Ex-deniable operator Nick Stone has spent an entire life in harm’s approach – but if a person he cares for terribly deeply is murdered in chilly blood, he can not simply take the discomfort. A high-level internecine clash on the darkish center of the resurgent Russian Empire and an assassin’s bullet on an remoted Alpine cross propel him from an it seems that run-of-the-mill close-protection job into his such a lot brutal and demanding venture but. because the physique count number raises, Stone turns into certainly one of Europe’s so much sought after. He needs to circumvent the elite police forces of 3 international locations in his pursuit of faceless males who exchange in human distress, and a lone wolf terrorist who threatens to unharness the Western World’s worst nightmare. Vengeance of the main explosive type is best of Stone’s time table. The fuse has been ignited – yet who fairly holds the detonator? "Like his writer, the ex-SAS soldier became über-agent is unstoppable” day-by-day replicate
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Additional resources for Detonator (Nick Stone book 17)
A jet of weapons-grade vomit spews out of my mouth. I can’t take note the final time I vomited. i will be able to consider myself frowning as i glance on the sticky, brightly colored circulation that appears to be like connecting my face to the mattress of brown needles less than it. Then the pool of vomit rises up and smacks me among the eyes and the darkness rushes in back. 2 I don’t understand how lengthy I lay there. i assumed i used to be drowning, first of all. Drowning in a mountain lake. No. Drowning in a pool of vomit. my very own vomit. ‘Nick …’ A man’s voice. Clipped. targeted. jap ecu. ‘I want your support, Nick …’ you would like my support? That can’t be correct. I can’t even aid myself. ‘I want your aid … I don’t understand who else i will belief … ‘Don’t comprehend who else i will be able to belief … ‘Can belief … ‘Can belief …’ My head was once an echo chamber. someplace deep inside of what used to be left of my mind, a drumbeat sounded. Pounding. Insistent. ‘This isn't really a drill …’ extra drums. A guitar, perhaps. ‘This shit is for genuine …’ I raised my head. Fuck, my face stank. It used to be lined with puke. i used to be mendacity beside a few bushes, fir bushes, on a mattress of dank brown and yellow pine needles. I grabbed a fistful of them and wiped away as a lot of the puke as i'll. Then anything made me rake over the needles in order that there has been no hint of it on exhibit there both, and canopy my tracks as I scrambled underneath the bushes. I felt my correct arm jerk again. The strap of my day sack was once looped round a low-hanging department. I unhooked the item and deposited it at the some distance facet of the biggest trunk i may achieve, then crawled after it. Took a number of sluggish, deep breaths. a pair extra. I rolled over and lay on my again. Struggled to sluggish every little thing down. I knew i used to be within the shit. bodily and mentally. yet I had no suggestion why. I close my eyes tight, opened them and seemed up throughout the bushes. Brown. eco-friendly. Little diamonds of blue. Sky, might be? Fragments of color, like fragments of reminiscence. They appeared to make experience for a second, till I misplaced my grip on them back. to attempt to get my pondering immediately, i made a decision to count number backwards from 100. i used to be vaguely acutely aware that that used to be what a physician might question me to do. What i might ask anyone to do if i assumed they’d taken a blow to the pinnacle and misplaced a couple of marbles. Did that suggest i used to be a physician? I knew I’d given my mind stem adequate of a rattle to fuck up my non permanent reminiscence. and that i knew another clinical shit. Morphine syrettes … box dressings … Tourniquets … I knew that once you took a around within the thigh you usually needed to dig round and grip the soggy finish of your femoral artery among thumb and forefinger to prevent your self bleeding out. I stuffed my lungs with air and commenced. ‘One hundred … ‘Ninety-nine … ‘Ninety-eight … ‘One hundred … ‘Ninety-nine …’ i used to be getting nowhere quick. I didn’t imagine I’d forgotten tips on how to count number. I simply saved forgetting the place i used to be within the series. possibly simply because questions stored echoing within my head. an analogous questions, most likely. Who am I? the place am I? ‘I want your support, Nick …’ I’m now not a physician. So now not that sort of support. No. I’m on a job.