Flashpoint

I had lived so long on the wrong side of the law I felt out of place as a special undercover agent for Uncle Sam. But I had no choice. One of the lop brass in U.S. Intelligence had my number. So we made a deal—his silence for my services in tracking down and infiltrating a gang of Mid-East terrorists. Besides, I had a personal interest in this job. They had stolen 575.000 from me.

So there I was—Earl Drake, bank robber and safecracker, playing on the side of the angels to outwit a bunch of fanatic Turks who were using their embassy for cover.

I started with a Turkish delight. Talia. I conned her into leading me from the bedroom to their inner sanctum. I wished I hadn't.

One look at the cold, bulbous eyes in the mound of flesh seated on the cushioned sofa before me told me I had stepped in the path of a rattlesnake. And if I couldn't charm it, I was a dead Drake.