By Derek Haas
He calls himself Columbus. a few name him the Silver undergo. All recognize him as one of many deadliest assassins within the world.
Now, as he tracks a robust baby-kisser with presidential aspirations, the fragmented items of his personal lifestyles start to element to a negative fact that would unmake every little thing he's, tear aside the shadowy, felony international he rules-and placed him correct within the crosshairs.
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Additional resources for The Silver Bear
And yet I am not worried. If a hiker or the landowner stumbles upon her corpse, I did take the few minutes necessary to make it difficult to identify. I am still blanketed in dirt when I enter the brick courtyard of the Rittenhouse Hotel. I pass through the lounge, only slowing for a hasty check-in, and then up to my room, fending off assistance with my bags from dueling bellboys. Just get me to my room, get me to a shower, let me wash off the grime and the smell of this day gone sour. The room is enormous, with a large window overlooking Rittenhouse Square and the city.
CHAPTER 4 I wash myself the best I can at a highway rest stop. I buried the body a hundred yards inside a thick growth of trees off of a deserted farm-to-market road with nothing but a tire iron and my bare hands. It was a messy operation. Messy because I didn’t know the land, didn’t have time to do it the right way, didn’t have time to plant the body deep enough so it won’t be found for decades. And yet I am not worried. If a hiker or the landowner stumbles upon her corpse, I did take the few minutes necessary to make it difficult to identify.
The padlock that usually kept it firmly closed was somehow forced, wood scrapings cutting claw scratches into the wall. Pooley stood just outside the door, his tiny body shaking, drenched with sweat, a glass shard in his hand, blood dripping from the end in large red drops. Pete’s face metamorphosed so dramatically, it was like someone had flipped a switch, turning from acid rage to sudden confusion and trepidation. ” was all he could manage, and his knees actually wobbled. Pooley didn’t answer; he just stood there, trembling, his face strained, blood and sweat mingling on the carpet at his feet.