The Ragnarök Conspiracy

Начало книги

Near the back of a seedy bar in the Bronx, in one of the deeper recesses and darkest corners, FBI agent John Savas hunched over a shot glass, a caramel-colored liquid halfway to the rim. His slumped posture and a deep-blue Mediterranean fisherman's cap obscured most of his features. Dark hair flecked with gray spilled out from under his cap and partially melded with the rough layer of stubble on his face.

The smoke in the bar created a dense fog, infiltrating every open space, staining curtains and nearly obscuring the obligatory “No Smoking” sign. Here in a rundown basement, New York City health regulations held no concern for those seated around the jazz band.

A second group of patrons displayed no interest in the music. Huddled in dark corners, their faces turned inward and away from the room, pairs of often foul-looking men spoke of matters suited to the obscurity of the location.

Savas clenched his jaw. He'd been waiting too long, and this was a dangerous game. His recent injuries tore at his concentration, and fatigue began to set in. He should not be here; he knew that. His choices had not pleased the physicians. But they don't understand.

Читать дальше →