Dark Sundays (CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Book 15)
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A lavish penthouse party on top of a Vegas hotel and casino plays host to a bizarre set-up to murder in which a security guard is trapped and killed in a private elevator--and the body soon vanishes . . . leading crime scene investigators Nick Stokes and Greg Sanders straight to an uncanny circus troupe with deadly connections to none other than the Russian mafia. In the meantime, Ray Langston and Catherine Willows are called to a psychiatric facility where two patients have just escaped after attacking an orderly. One of the escaped patients, an Iraq war veteran, managed to smuggle in a military-grade nerve gas, inducing realistic and shared three-dimensional illusions and hallucinations . . . and Ray and Catherine must race against time in order to find two very dangerous individuals now roaming freely on the streets of Las Vegas. . . .
medieval-themed entertainment, including jousts and a royal banquet. Where, apparently, they requested an audience with the king. Pawn shops in hell, Bannister thinks, prove that no matter how far you’ve fallen, the pit is deeper still. He and Theria move slowly down an aisle packed to the rafters on either side with every sort of object: musical instruments, toys, furniture, art. There are more personal possessions, too: hands, legs, hearts, eyes. Bannister wonders what sort of twisted
insane by the moment. Let’s process this site—maybe we can get a print from one of the cylinders or the chain they cut. I’ll check out the crane, too. They had to have used it to hoist the cannon into position.” “I’ll take a closer look at the impact site, if you don’t mind.” said Greg. “Frankly, I’m getting kinda tired of rooftops.” There were certain things you just shouldn’t do when you were drunk, Sara thought as she pulled into the parking lot of the strip mall. Driving was at the top of
up past the elbow. Tattoos covered his muscular arms. He was playing darts, holding three of them between two fingers of his left hand and aiming carefully with his right. Two large men, clearly bodyguards, sat hunched over beers at a table a few feet away. They both got to their feet as Sara walked up, though none of the other people in the bar—mostly men in their fifties or older—reacted with anything more than an appraising glance. Sara stopped a respectful distance away. Dyalov lined up his
self-defense. That shooting had shaken him personally, but his core beliefs still held. He had not killed the man out of anger or fear; it had been a matter of survival, with no other choice available. Still, the words “First, do no harm” rose in his mind more often since the shooting, a reminder of his obligation to uphold life. Doing so by putting criminals behind bars might not be as direct as doing so by saving a patient’s life, but it ultimately accomplished the same goal. The intellectual
still alive and well, then others certainly are, too. Some of them would have worked their way into positions of influence, even though they no longer report to their masters. A former KGB operative would be able to exert a considerable deal of pressure on these people; in fact, for them, the Cold War might as well have never ended.” Nick frowned. “You’re telling me Mr. D still had spies feeding him information? Spies inside the lab or the police?” Masterkov shrugged. “I’m not telling you