Zusatztext [David] Morrell (best known for First Blood ) returns to his favorite revenge theme in [this] thriller! which focuses on a hit man who renounces violence only to be flushed out of his monastic retreat back to the counterterrorist circuit. Kirkus Reviews Those who appreciate a good spy novel are going to have to clear more space on the shelf. David Morrell's Fraternity of the Stone . . . establishes Morrell as a force to be reckoned with. . . . The plot works marvelously and should not be missed by anyone who enjoys a good spy thriller. Sunday News (Ridgewood! N.J.) Informationen zum Autor David Morrell is the award-winning author of First Bloodthe novel in which Rambo was createdas well as twenty-seven other books. This book was the basis for the 1989 mini-series starring Robert Mitchum. With eighteen million copies in print, his work has been translated into twenty-six languages. He was a professor in the English department at the University of Iowa and currently serves as the copresident of the International Thriller Writers organization. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with his wife. Klappentext Drew MacLane is a star agent in Scalpel, a clandestine, government-sanctioned organization named for its purpose: precise surgical removal. Assassination. Then MacLane decides to stop killing. He withdraws from the operation and retreats to a monastery, where for six years he lives the life of a hermit. But then someone tracks him down, leaving a trail of bodies. Someone who knows all about him-and will stop at nothing to destroy him. In this novel of thrilling suspense, a former killer is drawn back into that electrifying world where no one is as he seems-and where life's most horrifying, harrowing game is played. The House of the Dead Chapter One It was north of Quentin, Vermont. You could see it partly hidden by fir trees a quarter mile off the two-lane blacktop, to the right on the crest of a hill. Beyond it loomed a higher hill, thick with maple trees, brilliant now in the autumn, vivid orange and yellow and red. A high wire fence ran parallel to the blacktop, the sides veering off at right angles, disappearing back into the forest. You'd have trouble calculating, since you couldn't see how far back the fences went, but you wouldn't be wrong to guess that the property covered at least a hundred acres. The nearest buildingapart from the one on the hillwas a boarded-up service station quite a ways behind you, out of sight, on the other side of the corkscrew turn that led to this straightaway. And you wouldn't get to the maple syrup factory up ahead for more than a mile. Remote. Secluded. Peaceful. Glancing toward the pine tree-studded hill, you might suspect that the partly hidden structure, with its gleaming wood, was a millionaire's retreat, a forest hideaway where the pressures of business could be relieved by who could imagine what distractions. Or possibly the building was a ski resort, closed till the snow fell. Or . . . But from just driving by, of course, you could never know. There was neither a mailbox nor a sign at the gate, and the gate itself had a thick chain holding it in placean even thicker lock. The lane on the other side was weedgrown, squeezed by bushes and drooping pines. To be sure, you could always ask at the maple syrup factory if your curiosity lasted till then, but you'd only feel more frustrated as a result. The workers there, true New Englanders, were willing to talk to strangers about the weather but not about their own or their neighbor's business. It wouldn't have mattered, anyhow. They didn't know, either, though there were rumors. Chapter Two From the air, the structure on the hill was larger than the view from the road suggested. Indeed, an elevated vantage point revealed that the building wasn't alone. Smaller bu...

8220;[David] Morrell (best known for First Blood) returns to his favorite revenge theme in [this] thriller, which focuses on a hit man who renounces violence only to be flushed out of his monastic retreat back to the counterterrorist circuit.”—*Kirkus Reviews

“Those who appreciate a good spy novel are going to have to clear more space on the shelf. David Morrell’s *Fraternity of the Stone* . . . establishes Morrell as a force to be reckoned with. . . . The plot works marvelously and should not be missed by anyone who enjoys a good spy thriller.”—Sunday News* (Ridgewood, N.J.)

Autorentext
David Morrell is the award-winning author of First Blood—the novel in which Rambo was created—as well as twenty-seven other books. This book was the basis for the 1989 mini-series starring Robert Mitchum. With eighteen million copies in print, his work has been translated into twenty-six languages. He was a professor in the English department at the University of Iowa and currently serves as the copresident of the International Thriller Writers organization. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with his wife.

Klappentext

Drew MacLane is a star agent in Scalpel, a clandestine, government-sanctioned organization named for its purpose: precise surgical removal. Assassination. Then MacLane decides to stop killing. He withdraws from the operation and retreats to a monastery, where for six years he lives the life of a hermit. But then someone tracks him down, leaving a trail of bodies. Someone who knows all about him-and will stop at nothing to destroy him.

In this novel of thrilling suspense, a former killer is drawn back into that electrifying world where no one is as he seems-and where life's most horrifying, harrowing game is played.

Leseprobe
*The House of the Dead

Chapter One

• It was north of Quentin, Vermont. You could see it partly hidden by fir trees a quarter mile off the two-lane blacktop, to the right on the crest of a hill. Beyond it loomed a higher hill, thick with maple trees, brilliant now in the autumn, vivid orange and yellow and red. A high wire fence ran parallel to the blacktop, the sides veering off at right angles, disappearing back into the forest. You’d have trouble calculating, since you couldn’t see how far back the fences went, but you wouldn’t be wrong to guess that the property covered at least a hundred acres. The nearest building—apart from the one on the hill—was a boarded-up service station quite a ways behind you, out of sight, on the other side of the corkscrew turn that led to this straightaway. And you wouldn’t get to the maple syrup factory up ahead for more than a mile.

  Remote. Secluded.

  Peaceful.

  Glancing toward the pine tree-studded hill, you might suspect that the partly hidden structure, with its gleaming wood, was a millionaire’s retreat, a forest hideaway where the pressures of business could be relieved by who could imagine what distractions.

  Or possibly the building was a ski resort, closed till the snow fell. Or . . .

  But from just driving by, of course, you could never know. There was neither a mailbox nor a sign at the gate, and the gate itself had a thick chain holding it in place—an even thicker lock. The lane on the other side was weedgrown, squeezed by bushes and drooping pines. To be sure, you could always ask at the maple syrup factory if your curiosity lasted till then, but you’d only feel more frustrated as a result. The workers there, true New Englanders, were willing to talk to strangers about the weather but not about their own or their neighbor’s business. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyhow. They didn’t know, either, though there were rumors.

  *Chapter Two

• From the air, the structure on the hill was larger than the view from the road suggested. Indeed, an elevated vantage point revealed that the building wasn’t alone. Smaller buildings—otherwise hidden by pine trees—formed three sides of a square, the fourth of w…