A Triple Thriller Fest
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In our eReader you can find the full English version of the book. Read A Triple Thriller Fest Online - link to read the book on full screen. Our eReader also allows you to upload and read Pdf, Txt, ePub and fb2 books. In the Mini eReder on the page below you can quickly view all pages of the book - Read Book A Triple Thriller Fest
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He had to get to the gas can. He had to get it for Walsh, his group leader. He had to get the hell out of here.Composing himself, Sorenson found the gasoline can and returned to the kitchen. By now twilight had overcome the scene and the kitchen was cast in dark shadows.Walsh stood in the doorway, calmly smoking a cigarette, his pale blue eyes surveying the results of his handiwork. The corpse lay prone on the kitchen floor, having been cut free by Walsh. A pool of dark red blood continued ...to spread from his shattered skull.Whatever secrets you may have carried, Sorenson thought, we will never know them now.Walsh, upon hearing Sorenson re-enter the kitchen, abruptly turned to face him.“Let’s get moving. For all we know, Winslow’s fellow gangsters may be searching for him. Let’s get this house burning, right now.”Without comment, Sorenson mechanically splashed gasoline around the room.Meanwhile, Walsh methodically wiped the revolver with a cotton handkerchief to smear any fingerprints or other identifying marks. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Walsh then tucked the revolver under his belt. He would get rid of it later.After he finished his task, Sorenson quickly walked out of the farmhouse.Walsh lingered for another moment, making one last inspection of the room. He casually flicked his lighted cigarette into the kitchen as he walked out of the farmhouse toward the Jeep Grand Wagoner parked in the drive.Sorenson, already in the driver’s seat, had the car started. After taking one last look, Walsh sat down, put on his shoulder belt, reached into his shirt pocket for the cigarette pack, took a cigarette out and lit it. Sorenson drove rapidly down the farm road. Through the rearview mirror, he watched the old, abandoned farmhouse explode in a fireball. Walsh sat calmly in the passenger’s seat, drawing on his cigarette. Neither man spoke.About ten miles northeast of Mankato, they encountered volunteer fire trucks racing southward toward Mankato. This event provoked no comment. About twenty miles out of Mankato, Walsh quietly asked Sorenson to stop the Jeep. The empty field was marked by a sign that declared: “State of Minnesota — Department of Natural Resources — Protected Native Prairie Reserve.”Walsh walked slowly across the native prairie to the river bluff amid the evening din of insect songs. He stood there for some time, quietly looking at the Minnesota River, which by now had turned from a sleepy creek to a modest river. Walsh took the revolver out carefully with his handkerchief and tossed it into the dark, muddy waters of the Minnesota. He calmly returned to the Jeep.Walsh announced he would drive and Sorenson shifted over to the passenger seat. For the remainder of their trip from Mankato the two were quiet. Sorenson mostly looked out the passenger window into the night and the occasional passing light of a distant farmhouse.Finally, the two reached the center of Minneapolis, the City of Lakes. Stopping at the corner of Hennepin Avenue and Lake Street, Sorenson disembarked without comment and faded into the shadows. Walsh turned right on to Hennepin Avenue and headed home. 1993: Call to Duty 0900 Hours: Friday, June 11, 1993: New York, New York Fifty stories above the streets of New York, the dark, wood-paneled office projected the prestige and power of being a managing director of Franklin Smedley & Associates. Smedleys, as the firm was known on the Street, was one of the leading investment banks in the world. Beside the large mahogany desk and leather chair, the office had a comfortable leather sofa and armchair, mahogany coffee table, dark Chippendale side chairs, and expensive oriental lamps. The dark red, hand-tied Oriental rug on his floor had been handpicked on a trip to Istanbul. An oil painting of a delicate, blossoming dogwood branch stretched out across a brilliant blue sky sat on the wall directly across from his desk.The dark mahogany bookcase and window ledges were crowded with Lucite, glass, and brass flotsam and jetsam: silent memorabilia of a long and successful investment-banking career. Though of nominal value, the odds and ends of plastic, wood, brass, and crystal represented the aspirations of many would-be fortunes.The office was quiet, but for the soft hum of the ventilating system and the dull background noise of the city in perpetual motion countless stories below, the honking of a frazzled motorist or the loud noise of a muffler-less diesel truck roaring up the busy streets.Even the Quotron computer on Mike’s brilliantly polished mahogany credenza made no sound as it chronicled the rise and fall of million-dollar fortunes on its green-lettered screen.The banker was dressed in a dark blue cotton shirt with white stripes, starched white collar, and white French cuffs anchored by simple gold links, bright red paisley braces holding up custom tailored gray pinstriped suit pants, and a blue and red-patterned tie. He wore a gold school ring with a garnet stone from Mr.
What to read after A Triple Thriller Fest?
You can find similar books in the "Read Also" column, or choose other free books by Michael Wallace to read onlineMoreLess
To quickly assess the difficulty of the text, read a short excerpt:
He had to get to the gas can. He had to get it for Walsh, his group leader. He had to get the hell out of here.Composing himself, Sorenson found the gasoline can and returned to the kitchen. By now twilight had overcome the scene and the kitchen was cast in dark shadows.Walsh stood in the doorway, calmly smoking a cigarette, his pale blue eyes surveying the results of his handiwork. The corpse lay prone on the kitchen floor, having been cut free by Walsh. A pool of dark red blood continued ...to spread from his shattered skull.Whatever secrets you may have carried, Sorenson thought, we will never know them now.Walsh, upon hearing Sorenson re-enter the kitchen, abruptly turned to face him.“Let’s get moving. For all we know, Winslow’s fellow gangsters may be searching for him. Let’s get this house burning, right now.”Without comment, Sorenson mechanically splashed gasoline around the room.Meanwhile, Walsh methodically wiped the revolver with a cotton handkerchief to smear any fingerprints or other identifying marks. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Walsh then tucked the revolver under his belt. He would get rid of it later.After he finished his task, Sorenson quickly walked out of the farmhouse.Walsh lingered for another moment, making one last inspection of the room. He casually flicked his lighted cigarette into the kitchen as he walked out of the farmhouse toward the Jeep Grand Wagoner parked in the drive.Sorenson, already in the driver’s seat, had the car started. After taking one last look, Walsh sat down, put on his shoulder belt, reached into his shirt pocket for the cigarette pack, took a cigarette out and lit it. Sorenson drove rapidly down the farm road. Through the rearview mirror, he watched the old, abandoned farmhouse explode in a fireball. Walsh sat calmly in the passenger’s seat, drawing on his cigarette. Neither man spoke.About ten miles northeast of Mankato, they encountered volunteer fire trucks racing southward toward Mankato. This event provoked no comment. About twenty miles out of Mankato, Walsh quietly asked Sorenson to stop the Jeep. The empty field was marked by a sign that declared: “State of Minnesota — Department of Natural Resources — Protected Native Prairie Reserve.”Walsh walked slowly across the native prairie to the river bluff amid the evening din of insect songs. He stood there for some time, quietly looking at the Minnesota River, which by now had turned from a sleepy creek to a modest river. Walsh took the revolver out carefully with his handkerchief and tossed it into the dark, muddy waters of the Minnesota. He calmly returned to the Jeep.Walsh announced he would drive and Sorenson shifted over to the passenger seat. For the remainder of their trip from Mankato the two were quiet. Sorenson mostly looked out the passenger window into the night and the occasional passing light of a distant farmhouse.Finally, the two reached the center of Minneapolis, the City of Lakes. Stopping at the corner of Hennepin Avenue and Lake Street, Sorenson disembarked without comment and faded into the shadows. Walsh turned right on to Hennepin Avenue and headed home. 1993: Call to Duty 0900 Hours: Friday, June 11, 1993: New York, New York Fifty stories above the streets of New York, the dark, wood-paneled office projected the prestige and power of being a managing director of Franklin Smedley & Associates. Smedleys, as the firm was known on the Street, was one of the leading investment banks in the world. Beside the large mahogany desk and leather chair, the office had a comfortable leather sofa and armchair, mahogany coffee table, dark Chippendale side chairs, and expensive oriental lamps. The dark red, hand-tied Oriental rug on his floor had been handpicked on a trip to Istanbul. An oil painting of a delicate, blossoming dogwood branch stretched out across a brilliant blue sky sat on the wall directly across from his desk.The dark mahogany bookcase and window ledges were crowded with Lucite, glass, and brass flotsam and jetsam: silent memorabilia of a long and successful investment-banking career. Though of nominal value, the odds and ends of plastic, wood, brass, and crystal represented the aspirations of many would-be fortunes.The office was quiet, but for the soft hum of the ventilating system and the dull background noise of the city in perpetual motion countless stories below, the honking of a frazzled motorist or the loud noise of a muffler-less diesel truck roaring up the busy streets.Even the Quotron computer on Mike’s brilliantly polished mahogany credenza made no sound as it chronicled the rise and fall of million-dollar fortunes on its green-lettered screen.The banker was dressed in a dark blue cotton shirt with white stripes, starched white collar, and white French cuffs anchored by simple gold links, bright red paisley braces holding up custom tailored gray pinstriped suit pants, and a blue and red-patterned tie. He wore a gold school ring with a garnet stone from Mr.
What to read after A Triple Thriller Fest?
You can find similar books in the "Read Also" column, or choose other free books by Michael Wallace to read onlineMoreLess
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