48 Hours: A City of London Thriller by J. Jackson Bentley

By J. Jackson Bentley

“If you don’t pay me £250,000.00 within the subsequent forty eight Hours you'll die”. The textual content on Josh Hammond’s BlackBerry used to be blunt and chilling. definitely it has to be a comic story, but if Josh is attacked in extensive sunlight and folks round him begin to die he is aware that his blackmailer is lethal severe. Can Josh bring up the money, can his appealing new bodyguard defend him, who's blackmailing him and why? He has forty eight hours to determine. the 1st novel within the acclaimed urban of London mystery sequence is a success for you to enthral every person who understands and loves its London settings. wealthy intimately and actually evocative it's a actual web page turner, instructed in round 100,000 phrases.

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J’ai entendu le crépitement des gouttes tombant du toit, des branches d’olivier. Toute la terre ruisselait. Une vapeur grise s’élevait au-dessus de l’herbe ployée par l’averse. Je me suis lentement redressé, m’appuyant sur les coudes, puis les mains. J’ai roulé sur le flanc, me retrouvant à plat ventre, et j’ai enfin réussi à m’agenouiller. J’ai vu en face de moi, accroché au-dessus d’un autel fait d’une longue table de marbre, un Christ crucifié auquel on avait tranché la tête. Celle-ci était posée devant le tabernacle défoncé.

J’aspirais à écrire ici l’histoire de quelques-unes de ces vies, celles d’hommes habités par la foi qui, comme l’avait dit l’Apocalypse de Jean, étaient dignes « d’ouvrir le livre écrit au-dedans et au dos, et scellé de sept sceaux ». Ils avaient reçu pouvoir de briser les sceaux et avaient rêvé de bâtir sur terre une Cité idéale faite d’amour et de justice, d’où Satan avait été chassé. Mais, parfois, la Bête s’était à leur insu emparée de leur âme. À Paris, j’enseignerais ; ici, je méditerais, écrirais.

J’achevais ma thèse, je publiais des articles, je prenais place sur l’échiquier universitaire, puis je fus élu au Collège de France ! Un exploit !  » Car j’avais abandonné Marie et quand, rituellement, une fois par semaine, je la rencontrais, je ne la voyais pas. Nos mains s’évitaient, nos regards se fuyaient. � Elle ne mange plus », répétait ma sœur. � Il faut manger, Marie.  » Déjà je me levais, je rassurais Valérie, j’embrassais Marie. Posant mes mains sur ses épaules, je sentais ses os. � Mange, tu n’es vraiment pas grosse.

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