The Survivor: A Novel
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The #1 international bestselling author of You’re Next, unleashes his most accomplished, compelling thriller yet One morning in Los Angeles, Nate Overbay—a divorced former solider suffering from PTSD and slowly dying from ALS — goes to an eleventh-floor bank, climbs out of the bathroom window onto the ledge, and gets ready to end it all. But as he’s steeling himself, a crew of robbers bursts into the bank and begins to viciously shoot employees and customers. With nothing to lose, Nate confronts the robbers, taking them out one-by-one. The last man standing leaves Nate with a cryptic warning.
Nate soon learns what that message meant. He is kidnapped by Pavlo, a savage Russian mobster and mastermind of the failed heist. Unable to break back into the bank to get the critical item inside, Pavlo gives Nate an ultimatum—break in and get what he needs or watch Pavlo slowly kill the one thing Nate loves most—his ex-wife Janie and his teenaged daughter Cielle—both lost when he came back from Iraq broken and confused. Now he’s got one last chance to protect the people he loves, even if it’s the last thing he is able to do.
fucking questioning, obviously, but that’s not even the main concern. We can’t have you guys running around out there with what Pavlo and his boys are willing to do. This thing’s quickly escalating. What if they catch you in a shopping mall?” “We weren’t exactly planning a trip to Crate and Barrel—” “You know what I mean. We need to keep you safe to keep the public safe. In-house it’s opened up the discussion again about protection. You and I need to figure out how to bring you in and negotiate
he leaned forward. Yuri’s hands clenched the wheel. The ranger came back to the window. Misha held out the map and the piece of paper. He pointed to the address of the cabin. “We are looking for a friend’s house. But the street is not on the map.” The ranger looked at it. “Oh, right. There’s a turnoff here. See? Marked by a big stupid Santa Claus sign. Take that road a quarter mile and you’ll see the house. No more’n five minutes.” Misha smiled. “Thank you very much.” Yuri rolled up his
point of entry for the conversation to come, but having had plenty of practice knocking on doors and delivering bad news, he figured he’d wing it. The guy who answered wore a porkpie hat, Bermuda shorts, and a V-necked undershirt. His facial hair was delicate and elaborate—soul patch, thin ridge lining either side of the jaw, strip along the upper lip that could have been stenciled on using eyeliner. His gold box-chain necklace looked like it had fallen out of a vending machine in 1983, all the
doorway, all the wrong details coming into painful focus. The dusting of drywall across her shoulders from where the fan had been wrenched from the ceiling. The rasp of the pull chain, still swaying. Those perfect teeth, gleaming above her slack jaw. The next he recalled, he had her down and across his lap. One of his hands rested beneath her slender, bruised neck, the other clutching his heart as if to hold it together. His chest convulsed, a silent shaking. He thought he might be dying. Choking
on his own air, he felt the moisture on his cheeks. He had not cried since his boyhood and had forgotten the sensation. He made not a sound. After the parade of paramedics and firemen, the cops with their endless questions and looks of thinly veiled suspicion, that spic Abara had arrived with another agent to sit on the couch—his couch—and make phone calls. The house was no longer his own; medics and officers stomped about and used the toilet and left the hand towels on the counter. Nastya was