Last Light

Last Light

4.1 10
by Andy McNab

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Top-secret operative Nick Stone has just aborted a sanctioned assassination attempt at the Houses of Parliament -- and now he's in a world of trouble. His bosses have handed him an ultimatum: fly to Panama and finish the contract -- or Kelly, the young orphan in his guardianship, will die.

With no way out, Stone travels to the sweltering jungles of Central America,

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Top-secret operative Nick Stone has just aborted a sanctioned assassination attempt at the Houses of Parliament -- and now he's in a world of trouble. His bosses have handed him an ultimatum: fly to Panama and finish the contract -- or Kelly, the young orphan in his guardianship, will die.

With no way out, Stone travels to the sweltering jungles of Central America, landing up to his neck in high-stakes action as he closes in on the key players in a global conspiracy of death involving Colombian guerrillas, the U.S. government, and Chinese corporate powers. With countless lives hanging in the balance, and time running short, Stone is forced to make the toughest decision of all: Who lives, and who dies?

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
The fourth in a series of Nick Stone thrillers (after the well-received Firewall), this one gets off to an exciting if typical start as freelance assassin and ex-British SAS agent Stone orchestrates a precision team hit on a high-level target attending a snobby dessert social on the banks of the Thames. The target is to be identified by the team leader, Yes Man, who is to tap the victim on the left shoulder and wait for the snipers to do the dirty work. At the moment of contact, without explanation, Yes Man compromises the mission, and the police end up killing the three snipers. Stone is inexplicably given a second chance to complete his assignment alone by last light Friday at the victims fortified home near the Panama Canal Zone. At this point (if not earlier), the novel loses coherence, dwelling on Stones encounters with an aging tree-hugger college professor, his ganja-smoking young wife and their adopted daughter, who provide him with weapons and a base of operations in the Panamanian rain forest. Among Stones spine-tingling preoccupations in Panama are chigger bites, a nagging headache and his nonstop guzzling of water, and there is a plethora of dialogue-driven exposition about Noriegas overthrow and the ruin of the rain forests. More choir boy than cold-blooded killer, Stone is given to mawkish introspection and invites self-destruction by confessing all sorts of sins to his colleagues. Most readers will be praying for an early sunset. 5-city author tour. (Aug.) Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
By an ex-commando about an ex-commando, the fourth persuasive entry (Firewall, 2001, etc.) in the secret agent Nick Stone series. That Nick Stone is McNab in disguise is a conclusion difficult to avoid. Not that you'd want to avoid it, since authenticity in this kind of novel is what makes the heart thud faster. Still, Nick-unlike his much-decorated creator-does have a history of screw-ups, or at least such is the view of his often-irritated employers. As far as the Firm is concerned, his latest mission is a case in point. The routine assassination gig failed because insubordinate Nick suddenly wouldn't pull the trigger-when he discovered that his target happened to be a kid. Behavior never to be tolerated. His job was not to reason why but to blast away at those his bosses have decided are inimical to Britain's well-being. But Nick will be granted a last chance to redeem himself: a crack at the same target now returned to his native Panama in company with his dad, a wily and enterprising thug much too close to the worrisome Chinese. At issue is a high-tech missile system named Sunburn, which the Brits covet and the Chinese control, at least for now. But if Nick can make his kill, the Brits, given the labyrinthine way these things work, will gain their ends. But if he disappoints again, Nick is warned, the consequences will be dire indeed-to his own adopted 13-year-old daughter. Between good guys and bad, the line grows ever blurrier. No matter. Nick, hardened and embittered, has long since left such distinctions behind. He cares only about his guys, and so this time, it's clear, there's to be no backing off. Nonstop warrior Nick, with each of his engagements meticulously detailed. Alittle less of a very good thing, truth be told, might have benefited narrative flow.
From the Publisher
"Andy McNab knows where his strengths lie, and it's not just in his biceps... Only people who have not read this book could suggest that he is not a fine writer. It is a heart-thumping read."
—Daily Express

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Sunday, 3 September 2000

I didn't know who we were going to kill -- just that he or she would be amongst the crowd munching canapés and sipping champagne on the terrace of the Houses of Parliament at 3 p.m., and that the Yes Man would identify the target by placing his hand on their left shoulder when he greeted them.

I'd done some weird stuff over the years, but this job was scaring me. In less than ninety minutes, I was going to be shitting on my own doorstep big-time. I only hoped the Firm knew what it was doing, because I wasn't too sure that I did.

As I looked down yet again at the clear plastic lunch-box on the desk in front of me, three torch bulbs sticking out of holes I'd burnt in the lid stared back up. None of them was illuminated; the three snipers were still not in position.

Everything about this job was wrong. We'd been given the wrong weapons. We were in the wrong place. And there just hadn't been enough time to plan and prepare.

I stared through the net curtains across the boat-filled river. The Houses of Parliament were some 350 metres away to my half left. The office I'd broken into was on the top floor of County Hall, the former Greater London Council building. Now redeveloped into offices, hotels and tourist attractions, it overlooked the Thames from the south side. I was feeling rather grand sitting behind a highly polished, dark wood desk, as I looked out at the killing ground.

Parliament's terrace spanned the whole of its river frontage. Two prefabricated pavilions with candy-striped roofs had been erected at the far left end, for use throughout the summer months. Part of the terrace, I'd learnt from theirwebsite, was for Members of the House of Lords, and part for the House of Commons. The public were not admitted unless they were with an MP or peer, so this was probably the nearest I was ever going to get.

The Department of Trade and Industry's guests today were a group of about thirty businessmen, plus staff and some family, from Central and South America. Maybe the DTI was trying to curry a bit of favour and sell them a power station or two. Who cared? All I knew was that one of them would be getting dropped somewhere between the vol-au-vents and the profiteroles.

Directly below me, and five storeys down, Albert Embankment was thronged with hot-dog vendors and stalls selling plastic policeman's helmets and postcards of Big Ben to people queuing for the London Eye, or just enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon. A sightseeing boat packed with tourists passed under Westminster Bridge. I could hear a bored voice telling the story of Guy Fawkes over a crackly PA system.

It was holiday season and another news-starved week, so Mr Murdoch and his mates were going to be ever so pleased with what I was about to do: the biggest explosion in London this year, and right in the heart of Westminster. With the added bonus of a major shooting incident, it would probably take their ratings right off the scale. Unfortunately, good news for them was bad for me. SB (Special Branch) were going to be working their arses off to find out who'd pressed the button, and they were the best in the world at this sort of thing. They'd been formed to stop the IRA carrying out exactly the kind of stunt I was about to pull.

Three torch bulbs were still unlit. I wasn't flapping, just concerned.

At either end of the row of lights was a white, rectangular bell-push from a door chime set, glued in position with Evostik, the wires curling into the box. The one on the left was covered with the top from a can of shaving cream. It was the detonation pressel for the device that I'd set up as a diversion. The device was basically a black powder charge, designed to give off a big enough bang to grab London's attention but not to kill anyone. There would be some damage, there'd be the odd cut or bruise, but there shouldn't be any fatalities. The shaving cream top was there because I didn't want to detonate it by accident. The pressel on the right was exposed. This was the one that would initiate the shoot.

Next to the box I had a set of binos mounted on a mini-tripod and trained on the killing ground. I was going to need them to watch the Yes Man as he moved about the crowd and ID'd the target.

The lunch-box contained a big, green, square lithium battery, and a mess of wires and circuit boards. I'd never tried to make things look neat; I just wanted them to work. Two purple plastic-coated wire antennas stuck out of the rear of the box, trailed along the desk, over the window-sill I'd pushed it up against, then dangled down the outside wall. I had the window closed down on them to cut out as much noise as possible.

The loudest sound in the room was my breathing, which started to quicken as the witching hour got closer. It was only outdone by the occasional scream of delight from a tourist at ground level or a particularly loud PA system from the river.

All I could do was wait. I crossed my arms on the desk, rested my head on them, and stared at the bulbs that were now level with my eyes, willing them to start flashing.

I was shaken out of my trance as Big Ben struck two.

I knew the snipers wouldn't move into their fire positions until the last moment so that they didn't expose themselves longer than necessary, but I really wanted those lights to start flashing at me.

For about the millionth time in the past twenty minutes I pushed down on the uncovered pressel, resting the side of my head on my forearm to look inside the box, like a kid wondering what his mum had made him for lunch. A small bulb, nestled amongst the mass of wires, lit up with the current generated by my send pressel. I wished now that I'd burnt another hole in the lid for the bulb inside to join the others -- but at the time I couldn't be arsed. I released it and pressed again. The same thing happened. The device was working. But what about the other three that I'd built for the snipers? I'd just have to wait and see.

Copyright 2002 by Andy McNab

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Last Light 4.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 10 reviews.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
My favorite Nick stone book so far! Plenty of action and suspense, with the best terrain and the best bad guys: the Chinese and Colombians. A Must read!!
Guest More than 1 year ago
Andy McNab has some of the best if not the best books that I have read,I first read his Book Bravo Two Zero and got emotionaly attached to his work.The book Last Light is no different a great must read book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Andy McNabb has done it again. He knows what it is like to be on the ground and it shows. Too many thriller writers want their readers to think that warfare is a great time, but McNabb lets us know that is a messy business. McNabb brings a realism to Stone that people can relate to. It is a refreshing break from books where the hero swoops in, kicks butt, and then jumps into his Ferrari without ever messing up a hair on his head. Great job!! A must read!!