Un thriller tenebroso, adictivo y muy interesante. No podrás soltarlo.
El único modo de sobrevivir es ser tan cruel como tus enemigos.
Gwen siempre ha estado sola. Hija de un diplomático, se ha pasado la vida cambiando de país, de escuela y de amigos. Pero hasta que su padre desaparece de la noche a la mañana y el gobierno se niega a ayudarla, Gwen no se da cuenta de lo que significa estar realmente sola.
Con una nueva identidad y siguiendo la única pista que tiene, viaja por toda Europa adentrándose en el mundo del tráfico de armas y personas hasta llegar al corazón de la familia criminal más temida y peligrosa del mundo.
Gwen descubrirá de inmediato que el único modo de sobrevivir es combatir el fuego con fuego.
When Gwendolyn Bloom’s father vanishes, she sets off on a journey she never bargained for.
Traveling under a new identity in a world of assassins, spies, and criminal masterminds, she uncovers a disturbing truth. To bring her father back alive, she must become every bit as cruel as the men holding him captive.
Taken meets The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Bourne Identity in this action-packed debut thriller (optioned for film by Jerry Bruckheimer) from Scott Bergstrom.
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By Scott Bergstrom
Feiwel and FriendsCopyright © 2017 Scott Bergstrom
All rights reserved.
The boys are waiting for the beheading. They sit raptly, like impatient jackals, waiting for the blade to fall. But if they'd bothered to read the book, they'd know it wasn't coming. The book just sort of ends. Like a movie clicked off before the last scene. Or like life, really. You almost never see the blade coming, the one that gets you.
Our teacher, Mr. Lawrence, reads the words slowly, stroking that awful little patch of beard under his lower lip as he paces. The soft drumbeat of his footsteps on the linoleum floor — heel-toe, heel-toe — makes it sound like he's trying to come up on the words from behind. "As if that blind rage had washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the world."
The footsteps stop when Mr. Lawrence arrives at Luke Bontemp's desk, and he taps the spine of the book on the kid's head. Luke is texting someone on his phone and trying to hide it beneath his jacket.
"Put it away or I take it away," Mr. Lawrence says.
The phone disappears into Luke's pocket.
"What do you think Camus is talking about there?"
Luke smiles with that smile that has gotten him out of everything his entire life. Poor Luke, I think. Beautiful, useless, stupid Luke. I heard his great-great-grandfather made a fortune selling oil to the Germans and steel to the British during World War I and no one in his family has had to work since. He won't have to, either, so what's the use of reading Camus?
"'Benign indifference of the world,'" Mr. Lawrence repeats. "What is that, you think?" Luke sucks air into his lungs. I can almost hear the hamster wheel of his brain squeaking away beneath his excellent hair.
"Benign," Luke says. "A tumor or whatever can be benign. Maybe Camus is, you know, saying the world is a tumor."
Twenty-eight of the twenty-nine kids in the class laugh, including Luke. I'm the only one who doesn't. I read this book, The Stranger, when I was fourteen. But I read it in the original French, and when Mr. Lawrence assigned an English translation of it for our World Literature class, I didn't feel like reading it again. It's about a guy named Meursault whose mother dies. Then he kills an Arab man and gets sentenced to death, to have his head cut off in public. Then it ends. Camus never gives us the actual beheading.
I turn back to the window, where rain is still pattering, the rhythm of it pulling everyone in the room deeper into some kind of sleepy trance. Beyond the window I can see the outlines of buildings down Sixty-Third Street, their edges all smeared and formless through the water beading against the glass, more like the memory of buildings than the real thing.
Though we're discussing the last part of The Stranger, it's the opening lines of the book that always stuck with me. Aujourd'hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas. It means: Today, Mother died. Or maybe yesterday, I don't know.
But I do know. I know exactly when Mother died. It was ten years ago today. I was only seven at the time, and I was there when it happened. The memory of it comes to me now and then in little sketches and vignettes, individual moments. I hardly ever play back the whole memory start to finish. The psychologist I used to see said that was normal, and that it would get easier with time. It didn't.
"What's your take, Gwendolyn?" Mr. Lawrence asks.
I hear his voice. I even understand the question. But my mind is too far away to answer. I'm in the backseat of the old Honda, my eyes barely open, my head against the cool glass of the window. The rhythm of the car as it bounces down the dirt track on the outskirts of Algiers is pulling me toward sleep. Then I feel the thrum of the tires over the road slow and hear my mother gasp. I open my eyes, look out the windshield, and see fire.
"Gwendolyn Bloom! Paging Gwendolyn Bloom!"
I snap back to the present and turn to Mr. Lawrence. He holds his hands cupped around his mouth like a megaphone. "Paging Gwendolyn Bloom!" he says again.
"Can you tell us what Camus means by 'benign indifference of the world'?"
Though part of my mind is still back in the Honda, I begin speaking anyway. It's a long answer, and a good one, I think. But Mr. Lawrence is looking at me with a little smirk. It's only after I'm speaking for about twenty seconds that I hear everyone laughing.
"In English, please," Mr. Lawrence says, arching an eyebrow and looking at the rest of the class.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly, fidgeting with my uniform skirt and tucking a strand of my fire-engine-red hair behind my ear. "What?"
"You were speaking French, Gwendolyn," Mr. Lawrence says.
"Sorry. I must have been — thinking of something else."
"You're supposed to be thinking about the benign indifference of the world," he says.
One of the girls behind me says, "Jesus, what a pretentious snob."
I turn and see it's Astrid Foogle. She's also seventeen, but she looks at least twenty-one. Her dad owns an airline.
"Enough, Astrid," Mr. Lawrence says.
But I'm staring at her now, drilling into her with my eyes. Astrid Foogle — whose earrings are more valuable than everything in my apartment — is calling me a pretentious snob?
Astrid continues. "I mean, she drops in here the beginning of the year from wherever and thinks she's all superior, and now, oh, look, she's talking in French, not like us dumb Americans. Just look how sophisticated she is. Queen of the trailer park."
Mr. Lawrence cuts her off. "Stop it, Astrid. Now."
A few of the kids are nodding in agreement with Astrid; a few others are laughing. I can feel myself trembling, and my face is turning hot. Every synapse in my brain is trying to force the reaction away, but I can't. Why does anger have to look so much like humiliation?
The guy sitting next to Astrid, Connor Monroe, leans back in his seat and grins. "Check it. She's crying."
Which isn't true, but now that he said it, it's as good as reality in the minds of the other kids. lolololol gwenny bloom lost her shit and cried in wrld lit #pretentioussnob #212justice
The school bell in the hallway rings and, like a Pavlovian trigger, sends everyone scrambling for the door. Mr. Lawrence holds his book up in the air in a sad little attempt to keep order, shouting, "We begin again tomorrow, same place." Then he turns to me. "And you'll be up first, Bloom. You have all night to meditate on the benign indifference of the world, so come up with something good. And in English, por favor."
I nod that I will and gather up my stuff. Outside the classroom, Astrid Foogle is at her locker, surrounded, as always, by her disciples. She's doing an imitation of me, a monologue in fake French, her shoulders hunched, nose squashed with her index finger.
My eyes down with the proper beta deference, I slide by her and her friends on my way to my own locker. But Astrid spots me; I can tell because she and her friends go silent and I hear the heels of their shoes — they're Prada pumps, you little sow — accelerate toward me, her friends just a pace behind.
"Hey, Gwenny," she starts up. "Translation question for you. How do you say 'suicide is never the answer' in French?"
I ignore her and keep walking, hoping for a sudden fatal stroke — hers or mine, doesn't matter. The heat radiates off my face, anger becoming rage becoming whatever's stronger than rage. I can only imagine what it looks like. I fold my shaking arms over my chest.
"Seriously," Astrid continues. "Because someone like you has to have thought of suicide from time to time. I mean, why wouldn't you, right? So, s'il vous plaît, how do you say it, Gwenny? En français?"
I spin around, and the words come bursting from my mouth. "Va te faire foutre."
Astrid stops, and for a half second — no, less than that — fear snaps across her face. But then she realizes where she is, in her kingdom surrounded by acolytes, and the real Astrid returns. She arches her beautifully pruned eyebrows.
One of her friends, Chelsea Bunchman, smiles. "Astrid, she just told you to go fuck yourself."
Astrid's mouth opens into an O and I hear a little gasp sneak out. "You little piece of trash," she says, and takes a step closer.
I see the slap while it's still in midair. I see it, but even so, I don't do anything to stop it. Instead, I cringe, shrinking my head down into my neck and my neck down into my shoulders. It's a hard slap — Astrid really means it — and my head twists to the side under its force. The nail of one of her fingers catches my skin and stings my cheek.
A crowd is forming. I see the grinning faces of Luke Bontemp and Connor Monroe and maybe a dozen other students staring wide-eyed, less in shock at what they've seen than in glee. They're standing around Astrid and me in a semicircle, as if in an arena. This is entertainment, I realize, a time-honored kind. I take note that Astrid didn't punch me, didn't kick me, didn't pull my hair. She very calmly, very deliberately, slapped my face. It was the uppercase-L Lady slapping the lowercase-m maid.
Instead of slapping her back — and, who am I kidding, Gwendolyn Bloom would never slap back — I close my eyes, the humiliation like the winds I remember from the Sahara, hot and hard and lasting for days. An adult voice orders everyone to move along, and when I open my eyes, there's a middle-aged teacher whose name I don't know standing there with his hands in the pockets of his khakis. His eyes travel from Astrid to me and back again.
"What happened?" he asks Astrid.
"She told me to — I can't say the word. It was a curse word, f myself." Her voice is demure and wounded.
"Is this true?" he says, looking to me.
I open my mouth, about to rat her out for slapping me. "It is," I say instead.
* * *
L'Étranger, the title of the book we're studying in World Lit, is usually translated into English as The Stranger. But it could also mean The Outsider or The Foreigner. That's me, all of it — stranger, outsider, foreigner. I'm technically an American. That's what my passport says. But I wasn't born here and, until the start of junior year this past September, I had lived in the United States for only eighteen months, right after my mother was killed. We — my dad and I — came to New York so he could take up a post at the United Nations, which isn't too far from my school, Danton Academy.
There's no way in hell my dad could have afforded a place like Danton on his own. But my father is a diplomat with the Department of State, and private school for us diplobrats is sometimes one of the benefits. Depending on which country you're in, that private school might be the only good school for a thousand miles and you're sitting in class with the son or daughter of the country's president or king or awful dictator. That happened to me once. The asshole son of an asshole president sat next to me in my math class. He wore shoes that were made specially for him in Vienna and cost five thousand dollars a pair, while kids were starving in the streets just beyond the school's stucco walls.
Not that it's so different at Danton. The kids here are the children of presidents and kings and dictators, too — just of companies instead of countries. Most of my classmates have always been rich. Usually, the only poor person they ever meet is the foreign kid who delivers their groceries for them or brings over the dry cleaning. My dad makes what would be a decent living anywhere else in the world, but to the kids at Danton we're poor as dirt.
Sitting on the bench outside the assistant director's office, I fuss with my uniform skirt — God, I hate skirts — pulling at the hem so that it falls lower on my black tights, flattening out the little pleats. The uniforms are an attempt to equalize us, I suppose, but there are no restrictions about shoes. Thus, wealth and tribal loyalties are displayed with the feet: Prada pumps and Gucci loafers for old money versus Louboutin flats and Miu Miu sneakers for new money. I'm one of the irrelevant two-member Doc Martens tribe. Mine are red and beat-up, but the other member, a quiet artist's kid from downtown who's tolerated by the others insofar as he's a reliable source of Adderall, goes with polished black.
Not that if I suddenly showed up in Prada it would make a difference. I don't look like Astrid Foogle, or any of them, really. I'm too tall, too thick-waisted. Nose too rectangular, mouth too wide. Everything some kind of too. My dad and my doctor say I'm just fine the way I am — say it's hormones, or muscle from all my years of gymnastics. Everyone's built differently, don't accept anyone else's definition of beauty, et cetera, ad nauseam. But it's their job to say things like that. So I color my hair at home with the very finest CVS store-brand dye, lace up my Doc Martens, and pretend not to care.
When the assistant director finally steps out of her office, she's all patronizing smiles and fake concern. Mrs. Wasserman is her name, and she's forever wearing a cloud of perfume and sugary joy, as if any second she expects a cartoon bluebird to fly out of the sky and land on her finger.
"How are we today?" she asks as we go into her office.
"Amazing," I say, sinking down into a chair upholstered in blood-colored leather. "Just perfect."
Mrs. Wasserman steeples her fingers in front of her as a signal we're getting down to business. "I'm told that you're facing some interpersonal challenges with one of your classmates."
It's all I can do to not roll my eyes at her euphemistic, bullshit tone. The thing is, 95 percent of this school is made up of kids who are very rich and very WASPy. The 5 percent who aren't are either here on scholarship or because their parents work at the UN. The others don't like us FivePercenters, as we're known, but we help people like Mrs. Wasserman pretend Danton Academy is something other than an elitist bitch factory.
Mrs. Wasserman consults a file folder. "Do you go by Gwen or Gwendolyn, dear?"
"Gwendolyn," I say. "Only my dad calls me Gwen."
"Gwendolyn it is, then," Mrs. Wasserman says with a cookie-sweet smile. "And is what it says here correct, Gwendolyn — you tested out of the AP exams in, my goodness, five foreign languages?"
I shrug. "We move a lot."
"I see that. Moscow. Dubai. Still — quite a talent." She runs her finger along a line in the file. "Must be tough, having a stepfather in the State Department. New city every couple of years. New country."
"You can just say 'father.'"
"He's not my stepfather. He adopted me when he married my mom. I was two."
"Father, yes. If you like." Mrs. Wasserman shakes her head as she makes a note on the paper in front of her. "Now to why you're here: Danton is a safe space, Gwendolyn, and we have a zerotolerance policy on emotionally abusive behavior."
"Right. Just like the handbook says."
"That includes cursing at faculty or students, which means when you swore at another girl in French, you were in violation."
"Astrid didn't understand a word of what I said until Chelsea Bunchman translated it."
"The point is you said something hurtful, Gwendolyn. Whether you said it in French or Swahili it doesn't matter."
"It matters if she didn't understand it."
"That's just semantics," she says. "Do you know that word, 'semantics'?"
"The study of what words mean. Which would seem to apply."
I see the muscles in her face tighten. She picks up a pen and holds it so tightly I think it might break. "I understand it's the anniversary of your mother's passing. I'm sorry to hear about that," Mrs. Wasserman says gently. I can see the idea of it makes her uncomfortable, makes her wonder what to do with me. Punish the girl because of her interpersonal challenges on the anniversary of her mother's passing?
Mrs. Wasserman coughs into her hand and continues. "The normal consequence for swearing at another student is a day's suspension. But under the circumstances, I'm willing to forgo that if you issue a written apology to Miss Foogle."
"You want me to apologize to Astrid?"
It's an easy out and the obvious choice. I lean back in the chair and try to smile. "No thanks," I say. "I'll take the suspension."
Excerpted from The Cruelty by Scott Bergstrom. Copyright © 2017 Scott Bergstrom. Excerpted by permission of Feiwel and Friends.
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.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
If you prefer to stay cocooned within a safety blanket, oblivious to the dangers of the big bad world out there, then I highly suggest you return any thoughts you might have had about reading this book. However, if you are willing to stand eye-to-eye with the gritty truth of humanity and all its lowly cruelty, then continue on. The Cruelty is one of the most dynamic books I have ever had the pleasure of reading. Imagine this: a world of prostitutes and gang members, of assassins and spies and crooks. Now add an inexperienced seventeen year old by the name of Gwendolyn Bloom, who’s only driving force is the need to find her father. This book is written by a truly talented author, who manages to spin a story so incredible that you’d swear on your life it was true. There are so many minute details that all add up to create a masterpiece, a wonderfully wicked web of ideas that intertwine much like the silk of a spider. There are many parts that seem as if they were straight from a government insider, and the progression is realistic, with every detail accounted for. Take, for instance, the characterization. The monsters in this book are human, and show a soft side to them that one would never have expected. Even the gang leader shows empathy to his son, admitting that he’s simply trying to do what’s best for him. As for the main character, Gwen is often left in a conflict where she has to do cruel, cruel things to achieve her goal, making her less of a protagonist and more of an antihero. To me, this just adds to the experience, because the characters are so vividly flushed out that there is no room left to wonder whether they were real or imaginary. The theme is also very interesting. Rather than the stereotypical “good wins over evil,” this book’s theme main point is simply that “the world is cruel.” The author, Scott Bergstrom, makes it very clear that there are no happy endings, and that there is no such thing as good or evil, only an odd mix of the two. Although perhaps cynical, this book squashes the stereotypical theme usually imposed upon young adults novels, and makes for a much more dynamic, wondrous read. This book is perhaps the most unique read I’ve ever experienced. If you’re looking for a book that’ll throat-punch your outlook on the world, read The Cruelty by Scott Bergstrom.
An excellent spy thriller. Will definitely buy the sequel.
The Cruelty... Oh what can I say about this book... To be totally honest with you, I read this book months ago... And I have kept putting this review off. Kind of one purpose. Why? Because I have mixed feelings about this book. On one hand, I did like it. On the other hand, I didn't. The Cruelty is about a girl named Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn's father is a diplomat. He has worked for the U.S. Government for years. And he gets kidnapped. So, naturally, Gwendolyn sets off to go rescue her father. And the road to rescuing him is not pretty at all. She finds herself in a dark world. Human trafficking, drugs, murder, arms smuggling, etc. It is a dark world that she has found herself in, in Europe, that she must navigate to find and rescue her father. To be honest, the premise of this book is what really pulled me in. I thought it sounded exciting and that it was going to be a really great story. I also thought, that since it was marketed as a YA read, that it was going to not be too dark. And that was my bad. It was dark and at times pretty horrible. I was a lot darker than I thought it would be for a YA read. Scott Bergstrom didn't really spare his readers from the harsh reality of the world Gwendolyn has to navigate in The Cruelty. And there were many times I wanted to give up on the book, but I kept picking it back up determined to finish it. I have nothing against a dark book. I will willingly read them all the time. But for the longest time I had a hard time accepting that The Cruelty was meant for the YA reading crowd. I did eventually flip to the back cover and see it was recommended for ages 17+ and that helped me get past some of my prejudices. So there is that. But I would really not recommend this book for the younger/more immature crowd. As mentioned before - it traverses the dark underbelly of Europe. Sex trafficking and arms dealing are probably the most prominent topics. And there are definitely triggers for that and for other things. It is these issues that have stuck with me the most since I have finished reading The Cruelty. And yet, all that said, I still found myself occasionally able to enjoy the story and I did finish it. Will I continue with this series? That is a maybe leaning towards a no. I might though. I wouldn't mind seeing where this series is going and I wouldn't mind (hopefully) seeing Scott Bergstrom growing as a writer. This review is based on a copy provided by the publisher in exchange for a fair and honest review. All thoughts and opinions are mine and mine alone. Find more of my reviews here: http://readingwithcupcakes.blogspot.com/
This was a stunning debut by a truly talented author, who I have no doubt will fast become a household name for his gritty suspense thrillers. An intriguing story of lies and espionage, it begs the question, just how far are you willing to go for a loved one? In Gwen's case, I hardly think she was prepared for the intense and dark rollercoaster ride through the underbelly of Europe, but once she was immersed in the depths of hell, she did what ever needed to be done to make it out alive. This showed immense growth in her character, and I was extremely proud of her. Not that Gwen was a wilting wallflower before finding herself fighting for her life, with blood on her hands, in a war against some of the seediest characters known to man. She was feisty, but I hardly think the Gwen at the end of this book would have allowed the Astrid Foogles of this world to treat her they way they did in the beginning. This book was a shocking reality - a fictional tale showcasing the truths of this world. It was hard-hitting, action-packed, and sucked me in from the first page, never letting go. Inteligently plotted and written, this book will keep you on the edge of your seat. Thrilling from start to finish. A definite MUST READ!
My review: I love reading thrillers, especially when they are dark, well-plotted and with interesting characters! It's like adding some bite and spice to my usual reading habits. The Cruelty by Scott Bergstrom gave me exactly what I want from the thriller. I was amazed that The Cruelty is actually his debut novel and that can only mean one thing - he is very talented writer and I will definitely keep an eye on his upcoming novels. Plot: Gwendolyn Bloom, a 17-years old girl is raised by her father. Her mother died and her father is everything Gwendolyn knows and has. When Gwendolyn hears that his father, who works at the Bureau of Diplomatic Security, is kidnapped, she does the only thing she finds reasonable - finding her dad no matter what it takes. Her search takes her to different European cities, Paris, Berlin and Prague to name the most important ones. Her search is far from the usual visits to these cities. You will not see the beautiful scenery and pictures of them. What you will see is the darkest corners of them: abandoned prisons, nightclubs and other not-so-well-known-and-creepy places. I have to admit, that I have travelled a lot and visited the mentioned cities and what Gwendolyn experiences and sees, is very far from the safe and secure parts where a 17-years old should be visiting, but the descriptions and scenes seem so freaking real on the locations, so it seems, that the author has seen the places with his own eyes, because the places he took the reader were incredibly real. This was one of the things I loved about this book! The use of the language was great because it made the ugly into beautifully written scenes. It also shows that the world today can be a very scary place. And it is. The plot kind of shocked me. In a good way, if I may add. First, it was filled with the unexpected and I did not see what was coming until it already hit me and left me wondering - what the heck just happened?! Second, I had doubts if a 17-years old is capable of doing what Gwendolyn did. What I mean is, that how many young girls do you know who would just grab her passport and rush to the unknown while knowing that it's not going to be a walk in the park? Gwendolyn knew that her father had a job which could be very dangerous and life threatening and still she stormed off to save her father. This was a part which left me conflicted. With that said, I forgot her age while reading because both the plot and her character were compelling, they just sucked me in. The conflict appeared AFTER I finished reading and started thinking about it. But that's the beauty of the literature, it's fiction and when the fiction is good and well-written, the age of the main character is not as important as the story itself. Characters: Gwendolyn was extremely mature and independent for her age. She makes decisions quicker than most of the adults I know, so I was quite impressed. It's probably because I like women who don't hesitate and who at the same time think before they act. I also liked, that she was not your typical heroine, being outgoing and outspoken. Gwendolyn was shy in her very unique way, because there is a lot going on in her mind. She is smart and bold in a quiet way and when she grows up, she will be a woman to admire: strong and a force to be taken into consideration. Generally: The Cruelty is a very good book and I highly recommend it! It's definitely for thriller lovers and people who enjoy good wri