Quicksand

William P. Wood

Description

Praise: Like Wood’s other books, Quicksand was highly praised, as “gripping” (Steve Martini), “a great deal of action and a worthy villain” (PW), and “a good story . . . held together by a sturdy spine” (Kirkus).
New designs: Each backlist will be redesigned with exciting covers to appeal to both established and new generations of readers.
• International success: Wood’s books have been translated into several foreign languages including French, Spanish, Japanese, German, Greek, and Polish.
• Film: Wood’s nonfiction title, The Bone Garden (Turner, May ‘14), has been featured in multiple books and on the Geraldo Rivera Show and The Discovery Channel. Most of Wood’s novels have been optioned for motion pictures and two were produced. Rampage (June ‘14) was filmed by Academy Award–winning director William Friedkin (The French Connection, The Exorcist, Killer Joe) for Miramax and Paramount. It starred Michael Biehn (The Terminator, The Abyss). His novel Broken Trust (Sept. ‘14) starred Tom Selleck and Academy Award nominee Marsha Mason. The screenplay was written by Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne.
• Insider’s perspective: As a deputy district attorney who handled thousands of criminal cases, ranging from disturbing the peace to murder, Wood gives readers an accurate, inside look into his genre of writing.

As head of California’s task force on narcotics and organized crime, Brock Andrews has earned his reputation as a tough, no-nonsense law enforcement agent. With his hardball tactics and skillful handling of informants, his team has successfully brought down some of the country’s most violent and powerful criminals. But it’s Brock’s superior who’s about to become his greatest adversary. Her name: Alison Andrews, First Assistant United States Attorney . . . and Brock’s wife.




Publicly, Alison and Brock Andrews are a dynamic power couple at the pinnacle of federal law enforcement. Privately, their marriage is on the rocks. And the growing tension between them has only worsened with Alison’s release of Edward Nelson, the disgraced CIA employee and international arms dealer Brock arrested months earlier in the biggest bust of his career. What Brock doesn’t know is that Alison has recruited Nelson as her most important undercover operator in a plot to ensnare a ring of domestic terrorists smuggling arms overseas. Nelson, a master manipulator skilled at deadly games, has a plan of his own—to turn Alison’s undercover operation inside out, unleash a secret army of heavily armed militiamen, and target Washington’s high-powered political arena for a terrorist act of unparalleled proportions.




Nelson is once again number one on Brock’s most wanted list. But with Alison protecting him from arrest, the only way to get to him is through an informant Brock has taken into custody. And while crucial information from this secret source helps Brock put together the pieces of Nelson’s insidious plan, it lays open more questions—and even more disturbing possibilities, including Alison’s complicity in criminal activity. Soon, Brock finds himself deep in a morass of shifting loyalties, outright betrayals, and hidden agendas that leave him running out of trust—and time. One thing is certain. Each hour matters, as Brock sets a dramatic trap to capture Nelson . . . and stop a terrifying attack on the heart of the nation. But first, he has to uncover the most dangerous truth of all . . .

The pier filled instantly with armed men and women shouting curt orders. The waters around the ship clogged with Coast Guard and Customs boats. Longshoremen paused, cranes in mid-swing, and gaped.

Jimmy bolted from the pier, joining groups overrunning the cargo ship, ATF, DEA, and FBI agents pouring up passageways, down to the holds. In the brainstorming sessions preceding the raid, Brock had reckoned that the ship’s crew wouldn’t fight. “They’re mules and union guys, so brush them aside if they try to help Nelson.”

The bad boys were nowhere in sight, so gun out, Jimmy raced with his team down to the rearmost hold, where they had let Nelson load his lethal cargo. Let him think it was safe. Passageways went by in a blur, his adrenaline high as he charged up heavily repainted steel stairs, yelling at the stunned crew to stay back. Heads peered from cramped, steamy cabins.

Quick images: a photo collage of tanned, naked women taped to a bulkhead, a large cage of squawking parakeets in one cabin, a man punched, cuffed, held down, when he made a sudden reach for his grease-stained khaki pants pocket. Up came a cheap cigar.

Jimmy barely paused, moving on instinct, the ship’s layout gleaming in his mind. Thirty other agents swarmed busily around him and his people. He jumped down stairs, through narrow steel doorways.

He sprinted into the last hold, loud, cracking gunshots bursting ahead of him.

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Thriller
• Policier
• Legal
• Thrillers
• William Wood
• Quicksand
• California
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Turner Publishing Company
• Date de parution: 18 novembre 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781620454824
• Langue: English

Extrait

Praise for
William P. Wood
"Wood clearly knows the inner workings of the judicial system."
- Publishers Weekly
"William P. Wood, a former prosecutor, knows well how to surprise and engross us."
-Vincent Bugliosi, author of Helter Skelter
"A natural storyteller!"
-Norman Katkov, author of Blood and Orchids

BROKEN TRUST
"Wood combines colorful, behind-the-scenes details with a nonstop plot."
- Library Journal
"A tour de force of compelling courtroom drama and spellbinding storytelling."
-Gus Lee, author of No Physical Evidence
"A spellbinding tale about the men and women who dispense justice from the bench."
- Associated Press

RAMPAGE
"One of the better courtroom dramas in years."
- New York Times Book Review
"A taut courtroom drama . . . Hard to put down."
-William J. Caunitz, author of One Police Plaza
"From the first to the last, Rampage is superior."
- Cleveland Plain Dealer

PRESSURE POINT
"Wood knows the intricacies and ironies of the legal system. He also knows how to employ them to weave a compelling story."
- San Diego Union
"Wood . . . shows his expertise of writing about the legal system with this spellbinding, gripping novel."
- The Best Reviews
Also by William P. Wood

Sudden Impact
Broken Trust
The Bribe
Stay of Execution
Rampage
Pressure Point
Fugitive City
The Bone Garden
WILLIAM P. WOOD
QUICK SAND
William P. Wood
A NOVEL
TURNER -->
Turner Publishing Company
424 Church Street Suite 2240 Nashville, Tennessee 37219
445 Park Avenue 9th Floor New York, New York 10022
www.turnerpublishing.com
QUICKSAND
Copyright 2014, 1998 by William P. Wood
All rights reserved. This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design: Taylor Reiman
Book design: Glen Edelstein
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014956029
ISBN: 978-1-62045-474-9 (paperback), 978-1-63026-747-6 (hardcover)
Printed in the United States of America
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Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein: and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him.
-Proverbs 26:27
QUICKSAND
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ASSISTANT UNITED STATES Attorney Brock Andrews shifted his lanky frame and stared through binoculars at the large cargo ship berthed a half a mile away at Pier 20. The ship rode low in the turgid green-black waters of Los Angeles Harbor. Brock felt tickling sweat, drawn by the constant dry, hot wind, inch down his neck.
He said to the angry man behind him, "Ed Nelson and his bad guys are going to come rolling up in ten seconds. There's enough explosive on that ship to blow this harbor off the coast. Your problem can wait."
The undersheriff of Los Angeles County was crew-cut, craggy, and solid in a square suit, hands on his hips. "Listen, mister, I know your song and dance. This is still my jurisdiction and I still represent local law enforcement."
Brock turned from the second-floor open window. The crowded room was filled with telephone equipment, tape recorders, television monitors, and other electronics. The air buzzed with radio chatter.
"Lila, anything hot coming through?"
A young black woman from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, headset clamped on her head, looked up. "They're still full-speed ahead, chief. Nelson's parade is southbound. Coming right for us. ETA is just five minutes."
"Okay. This is to all positions," Brock spoke into a headset he picked up. "We will move when Nelson is on the pier. He is not, no matter what, to board the ship."
Brock swept his glance over the other men and women, four from the FBI's Technical Services, and two from ATF. He had surveillance teams outside the Beverly Hills Hotel bungalow of Edward Nelson, wiretaps on his phones, and the same coverage of a rented home in Marina del Rey that the Syrians were using. The Syrians had already given the signal; some arrived first and boisterously boarded the Ramon Esquivel while its cargo was being unloaded.
The deal was about to happen, Brock cursed inwardly, and the Sheriff's Department picked this moment to mark its territory.
"My immediate beef"-the undersheriff came to the window beside Brock-"is that your bozo Yee, your half-assed bullshitter ATF guy, just ordered my men back outside the pier gates. Now, why is he doing that, Mr. Andrews?" It was not courtesy but sarcasm behind his use of Brock's last name.
"My guess's he has a tactical reason. I'm not going to override Jimmy Yee, bullshitter or not, because he's the one with his neck sticking out."
Brock knew Lila was smirking. Together, five years ago, they all had gone through training at Quantico, joining so enthusiastically in the after-hours drinking parties held in an open field that DEA, ATF, and FBI agents present had dubbed them "The Three Muscatels."
"Bullshit, Mr. Andrews," the undersheriff shot back, so close to Brock's ear it was a shout. "Tell him to get my men back inside the perimeter, because I guarantee you, Mr. Andrews, the Sheriff's Department is not going to be sidelined by your federal grandstanders."
Brock stared at the rusting cargo ship, across the buildings of San Pedro, over the low harbor warehouses, willing nothing to go wrong. Six months of intense work and worry hung poised. The wait in the command center inside the Cafe Tanjore had gone on for five hours, well past one in the afternoon. He was sick of the Santa Ana wind, the exotic stink of red chile, coconut chutney, and fried oil in the South Indian restaurant, the gulls keening everywhere. He was sick of anxiously staring at the Ramon Esquivel , stacked high with steel and wood containers, knowing that if anything went wrong now, the ship's crew would finish unloading part of its cargo of auto parts, lightbulbs, and paper pulping cylinders, and it would leave the harbor serenely and continue onward down to Tampico, Mexico.
And I'll have wasted a lot of money and put my head on the block because Nelson's just moving oil drilling mud to Kuwait or maybe even to Syria, scamming everybody along the way, Brock thought. Or else he's really got sixty thousand pounds of C-4 explosive hidden in those drums of phony drilling mud.
Either way, Brock swore, he's not getting on that ship, and that ship isn't leaving the harbor.
He swung away from the undersheriff just as Lila, head canted listening to her headset, said briskly, "Chief, Syrians just made a wire transfer of half the buy money to Nelson's Cayman bank."
Brock stared at the scrolling numbers, words on the screens. Nelson would show up, cautious but elated he was making one of the biggest sales of his wretched career. Inspect the shit. Then demand the Syrians make the final payment. Squeeze them while he still had control of the contraband cargo. Brock smiled. That was how former CIA spook Ed Nelson played things.
Then we bag the whole damn shipload of them.
The undersheriff started in again. Brock had no time for it.
"Agent Martin," he said to Lila, "will you please escort this man outside. Right now."
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Andrews?" the undersheriff spluttered.
"You're giving me a royal headache," Brock said.
Lila rose, whipped off her headset, passing it to another agent. She was taut, athletic, black hair clipped short, her jeans evenly pressed. She had the undersheriff by the arm, pushing him toward the door. "Do you work out, sir?" she asked with exaggerated politeness.
"Get your goddamn hands off of me," he shouted as they hurried down the stairs. "I'll have you arrested."
Brock heard Lila say calmly, "I think we'd arrest you first, sir."
He grabbed his hand-held radio, got Jimmy Yee on it. There were four teams arrayed undercover around the pier, but Jimmy's people were closest to the ship and most vulnerable.
"Jimmy," he said, picking up the binoculars, staring, "are you all set? Nelson's onto the Vincent Thomas."
"Over the bridge and right past Terminal Island," Jimmy crackled gleefully. "Too bad we can't just jam his ass into the lockup there." Terminal Island was a federal prison.
Brock heard constant reports now of the three-car motorcade as it drew inexorably closer. The Santa Ana flapped the cafe's orange awning below his window. He swiftly checked in with the other FBI, DEA, and harbor police teams, and four coast guard ships riding just beyond the breakfront on the sun-spangled water.
"Jimmy, we'll have visual in a second," he said, straining to see along the street leading onto Pier 20.
It was just like one of those hunting afternoons with Master Sergeant Terry Andrews and the other senior NCOs. A bunch of the same jolly, profane men his father collected at any of the ten postings Brock had shuttled to as a kid. Always deer hunting. Maybe today is like that particular time in the Rockies, when we lived at Fort Carson.
Brock had had a beautiful five-point buck in his sights. And suddenly, he'd realized he could not shoot such an animal again. He still vividly recalled his father's startled expression at the announcement.
But Master Sergeant Andrews would undoubtedly be proud his son had a rogue like Ed Nelson sighted and would not flinch from pulling the trigger.
"Vests on everybody," Brock said to the command center personnel. He slipped into his ballistic vest as Lila helped him close it. She said quietly, "Don't worry about Jimmy, chief. He won't jump the gun."
"I wouldn't have put him there if I was worried."
Brock braced himself, reckoning the directions and speeds being called out by the FBI, his binoculars raised, spotting the cherry red cars splitting off the highway, turning onto the pier's access road. Jesus, do