Dark Angel by John Sandford EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Author: John Sandford
- Genre: Murder, Mysteries
- Publish Date: 11 April 2023
- Size: 4 MB
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Status: Avail for Download
- Price: Free
In the summer of 2021, the woman flew into Miami
International with nothing to declare but the clothes she
stood in, a phony passport, an iPhone with a broken screen,
and a ballpoint pen. The pen didn’t work, but did conceal a
two-inch-long razor-sharp blade that could be used to slice
open a carotid artery (for example).
She looked more than tired. Exhausted, but fighting it. She
had dishwater blond hair that hadn’t been washed recently, a
mottled tan, turquoise eyes, and a thin white scar that extended
from one nostril down across her lips to her chin.
The clothes she stood in were speckled with mud and what
the young Customs and Border Patrol officer thought might be
dried blood; the clothes reeked of old sweat and something
else, like swamp water.
Her ragged tee-shirt—the only clothing above her waist,
worn paper thin, he could see her nipples pushing out against
it—featured a drawing of a llama with a legend that said
“Como Se Llama?” which the young officer understood as a
Spanish pun. She had flown in on United, from the Aeropuerto
Internacional Jorge Chávez in Lima, Peru. How she’d gotten
on the plane, he couldn’t even guess.
The CBP officer was giving her his best no-admittance
stink-eye as he thumbed through her passport. He asked,
“Your name is Angeles Chavez?”
The woman shook her head: “No.”
“What?” Hadn’t heard that before; he checked her
turquoise-green eyes. “Then what is it?”
“I’m not allowed to tell you that.”
He was about to call for help when the head of the CBP
unit stepped up behind his booth, took the passport from his
hand, and said, “Let her in.”
Hadn’t heard that before, either. He let her in.
A man in a plutonium suit and tie was standing a few feet
behind his boss, rolling a wooden matchstick between his lips.
When the woman whose name wasn’t Angeles Chavez
stepped past the CPB booth, the man took the matchstick out
of his mouth, grinned, and asked, “How you doin’, honeybun?”
“I think I got a leech up my ass,” the woman said.
SO THEN LETTY DAVENPORT was sitting on a battered swivel
chair in a near-empty room on the second floor of a warehouse
off Statesville Road in Charlotte, North Carolina, watching a
door on another warehouse across the street.
August was slipping away, but the heat was holding on
with both hands, and the warehouse was only somewhat airconditioned. When she lifted her arms to look through her
binoculars, she could smell her armpits, if only faintly, and her
face was . . . moist.
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