By Barry Eisler
John Rain sequence, e-book #2
Previously released as Hard Rain and Blood from Blood
All John Rain desires is to get out of the killing company. yet along with his discretion, his reliability, and his targeted expertise for loss of life through "natural causes," not anyone is prepared to allow him simply retire. So whilst an outdated nemesis from the japanese nationwide police strength involves him with a brand new job--eliminate Murakami, a killer much more fearsome than Rain himself--Rain is aware he can't refuse.
Aided via an achingly fascinating part Brazilian, part eastern unique dancer he understands he shouldn't belief, Rain pursues his quarry via underground no-holds-barred struggle golf equipment, mobbed-up hostess bars, and eventually into the guts of a shadow battle among the CIA and the yakuza. It's a warfare Rain can't win, but additionally one he can't have enough money to lose--a conflict the place the differences among pal and foe and fact and deceit are as murky because the rain-slicked streets of Tokyo.
"... a superlative job... wonderful and suspenseful adequate to maintain you turning the pages as quick as your eyes can follow."
--Chicago solar Times
Includes a observe from the writer introducing the recent edition. This is ebook #2 within the John Rain murderer sequence, notwithstanding every one access is written as a standalone and you'll learn them in any order you like.
Read or Download A Lonely Resurrection (John Rain, Book 2) PDF
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Extra info for A Lonely Resurrection (John Rain, Book 2)
Instructions were repeated. The guards used their axes and iron bars to pry open the wreckage, carefully at first and then with a terrible, almost wilfully destructive abandon. The rest of the young woman’s body simply was not there. There were no complete bodies anywhere in this pile of wreckage, only mismatched tatters of torn clothing and random bits of flesh and gouged bone. There was not so much as an identifiable scrap of her dress left behind. There was only the pale arm ending in the bloodless and tightly curled and now motionless fingers.
I do not know if Ellen Ternan and her mother went with him. I do know they returned with him. A lady whom I have never met nor much wish to, a certain Mrs William Clara Pitt Byrne (a friend, I am told, of Charles Waterton—the naturalist and explorer who reported his bold adventures all over the world but who had died from a silly fall at his estate of Walton Hall just eleven days before the Staplehurst accident, his ghost later reported to be haunting the place in the form of a great grey heron), loved to send little bits of malicious gossip to the Times.
She was face-down in the swamp, her arms under her body. He rolled her over to be certain that she was no longer among the living, when suddenly her eyes popped open in her mud-covered face. ” she gasped. ” It took a moment before Dickens noticed the infant clasped fiercely between the fat woman’s heavy arms, the small white face pressed deep against the woman’s pendulous bosoms. The baby was dead—either drowned in the shallow swamp or asphyxiated by its mother’s weight. Dickens heard a hissing call, saw Drood’s pale form waving to him from the web of shadows under the broken bridge and walked towards him, but came first to a collapsed, upside-down carriage where a young woman’s bare but shapely arm protruded from what was left of a window.