Back from the Dead
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Peter Leonard's jaw-dropping VOICES OF THE DEAD introduced us to two mortal enemies: Holocaust survivor Harry Levin and Nazi death angel Ernst Hess. Now, their struggle reaches its dramatic conclusion in BACK FROM THE DEAD.Bahamas, 1971. Ernst Hess, missing and presumed dead, regains consciousness to find himself stuck in a hospital bed on a strange ward in a foreign country. He must do what he needs to do to get his life back and to finish the job he has been doing for decades.Harry believes he has already stopped Hess. When he finds out that the war criminal has somehow survived, Harry must do the only thing he can do – kill Hess again – even if it means crossing continents and putting his life and the lives of those that matter to him on the line.Action-packed and darkly humorous, BACK FROM THE DEAD is the unforgettable conclusion to a story that launches Peter Leonard into the pantheon of great suspense novelists.
Hess’ empty cocktail glass. “Only if you’re having one.” “Twist my arm,” Max said, getting up and grabbing Hess’ glass off the round plastic table that had an umbrella through the middle, and disappeared in the house. Max was a lot more personable and outgoing on familiar turf. That, or he was getting more comfortable with Hess. Ernst was standing at the edge of the waterway, admiring a seventy-foot pleasure yacht, two shapely blondes in bikinis sunbathing on the aft deck, when Max returned
breathin’ hard and sweatin’ when they got to the apartment door. High looked back at him, nodded, knocked on the door, waited a couple seconds, knocked again. Door opened, Jhonny the kid, standing in the crack, eyes on High-Step then looking over at Cordell. “Yo, how you doin’? My man Alejo at home?” The kid turned looking in the room, said something in Spanish. Cordell heard a voice say something back. Kid looked at High-Step, sounded like he said, “I doan thin so.” “I can see it’s a big
evening. Can you be there at seven?” Hess checked into a room at the Pierre Hotel on East 61st Street. He was Max Hoffman from Pompano Beach, Florida by way of Cleveland. Told the reception clerk American Airlines had lost his luggage. He went up to his room that had a view of Central Park, sipped a Macallan’s and watched television, NBC Nightly News already in progress, staring in disbelief at a black-and-white photograph of himself in a Nazi uniform, posing in front of a pit filled with dead
every eye in the room on her as she sat at his table, Harry hoping she was single and available before he even met her. Today was the day. He’d meet someone at Frauenplatz. Harry would go with him and trade himself for Colette. But he had a surprise for them. At first light he woke Cordell. It was cold and clear, light traffic as they drove to Frauenplatz, seeing the orange roof and onion-dome towers of the Frauenkirche looming in the distance. “You gonna tell me what we’re doin’?” “Planning
slung it over his shoulder. He walked uphill through the trees. He could see the house now, two floors, walls made of plaster with wood beams. The two cars he’d seen at Frauenplatz were parked in front. Cordell unslung the rifle, rested the barrel on a branch that had cracked and fallen but was still attached to the tree. He brought the stock to his shoulder, adjusted the scope and moved the rifle across the front of the house, left to right, could see someone in the left upstairs window, a