Informationen zum Autor Cara Black Klappentext It is once again up to American markswoman Kate Rees to take the shot that just might winor loseWorld War II, in the followup to national bestseller Three Hours in Paris. Three missions. Two cities. One shot to win the war. October 1942: it's been two years since Kate Rees was sent to Paris on a British Secret Service mission to assassinate Hitler. Since then, she has left spycraft behind to take a training job as a sharpshooting instructor in the Scottish Highlands. But her quiet life is violently disrupted when Colonel Stepney, her former handler, drags her back into the fray for a risky three-pronged mission in Paris. Each task is more dangerous than the next: Deliver a package of forbidden biological material. Assassinate a high-ranking German operative whose knowledge of invasion plans could turn the tide of the war against the Allies. Rescue a British agent who once saved Kate's lifeand get out. Kate will encounter sheiks and spies, poets and partisans, as she races to keep up with the constantly shifting nature of her assignment, showing every ounce of her Oregonian grit in the process. New York Times bestselling author Cara Black has crafted another heart-stopping thrill ride that reveals a portrait of Paris at the height of the Nazi occupation. Leseprobe October 1942 Scottish Highlands Kate Rees slid into the Georgian mansion's salon and found herself staring into the shining eyes of a dead duck on a platter. An enormous oil painting. Goosebumps crawled up her neck. Kate's fingers roamed behind the painting's rococo gilt frame to find the rifle pieces taped to it. She slit the tape with the penknife she'd strapped to her ankle. Seconds later she'd assembled the rifle's shank and bolt head and attached the telescopic sight. Adrenaline coursed through her. Her pulse thudded in her ears. Outside the window, a curl of mist drifted in the dimness, blanketing the mansion's back garden. Night birds peeped and dewed grass gleamed in shafts of diffuse moonlight. She undid the window's latch and pushed. It wouldn't budge. The sash was jammed. Painted shut. Of all times. Kate tried the second window, the third. All the same story. Her breath quickened. A sinking feeling bottomed out her chest. Could this get any worse? She had to get a window open. Somehow. Bit by bit, the fourth window yielded to her knife. Paint flaked the sill. Grunting, she shoved aside the sash, lifting it the three inches she needed for a viable shot. She poked the rifle tip out of the window and hoped the window's bubbled, distorted glass wouldn't throw off her aim. Aimed. Ticking off the variablessecond nature to hershe factored in the evening breeze from the west and the clouded orb of the moon casting gray shafts of light. Her eyes scanned the garden. What if she got this wrong? Miscalculated? Then her gaze caught and fastened on her target. She adjusted. Aligned the scope to reflect a half centimeter left. Prepared to double tap the target's temple. Focused. Took a breath. Then another. Let everything in the world become this moment. Only this dark night, this dense black-green shrubbery, this hazy figure at the far end of the garden, barely visible against the copse of yews. She inhaled. Squeezed the trigger on the exhale. Thupt. A sharp crack. She realigned and squeezed the trigger again. Double tap to be sure , Pa always said. And so she always did. Now to escape. By the time she'd skittered over the mansion's slippery roof tiles, torn her sleeve monkeying down the rust-flaked water pipe and legged it over the wet grass, her lungs were heaving. She bent down. Turned the figur...

Autorentext

Cara Black

Klappentext

**It is once again up to American markswoman Kate Rees to take the shot that just might win—or lose—World War II, in the followup to national bestseller Three Hours in Paris.

Three missions. Two cities. One shot to win the war.**

October 1942: it’s been two years since Kate Rees was sent to Paris on a British Secret Service mission to assassinate Hitler. Since then, she has left spycraft behind to take a training job as a sharpshooting instructor in the Scottish Highlands. But her quiet life is violently disrupted when Colonel Stepney, her former handler, drags her back into the fray for a risky three-pronged mission in Paris.

Each task is more dangerous than the next: Deliver a package of forbidden biological material. Assassinate a high-ranking German operative whose knowledge of invasion plans could turn the tide of the war against the Allies. Rescue a British agent who once saved Kate’s life—and get out.

Kate will encounter sheiks and spies, poets and partisans, as she races to keep up with the constantly shifting nature of her assignment, showing every ounce of her Oregonian grit in the process.

New York Times bestselling author Cara Black has crafted another heart-stopping thrill ride that reveals a portrait of Paris at the height of the Nazi occupation.

Leseprobe
October 1942
Scottish Highlands
 
Kate Rees slid into the Georgian mansion’s salon and found herself staring into the shining eyes of a dead duck on a platter. An enormous oil painting.
     Goosebumps crawled up her neck.
     Kate’s fingers roamed behind the painting’s rococo gilt frame to find the rifle pieces taped to it. She slit the tape with the penknife she’d strapped to her ankle. Seconds later she’d assembled the rifle’s shank and bolt head and attached the telescopic sight.
     Adrenaline coursed through her. Her pulse thudded in her ears.
     Outside the window, a curl of mist drifted in the dimness, blanketing the mansion’s back garden. Night birds peeped and dewed grass gleamed in shafts of diffuse moonlight. She undid the window’s latch and pushed. It wouldn’t budge.
     The sash was jammed. Painted shut.
     Of all times.
     Kate tried the second window, the third. All the same story. Her breath quickened. A sinking feeling bottomed out her chest.
     Could this get any worse?
     She had to get a window open. Somehow.
     Bit by bit, the fourth window yielded to her knife. Paint flaked the sill. Grunting, she shoved aside the sash, lifting it the three inches she needed for a viable shot.
     She poked the rifle tip out of the window and hoped the window’s bubbled, distorted glass wouldn’t throw off her aim. Aimed. Ticking off the variables—second nature to her—she factored in the evening breeze from the west and the clouded orb of the moon casting gray shafts of light.
     Her eyes scanned the garden.
     What if she got this wrong? Miscalculated?
     Then her gaze caught and fastened on her target. She adjusted. Aligned the scope to reflect a half centimeter left. Prepared to double tap the target’s temple.
     Focused. Took a breath. Then another. Let everything in the world become this moment. Only this dark night, this dense black-green shrubbery, this hazy figure at the far end of the garden, barely visible against the copse of yews.
     She inhaled. Squeezed the trigger on the exhale.
     Thupt. A sharp crack.
     She realigned and squeezed the trigger again. Double tap to be sure, Pa always said. And so she always did.
     Now to escape.
     By the time she’d skittered over the mansion’s slippery roof tiles, torn her sleeve monkeying dow…