Good As Gone (Simon Fisk Novels)
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From acclaimed writer Douglas Corleone comes this heart-pounding tale of international intrigue about a man whose mission is to find a young girl who is as GOOD AS GONE…
Former U.S. Marshal Simon Fisk now works as a private contractor, tracking down and recovering children who were kidnapped by their own estranged parents. He only has one rule: He won't touch stranger abduction cases. He's still haunted by the disappearance of his own daughter years ago when she was just a child, still unsolved, and stranger kidnappings hit too close to home.
"Leaves the reader gasping for breath."―Huffington Post
Until, that is, six-year-old Lindsay Sorkin disappears from her parents' hotel room in Paris, and the French police deliver Simon an ultimatum: He can spend years in a French jail for his actions during a long-ago case, or he can work with them now to find Lindsay. With renewed vigor, Simon sets out in pursuit of the missing child and the truth behind her disappearance. But Lindsay's captors did not leave an easy trail―and following it will lead Simon across the continent, through the ritziest nightclubs and the seediest back alleys, and into the darkest, most terrifying place of all: His own past.
"The story doesn't let up, period."―Booklist (starred review)
police?” “Of course not,” he said. “We’re customers of his.” She didn’t look convinced. But she didn’t look like she much cared, either. “Yes, I know him. Second floor.” She started down the concrete stairs. “How about his uncle?” I said. “Do you know his uncle Talik?” “I have met him once,” she said. “He is staying with Alim these past few days.” I thanked her, but she was already on her way. “That’s convenient,” Ostermann said once she’d left. We entered the old building and walked
checking the skinheads for identification. “If he doesn’t see these bastards come out he won’t show at the rendezvous point. And he sure as hell won’t meet with Talik in a few hours.” “I am sorry,” she said. “I blew our opportunity by bringing you to his flat.” “Neither of us expected him to speak to Talik before the meeting,” I said, pocketing their driver’s licenses along with their knives and leaving the rest of their crap on the floor. “And we had no reason to think Talik knew I was in
either at the beginning or end of their ride. In front of the hotel he halfheartedly thanked Vince for his generous tip and sped off. “Did you catch his name?” I said. “It would have been posted somewhere inside the taxi.” Neither of them had. It had been a long day of air travel, fifteen hours from San Jose with connections in Seattle and Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland. They were exhausted and, understandably, Lindsay had been fussing. “I have men at the airport, making inquiries,”
front of the train. I followed. As I got nearer I noticed he had a small pack swung over his right shoulder. I picked up my pace in order to catch up to him. I’m being paranoid. I’ve had too little sleep. He’s just a kid backpacking through eastern Europe. Probably heading to a hostel in Kiev for six bucks a night. All he can afford. That’s why he was peeking into our compartment. He’s staying in fourth class. He was simply looking for a place to crash. I wasn’t convinced. My feet were
said. Vladislav stared motionlessly at the bottle of vodka, until he finally lifted it and poured himself a shot. He downed the shot without ceremony. And without inviting me, a slight for which I would be eternally grateful. “My parents are angry with me,” Darja said. “Such things should not be spoken about in the presence of strangers.” She swallowed hard. “But I am tired of being so quiet.” “And your husband?” Ana said. “What is his name?” “Kirill.” The moment she said the name, Vladislav