A Sparrow Falls (Courtney Family, Book 3)
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A Sparrow Falls, another gripping installment in Wilbur Smith's Courtney Family Adventure series
Mark Anders grew up on eight thousand acres of African land that bore his family name. Then he fought in Europe's Great War and, upon returning to his ancestral home, he saw savagery unlike any other….
In Africa, Mark's family estate has been despoiled. His grandfather has died under mysterious circumstances. And he has inherited a murderous enemy--the rogue scion of the powerful Courtney clan--in an altogether new kind of war.
Now, Mark will make a fateful choice between two women. Journey into the wilderness to uncover his grandfather's fate. Find his way through battles raging between fathers and sons, generals and politicians, and nature and man. In an age of violent conflict, Mark Anders will live or die for justice--and his fight will echo across a country he always loved….
beer, his eyebrows thick and dark and beetling under the brim of his helmet. ‘You are obstructing the police. We will charge if we have to.’ ‘Charge and be damned, puppets of imperialism, running dogs of capitalism—’ ‘Troop, extend order,’ called the Captain, and the ranks opened for the second file to come up into a solid line. They sat on the restless horses, knee to knee. ‘Strike-breakers!’ yelled Fergus. ‘Your hands will be stained with the blood of innocent workers this day!’ ‘Batons!’
realizing that he had failed dismally. But she gave one last hearty sniff and swallowed what was left of her misery, as though it were a jagged piece of stone. Then she smiled at him, blinking the last tears from her eyes. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. I am a very patient person. You’ll see,’ she told him comfortably. ‘You don’t understand, Mark shrugged with helpless frustration. ‘Oh, I do understand, Mark,’ she smiled again, but now it was the indulgent smile of a mother for a naughty child. ‘When
there was no doubting that he was a boy. His tiny penis stuck out at half mast, like a white finger with its little floppy chefs cap of loose wrinkled skin. Mark found himself hating this other man’s child, with a sudden frightening hatred. Yet he went forward involuntarily to where Storm knelt with the baby in her lap. Mother’s touch had quelled the shouts of anger, and now the boy was smacking his lips and making little anticipatory hunger grunts and pawing demandingly at Storm’s bosom. The
a moment that his body was crushed to boneless pulp on the rocky floor of the gorge, but then the cold, tumultuous torrent of racing water overwhelmed him. He had been thrown far enough to fall into the river itself. , Clinging to his last shreds of consciousness, he fought for breath, fought to keep his head above the surface, as the torrent swept him away. Glistening black boulders leapt like predators out of the dark, clawing at his legs, pummelling his injured chest, barging into him with
blanket on a mattress of fresh-cut grass and aromatic leaves. It was still raining, a steady grey relentless downpouring from the low pregnant cloudbanks that seemed to press against the tree-tops — but Mark was dry. Above him was a low roof of rock, a roof that had been blackened over the millennium by the wood fires of others who had sought shelter in this shallow cave; the opening of the shelter faced north-west, away from the prevailing rain-bearing winds, and just catching the last