Ice Cold Kill
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"Grabs you on page one and doesn't let you go until the final page!" ―Nelson DeMille on Crashers
Daria Gibron is a woman with a deadly past and an uncertain future. A former Shin-Bet agent now in exile in the U.S. and under the protection of the F.B.I., she works primarily as an interpreter. But Daria is a thrill junkie who can't resist the occasional freelance job as an operative―a habit that has left her with a trail of corpses behind her, and a few still living, very dangerous, high-powered enemies who would stop at nothing to get revenge.
En route to an impromptu meeting with an old contact from her days in the Israeli Secret Service, Daria gets an unexpected and anonymous tipoff that she's about to walk into an ambush. Unsure who is after her, or why, she slips away from her followers and soon learns that she's been set up―and set up good. Someone has linked her to a much sought-after terrorist, and now all the resources of the U.S. intelligence community are being marshaled against her.
As she tries to escape the ever-tightening snare laid out for her, someone else is using the operation against her as a distraction to hijack a very dangerous, highly guarded shipment. Now the only person who can keep this shipment from falling into terrorist hands is the one person they chose to set up as a diversion. Daria Gibron is many things―trigger-happy, resourceful, focused, and extremely dangerous ―but the one thing she isn't is anybody's fool.
Ice Cold Kill is an espionage spy thriller from Dana Haynes.
Their radio chirped and one of the men sitting below them in the Jeep Grand Cherokee swore in English. The man was a Bosnian Croat mercenary from the Neretva Canton of Herzegovina. “Base: this is fucked! What are your orders?” Asher set down the binoculars and turned to their communications man. “We need to redirect the Syrian, please. He’s going to the wrong site.” The second man in the Grand Cherokee shouted into his mic. “He’ll be suspicious. He won’t—” “Gentlemen?” Asher reached up and
prince is in D.C. He’s voiced support for Hezbollah, or at least a thawing of relations.” Sylvestri pondered but only for a half second. “Could be something.” “Yeah. You know that flood in Colorado yesterday? Secret Service lost a convoy team.” She shook her head, distracted as she checked e-mails on her BlackBerry. “Doesn’t sound connected to our thing.” John agreed. He checked his voice mails. They had stacked up, as they do every night he actually went home. One caught his eye. “Hey! Hold
ginger hair. “What the hell, Owen? I’m asking, here: what the holy hell happened?” Thorson, whom no one would call jovial, seethed with anger. His blush reached from his face all the way down and into the collar of his tailored shirt. “We got ambushed, sir. They saw us coming.” Cohen dug Tums out of his pocket, feeling pretty confident the seltzer wasn’t going to cut the acid currently gnawing through his stomach. “And by they you mean an ex-spook who doesn’t weigh one-twenty soaking wet, and
Nanette Sylvestri asked the obvious question. “What were they transporting? This package?” “I don’t know yet. I put in a request. The Secret Service is stonewalling me.” The room was quiet for a moment. Nanette Sylvestri nodded firmly, coming to a decision. She turned and looked him straight in the eye. “It’s a hell of a theory, John, and it’s solid analysis. But, honestly? We have an assassin and a potential sleeper agent, a spectacular heist of sensitive CIA property and intel, and photos of
and all of it wobbled like gelatin over Daria’s body. Fucking hell! she thought. Thanks for the help, lads! * * * “What is going on!” the French pathologist screamed in Asher’s ear. “My God! What is—” A shell flashed through the brick wall, through the tattered plastic, through the Frenchman’s knee, through the floor, into the escape tunnel between the ground floor and the sewer lines, then into the body of one of the first mercenaries to hit the tunnel, through him, and into the sewers