Plague Maker

( 18 )

Overview

July Fourth: New York City

Hundreds of thousands line the banks of the East and Hudson Rivers awaiting the nation’s largest fireworks display. Soon the sky will explode in cascading showers of silver and gold. Everywhere, faces will turn skyward in wide-eyed wonder.

Then the sky will grow dark again—but it will not be empty. The air will be filled with clouds of smoke and specks of debris will rain down everywhere. Some will pick bits of paper ...

See more details below
Available through our Marketplace sellers.
Other sellers (Paperback)
  • All (24) from $1.99   
  • New (1) from $45.00   
  • Used (23) from $1.99   
Close
Sort by
Page 1 of 1
Showing All
Note: Marketplace items are not eligible for any BN.com coupons and promotions
$45.00
Seller since 2014

Feedback rating:

(149)

Condition:

New — never opened or used in original packaging.

Like New — packaging may have been opened. A "Like New" item is suitable to give as a gift.

Very Good — may have minor signs of wear on packaging but item works perfectly and has no damage.

Good — item is in good condition but packaging may have signs of shelf wear/aging or torn packaging. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Acceptable — item is in working order but may show signs of wear such as scratches or torn packaging. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Used — An item that has been opened and may show signs of wear. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Refurbished — A used item that has been renewed or updated and verified to be in proper working condition. Not necessarily completed by the original manufacturer.

New
Brand new.

Ships from: acton, MA

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
Page 1 of 1
Showing All
Close
Sort by
Plague Maker

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • NOOK HD/HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK Study
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$9.99
BN.com price

Overview

July Fourth: New York City

Hundreds of thousands line the banks of the East and Hudson Rivers awaiting the nation’s largest fireworks display. Soon the sky will explode in cascading showers of silver and gold. Everywhere, faces will turn skyward in wide-eyed wonder.

Then the sky will grow dark again—but it will not be empty. The air will be filled with clouds of smoke and specks of debris will rain down everywhere. Some will pick bits of paper from their children’s hair. Some will brush away still-burning sparks or embers. And some will absentmindedly scratch at the tiny, biting specks that dot their necks and arms.

Will the beginning of the show mark the beginning of the end?

That’s what FBI agent Nathan Donovan must decide. When he is forced to enlist the help of ex-wife Macy Monroe, and expert in the psychology of terrorism, the fireworks really begin—but she may be the only one who can help him stop the Plague maker in time.

Plague Maker is a novel that can proudly be shelved beside any [book] featuring Crichton or Clancy and hold its own.”

—www.infuzemag.com

Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
After strong debut and sophomore novels (Shoofly Pie; Chop Shop), Downs hits his stride in this delightful faith-based thriller. FBI Special Agent Nathan Donovan acts fearlessly, but he's haunted by an event in his past that drives his reckless behavior. A puzzling murder case in which thousands of fleas are released in a room leads to a cameo appearance by forensic entomologist Dr. Nick Polchak, the Bug Man from Downs's earlier novels. The fleas are the ideal vehicle for bubonic plague, and New York is the perfect target. Things get dicey when a Chinese octogenarian known as Li has information that could lead to solving the case-if Li doesn't seek his own revenge first. More complications arise when Donovan's ex-wife gets involved, and we discover the roots of Donovan's anger and fear. As the story unfolds, Downs evenhandedly dispenses humor, interesting technical details and the trademark "ick" factor that characterizes his previous books. He throws in enough surprises and unusual events to keep the story fresh, and he's learned how to hold a novel together through the closing pages. The real plagues, Downs suggests, are fear, hatred and a thirst for revenge, and he manages to convey the importance of forgiveness and reconciliation without too much sermonizing. This is Downs's best book to date. (Jan. 10) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Top-drawer thriller about mortal grudges-and fatal fleas. Oriental rat fleas are known carriers of bubonic plague. This is the chilling tidbit tossed at FBI Special Agent Nathan Donovan by a forensic entomologist, hovering over an infestation of them. Fortunately, the fleas are all dead, as is the body they swirled around. Donovan, who heads the Joint Terrorism Task force, has been called to the scene not because of the homicide but because of its scary subtext: What if someone could get close enough to a major U.S. city to unleash on it a volatile swarm of killer fleas? Enter Sato Matsushita, a brilliant Japanese scientist whose grudge against the U.S. has smoldered for 60 years. Now enter Shee Dong Li, a brilliant Chinese scientist, who for 60 years has nursed a grudge against Sato. Both octogenarians have their reasons, both are more intent on vengeance than they are on living. Li contacts Donovan, convinces him that Sato is fully capable of mass murder and puts himself forward as the FBI's best chance in a Sato-hunt. Donovan has misgivings, but Li is, as always, persuasive. Suddenly, time becomes the critical factor: A huge Fourth of July celebration has been planned for New York Harbor, and the threat of a plague looms large. In its way stands only a minuscule blockade composed of Li, Donovan and Macy Monroe, Donovan's ex-wife, nurturer of her own long-standing grudge. Downs (Chop Shop, 2004, etc.) knows his bugs and his techno stuff, but what makes this work so well is the appeal of the characters, particularly that witty old Chinese scientist.
Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781595542854
  • Publisher: Nelson, Thomas, Inc.
  • Publication date: 4/10/2007
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Pages: 480
  • Product dimensions: 4.68 (w) x 6.90 (h) x 1.25 (d)

Meet the Author

Tim Downs is the author of nine novels including the Christy Award-winning PlagueMaker and the highly acclaimed series of Bug Man novels. Tim lives in North Carolina with his wife Joy. They have three grown children.

Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Special Agent Nathan Donovan lifted his tray table and peered down at the small plastic case wedged between his feet, just as he had done a hundred times before. It was a beverage cooler, really, nothing more, the kind he might have smuggled into a Mets game or taken to the Jersey shore. The simple red lid was unceremoniously duct-taped to the chalky white body, giving it an altogether unassuming appearance—as though it might contain nothing more than a frigid six-pack or a picnic lunch for two.

Well-meaning scientists at the University Hospital in Kuala Lumpur had plastered the thing with every cautionary label imaginable. Long strips of neon-green tape flashed the word BIOHAZARD at regular intervals; fluorescent orange stickers warned of CORROSIVE MATERIALS and CHEMICAL HAZARD ; even the Radiology Department chipped in, adding a series of triangular black-and-yellow labels declaring: DANGER ! THIS EQUIPMENT PRODUCES IONIZING RADIATION WHEN ENERGIZED.

Donovan had carefully removed all of them, for the same reason that half of his fellow counterterrorism agents in New York City declined to wear their FBI windbreakers: It just doesn't pay to advertise. The Malaysian authorities thought the shrieking labels would hold the curious at bay—Donovan knew they would have just the opposite effect. He might as well hang a sign around his neck that says, "Look what I've got!"

Only a fool or a novice stamps SECRET on the front of a secret document.

A professional will take a plain blue cover every time.

At the University Hospital, words had buzzed around Donovan's head like Malaysian fruit bats. Microbiologists and disease specialists tossed around terms that he could barely pronounce, let alone comprehend—words like panenterovirus , cytomegalovirus , and respiratory syncytial virus .

All he understood—all that was explained to him—was that Malaysian pig farmers were dying by the hundreds and no one knew why. The disease began with raging fever, followed by delirium, then sudden and irreversible coma. Those were the lucky ones; the less fortunate were left conscious to face the wasting agonies of vomiting, diarrhea, and internal hemorrhaging. Each path was different, but the destination was ultimately the same: a violent and certain death.

No one knew what it was, how it was carried, or how it was transmitted.

The disease resisted all known antibiotics, even the big guns like streptomycin.

That's what set off all the bells and whistles at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta: That kind of antibiotic resistance rarely occurs in nature. It suggests intentional genetic manipulation, and that raises the possibility that some idiot, or group of idiots, might be trying to play dice with the universe again.

No one knew what do. On Malaysian hog farms, gas-masked soldiers trained their assault rifles on squealing pigs, decimating entire herds, while across town other farmers smuggled their own pigs past roadblocks to markets in other states, allowing the disease to leapfrog from region to region and, inevitably, from country to country. That's why the CDC wanted a look. It was only a matter of time; in the global village of the twenty-first century, there is no such thing as a local outbreak.

A local pathologist had managed to isolate the virus from the blood and spinal fluid of two cadavers before becoming one herself. Before her own brutal demise, she succeeded in growing a fist-sized lump of the stuff in a culture of porcine kidney cells. Scientists at the University Hospital placed the mucosal mass in an airtight metal container, surrounded it with dry ice, and packed it carefully in a simple red-and-white cooler, addressing it to the CDC's Division of Vector-Borne Diseases in Fort Collins, Colorado.

But one courier company after another turned the shipment down. No one would take the risk. No one was willing to say, "We'll absolutely, positively have it there by 10:30 tomorrow morning—unless we happen to drop it, in which case half the western U.S. will begin vomiting blood."

That's why the CDC called the Joint Terrorism Task Force, and that's why they called New York: because N.Y. agents are known as the best and the toughest in the Bureau. And that's why the job went to Nathan Donovan: because no one was better, and no one was tougher.

He glanced down at the box for the hundred-and-first time. Maybe no one was dumber, he thought.

At the hospital, they had handcuffed Donovan to the cooler like a diplomatic courier. For most of the flight from Kuala Lumpur to Los Angeles, he sat with the box in the center of his lap, clutching the handle with both hands like an old woman in Battery Park. But it occurred to him that a single inadvertent gesture, like reaching out to a flight attendant for a bag of peanuts, could jerk the cooler off his lap and onto the floor. But it can't fall off the floor , he decided, so he removed the handcuff and slid the cooler between his feet.

He felt the aching stiffness in his back and legs again. He arched backward, and his 220-pound frame flexed the back of his seat like a beach chair. Behind him he heard an expletive in some unknown tongue, like the bark of a small dog.

For eighteen hours he had unconsciously squeezed the cooler between his legs, as if it might somehow squirt out and slide down the aisle like a wet bar of soap. Only now, on the final leg of his journey, did he begin to relax—but only a little.

The 737 lifted off from a westbound runway and headed out over the Pacific one last time before turning northeast on its two-and-a-half-hour route to Denver. Donovan surveyed the sea of heads around him: Some slumped back in restless slumber; others nodded together in intimate conversation.

Some seats appeared empty, until a tiny pair of hands gripped the top of the seat and then quickly vanished again. There were heads of all shapes and colors and sizes; there was long hair, short hair, and hair long gone; there were streamlined ears tucked tightly back against skulls, and large, curling ears that jutted out like diving planes on a submarine.

Donovan didn't care. He was looking for eyes—eyes that turned away when he looked at them, eyes that lingered a little too long. He turned his left leg slightly and raised it until it bumped the seat above; he felt a reassuring metallic tap from the Glock beneath his pant leg. He hated the ankle holster; it made the gun too hard to reach. But in the current social climate, allowing fellow passengers to catch a glimpse of gunmetal from beneath a blazer was a definite faux pas, and Donovan found himself wearing the ankle holster more and more. Better than no gun at all , he thought.

They were passing directly over Santa Monica now. Out his window, in the distance, he could just catch a glimpse of the cliffs at Malibu. They continued to climb over the sprawling San Fernando Valley, gaining altitude for the hop over the San Gabriel Mountains ahead.

Then it happened.

Donovan heard the blast before he felt the concussion—from somewhere in the forward baggage compartment, he thought. The floor in the first-class galley buckled wildly and then flattened again. The shock wave traveled back the full length of the plane, causing the entire fuselage to ripple visibly. Donovan was astonished that the airframe could contort that far without disintegrating—yet somehow, the plane was still intact. Overhead compartments sprang open like a line of mousetraps, vomiting out carry-on luggage, briefcases, shopping bags, and a blizzard of coats and sweaters. Above each row of seats a rectangular door dropped open, and a tangle of tubing and bright yellow plastic dangled down like a sea of jellyfish.

In his mind, Donovan could see the bomb: a small device, probably homemade, nothing more than a few feet of wire with a timer attached to an explosive charge. No, not a timer, an altimeter—set to go off at cruising altitude to maximize the loss of life and disperse the wreckage as widely as possible. It was a small blast in relative terms—definitely not C4, probably not even TNT. Probably just a canister of gunpowder embedded in a cocktail of nails and ball bearings for shrapnel. A simple bomb, really, a beginner's bomb—the kind you could build for twenty-five bucks with parts from a local Radio Shack.

They were lucky, he thought. The blast had blown downward, away from the passenger compartment—but it must have ripped the belly out of the ship, and there were things down there you didn't want to lose, things like hydraulics, and landing gear, and fuel lines . . .

For an instant the entire plane was silent and still, a freeze-frame before the panic to come. Bodies were rigid, faces frozen in disbelief. Arms angled everywhere, with white-knuckled fists clutching at seat backs, armrests, fellow passengers— the way a man grabs on to a limb when it breaks away from a tree, Donovan thought. And it would do them just as much good—because outside the plane, he heard the trailing whine of the engines as they began to lose power.

Then the nose tipped forward, and the plane started down. Donovan watched stone-faced as the image before him erupted into motion. There were shrieks and sobs and mournful wails, some more animal than human. Long-unsaid prayers were dredged up from childhood memories; complete strangers embraced; mothers clutched at wild-eyed children, combing hair and straightening collars as if they were preparing for school photos and not death. Some wept quietly, some spoke aloud to no one in particular, and some sat in peaceful serenity. And over the intercom, through tearful sobs, a flight attendant offered insane instructions on how to "prepare for an emergency landing."

Donovan looked out the window and measured the angle of their descent against the horizon; they were coming down like a mortar shell. It wouldn't be a landing; it would be a detonation, with six thousand gallons of high-octane jet fuel erupting on impact—half of it vaporizing in a roiling fireball and half of it spewing like napalm over whatever godforsaken neighborhood or trailer park happened to be nearby. The debris would be spread over half a mile; a week from now a DMORT team would be sifting through the wreckage, searching for bits of bone and tooth, fragments of DNA to offer comfort to grieving families. They'll be mailing us home in envelopes , Donovan thought. That's all that will be left.

He listened for the feeble voice on the intercom again and slowly shook his head. You can put your seat back in an upright and locked position, you can put your head between your knees, but you're still going to die . That's all there is to it; that's how it is. The good people of United flight 296 to Denver were dead, every last one of them, and there was nothing they could do.

Then Donovan looked down at his feet. There sat the little red-and-white cooler nestled between his feet, blissfully unaware of its impending destruction. But— would the crash destroy the cooler utterly and completely? Inside that cooler was a life-form, and like all living things, it would do everything in its power to survive. He visualized the crash again: the nose-first impact, the pulverizing momentum of eighty-five tons of imploding metal, the incinerating belch of fire—no living thing could survive that.

Or could it? The virus was a living thing, yes, but it was a living thing sealed in an airtight container, packed in dry ice, cradled in thick foam, shielded by plastic armor . . . Was the cooler fireproof, he wondered? Would it disintegrate on impact? Would it melt? Would the plastic crumble, the dry ice vaporize, and the canister rip apart like a tin can in a campfire?

Or would the plastic casing only fracture? Would it bounce and roll and ricochet, but still survive the impact?

Or would the blast throw the cooler free of the plane? Donovan had worked crash sites before; he remembered picking his way through the utter annihilation, every fragment of the plane and its contents reduced to inches—and then suddenly finding a handbag or an attaché completely intact, as though it had been gently set aside before impact. Would the cooler be the handbag this time? Would it crack, and split apart, and dump its living contents onto the surrounding debris?

And when the DMORT team worked its way through the wreckage, would some hapless deputy coroner lift the empty canister and peer inside? Would he casually toss it aside, then wipe the sweat from his forehead or rub the smoke from his eyes? And when he went home that night, would he kiss his wife? Would he hug the kids? Would he pat the dog and shake hands with a neighbor?

Donovan looked around the plane. It was a ghost ship, filled with specters already beginning to fade away. They were already beginning to grow quiet, already acquiescing to their inevitable doom. They were already dead, every one of them. There were maybe two hundred on the plane—but on the ground, there were millions.

Donovan looked out the window. He had about a minute, no more. He jerked the cooler up onto his lap and began to tear away the long gray strips of tape. When he opened the lid, a silent mist poured over the sides and down onto his legs. From the center of the ice he slid a tall silver canister and began to tug at its lid. It opened with a dull pop. He held his breath and peered down into the black interior. Then he turned to his right and dumped the gelatinous blob in the center of the aisle.

He watched: The mass seemed to hesitate for a moment, then dissipate into the carpet. It seemed to spread and grow, putting out feelers like a vine, reaching out just like the rest of the passengers for someone, something, to hold on to. But it didn't matter—it was unprotected now, and it had no more chance of surviving than they did.

Than he did. The thought crossed Donovan's mind for the first time. He took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat. He had never been afraid of anything in his life, and he was not about to start now. He closed his eyes and put death out of his mind. Why not? He'd never feel it anyway.

Then, from outside the window, he heard the rising drone of the engines, followed by a heavy, sinking tug in his gut. Everywhere around him people gasped and stiffened, anticipating the impact—but the impact never came. Instead, the nose of the plane began to turn upward. As the engines continued to accelerate, the 737 leveled off, then once again began to climb.

From everywhere on the plane came astounded gasps and great, heaving sobs of relief. Passengers stared out the windows in astonishment; they stared at one another in unspeakable joy; they stared at the ceiling and uttered silent thanksgivings.

But not Nathan Donovan. He stared at a fist-sized stain in the center of the aisle.

Then he heard a voice say, "What did you do?"

He looked up. There was a young boy standing in the aisle, staring with him at the spotted carpet. The boy looked up into Donovan's eyes; the eyes were dark and wet and sunken deep into the pale little face. He was terribly thin, and the sagging neck of his blue hospital gown draped down over one bony shoulder. On both elbows, white strips of surgical tape secured pads of folded gauze.

Donovan couldn't bear to look at the boy. He shut his eyes hard. "I'm sorry," he said in a whisper.

"I don't feel so good, Daddy."

When Donovan looked again, the boy was backing slowly away down the aisle. His hair was gone now, and tiny veins coursed over his head like pale blue threads. The skin of his face was sallow, almost transparent, and his skull was clearly visible beneath.

"Wait," Donovan pleaded.

But the boy kept getting smaller, and thinner, and farther away.

"Wait!" Donovan shouted after him. "I can help! I can fix this!" He dropped to his knees in the center of the aisle and began to furiously scrape at the spot with his fingernails-but the spot only grew larger. It spread to the edges of the aisle now and sent ominous tendrils creeping up the sides of the seats.

The boy spoke one last time in a distant voice.

"Why won't you help me, Daddy? Why don't you love me anymore?"

Nathan Donovan sat bolt upright in bed and stared into the darkness.

He ran his fingers through the cold, damp mat on his chest and wiped his hand on the sheet. He turned and looked at the clock.

It was 4:00 a.m.-the usual time for the dreams.

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 18 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(13)

4 Star

(3)

3 Star

(2)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(0)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing 1 – 19 of 18 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 16, 2012

    Excellent and by far one of the best thrillers!!!

    I have read this great book about fifty times and it never gets old. It opens your eyes to the very real threats that foreign countries pose to not only our country, but ANY country that stans aginst thier ideals. You'll love this book if you want both something to wake you up, and a great book to occupy your time. I am a huge fan of Tim Downs and his books never tire or bore me. It's completely worth it! ****!!!WARNING!!!**** You can't finish reading it without looking at our lives a different way. -This is a review by an Extreme Bookaholic- (:

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 15, 2013

    Excellent spin off

    While the "Bug Guy" does make an appearance in this one, this story centers on his FBI friend and stopping a plague from hitting the US. This one grabs you and holds you to the very end.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 30, 2012

    Dfc

    Rddgsftrwfegwgsgqgegebdbxbd d dvefdfwfwfwfwfdbdvdfdffefhgggmgnbmcnbfhfgdgfggfdffgghhhhdbxvvv






    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted April 1, 2011

    Excellent Book

    This was a most interesting and scary book. I found the historic facts about WWII very eye opening. I appreciated the background work that Tim Downs did in writing this book and what can feasibly happen in the modern age. It is very disturbing how something like this could happen. A Very good book.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted January 5, 2011

    Fabulous Read

    I also found this at a book sale. The synopsis looked interesting... and wow... I truly couldn't put it down. An amazing storyline and the action had my heart racing. My second selection (Head Game) by Tim Downs was also a clever storyline. I'm excited to see more titles by this author are available. Don't miss out on this great deal on a great read.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 9, 2008

    Must Read!

    I stumbled upon this book at a local store in the 'Clearance' section. It was definitely worth the bargain I got it for and would recommend it to anybody that likes books that keep you on the edge of your seat! Will absolutely read more of Tim Downs work!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 20, 2007

    A very pleasant surprise

    Stumbled upon this book at a local bulk retailer and thought it sounded interesting. Very good pacing and informative. Looking forward to reading the author's other books. Give it a try....

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 12, 2007

    SCARY, SCARY

    An outstanding read. Could very well happen in this messed up world we live in. I thought the book was very well titled. The story line is very plausible and there are people out there not afraid to do something like that because they have no regard for life, either human or animal. I hope Mr. Downs will follow up with something just as good as this. I'll Be waiting.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 5, 2006

    Couldn't Put It Down!

    this was one of the best books i've read in a while. very frightening scenario. well done.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    enthralling plausible thriller

    Considering the headlines dealing with Avian Flu, the events in PLAGUEMAKER seem all too plausible. Although one danger comes from nature and one comes from a science laboratory, both diseases have the potential to cause millions of deaths. Donovan is an angst ridden protagonist who believes Li¿s story and ends up with a quest he must succeed in or else plague will sweep over the city. Tim Downs has written an entertaining thriller that features two heroes that are generations apart yet share similar ideals. Fans of Jack Higgins and Tom Clancy will want to read this enthralling thriller. --- Harriet Klausner

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 16, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 1, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted February 6, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted May 16, 2012

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 5, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted December 6, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 20, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted February 22, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted June 25, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

Sort by: Showing 1 – 19 of 18 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)