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By Rob Thurman

View our characteristic on Rob Thurman’s Chimera. New from the nationwide bestselling writer of Roadkill A sci-fi mystery that asks the questions... What makes us human... What makes us unique... And what makes us kill? Ten years in the past, Stefan Korsak's more youthful brother was once abducted. no longer an afternoon has handed that Stefan hasn't considered him. As a emerging determine within the Russian mafia, he has ultimately came upon him. but if he rescues Lukas, he needs to confront a negative truth-his brother is not any longer his brother. he's a educated, genetically-altered killer. Now, those that created him will do something to reclaim him. And the nearer Stefan grows to his brother, the extra he realizes that saving Lukas will be more uncomplicated than surviving him... Watch a Video

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Obsession she could’ve lived with, I think. But dishonesty and only a passing acquaintance with the law-abiding world, that wasn’t a life she would embrace—or tolerate. She had loved me, but she’d loved something else more . . her soul. At least she left me the clock. Giving up sleep as a lost cause, I padded in bare feet over to the living room window to watch moon-spangled waves. I had a lot of planning to do, and watching the tide’s hypnotic show helped my brain disassociate to do its job. Saul was my first thought.

Interrupting my train of thought, my beeper vibrated like a cheap motel bed, skittering across the surface of my coffee table. “Shit,” I said, exhaling. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow . . The expression was coined for a mailman, but it covered the slightly shadier of us as well. Turning off the computer, I made a call, changed, and hit the street just as the sun started to go down. Koschecka, the Pussycat, was a club located downtown. With twisted pink and green neon lighting, concrete walls, and a doorman straight out of the gorilla cage at the zoo, it wasn’t a place for tourists or timid locals.

At the end of the hall I nudged the door silently open with my foot and walked in, bearing gifts. It would’ve been better if I’d been bearing a gun. The room was where Gurov conducted most of his business and was soundproofed for all the obvious reasons. That was how three of our own could be lying on the floor with no one out in the bar any the wiser—lying there, motionless and bloody. Copper was thick in the air, saturating every molecule with slippery, gleeful fingers. It would’ve been easy to choke on the metallic taint and even easier to freeze at the sight before me.

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