88° North
‘Nadia is a heroine readers are bound to fall hard for!’ – BestThrillers.comThe deadliest kind of assassin is one who is already dying…As the radiation poisoning that Nadia Laksheva was exposed to in Chernobyl takes hold of her body, she knows she has mere weeks to live. But Salamander, the terrorist who murdered her father and sister has a deadly new plan to ‘make the sky bleed’. Nadia is determined to stop him again, even if it is the last thing she ever does.The only clue she has are the coordinates 88˚ North, a ridge in the Arctic right above one of the largest oil fields in the world, three thousand metres below the ice. If Salamander takes hold of the oil field, he could change the climate of the whole planet for generations to come…But can Nadia stop him before her own time runs out?The gripping third and final novel in J.F. Kirwan’s brilliant spy thriller series. Perfect for fans of Charles Cumming, Mark Dawson and Adam Brookes.
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The deadliest kind of assassin is one who is already dyingâ¦
As the radiation poisoning that Nadia Laksheva was exposed to in Chernobyl takes hold of her body, she knows she has mere weeks to live. But Salamander, the terrorist who murdered her father and sister has a deadly new plan to âmake the sky bleedâ. Nadia is determined to stop him again, even if it is the last thing she ever does â¦
The only clue she has are the coordinates 88Ë North, a ridge in the Arctic right above one of the largest oil fields in the world, three thousand metres below the ice. If Salamander takes hold of the oil field, he could change the climate of the whole planet for generations to come.
But can Nadia stop him before her own time runs out?
The gripping third and final novel in J.F. Kirwanâs brilliant spy thriller series. Perfect for fans of Charles Cumming, Mark Dawson and Adam Brookes.
Also by J.F. Kirwan
Nadia Laksheva Spy Thriller Series
66 Metres
37 Hours
88º North
J. F. Kirwan
ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
J.F. KIRWAN
In his day job, J.F. KIRWAN travels worldwide, working on aviation safety. He lives in Paris, where he first joined a fiction class â and became hooked! So when a back injury stopped him scuba diving for two years, he wrote a thriller about a young Russian woman, Nadia, where a lot of the action occurred in dangerously deep waters. It was the only way he could carry on diving! But as the story and characters grew, he realised it was not one book, but three⦠J.F. Kirwan would love to hear from readers. You can follow him on Twitter at: @kirwanjf.
Thanks to my pre-readers, Andy, Beatrice and Laura, my ever-trusty writer colleagues Chris, Dimitri, Marie, Mary-Ellen and Gwyneth, and my editor Charlotte and the team at HQ Digital, HarperCollins.
And thanks to all my friends and family, who kept the faith when it mattered most.
In memory of John and Dino, two real-life heroes.
Contents
When killers enter a dark, smoke-filled room hunting their quarry, they donât usually look up to the ceiling. Which was exactly where Blue Fan was, her hands and feet wedged against the edges of a recess, as if crucified on an X-shaped cross. Like a sacrifice. Which is what sheâd have been if theyâd detected her. One of them did glance her way, but not long enough to distinguish her head-to-toe camouflaged suit from the matt black ceiling. Muscles taut, not breathing, she counted the rifle-sight lasers criss-crossing the empty chamber. Three. Disappointing.
She was worth more.
As the door sealed behind them, shutting off all light, the night-goggled men stole forward. All she saw now were the lasers. They told her where the men were, which way they were facing. She listened to their measured breathing, smelt the fresh Hoppeâs No. 9 gun oil smeared on their weapons. They were directly below her. The one on the right stalked away from the other two.
A mistake.
Two stilettos hung immobile from breakable lanyards around her wrists. She took a silent breath, relaxed her elbows and kicked off with her feet, snatching the handle of each blade as she dropped.
One of the two men below her must have heard the whisper of flesh against stone, because he turned, too late. Her first blade syringed into the closest soldierâs neck, transecting his spine at C5, taking him out of the game, while her second blade â for the soldier whoâd turned â ice-picked through the gap just above his breastbone. Mortal wound, not yet dead. She used his crumpling body to pivot, and landed in a crouch. Withdrawing the first blade, she sheltered behind her human shield as the third soldier whirled around and squeezed the trigger on his automatic rifle, and didnât stop. The deluge of bullets finished his comrade.
âLights!â she shouted.
The room flooded with bright light, blinding the third soldier. He ripped off his goggles but didnât release the trigger, pummelling her body-shield while she waited for his magazine to empty. He let go of the rifle to grab his handgun, but sheâd already sprung upwards. His eyes locked upon her empty throwing hand as the blade speared his throat. Two rounds blasted into the concrete floor as he choked, drowning in his own blood, his free hand uselessly trying to stem the flow from his neck. He fell backwards onto the concrete, already dead, his arms and legs splayed, a mirror image of her on the ceiling six seconds earlier.
Blue Fan surveyed the scene. All dead. All clear. She retrieved her stilettos, and wiped off the blood on one of the soldierâs uniforms. The door opened. Two heavily-tattooed, unarmed men strolled into the room, as if this was business as usual. One of them kicked the third soldier, just to be sure, or maybe for the hell of it.
