By M. H. Sargent
During this fast moving mystery, Iraq's most sensible terrorist makes provides - a abducted American contractor can be performed on a given date, his physique dumped in Baghdad's eco-friendly area and an immense assault will ensue in seven days.
Working desperately to discover the yank and thwart the approaching assault is an elite 4-man CIA crew along with an enticing lady health practitioner. yet they could in basic terms watch helplessly because the terrorist and his masked henchmen behead the yankee in the course of a stay video feed carried on the net.
What they don't comprehend is that one of many masked males isn't really a terrorist, yet thoroughly blameless. he's an Iraqi pharmacist who has infiltrated the gang. His basically goal - to discover his lacking fiancée, who the terrorist has additionally abducted.
After the beheading, he's unfastened to move. yet little does he be aware of that his fiancée will convey the deceased American's head to the golf green region, and contained in the useless man's mouth is facts linking him to the terrorist.
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Additional info for Seven Days From Sunday (An MP-5 CIA Thriller, Book 1)
You and Werner coul dn’t both have dreamed it. ” Eve’s grin grew. ” I huffed. “First I said I didn’t want to talk about it. Then when I tried, Nick didn’t want to hear it. So first we avoided the subject and then we avoided each other. ” Eve waved a hand. ” “No, seriously, the FBI takes advantage of their special agents that way. ” “Still, on or off, you and Nick have always stayed friends. ” I sighed inwardly. ” Before my eyes, she turned into a member of gossip central. ” Once, after a lonely six-pack of Dos Equis.
So, perhaps—hopefully—if it pleased whatever deity controlled these things—possibly Buddha, and Yoda, too—my psychometric phase had passed. An unexpected whiff of chocolate hit me, a sign my mother’s spirit hovered, along with a clear vision of her laughing, and I sighed. Not a phase, then. In self-defense, I turned my attention from that tempting trunk to the problem at hand. Well, problems, plural: my intern for one, my psychic gift for another, and the ethical need to tell Nick, my FBI boy toy, about a kiss I shared with Werner, though, sewing circle oath, Werner and I were in a sleepinduced, half-unconscious state at the time.
My Out to Lunch sign and the click of the shop lock became an imperative to release my breath. I needed, at the very least, a thimbleful of control and a bit of downtime to sort some sticky issues, Nick being only one of several. I’d barely sat when the shop phone rang. ” “Give me Isobel,” demanded a chipmunk with attitude before he/she/it demonstrated, not quite beneath its breath, an impressive and varied case of potty mouth. The obscenities ended with the same demand they’d started with: “Give me Isobel,” delivered like Darth Vader on helium, or a squirrel on steroids; take your pick.