Summer reads Sneaky peeks The Hangman by Will Patching

Available here

Blurb:

Hunter's back, and this time it could mean war...

Can ex-CIA assassin Doug Hunter foil an evil plot to spark conflict in the Middle East - and will journalist Kate O'Sullivan survive London's worst ever terror attack?

An explosive adventure featuring a unique bioweapon, Islamist terrorists, corrupt politicians, over-ambitious spooks, and ruthless military contractors. This breathtaking and bloody tale of conspiracy will whisk you from Downing Street to Langley and from Cyprus to the Iraq-Iran border in a fast-paced thriller full of killer action, pulse-pounding tension and page-turning suspense.

Who - or what - is The Hangman?

Find out in this final gripping standalone thriller, the final instalment of The Hack Trilogy.

Author Bio:

Will Patching was born and raised in ‘Sarf Lunnon’, Engerland, or at least, that’s how he pronounces it! Hence, many scenes from his novels are situated in London, the surrounding suburbs and other parts of southeast England, though they also span as far afield as the Middle East, Asia and the USA.

His approach to writing is to hit the reader with hard truths about the world we live in, and his mysteries, thrillers, and suspense novels are designed to get your pulse pounding. One male reader decided he needed to check his door locks late one night while reading one of Will’s novels and subsequently commented on social media:

‘Seriously scary!’

Will’s eclectic professional experience – from his teenage role as a ‘gardener’ weeding sewage treatment filter beds, through flying a Hawk jet very fast, very low and very dangerously before the RAF realised and booted him out, then attending Harvard on a course for potential CEOs, largely thanks to the Peter Principle of promotion, and more recently, to building his dream, a charter yacht that sank in SE Asian waters – all have led to a rich and varied life, often reflected in his writing.

You can find out more about Will and his books at his website: www.willpatchingauthor.com

Sneaky Peek

London’s worst ever terror attack begins:

‘The emergency services are on their way.’ The manager shuffled further from the two tainted individuals as he spoke, his nervy hand movements and pasty white face uncertain. ‘Er. I think I should close the store while we wait.’ Backing away now, nodding to himself, satisfied he was reasserting his authority by issuing an order. ‘You stay with him.’ He trotted out of sight.

Jumpy crouched beside the man, could see his lips moving, dark crimson bubbles popping as he tried to speak. He bent closer, reluctant to get more of the man’s blood on his cheeks, his nose wrinkling at the smell of decay. He pulled back, recognising the stench of imminent death, then forced himself to listen to the jihadi’s last words.

A dozen or so in recognisable English, disintegrating into gibberish. Arabic. A prayer, maybe.

‘I don’t understand, pal. You can talk to the police when they get here.’

The man’s eyes opened impossibly wide, the whites exposed, the orbs protruding, threatening to burst from his skull. Jumpy stepped back as the victim’s frantic limbs began thrashing hard enough to break the bones, his back arching, vertebrae crunching as he writhed on the floor, mouth wrenched so wide the hinges audibly cracked as his jaw dislocated, cheeks tearing open, splitting at the corners of his lips. The ghoulish low moan emanating from the oversized yawning hole in his elongated face sent a chill through Jumpy’s spine, his mind immediately leaping to a terrifying conclusion.

He would most likely meet the same tortured fate.

In his military career, he had seen plenty of violent, messy deaths. Victims of bombs and bullets, artillery shells and grenades. Men he had killed himself, too, some who had met horrendous ends, no longer recognisable as human beings. Yet, in all his years as a paratrooper he had never witnessed a death like the one that took place on that supermarket floor in a genteel London suburb.

‘Jesus wept.’ Jumpy turned away, dropping to his arthritic knees. The shock of pain in his crippled leg went unnoticed as he retched, certain the vision he’d witnessed would haunt him until the day he died.

During the first Gulf war he had seen a colleague’s chest torn open, the ribs wrenched wide, displayed like the lamb racks in a butcher’s shop, exposing his innards.

Glistening pink lungs.

Today, he recognised those same tissues, this time tinged with bubbles of black and green slime, issuing forth from the man’s distended throat.

Jumpy prayed he was not infected, would not suffer a death like this. He refused to look at the man again, but he couldn’t stop his mind working, imagining himself in the same state, the agony he’d feel with God squeezing him like a giant tube of toothpaste, forcing his own insides out through his gaping, fractured mouth.

***