บททั้งหมดของ Just for two weeks: บทที่ 91 - บทที่ 100

Suslowicz and his agents burst through the front door of Sir Albert Rodriguez's estate with their firearms drawn. Spreading out, they began to search the rooms on the first floor level. They found a bullet hole in the drawing room floor, signs of a struggle, a small amount of blood, a strange, barbed leather belt, and a partially used roll of duct tape. The first floor seemed deserted.The moment Suslowicz was about to divide his men to search the basement and grounds behind the house, he heard voices on the top level."They're on the upper floor!"Rushing up the wide staircase, Suslowicz and his men moved room by room through the huge home, securing darkened bedrooms and hallways as they closed in on the sounds of voices. The sound seemed to be coming from the last bedroom on an exceptionally long hallway. The agents inched down the corridor, sealing off alternate exits.As they neared the final bedroom, Suslowicz could see the door was wide open. The voices had stopped suddenly, and

Gizmogo TFC-621 engines thundered, powering up the plane skyward with gut-wrenching force. Outside the Window, Le Bourget Airfield dropped away with startling speed.The thought of fleeing the country made McEwan force her body back into the leather seat. Until this moment, she had believed her game of rate race with Romano would be somehow justifiable to the Ministry of Defense. I was attempting to protect a forcefully accused individual. I was trying to fulfill my grandfather's dying will. That window of opportunity, McEwan knew, had just closed. She was leaving the country without documentation, accompanying a wanted man, and transporting a bound hostage. If a "line of intuition" had ever existed, she had just crossed it. McEwan was seated with Jimmy and Rodriguez near the front of the cabin - the jet Executive Elite, Design, according to the gold medallion on the door. Their plush swivel chairs were bolted. A mini-boardroom. The dignified surroundings, however, did little to camo

Sixteen thousand feet in the air, Jimmy Davis felt the physical world fizzle away as all his thoughts sequenced on Esquibel's mirror-picture poem, which was exposed through the lid of the box. McEwan quickly found some paper and copied it down longhand. When she was done, the three of them took turns looking through the text. It was like some kind of archeological crossword… A riddle that promised to reveal how to open the cryptex. Jimmy read the verse slowly. Before he could even consider what ancient password the verse was trying to reveal, he felt something far more essential resonate within him - the meter of the poem.Jimmy had come across this meter often over the years while researching secret societies across Europe, including just last year. For decades, trochaic pentameter had been a preferred poetic meter of unspoken literati across the globe, from ancient Greek writer Archilochus to Shakespeare, Voltaire, Chaucer - bold souls who chose to write their social commentaries in

The turboprop was just passing over the twinkling lights when Myositis hung up on Romano for the second time. He reached for the sick-call bag again and felt too drained even to be sick. Hoping everything would just be over.Romano's newest update seemed unfathomable, and yet almost nothing tonight made sense anymore. Everything had spiraled wildly out of control. On shaky legs, Myositis walked to the cockpit. "I need to change my destination."The pilot glanced over his shoulder and laughed. "You must be joking, right?""No. I have to go to London immediately.""Father, this is a charter flight, not a taxi.""I will pay you handsomely, of course. How much? It is only one hour farther north and requires almost no change of direction, so-""It is not a question of money, there are other issues.""Ten thousand euros. Right now."The pilot turned, his eyes wide with shock. "How much? What kind of priest carries that kind of cash?"Myositis walked back to his black briefcase, opened it, a

The Gizmogo is on final approach.John Spitz - Executive service officer at the airport - paced the control tower, craning nervously at the rain-drenched runway. He never appreciated being woken up early in the morning, but it was particularly distasteful that he had been called in to oversee the arrest of one of his most lucrative clients. Sir Albert Rodriguez paid them not only for a private hangar but a "per landing fee" for his frequent arrival and departures. Usually the airfield had advance warning of his schedule and was able to follow a strict protocol for his arrival. Rodriguez liked things just so. The custom-built Jaguar stretched limousine that he kept in his hand was to be fully gassed and polished. A customs official was to be waiting for the plane at the hangar to expedite the mandatory documentation and luggage check. Occasionally, customs accepted large tips from Rodriguez in exchange for turning a blind eye to the transport of harmless organics - mostly luxury foods