Rules Of Vengeance

Vince Flynn Reviews Rules of Vengeance Vince Flynn is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of nine previous thrillers, including Consent to Kill , Act of Treason , and Protect and Defend . He lives in the Twin Cities with his wife and three children. Read his guest review of Christopher Reich's Rules of Vengeance : Last summer, before I picked up Christopher Reich’s Rules of Deception , I’d heard it was the kind of smart, high-octane international thriller that would take me back to tales of espionage and political intrigue written by the masters—like Frederick Forsyth , Ken Follett , and Robert Ludlum . Those books were propulsive mixes of fact and fiction, set in a combustible, all-too-real world where peace balanced on a razor’s edge and nuclear annihilation was a single bullet away. The best of them, like Forsyth’s The Fourth Protocol and Ludlum’s The Bourne Identity , left you wondering if they might, in fact, be true. Might something like this really happen? Then came the 1990’s. The Iron Curtain fell. Russia imploded. And Japan suffered a severe economic crisis. The world was left with America as its sole superpower. The bomb had been defused. We felt safe. And so ended the domination of international espionage blockbusters on the bestseller lists. Along came Rules of Deception . Was it really a return to the big blockbuster of the 70’s and 80’s? Critics certainly were embracing it with gusto. So it was with some excitement and no small amount of skepticism that I picked up the book. The story started like a rocket and picked up speed from there. By page 20, I knew the critics had gotten it right. Rules of Deception was the very definition of a blockbuster: a lone, intrepid hero battling immense odds to save the world from a cataclysmic battle while also regaining the love of a fallen woman. Now, Reich gives us Rules of Vengeance . Sequels are rarely as good as the original, so again, I was skeptical. And yet, Rules of Vengeance turns out to be that rare exception—where the novel not only stands up to its predecessor, but actually takes the story and characters in new—and completely surprising—directions. Again we meet Dr. Jonathan Ransom, a surgeon for Doctors Without Borders. The story begins with his arrival in London to deliver an address at a prestigious international medical conference, and it takes off from there at mach speed, offering more twists than the Monaco Grand Prix. I’m not going to give away any of the unexpected plot turns (and there are many), but I will say that once again, Ransom quickly finds himself in trouble not of his own making. And, once again, he is forced to maneuver between the good guys and the bad guys in order to figure out just what he’s been pulled into, and then make sure that no one else suffers because of it. The stakes are sky high. The locales are exotic. The plot is ripped from tomorrow’s headlines and Reich controls the story with a deft hand from beginning to end. What’s particularly appealing about Jonathan Ransom is he is not a spy or a trained assassin. He is, in fact, the opposite: a doctor who has devoted his life to helping others—a loner working outside political boundaries who exemplifies the best in us all. But like each of us, he has a dark side that is both frightening and compelling. You do not want to make this man angry. As for Christopher Reich, he—like Ransom—also may not be a trained spy or assassin (at least not to the best of my knowledge). But he certainly does manipulate the twists, summon the adrenaline, and create a landscape of thrills that can only leave readers with one lasting impression: Chris Reich is the real deal. —Vince Flynn (Photo © Peter Hurley) From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. Near the start of bestseller Reich's stellar sequel to Rules of Deception , Dr. Jonathan Ransom flies from Africa to London for a medical conference. That same day, intermediaries arrange for him to meet his fugitive wife, Emma, once a secret agent with the Pentagon group known as Division, in a cheap hotel. The next day, Jonathan's world is literally and figuratively torn apart after a large car bomb explodes in Westminster, seriously injuring the Russian interior minister. Jonathan is sure Emma is behind the car bombing, but the police, led by Det. Chief Insp. Kate Ford, think Jonathan is responsible. Thus begins a convoluted chase—Jonathan hunting his wife, Kate and the cops along with MI5 agent Colonel Graves tracking Jonathan. Everyone, including the reader, remains clueless, except for master spy Emma, as to who is really the guilty party. A blinding twist at the end adds a spectacular fillip to a masterful performance by one of the genre's elite. (Aug.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. Advance rave for Rules of Vengeance by Christopher ReichNear the start of bestseller Reich's stellar sequel to Rules of Deception , Dr. Jonathan Ransom flies from Africa to London for a medical conference. That same day, intermediaries arrange for him to meet his fugitive wife, Emma, once a secret agent with the Pentagon group known as Division, in a cheap hotel. The next day, Jonathan's world is literally and figuratively torn apart after a large car bomb explodes in Westminster, seriously injuring the Russian interior minister. Jonathan is sure Emma is behind the car bombing, but the police, led by Det. Chief Insp. Kate Ford, think Jonathan is responsible. Thus begins a convoluted chase–Jonathan hunting his wife, Kate and the cops along with MI5 agent Colonel Graves tracking Jonathan. Everyone, including the reader, remains clueless, except for master spy Emma, as to who is really the guilty party. A blinding twist at the end adds a spectacular fillip to a masterful performance by one of the genre's elite. -- Publishers Weekly (starred)Exceptional Praise for Rules of Deception by Christopher Reich “ Rules of Deception is an intense, impossible-to-put down spy novel—like Robert Ludlum at his very best."—Vince Flynn" Rules of Deception packs a wallop. Christopher Reich is at the top of his game."—David Baldacci“Christopher Reich is one of my favorite suspense writers, and he’s outdone himself this time.”—James Patterson“ Rules of Deception delivers pure suspense, intrigue, and adventure from its first page to its last. Christopher Reich is the master of the espionage thriller for the twenty-first century.”—Clive Cussler “A globe-trotting, bomb-ticking, loyalty-blurring thriller.” — People “ Rules of Deception develops an entertainingly serpentine complexity . . . And his finale lives up to the level of suspense he has created.” — New York Times “Un-put-downable . . . This first-class adrenalin fest will leave readers guessing until the last page.” — Publishers Weekly (starred review) CHRISTOPHER REICH is the New York Times bestselling author of Rules of Deception , Numbered Account , and The Patriots Club , which won the International Thiller Writers award for best novel in 2006. He lives in California with his family. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1The most expensive real estate in the world is located in the district of Mayfair in central London. Barely two square miles, Mayfair is bordered by Hyde Park to the west and Green Park to the south. Claridge's Hotel, the world headquarters of Royal Dutch Shell, and the summer residence of the sultan of Brunei are within walking distance of one another. In between can be found many of the world's best-known luxury boutiques, London's only three-star restaurant (as awarded by the Guide Michelin), and a handful of art galleries catering to those with unlimited bank accounts. Yet even within this enclave of wealth and privilege, one address stands above the rest.1 Park Lane, or "One Park" as it's commonly known, is a luxury residential high-rise located at the southeast corner of Hyde Park. It began life one hundred years ago as a modest ten-story hotel and over time has served as a bank, a car dealership, and, it is rumored, a high-class brothel for visiting Middle Eastern dignitaries. As real estate values began to spiral upward, so did the building's aspirations.Today, One Park stands some twenty stories tall and is home to nineteen private residences. Each occupies an entire floor, not counting the penthouse, which is a duplex. Prices start at five thousand pounds, or a breath under eight thousand dollars, per square foot. The cheapest residence goes for 15 million pounds; the penthouse, four times that, 60 million pounds, or nearly 90 million dollars. Owners include a former British prime minister, an American hedge-fund manager, and the purported leader of the Bulgarian underworld. The joke around the building is who among them is the biggest thief.With so much wealth gathered beneath one roof, security is a twenty-four-hour concern. At all times, two liveried doormen cover the lobby, a team of three plainclothes officers roams the premises, and two more occupy the control room, where they keep a constant eye on the multiplex of video monitors broadcasting live feeds from the building's forty-four closed-circuit television cameras.One Park's imposing front doors are made from double-paned bulletproof glass, protected by a steel grate and secured by magnetic lock. The doors' German manufacturer, Siegfried & Stein, guaranteed the lock against a direct hit from a rocket-propelled grenade. The front doors might be blown clear off their hinges and across the spacious marble lobby, but by God and Bismarck, they will remain locked. Visitors are granted entry only after their faces have been scrutinized via closed-circuit television and their identity confirmed by a resident.For all intents and purposes, One Park is impregnable.Getting in was the easy part.The trespasser, operational designation "Alpha," stood inside the master bedroom closet of residence 5A of 1 Park Lane. Alpha was familiar with the apartment's security system. Prior reconnaissance had revealed the presence of pressure pads beneath the carpet alongside the windows in every room and at the front entry, but none in the closet. There were other, more sophisticated measures, but they, too, could be defeated.The intruder crossed to the door and flipped the light switch. The closet was palatial. A shoe rack stood against the far wall, and next to it a rolled-up flag of St. George and two Holland & Holland shotguns. The owner's clothing hung along one wall. There was no women's clothing to be seen. The residence belonged to a bachelor.To the left were stacks of yellowing periodicals, bound newspapers, and manila files, the meticulously accumulated bric-a-brac of a dedicated scholar. To the right stood a mahogany dresser with several photographs in sterling frames. One showed a fit, sandy-haired man in hunting attire, shotgun under one arm, in conversation with a similarly sporty Queen Elizabeth II. The trespasser recognized the owner of the apartment. He was Lord Robert Russell, only son of the duke of Suffolk, England's richest peer, with a fortune estimated at five billion pounds.Alpha had not come to steal Russell's money, but for something infinitely more valuable.Kneeling, the intruder removed a slim packet from a work bag. A thumbnail punctured its plastic wrapping. Alpha deftly unfolded a foil-colored jumpsuit and stepped into it. Care was taken to ensure that the suit covered every square inch of exposed skin. A hood descended low over the brow and rose over the jaw to mask the nose and mouth. The jumpsuit was made from Mylar, a material often used for survival blankets. The suit had been designed for one purpose and one purpose only: to prevent the escape of the body's ambient heat.Satisfied that the Mylar suit was in place, the intruder removed a pair of telescopic night-vision goggles and affixed them comfortably, again working to cover as much skin as possible. A pair of gloves came last.Alpha cracked open the closet door. The master bedroom was cloaked in darkness. A scan of the area revealed a motion detector attached to the ceiling near the door. The size of a pack of cigarettes, the motion detector emitted passive infrared beams capable of detecting minute oscillations in room temperature caused by the passage of human bodies through a protected space. The alarm's sensitivity could be calibrated to allow a cat or a small dog free rein of the premises without triggering the alarm, but Robert Russell did not own a house pet. Moreover, he was cautious by nature and paranoid by dint of his profession. He knew full well that his recent work had made him unpopular in certain circles. He also knew that if the past were to be taken as an indication, his life was in danger. The sensors would be set to detect the faintest sign of an intruder.Even with the thermal suit, it was not yet safe to enter the room. Robert Russell had equipped his flat with a double-redundant security system. The motion detector constituted one measure. The other was a microwave transmitter that relied on the concept of Doppler radar to bounce sound waves off the walls. Any disturbance in the sound waves' pattern would activate the alarm.A survey of the bedroom failed to locate the transmitter.Just then a voice sounded in Alpha's earpiece. "He's leaving the target. You have eight minutes.""Check."Stepping out of the closet, Alpha moved swiftly to the bedroom door. No alarm sounded. No air horn. No bell. There was no microwave transmitter in the room. The bedroom door stood ajar, granting a clear view down a hallway and into the living area. Gloved fingers increased the night-vision goggles' magnification fourfold. It required fifteen seconds to locate the ruby-red diode high on the foyer wall that signaled the location of the transmitter. There was no way to disable the diode. The solution lay in tricking it into thinking it was operating normally.Drawing a miniature target pistol from the jumpsuit, Alpha took careful aim at the diode and fired. The pistol did not shoot a bullet--at least, not in the conventional sense of the word. Instead it launched a subsonic projectile containing a crystalline epoxy compound. Designed to flatten on impact, the epoxy would effectively block the sound waves and reflect them back to the transmitter. Still, for less than a second, the sound waves would be disturbed. The alarm would be triggered.But there it would end.The beauty and the arrogance of the double-blind alarm lay in the necessity to trigger both mechanisms at the same time in order to activate the alarm. If the thermal sensor detected a rise in temperature, it would cross-check with the motion detector for a corresponding disruption in the Doppler waves. Similarly, if the Doppler-based motion sensor was disturbed, it would verify with the thermal sensor that there had been an increase in room temperature. If in either case the response was negative, the alarm would not be activated. The redundancy was not installed to make the room safer, but to guard against the possibility of a false alarm. No one had ever considered it possible to defeat both systems at the same time.The projectile hit its target dead on. The ruby-red diode vanished. The room was clear.Alpha checked the time. Six minutes, thirty seconds.Inside the living room, it was necessary to fold back the carpet from the walls. The pressure pads were located as noted on the schematics. One was placed in front of each of the floor-to-ceiling windows looking over Hyde Park, and the third in front of the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. Each required one minute to disable. There was another near the front door, but Alpha didn't bother with it. The entry and escape routes were the same.Four minutes.Free to roam the apartment, the intruder made a beeline for Russell's study. Alpha had been inside the apartment before and had made a point of memorizing its layout. A sleek stainless steel desk occupied the center of the room. On it were three LCD monitors arrayed side by side. A far larger screen, some ninety-six inches across, hung from the wall directly opposite him.Alpha directed a halogen beam beneath the desk. The computer's central processing unit sat on the floor at the rear of the foot well. There was no time to copy its contents, only to destroy it. Alpha slipped a handheld electronic device from the work bag and swiped it several times over Russell's CPU. The device delivered an immensely powerful electromagnetic pulse, obliterating all data.Unfortunately, the information was also stored in a more permanent location: Robert Russell's estimable brain."He's pulling into the garage," announced the voice in the earpiece.The time was 2:18 a.m. "Everything's a go," said Alpha. "Get lost.""See you back at the fort."On the desk was a web tablet, an all-in-one touch screen that controlled the apartment's automatic functions. With a touch Russell could turn on the television, open or close the curtains, or adjust the temperature. There was another, more interesting feature. If one h... Read more