold stone up to a pair of doors set into the
end. With five-star hotels charging $35,000 a night for a suite, chalets at $190,000 a week and restaurants that boasted more Michelin stars per head of population than anywhere else on the planet, they wouldn’t have been dis appointed. If there was snow, they were here – if they weren’t in Moscow making money, or in London spending it. And where the Russians go, the nouveaux riches from the emerging economies in Eastern Europe, Asia and South America follow. I’d landed in Geneva and got
I’d have demanded a bigger driveway as well. It only just fitted the gleaming black Range Rover with French plates and darkened windows. ‘I’ll tell you if it has when you take me back. You’re waiting, yeah?’ ‘Yes, sir. I am booked until you want to leave. Same as the helicopter.’ I opened the door. The cold, crisp air attacked my face. I liked it. It woke me up a little. ‘What’s your name, mate?’ He swivelled in his seat, smiling under his sun-gigs. ‘Jacques.’ I leant down. ‘You new at this,