By John Case
From "The Genesis Code" to "The homicide Artist", John Case has validated himself because the grasp of unrelenting suspense. Now Case choreographs his so much diabolically chilling novel up to now, because the very cloth of civilisation threatens to return aside within the arms of a brilliantly vengeful madman...Photojournalist Mike Burke has carried his digital camera into each warfare region and hellhole on the earth - and are available again with the images (and conflict scars) to turn out it. he's flying excessive until eventually, particularly unexpectedly, he is not. while Burke's helicopter crashes and burns in Africa, he comes away together with his lifestyles yet loses his center to the girl who saves him. that is whilst he comes to a decision it's time to cease dancing with the satan. however the satan is not performed with him yet...
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Extra info for Dance of Death
You could almost make out his face. " Andrea asked. Kovalenko grunted. The man in the frame had his 38 arm in a sling, as if it were broken. And maybe it was. But Kovalenko didn't think so. The sling was probably just a ploy, a way of getting his bags up to the counter without having to carry them, without having to stand with them. It was the kind of thing Ted Bundy did before they put him to sleep. "Okay," Andrea said. The monitor sprung back to life. Another cough. That's all I need, Kovalenko thought.
That way, we sendin' a message. Like a Hallmark card. Only this man, his passport says 'America'! Land of the free! So now, we all humanitarian. 50-caliber machine gun mounted in the back), and tossed him onto a pile of ammunition belts. Then they 45 drove him to the Irish lady doctor's clinic in Porkpa. A moldering shantytown of huts on the flanks of a dirt road, Porkpa was proud of its infirmary. With a dozen beds, a tiny lab, and its own ambulance, the clinic – a concrete box with a rusting tin roof, its walls painted ocher, pink, and teal – was the only "infrastructure" for miles around.
Fair play, Burke thought. That's what we do. But his mind wasn't on it. He was thinking about Kate's 43 father, aka "the Old Man," whose name was engraved on the brass plaque beside the heavy oak doors that gave entrance to the office: Thomas Aherne & Associates Bit of a lie, that. Other than Burke, there were no associates. Nor had there been for months. Not since . . well, not since Kate died. Even now, the words took his breath away. Stuttering senselessly in the back of his mind, they suggested a sentence that had no end, an idea so impossible it could only be stillborn.
Dance of Death by John Case