Blown Away (Frank Corso Series #6)

Overview

The nightmare began a year ago in Pennsylvania with the shocking death of a delivery driver, blown to pieces during an outrageous crime. And now the terror has spread from East Coast to West . . .

As body parts pile up throughout the L.A. area—the result of a devastating series of bank robberies—federal agencies see nothing but the random hand of a bomb-tossing lunatic. Rogue journalist Frank Corso, however, sees the tracks of something far more sinister—something with a ...

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Overview

The nightmare began a year ago in Pennsylvania with the shocking death of a delivery driver, blown to pieces during an outrageous crime. And now the terror has spread from East Coast to West . . .

As body parts pile up throughout the L.A. area—the result of a devastating series of bank robberies—federal agencies see nothing but the random hand of a bomb-tossing lunatic. Rogue journalist Frank Corso, however, sees the tracks of something far more sinister—something with a motive and a message. But the closer Corso and research assistant Chris Andriatta come to a fiendishly audacious maniac, the clearer a blood-chilling truth appears in the harsh and glaring light:

The fuse to this explosive horror may have inadvertently been lit by Frank Corso himself.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780060874414
  • Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
  • Publication date: 6/26/2007
  • Series: Frank Corso Series, #6
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 336

Meet the Author

G.M. Ford is the author of six widely praised Frank Corso novels, Fury, Black River, A Blind Eye, Red Tide, No Man's Land, and Blown Away, as well as six highly acclaimed mysteries featuring Seattle private investigator Leo Waterman. A former creative writing teacher in western Washington, Ford lives in Oregon and is currently working on his next novel.

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Read an Excerpt

Blown Away

A Novel of Suspense
By G.M. Ford

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2006 G.M. Ford
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0060874392

Chapter One

"The head landed over there."

Corso turned and watched the guy trace an arc in the sky with his finger.

"Right where that red Honda is parked," the guy said.

"Where was Marino sitting when the bomb went off?" Corso asked.

This time the guy pointed to the area in front of Corso's boots. "Right there. See? There where the pavement's been patched."

"I don't see anything."

"You have to look close," the guy said. He pointed. "See the little rectangle there?"

Corso bent at the waist. In the gathering gloom, he couldn't make out the supposed patch in the pavement, so he dropped to one knee and used his hands. He found the outline with the tips of his fingers. Traced it. Maybe five feet by three. Done very neatly, as if by a landscaper rather than a road crew.

"Didn't even need to be fixed," the guy said. "Didn't have a mark on it."

Corso looked up. The guy was in his middle thirties, working on a potbelly. He needed a haircut almost as badly as the herringbone sport jacket needed a trip to the dry cleaners. Other than grooming problems, however, Carl Letzo seemed like a pretty nice fella . . . more or less what Corso had come to expect from small-town newspaper reporters. What he hadn't come to expect, however, wasfor small-town newspaper guys to meet him at the airport. Especially when he hadn't told anyone he was coming.

"It was like the spot had cancer or something," Carl said. "Something that needed to be cut out before it could spread. Something to be expunged . . . you know, so the body could get about its business."

Corso rose from the pavement. He dusted off his hands and looked around. Something about these places out on the edge. A sense of whiteness . . . a sense of the void . . . of something vast and impenetrable just beyond the horizon. He'd felt it before, many times, that sense of impermanence. Like the place was a line of demarcation rather than a home . . . a sentinel rather than a respite . . . like the only thing left to those who stayed behind was to witness the passing of the parade.

"So, Carl," Corso began, "I appreciate you bringing me down here and all, saved me a bunch of time, but ahhh . . . just for the record, how was it you knew I was flying into your fair hamlet here?"

"Dorry."

"Who's Dorry?"

"Your publicist."

"Ahhhhh." Corso exhaled. It all made sense now. He'd changed publishers since his last book. Taken more money than he once could have imagined and run like hell. Hadn't occurred to him they'd assign him a publicist. He made a mental note to call his new editor . . . Greg was it? . . . yeah . . . at night . . . at home.

"So . . . you were here when it happened?"

Carl pointed at the Bank of Commerce, in whose parking lot they now stood. "Right there by the corner of the building. That was as close as they'd let me get."

The one-story rectangle of a bank was only slightly more adorned than the pavement had been. The lack of pizzazz seemed determined to convey a sense that these people were not wasting your money, or theirs either, for that matter.

All that remained of the surrounding trees were the black trunks set in the frozen grass and, spread above the ground, the gnarly, arthritic remnants of branches, quivering in the early-evening breeze.

To the west, the sky was leaden, backlit, as if somewhere in the reaches of the heavens a long-shuttered window had been opened, announcing to the senses . . . before the first scent of salt air . . . before the first crab shack . . . announcing that terra firma was about to end and that, like it or not, Plan B was about to become the order of the day.

Corso checked his watch. Four-ten and the late-fall light was already slipping into the lake for the night. Out on the road, streetlights sputtered to life as traffic crept along. It was cold enough to snow. Cold enough to keep people indoors for long periods of time. Suicide weather.

Behind Carl, a forest green Acura slid across the lot, its studded tires snapping the bare pavement like castanets. Malingering remnants of dirty snow huddled beneath the shrubbery.

"I figured there'd be a lot more snow."

Carl nodded. "Usually is. Up until a few weeks ago, we had it piled halfway up the fences. Then we got a warm spell. Rained like crazy for a whole week. Melted everything."

"What was the weather like last year?"

Carl Letzo thought about it. "About like this. 'Cept snow on the ground. We got about six inches the night before." He looked around, seeing it all again in his mind's eye. "Pretty much business as usual. People around here don't let a little snow get in their way."

Corso gestured toward the back door of the bank. "So he comes out that door with the money."

Letzo nodded. "He's got the money in a white plastic bag," he said. "He doesn't get more than a coupla steps out the door and the cops grab him."

"He try to break away from the cops?"

Letzo shook his head. "That was right before I got here, but I don't think so. I've never heard anybody talk about him resisting."

"So what then?"

"From what I hear, he's wailing about how he's going to blow up if he doesn't follow the directions in the note. The cops are scared to be close to him, so they set him out in the parking lot and wait for the bomb squad to arrive."

"And?"

"That's when I got here." He pointed at the pavement. "He was sitting here on the ground . . . cross-legged."

"Doing what?"

"Crying. Begging for somebody to help him."

"And then?"

Letzo's eyes narrowed. "Kerblooie. The bomb went off. Blew parts of him all over the place."

Continues...


Excerpted from Blown Away by G.M. Ford Copyright © 2006 by G.M. Ford. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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