Dead in Dubai by Marilynn Larew (4/27-5/31)
Dead in Dubai
by Marilynn Larew
on Tour April 27 - May 31, 2015
Tour Info:
Book Formats: eBooks
Hosting Options: Review, Interview(3), Guest Post(1), Showcase
Giveaway: Each Host May Gift one Dead in Dubai eBook | There will also be a PICT Rafflecopter giveaway for those that prefer not to host their own giveaway
Series: Lee Carruthers #2; Each is a Stand Alone Novel
Book Details:
Genre: Thriller, Espionage
Published by: Artemis Press
Publication Date: April 30, 2015
Number of Pages: 283
ISBN: 978-0-9910912-4-9
Purchase Links:
Synopsis:
Why is CIA officer George Branson dead?
Out of the Agency and looking for work, former CIA analyst Lee Carruthers accepts the request of George's wife that Lee go to Dubai and find out what really happened. When she arrives, she walks into a deadly war between rival Merchants of Death for market share. She learns that George had worked for each man under a different name, one in Dubai and one in Istanbul. With his own, that gave George three identities. Which man was murdered? Had George really been working for the Agency, or had he sold out and, if so, to whom? Who are the men following her? And why does she keep finding diamonds?Read an excerpt:
Is
there life after the CIA? I wondered as I stamped my foot into the
bindings of first one ski and then the other. I was among the few early
birds on the slopes; we were hoping to avoid the rush of celebrities
modeling their designer ski togs. The view was spectacular! Snowy hills
covered with pine trees stretched away and away. I lowered my goggles
and pushed off. As I gathered speed I laughed aloud at the awesome feel
of the wind in my face, the best antidote to my time in the Algerian
desert I could think of. Halfway down the piste, something buzzed past
my face. Then I heard a crack. Somebody was shooting at me? I bent as
far down as I could and snowplowed to the side of the run, stopping just
before I got to the trees. Great! Nothing. Not even a knife.
I ripped off my goggles and kicked out of the bindings. Stepping carefully into the woods, bent almost double, I advanced with a ski pole in each hand. I wish my gear wasn’t burgundy, I thought. On the other hand, I hadn’t expected to have to channel the Fourth Mountain Brigade that morning. I heard steps crunching toward me in the snow and ducked behind a tree. A man in black wearing a black face mask, his rifle held lightly in his right hand, slipped carefully forward, scanning to the left and to the right. He was looking too high to see me. When he was half a meter away, I yelled and launched myself at him with the ski poles thrust forward, but he deflected them with the rifle. He raised the rifle for another shot. I threw myself at him again, and he dropped the rifle. I grabbed it, and swung it hard, hitting him in the left shoulder. I reversed the rifle, backed up and fired. Off balance. Tried again.
He turned and ran. Should I follow him? What would I do with him if I caught him? I considered the rifle. I could hardly take it back to the ski lodge with me. I dropped the clip and whacked it up against the side of a tree, sending a jolt all the way down to my toes, and buried it in the snow by the side of the trail, throwing the clip as far as I could into the woods. I retrieved my ski poles and stood panting, heart pounding. I started to tremble and told my body it would have to wait until I got to the bottom of the slope, but it paid no attention, so I trembled.
“Who?” I asked myself. “Who?” I sat down with my back against a tree for a count of five hundred before I stopped shaking. Blowback from Morocco?
I stomped the snow off my boots and slipped them into the ski bindings. I couldn’t find my goggles, but I wanted to be in cover as soon as possible so I didn’t spend much time looking for them. With a shooter in play, I felt terribly exposed. Maybe the shooter had a friend. Unarmed. I was unarmed. Not even a nail file. I wanted a gun and badly. Where could I get a gun in the peaceful countryside of Switzerland? Breaking into a gun shop was always an option.
At the bottom of the slope, I kicked my way out of my skis and carried them back into the rack. I felt cold deep down inside, and gin seemed advisable. A drink in the lounge? Too public. Back in the room I made one of my very dry martinis—gin and a cube of ice. Maybe that would help me unscramble my brain. I looked at my watch. Ten thirty. Drinking in the morning was a sure sign of something or other. I finished the drink, but I was still cold. I took a long, hot shower and lay curled up under the duvet remembering.
I had been sent to Morocco to find a missing colleague and wound up fighting my way out of a terrorist camp. They killed Kemal. I touched the bloodstained pearl hanging around my neck. I killed his killer, but Kemal was still dead.
Would the Pure Warriors of Islam send an assassin all the way to Switzerland to get me? Possibly, but it seemed unlikely. Whoever he was, he knew me, and I didn’t know him. I went to sleep listing the people who might want to kill me.
When I woke, I ordered lunch from room service. The waiter who delivered it looked like an Arab. Arab guest workers in Switzerland? The shooter could disappear into the crowd of Arab workers. He might even be one of them. If I couldn’t find and neutralize him, I was going to have to cut and run. I hate to do that, but I disapprove of assassination, particularly my own.
I ripped off my goggles and kicked out of the bindings. Stepping carefully into the woods, bent almost double, I advanced with a ski pole in each hand. I wish my gear wasn’t burgundy, I thought. On the other hand, I hadn’t expected to have to channel the Fourth Mountain Brigade that morning. I heard steps crunching toward me in the snow and ducked behind a tree. A man in black wearing a black face mask, his rifle held lightly in his right hand, slipped carefully forward, scanning to the left and to the right. He was looking too high to see me. When he was half a meter away, I yelled and launched myself at him with the ski poles thrust forward, but he deflected them with the rifle. He raised the rifle for another shot. I threw myself at him again, and he dropped the rifle. I grabbed it, and swung it hard, hitting him in the left shoulder. I reversed the rifle, backed up and fired. Off balance. Tried again.
He turned and ran. Should I follow him? What would I do with him if I caught him? I considered the rifle. I could hardly take it back to the ski lodge with me. I dropped the clip and whacked it up against the side of a tree, sending a jolt all the way down to my toes, and buried it in the snow by the side of the trail, throwing the clip as far as I could into the woods. I retrieved my ski poles and stood panting, heart pounding. I started to tremble and told my body it would have to wait until I got to the bottom of the slope, but it paid no attention, so I trembled.
“Who?” I asked myself. “Who?” I sat down with my back against a tree for a count of five hundred before I stopped shaking. Blowback from Morocco?
I stomped the snow off my boots and slipped them into the ski bindings. I couldn’t find my goggles, but I wanted to be in cover as soon as possible so I didn’t spend much time looking for them. With a shooter in play, I felt terribly exposed. Maybe the shooter had a friend. Unarmed. I was unarmed. Not even a nail file. I wanted a gun and badly. Where could I get a gun in the peaceful countryside of Switzerland? Breaking into a gun shop was always an option.
At the bottom of the slope, I kicked my way out of my skis and carried them back into the rack. I felt cold deep down inside, and gin seemed advisable. A drink in the lounge? Too public. Back in the room I made one of my very dry martinis—gin and a cube of ice. Maybe that would help me unscramble my brain. I looked at my watch. Ten thirty. Drinking in the morning was a sure sign of something or other. I finished the drink, but I was still cold. I took a long, hot shower and lay curled up under the duvet remembering.
I had been sent to Morocco to find a missing colleague and wound up fighting my way out of a terrorist camp. They killed Kemal. I touched the bloodstained pearl hanging around my neck. I killed his killer, but Kemal was still dead.
Would the Pure Warriors of Islam send an assassin all the way to Switzerland to get me? Possibly, but it seemed unlikely. Whoever he was, he knew me, and I didn’t know him. I went to sleep listing the people who might want to kill me.
When I woke, I ordered lunch from room service. The waiter who delivered it looked like an Arab. Arab guest workers in Switzerland? The shooter could disappear into the crowd of Arab workers. He might even be one of them. If I couldn’t find and neutralize him, I was going to have to cut and run. I hate to do that, but I disapprove of assassination, particularly my own.
Author Bio:
MARILYNN
LAREW is a historian who has published in such disparate fields as
American colonial and architectural history, Vietnamese military
history, and terrorism, and has taught courses in each of them in the
University of Maryland System.
Before settling on the Mason-Dixon line in southern Pennsylvania, she
lived in Nebraska, Iowa, Missouri, Georgia, Wisconsin, Ohio, South
Carolina, Maryland, in Manila, and on Okinawa. It’s no surprise that she
likes to travel. When she’s climbing the first hill in Istanbul to
Topkapi Palace, strolling around Hoan Kiem Lake in Hanoi, or exploring
the back streets of Kowloon, she is not just having fun, she’s looking
for locations for her next novel.
When she’s not traveling, she is writing or reading. She writes
thrillers and likes to read them. She also likes to read Vietnamese
history and Asian history in general, as well as military history. She
lives with her husband in a 200-year-old farmhouse in southern
Pennsylvania.
She belongs to Sisters in Crime, the Guppies, and the Chinese Military
History Society.
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