Thriller: Stories To Keep You Up All Night. Литагент HarperCollins USD

reaction was a classic example of the compelling nature of deep shame. It not only inflamed, it consumed. He was engrossed in Dmitri, hanging on every word, milking pleasure from every shock, every surprise—which was the distraction she needed. She gazed swiftly around, searching for a weapon, a way to disarm him. She checked the cast-iron floor lamp just behind the little table between Olenkov and her.

      Dmitri seemed to shrink. “Oleg Olenkov.” His voice rose. “You bastard. Where’s Nina? You’ve done nothing to Nina!”

      Olenkov laughed again. “I have something more important for you—this is the Carnivore’s daughter, Liz Sansborough. You remember the Carnivore—your savior?”

      Liz leaned toward the tall lamp, hoping Dmitri would recognize what she had in mind. She rested her right elbow on the arm of her chair. From here, she would be able to reach up and back with both hands and pull the lamp’s heavy pole down onto Olenkov’s skull.

      But Dmitri gave no indication he understood. He returned his focus to Olenkov and announced, “The Carnivore didn’t save me. Your stupidness did!”

      Everything happened in seconds. Olenkov jerked erect as if someone had just stretched his spine. Without a word, he glanced at each of them and leveled the guns.

      As Liz’s hands shot up and yanked down the lamp, Olenkov saw her. He ducked and squeezed the triggers. The noise was explosive, rocking the walls. The iron pole struck the left side of his head hard. Blood streamed down his cheek as the lampshade cartwheeled and the pole landed and bounced.

      Liz’s side erupted in pain. She had been hit. As the assassin shook his head once, clearing it, she snatched the closer gun. And hesitated, dizzy. She collapsed back against the other arm of the chair, taking deep breaths.

      Across the room, Dmitri slumped against the wall. A red tide spread across his tan jacket from a bloody shoulder wound. His eyes were large and overbright, strangely excited, as if he had awakened from a long nightmare. Swearing a long stream of Russian oaths, he peeled away and hurled himself at Olenkov.

      But Olenkov raised the Glock again. Liz kicked, ramming her foot into his fingers. The pistol flew. His arm swung wide.

      Dmitri slammed the heels of both hands into Olenkov’s shoulders. The chair crashed backward. As they fell with it, Dmitri dropped his knees onto Olenkov’s chest, pinning him. Like a vise, his big hands snapped shut around Olenkov’s neck.

      Olenkov swung up a fist, but Dmitri dodged and squeezed harder. Olenkov clawed at the hands that crushed his throat. He gasped. He flushed pink, then red. Sweat popped out on his face.

      Liz exhaled, fighting the pain in her side. With effort, she focused on Dmitri, a man fueled by years of rage and fear, by terror for Nina’s safety. His mouth twisting, he glared down into Olenkov’s eyes, cursing him loudly again, his iron grip tightening. He shook the throat, and Olenkov’s head rocked. He laughed as Olenkov’s eyes bulged.

      Liz forced herself up. Resting the pistol on her chair’s arm, she pointed it at Dmitri’s temple. “Stop! Let him go. He can’t hurt us now!”

      Dmitri gave no sign he heard. He continued to strangle Olenkov, while Olenkov’s chest heaved.

      “Dammit, stop, Dmitri! The sheriff’s department will arrest him. You’ll be able to fly to Moscow. You can be with Nina!”

      At Nina’s name, Dmitri went rigid. His curses turned to mutters. Still, his hands remained locked around the assassin’s neck, and his knees crushed the man’s chest. Olenkov’s eyes were closed, but his raw rasps told her he was alive. The awful sound of approaching death filled her mind. Her husband, her mother and many of her colleagues had died violently. She wondered how she managed to survive. Maybe she was the one in the nightmare.

      She clasped her wound and worked to strip the anger and pain from her voice. “You and Nina have a real chance. I’d give a lot to have the chance you have.”

      At last, Dmitri’s shoulders relaxed. As he stood and walked away from the unconscious Olenkov, his upper lip rose with distaste. He did not look at Olenkov.

      Sickened by Olenkov, disgusted by her misjudgment, she turned away from Olenkov, too.

      In the distance, sirens screeched. Dmitri lifted his chin, listening as they drew near. “When Nina was born, I was in hiding. My wife’s parents raised her. She is twenty-three now.” He paused. “My fault. I wanted to know about her so bad that I finally wrote her last year. That is probably how he traced me.”

      Liz’s breath caught in her throat. “So Nina is—?”

      “My daughter.” Dmitri smiled a brilliant smile. “Thank you.”

      He headed for the door and opened it. Behind him, the night sky that had seemed so drab now shone like ebony. The once-distant stars sparkled brightly.

      Gingerly, he touched his wound. “Not bad. How are you?”

      “I’ll live. Olenkov told me Nina was your wife.”

      His hand fell from his shoulder. Pain torqued his flat features. “Her name was Natalia. Olenkov terminated her.”

      “How horrible. I’m sorry.” So Olenkov had lied about that, too. “Are you sure my father didn’t do it?”

      He shook his head. “As soon as the Carnivore found us, Olenkov scrubbed my wife. That pissed off the Carnivore. He said he was hired for wet jobs on criminals—not dissidents. So when the bastard tried to scrub me, too, the Carnivore shot him.”

      Liz stared. Her father had saved Dmitri? She felt a strange kind of awe. She had always accepted the government’s version of the Carnivore’s career as an assassin. But then, he had never said anything to make her think otherwise. What else had she missed?

      “He sneaked me out of the Soviet Union,” Dmitri continued. “We almost got caught twice. We walked three days across terrible ice and snow into Finland.” He swallowed and looked away. “They say he was a killer, but he was very good to me.”

      As if it were yesterday, pieces of her childhood returned. Liz remembered holding her father’s hand as they laughed and he led her in a race across the Embankment. Their long conversations as they sat cozily alone to drink tea. The gentle way he brushed away her hair to kiss her cheek. She might have been wrong about him. What else had she missed? For her, the hunt had just begun.

      Michael Palmer & Daniel Palmer

      In 1982, Michael Palmer, then a practicing E.R. physician on Cape Cod, exploded on the literary scene with his first thriller, The Sisterhood, which made the New York Times bestseller list and was translated into thirty-three languages. Since then, he has written nine more thrillers of medical suspense. Palmer attended Wesleyan University with Robin Cook, and the two of them performed their residencies at Boston’s Massachusetts General Hospital at the same time. Later, Michael Crichton’s work and Cook’s success with Coma inspired Palmer to write and, between the three writers, the genre of medical suspense became firmly established.

      Palmer sees the thriller as distinct from classic detective stories. Two of his favorites are William Goldman’s Marathon Man and James Grady’s Six Days of the Condor. In Palmer’s thrillers, his protagonists are drawn into the story because of something they do professionally. They are not detectives and are not out to solve mysteries. Rather, their goals are simply to be the best physicians they can be. They’re usually pulled into the story against their wills and eventually must defeat the forces impinging on their lives, or be destroyed in the process. Of course, along the way, a catharsis occurs, but what also distinguishes Palmer’s work is a frightening aspect that leaves readers wondering if such a thing could actually happen to them.

      Palmer has never before collaborated with another writer on a project, but Disfigured is coauthored with Daniel James Palmer, the middle of his three sons. Daniel is a professional songwriter, musician and software manager. Disfigured was actually Daniel’s