Dance of Death

By Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child

One a best FBI agent.
The different a super, twisted criminal.

An timeless hatred among them.

Now, an ideal crime.

And the final word challenge:
Stop me in the event you can...

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Above towered one of many large cliff dwellings that handed for flats in big apple urban. Sawtelle eyed the rows of exact home windows emerging towards the sooty sky. Like a rattling high-rise criminal. most likely held one thousand humans. How may they stand it? there has been a flurry of task close to the doorway to the kitchen and Sawtelle glanced over disinterestedly. possibly it was once his lunch. ready tableside, the menu had acknowledged. And simply how the hell have been they going to do this: wheel a Weber grill over and fan the flames of the charcoal? yet convinced adequate, right here they got here, an entire rattling procession of fellows in white smocks, pushing what gave the impression of a small gurney in entrance of them. The chef parked the rolling desk at Sawtelle’s elbow with a proud flourish. He barked a couple of orders in rapid-fire French and several other underlings started to scurry round, one slicing onions, one other frenziedly beating a uncooked egg. Sawtelle scanned the rolling desk. there have been little white toast issues, a pile of around eco-friendly issues he guessed have been capers, spices and dishes of unknown beverages, and a cupful of minced garlic. within the heart, a fist-sized wad of uncooked hamburger. No steak or tartar sauce on hand for romance or cash. With nice rite, the chef dropped the hamburger right into a stainless bowl, poured within the uncooked egg, the garlic, and onions, then all started mashing every little thing jointly. In a number of moments, he got rid of the sticky mass and dropped it again onto the rolling desk, operating it slowly among his arms. Sawtelle glanced away, creating a psychological word to invite that the hamburger be cooked extra-well-done. You by no means comprehend what forms of illnesses those New Yorkers hold round. And the place was once the rattling grill, besides? At that second, a waiter seemed on the client’s part and slipped a plate onto the desk. Sawtelle seemed over in shock simply as one other waiter darted in and slid anything in among his personal knife and fork. having a look down, Sawtelle observed with incredulity that the glistening patty of uncooked beef—now tamped down right into a neat little mound—sat in entrance of him, surrounded by way of wedges of toast, chopped eggs, and capers. Sawtelle appeared up back quick, uncomprehending. around the desk, the buyer used to be nodding approvingly. The chef beamed at them in short from the a ways facet of the desk, then stepped again as his flunkies begun wheeling the gear away. “Excuse me,” Sawtelle acknowledged in a low voice. “You haven’t cooked it. ” The chef stopped. “Pourquoi? ” Sawtelle jerked a finger towards his plate. “I acknowledged, you haven’t cooked it. you recognize, warmth. fireplace. Flambé. ” The chef shook his head vigorously. “No, monsieur. is not any prepare dinner. ” “You don’t cook dinner steak tartare,” the buyer acknowledged, pausing as he was once approximately to signal the contracts. “It’s served uncooked. You didn’t be aware of? ” a superb smile got here in short to his lips, then vanished. Sawtelle sat again, rolling his eyes heavenward, suffering to maintain his mood. in basic terms in long island. Twenty-five dollars for a mound of uncooked hamburger. abruptly, he stiffened. “Sweet Caesar, what the hell is that? ” a long way above him, a guy dangled within the sky: limbs flung large and flailing silently within the relax air.

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