Sam Capra's Last Chance (Sam Capra series)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A new short story - available exclusively as an ebook - featuring the star of Jeff Abbott's hit series, Sam Capra. Sam Capra's Last Chance exclusively chronicles Sam's desperate days between the cliffhanger ending of Adrenaline and the opening chapter of The Last Minute.
you. Drinking.” “Yes. Then you tried to kill me.” His gaze narrowed. “You’re a thief.” “And you drive around women who steal babies.” He looked at the floor. “I need a doctor.” “Yes, you do,” I said quietly. I glanced at Mila. She was silent; this was my hunt, my game. I held up the photo of the woman carrying the infant. “You drove this woman away from the Les Saintes clinic off Rue de la Renaissance, with a child that was not hers. Who is she?” “I don’t know her name,” he said. “And you
to two dead guys. We didn’t want his name in the papers. I called Bertrand to help. He showed up an hour later. With a moving van and crates. He brought Mila a moving van uniform and a cap that seemed to cover most of her face. He raised one eyebrow at the bodies, muttered something in his Haitian-accented French, and got to work. The bodies were loaded and gone within fifteen minutes. He took Bell, too, now uncuffed from that corpse, shot up with a load of tranquilizer, and put into a crate.
hit this against undamaged flesh, Pierre,” she said. “I think it will really hurt against bullet hole and torn muscle and damaged nerves and shoulder bone. I don’t wish to hurt you. But I will.” He spat at us, but his lip trembled. He said something so guttural I couldn’t tell if it was French or German. “You think we are the bad people, Pierre?” Mila said. “Find a mirror. You helped steal his son.” She pressed the baton into his flesh, gently, like a conductor moving his baton to a soft and
powerful secret of all, and he would have to start by breaking into Nic’s house in the morning. 8 Las Vegas I HIT THE GROUND WRONG. I rolled too sharply, and felt a pull in my shoulder. I stopped and the early morning desert sky loomed above me. Back in my London days I ran parkour—extreme running, where you vault up walls and use handholds and drop from heights without breaking bones (hopefully). It had been my release from the tension of work, exploring abandoned buildings, turning walls
said. I felt the obvious needed to be stated. We’d already been screwed by a mistake. If the gunman was with Anna, then she’d set her own trap for me. But if he wasn’t… if he was CIA Special Projects, just looking to clean house, then Anna might well run home. We needed to let her run and not know we followed. For the next ten minutes we listened as Stavros charted her course. To her car, avoiding the police jam caused by the attempted shooting, driving past the Oval cricket ground, toward