James W. Hall
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When her parents were murdered, Hannah Keller was 3,000 miles away, on leave from her job with the Miami Police Department. Her family's only survivor on that deadly day was Hannah's six-year-old son Randall. While fishing on the dock behind his grandparents' house, the boy glimpsed the killers, and later discovered his grandparents' bullet-riddled bodies. Five years later the trauma of that day still haunts the boy. He lives in terror that the killers will return for him. Hannah is no longer a cop but now works full time as a novelist, and is trying to do whatever she can to heal her son's wounds. But when she receives a coded message apparently from her parents' killers, the entire episode explodes again. Teaming up with a maverick FBI agent from the Miami field office, Hannah begins to track the killer. As she moves deeper into the labyrinth, she discovers, to her horror, that she and her son are being used as pawns in an elaborate scheme - a trap designed to catch one of the world's deadliest assassins. Hannah and Randall become entangled in a bitter feud, a burning vendetta, and the mind of a bloodthirsty professional killer.
Hannah shuffled into the kitchen to find her son at the breakfast nook reading the newspaper and drinking orange juice, her pulse stuttered hard and she had to take a deep, calming breath, for this son of hers was more than a rough approximation of his father. Randall was turning into his physical duplicate, as if Pieter Thomasson’s Nordic genes had prevailed in all the thousand microscopic battles for supremacy. At the oddest times her ex-husband looked out at her from Randall’s eyes, grinned at
shine of scalp beginning to show. His eyes were dark brown, and his mouth was usually relaxed in a lazy grin. He was an inch under six feet, and kept the fat off with those ten-mile laps of Key Biscayne in his kayak. Too laid-back to be a first-rate lady’s man, still, Sheffield had become quite adept at what he’d named the three-week romance. A week of seduction, a week of passion, a week of drifting back to earth. After ten years married to a woman whose hostility seemed to grow with every
passionate commitment to justice.” —Sue Grafton “BODY LANGUAGE is a sizzling tale of sex, blood, and obsession.” —Stephen Coonts “This Florida-based thriller gives mystery readers a new heroine—a methodical, nurturing and tenacious Alexandra Rafferty. She is one character with whom you will be pleased to become acquainted.” —The Oakland Press “A well-plotted mystery … Past hurts and current passions come into play in a riveting way that simply won’t allow you to put the book down.” —The
bedroom and was watching him from across the breakfast nook. His name was Hector Ramirez and he’d been visiting Judy Terrance for as long as Hal could remember, bringing her the white powder that got her through her empty days. Cocaine usually, but when he could get it, Hector gave her heroin. The man always had plastic bags of the powder in his truck, tucked among the lettuce and corn. He didn’t use the stuff himself, but he sold it to other truckers and to people along his route. That’s how he
paraphernalia. Several units with small screens filled by pulsing green lines like a dozen heart monitors lined up side by side. Meters and motherboards and soldering irons and pliers and screwdrivers were scattered across the workbenches. Two TVs sat in the far corner, both on, both tuned to the same channel. One was in black-and-white, the other color. Hovering in the background was an insistent hum that sounded like the drone of an overturned hive. The boy sat in a black leather swivel chair