Bangkok 8: A Novel by John Burdett

By John Burdett

A mystery with perspective to spare, Bangkok 8 is a lovely, razor-edged, usually darkly hilarious novel set in a single of the world’s such a lot unique cities.

Witnessed by means of a throng of gaping spectators, a charismatic Marine sergeant is murdered less than a Bangkok bridge inside of a bolted-shut Mercedes Benz. one of the witnesses are the single law enforcement officials within the urban now not at the take, yet inside moments one is murdered and his companion, Sonchai Jitpleecheep—a religious Buddhist and the son of a Thai bar lady and a long-gone Vietnam conflict G.I.—is hell-bent on wreaking revenge. On a vigilante challenge to trap his partner’s assassin, Sonchai is begrudgingly paired with a gorgeous FBI agent named Jones and captures her center within the approach. In a urban fueled by means of illicit medicines and countless corruption, prostitution and worthy artwork, Sonchai’s quest for vengeance takes him right into a international even more sinister than he can have ever imagined.

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Holding on for her life, before it slipped away entirely, in falls and headaches and the horrifying sense of sliding away into insanity. All the bad things simply . . stopped. Her taut muscles loosened, her eyes closed, her nose was buried in a sweater that smelled of fabric softener and man, with a faint tang of smoke. She was being held tightly, engulfed in strong arms and warmth and her mind simply blanked. She was so used to the background buzz of anxiety and fear in her head, a constant hiss of static tinged with darkness, that she simply blissed out at its absence.

Interested. ” It had been so long since she‟d felt anything like this, since she‟d been part of that whole manwoman thing. Her only contact with men over the past nine months had been with doctors and physical therapists, then lawyers as she settled her father‟s estate. She‟d nearly forgotten that she was a woman. Daniel Weston made her feel female once again. She felt a connection to him and even though it was probably a sign of her craziness, because the connection was in her dreams, right at this moment she didn‟t feel cold and alone and listless, which had been her default emotional setting for more time than she cared to think about.

He touched his baseball cap with his index finger in a salute, then took off with a squeal of t ires, leaving her completely alone on the deserted street. The trip had been such a nightmare. She‟d regretted it the moment she‟d left the house in the pouring rain. The taxi had got caught in a jam due to the sudden downpour, tipping her out at departures barely in time to make it to the gate. Two huge Airbuses were boarding and the gates were crowded with far more passengers than the relatively small Tampa airport was equipped to handle.

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