A Season in Hell by Jack Higgins

By Jack Higgins

A British commando and a Wall highway attorney staff as much as avenge the murders in their family by the hands of a grisly overseas drug conspiracy

Sean Egan and Sarah Talbot are united by means of tragedy while his sister and her son are either murdered, their corpses used to smuggle heroin by way of individuals of Europe’s bloodiest drug ring. Now Egan, an Irish-born British designated Forces operative, and Talbot, a well-connected Wall road legal professional, will cease at not anything to convey the murderers to justice. Their challenge takes them via London, Paris, Sicily, and eire as they’re trailed through a brutally effective hit guy bent on thwarting their each stream, all major as much as a last lethal showdown at the darkened streets of London that would swap Egan’s and Talbot’s lives ceaselessly.

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It was probably another short circuit in a place he’d never checked before. He’d fixed the bridge gyro compass twelve times in the last month. This time would have made a baker’s dozen. But then something exploded within the ship, and he found his ears ringing and his six-foot-two, two-hundred-thirty­ pound frame flying through the air, crashing through the door to the CO’s stateroom. Ferociously, the deck bounced up and down, and then up again, as if some great leviathan had grabbed hold of the Chevalier’s bow and was using her to swat flies on the ocean’s surface.

Like the good sailor he was, he began to make his way carefully along the tilted deck to carry out his orders. He couldn’t help it if the ship’s office was on the way. TREMAIN’S skin felt warm and then cool—sticky and then slippery. He couldn’t breathe for what seemed like minutes, and then all of a sudden he could, taking in deep breaths of a strangely putrid yet sweet smelling mixture of air and petro­ leum vapor. The old wound throbbed on the side of his head, along with several new ones. His whole body ached, but he was familiar 48 R.

After staring at the motionless body for several minutes and collecting his senses, Tremain finally concluded that it was not one of the men who had been with him on the torpedo mount. Rolling over onto his side, he felt a sensation that the ship was rapidly slowing. One glance forward through the drifting clouds of smoke told him why. The Chevalier’s star­ board breakwater shield was missing, allowing Tremain an uninhibited view up forward. And his eyes could scarcely be­ lieve what they saw. The Chevalier’s bow had been severed, completely blown off.

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