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The Third Option :: Flynn Vince
Страница: 37 из 267Now, after five straight book club selections, she wasn't so sure she could handle another novel about adysfunctional woman whose life was a mess because her father never gave her the attention she deserved. The first month it was great, the second it was okay, the third was tolerable, the fourth barely tolerable, and this fifth was going to be her last try. The group was meeting on Monday night, and Rielly hadn't even had time to read the jacket copy. After a big swig of beer, she cracked the book and started in.
Five minutes later, Rielly finished the first chapter and closed the book. The author had just described in graphic detail how she had watched her father beat her mother to within an inch of her life when she was just six years old. Not another one, Rielly told herself. As she got out of the chair, she decided she would have to miss the meeting on Monday night. Anna headed back into the living room with her beer and put the book back on the shelf. She scanned the CD collection and decided on a live Dave Matthews album. With beer in hand, she began searching the bookshelves for something else. Mitch read a book a week and had built up a big collection of both fiction and nonfiction. After only a few minutes, she hit pay dirt. Nelson DeMille's newest novel sat on the shelf with all of his previous works. She headed for the fridge to grab another beer and then back out onto the porch. One of DeMille's smart-ass, wisecracking heroes was exactly what she was in the mood for.
It was the perfect thing to take her mind off Mitch, where he was, and what he was doing. He had promised her that this would be it. This was his last mission, and then they would go about the business of leading normal lives. Rielly looked out at the calming waters of the Chesapeake with her green eyes and said a quick prayer for Mitch; that he was all right and that he would return to her by morning's first light. Rielly opened the book and started in – determined to lose herself in its pages.
THE SIGNS HAD caused him to rethink his plans. One never succeeded in this business without taking risks, but the trick was knowing how far to push it. If he blew past Hanover, there was no turning back. There would be a one-hour window during which he would be stuck on the autobahn, racing to make it to Essen, where he could ditch the car. If the call went out over police radio, he'd be a sitting duck. Another sign appeared on his right indicating that the exit for the Hanover international airport lay one kilometer ahead.
Rapp was used to operating alone. He had no need to discuss his options with anyone.
Five minutes later, Rielly finished the first chapter and closed the book. The author had just described in graphic detail how she had watched her father beat her mother to within an inch of her life when she was just six years old. Not another one, Rielly told herself. As she got out of the chair, she decided she would have to miss the meeting on Monday night. Anna headed back into the living room with her beer and put the book back on the shelf. She scanned the CD collection and decided on a live Dave Matthews album. With beer in hand, she began searching the bookshelves for something else. Mitch read a book a week and had built up a big collection of both fiction and nonfiction. After only a few minutes, she hit pay dirt. Nelson DeMille's newest novel sat on the shelf with all of his previous works. She headed for the fridge to grab another beer and then back out onto the porch. One of DeMille's smart-ass, wisecracking heroes was exactly what she was in the mood for.
It was the perfect thing to take her mind off Mitch, where he was, and what he was doing. He had promised her that this would be it. This was his last mission, and then they would go about the business of leading normal lives. Rielly looked out at the calming waters of the Chesapeake with her green eyes and said a quick prayer for Mitch; that he was all right and that he would return to her by morning's first light. Rielly opened the book and started in – determined to lose herself in its pages.
THE SIGNS HAD caused him to rethink his plans. One never succeeded in this business without taking risks, but the trick was knowing how far to push it. If he blew past Hanover, there was no turning back. There would be a one-hour window during which he would be stuck on the autobahn, racing to make it to Essen, where he could ditch the car. If the call went out over police radio, he'd be a sitting duck. Another sign appeared on his right indicating that the exit for the Hanover international airport lay one kilometer ahead.
Rapp was used to operating alone. He had no need to discuss his options with anyone.