By Leighton Gage
Compliment for the executive Inspector Mario Silva sequence: “Intelligent and sophisticated. . . . fanatics of suspenseful and complicated crime novels could be rewarded.”—Publishers Weekly “An notable keep on with as much as a very good debut. . . . Gage’s abilities contain not just eye-catching characters and reasonable plots, but in addition an intensely learned feel of position and an unrelenting quickly pace.”—Booklist “Highly recommended.”—Library magazine, starred evaluation “Both a strong political mystery and gripping crime fiction.”—Florida Sun-Sentinel “Breathtaking. . . . A e-book you can’t have enough money to miss.”—Louise Ure “Terrifically written, clever, and powerfully evocative. Leighton Gage is a grasp storyteller.”—Brian Haig “As wealthy and intricate as Brazil itself.”—Rebecca Pawel The granddaughter of a well-known flesh presser is lacking. Silva and his group locate her in Manaus, a jungle hellhole at the Amazon the place an evil lady physician is making gory snuff motion pictures. Silva needs to conquer his personal department’s indifference and the corrupt neighborhood police officers ahead of he can receive a semblance of justice for the sufferers. Leighton Gage has spent decades in Brazil, the place he keeps a house. He additionally lives in Miami and spends a part of the 12 months within the Netherlands. His prior books within the leader Inspector Mario Silva sequence, Blood of the depraved and Buried Strangers, also are to be had.
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Example text
Not even then. I want you to—” “I know the bastard’s lying,” Silva said, before his boss could complete the thought. “I just need his confession. Technically, we’re not laying a finger on him. What’s happening to Nardoni is being perpetrated by the other lowlifes in his cell. ” “I’m not talking about deniability. I’m talking about what’s right. ” “He’s a demonic man, Director. ” “Then I specifically order you to—” “And before giving me that order, I’d like you to reflect on what he did. ” Sampaio stopped short, closed his mouth, opened it again, closed it again.
That’s him,” he said. Bentinck studied the likeness. Frans looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He had curly blond hair combed straight back, an earring, a weak chin, and a petulant mouth. “We figured he had to be living in the neighborhood of the post office,” Kuipers said. “It helped that he had a penchant for wearing bright pink. People remembered him. His last name is Oosterbaan. ” “Not yet. We’re going to roust him out of bed in the dead of night. It’s more of a psychological shock that way, makes people more likely to tell us things.
There was a bruise on her cheek, and her nose was swollen. Gingerly, she touched it with a fingertip and moved it from side to side. It hurt, but it didn’t seem to be broken. That one, thank God, had only been a glancing blow. She was tilting her head back, trying to look at the crusted blood inside her nostrils, when she heard a key in the lock. She spun around and faced the door. The deadbolt was sliding back. Marta was adept at capoeira, the Brazilian martial art, but she couldn’t use it here.