Kent The Shadow Network

'The British Jack Reacher' - The Sunday Times
1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-78396-669-1
Verlag: Elliott & Thompson
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 5, 464 Seiten

Reihe: Dempsey/Devlin

COMING SOON!The Revenge of Odessa: The long-awaited sequel to the genre-defining classic thriller The Odessa File, written by Frederick Forsyth in collaboration with Tony Kent. 'an absolute belter' IAN RANKIN 'The British Jack Reacher'The Sunday Times 'Packed with deception and espionage ... Kent has become the British Baldacci, and there can be no higher praise.'Daily Mail Don't miss Book 5 from criminal barrister and crime author Tony Kent: THE SHADOW NETWORK How do you take down an enemy when no one believes they exist? When the lawyers of alleged war criminal Hannibal Strauss are caught up in a terror attack in The Hague, barrister Michael Devlin immediately suspects all is not what it seems. Teaming up once more with Agent Joe Dempsey, they must find who's behind it all before any more innocent lives are lost. With their key witness on the run and assassins on their tail, their only lead is a codename: the Monk, a legendary and mysterious foreign agent with a fearsome reputation. But what is his stake in this dangerous game? And just who is part of his shadowy network of spies? Caught in a complicated web of lies, secrets and double agents, there's no one Dempsey and Devlin can trust but themselves. PRAISE FOR THE SHADOW NETWORK 'What a ride! The very definition of a fast-paced thriller ... Tony Kent's best yet.' IMRAN MAHMOOD, AUTHOR OF ALL I SAID WAS TRUE 'I couldn't put it down!' STEPH BROADRIBB, AUTHOR OF DEATH ON THE BEACH 'A blistering, bruising and utterly addictive thriller that never misses.' NEIL BROADFOOT, AUTHOR OF UNMARKED GRAVES 'Unrelenting tension, nerve-shredding action, and lightening pace. Joe Dempsey is this decade's Jack Bauer.' NEIL LANCASTER, AUTHOR OF BLOOD RUNS COLD

Tony Kent is the author of Killer Intent, Marked for Death, Power Play, No Way to Die and The Shadow Network, and co-author of The Revenge of Odessa, the long-awaited sequel to Frederick Forsyth's genre-defining classic thriller The Odessa File. As a practising criminal barrister and former boxer, Tony Kent draws on his experiences to bring a striking authenticity to his thrillers. Ranked as a 'leader in his field', Tony has prosecuted and defended in the most serious trials during his twenty years at the Criminal Bar, and appears as a criminal justice expert on a number of TV shows, including Meet, Marry, Murder; My Lover, My Killer and Kill Thy Neighbour. Tony is the founder director of Chiltern Kills crime writing festival. He lives just outside London with his wife, young son and dog.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Kent, Tony

Leseproben

FOUR

Joe Dempsey crossed the narrow street to the pavement opposite the Church of St Thomas More, placed his hand on his forehead to shield his eyes from the intensity of the sun and looked up.

The church was in London’s Chelsea district, just a short walk from the King’s Road and only a little further from Michael and Sarah’s home in Carlyle Square. It was not what Dempsey would have imagined from the surroundings. The building was surprisingly plain from the outside. Built in unflattering red brick. It looked almost as if a poorly designed factory had been dropped just a stone’s throw from the most scenic part of the River Thames, an effect worsened by the pretty, chocolate-box townhouses that surrounded it.

Not that Dempsey was here to appraise the architecture. No. He was here for a far more important task – to take on a duty to which, until just a few days ago, he had feared he was entirely unsuited, but to which he could also not bring himself to say no.

Dempsey’s opinion on that subject had been changed by the events of the past week and the lengths to which he had pushed himself to protect the son of his former friend. But that reassurance was the sole positive of what he had just lived through. His experiences in the past seven days – chasing down a dirty bomb across the State of Florida, failing to prevent a prison break in Texas and then leading a pitched battle against a domestic terrorist organisation in the foothills of the Appalachian mountains – had taken a physical and emotional toll that had left him close to exhaustion. And so this rare holiday – his first trip home in four years – was needed more now than ever.

Taking just a few moments more to enjoy the warmth of the sun, Dempsey inhaled a deep, reassuring breath, stepped off the curb and headed towards the church.

The large wooden doors at the front of the building had been left open for the arrival of the christening party, but the church itself seemed deserted. Dempsey was unsure if this was unusual. It had been a while since he had stepped inside a place like this and he could not remember the last time he had done so without it being full. Normal or not, for now he was completely alone.

The question vanished anyway as he paid proper attention to the building’s interior, which he now saw was nothing like the outside. It seemed older. As if it predated the exterior, which was of course impossible. But it was something more than that which had grabbed him.

he asked himself.

Dempsey looked around as he sought to answer his own question, a strangely familiar discomfort moving within his stomach as he did so. In contrast to the plain walls visible from the street, the nave of the building was filled with a combination of marble, gold leaf and fine art. Like all Catholic churches in England, it paled against the grandeur of Rome. Or even some of those in New York, or at least Manhattan.

But for that, was a church. The kind Dempsey remembered from his childhood. , his father had raised him to believe, was ‘God’s house’. That thought alone – that rare mental reference to the man who had raised him – explained the gnawing, unhappy feeling deep within his gut. Even one glimpse of that face within his mind’s eye brought back a thousand memories. Very few of them were good. And none of them were welcome.

For a moment, in the silence of the nave, Dempsey’s thoughts began to drift to a place he had avoided for years. A place he did not want to revisit. He was grateful, then, when they were drowned out by the sound of small wheels on paving stones, and by two very different accents.

Northern Irish and American. Both well-spoken versions, both with the tinge of British colour that years in London will inevitably add. Two voices that made Dempsey happier than he had been in a very long time.

Dempsey had not seen Michael Devlin or Sarah Truman in more than two years. Not in person, anyway. One of the few positives of the Covid-19 lockdown was how au fait the world had become with interacting on-screen. And while Dempsey had been less reliant on that tech than most, none of the international journeys his job had required while the planet was closed had brought him home to the UK.

It was via exactly that kind of video link-up that Dempsey had ‘seen’ Sarah Truman just thirty-six hours ago. From his hotel room back in Philadelphia, to explain why his trip to London had been delayed and to reassure her that its cause had been settled; that he make it to the baptism. But all call had done was to cement how screen contact was no substitute.

No amount of Zoom or Skype would ever replace the physical presence of a friend.

The afternoon sun beamed powerfully as Sarah reached the church.

It caused the wooden doorway to frame her, creating a full body halo that left her features in shadow, too dark to make out. Not that those details were needed. Dempsey would recognise Sarah Truman in pitch darkness. Right now, he even knew how wide she was smiling.

That happiness filled her voice when she spoke.

‘The elusive Joseph Dempsey.’

Sarah’s face became visible as she took the few steps that separated them. The grin there, as big as Dempsey had ever seen it, while her striking green eyes were alive with excitement and her arms thrown wide in welcome. An instant later and Dempsey was engulfed in her tight embrace.

‘My God it’s good to see you.’ Sarah spoke into Dempsey’s ear as she gripped him harder, every word filled with genuine feeling. ‘It’s been way too long.’

‘I know,’ Dempsey whispered. He would have been uncomfortable with this level of physical contact from almost anyone else. But not from her. Dempsey hugged back hard. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been back.’

‘You’ll be even more sorry if you don’t take your hands off my girl.’

The second voice – male and Irish – came from the sun-drenched doorway. Another silhouette that Dempsey could have identified at a hundred yards, even without the distinctive accent. Dempsey and Sarah each took a step backwards, and Sarah moved to her right to give him a clear view.

Michael Devlin stepped into the space she had vacated. The effect of the sunbeam was less angelic upon him than it had been on his fiancée. Which was, at least to Dempsey’s mind, entirely appropriate.

As Michael moved forwards, Dempsey could see a double buggy behind him, safely stationed in the shade just inside the open doorway. He thrust out his right hand and, with a nod of his head, he indicated the buggy.

‘You on parking duty, are you?’

Michael slapped Dempsey’s hand aside, took one step closer and threw his arms around his friend’s shoulders. It was the same reaction as Sarah’s, fuelled by the joy of being together again. And no doubt by sadness that it could not last.

Dempsey returned both the embrace and the sentiment. For the second or two that it lasted, neither man said a word.

‘OK. Enough of the emotional bollocks.’

Michael stepped back as he spoke. He looked Dempsey up and down, as if suddenly all business. Dempsey realised he was being assessed for fresh damage. For new injuries, sustained since they had last seen one another. Dempsey knew they were there. He knew where they were. And he knew that most were too old now to affect his movement much, so he was confident that Michael could not spot them.

‘I’m not gonna lie, I can’t quite believe you’re here,’ Michael finally said, his grin returning as he spoke. ‘I can’t believe you really made it.’

‘Like I was ever going to miss this,’ Dempsey replied.

‘It was touch and go for a while there,’ Sarah said. ‘Any chance we’ll ever hear why?’

‘No chance at all,’ Dempsey replied. ‘You know we don’t talk to the press.’

‘Screw you. When was I ever “the press” where you’re concerned?’

Dempsey had no doubt that the outrage was fake and was happy that his answer had diverted Sarah from her question. As much as he loved them both, there were things about his ‘other’ life that he could not discuss. Not even with his closest friends.

‘And there was me thinking my job’s just not newsworthy enough for you,’ Dempsey joked. ‘But what does it matter? I got here, didn’t I? I was always getting here.’

‘Never doubted it for a second, buddy.’ Michael slapped Dempsey’s arm as he spoke, then waited a beat. ‘Well, maybe for of a second . . .’

‘Well, was confident about it, at least.’ Dempsey laughed. ‘I couldn’t leave you two hanging on this one.’

‘No. No, you bloody well could not.’ Michael’s smile widened as he spoke. ‘Speaking of which, isn’t it above time for the boys to meet their Uncle Joe?’

Dempsey walked the few paces to the buggy and for the first time looked down on the small, sleeping faces of the eight-month-old twin boys, just about discernible under their shawls and their hats. They remained motionless, sleeping tight through the big introduction.

Dempsey...