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St. Patrick's Day, New York City. Everyone is celebrating, but everyone is in for the shock of his life. Born into the heat and hatred of the Northern Ireland conflict, IRA man Brian Flynn has masterminded a brilliant terrorist act -- the seizure of Saint Patrick's Cathedral. Among his hostages: the woman Brian Flynn once loved, a former terrorist turned peace activist. Among his enemies: an Irish-American police lieutenant fighting against a traitor inside his own ranks and a shadowy British intelligence officer pursuing his own cynical, bloody plan. The cops face a booby-trapped, perfectly laid out killing zone inside the church. The hostages face death. Flynn faces his own demons, in an electrifying duel of nerves, honor, and betrayal....
unison and stared down at the choir loft projecting out at a right angle about thirty feet below them. A muzzle flashed twice, and two of the five men went down. The other three dove for the floor. “What the hell…?” The team leader looked wildly around the long dark gallery as though it were full of gunmen. “Where did that come from… the loft?” He looked at the two dead men, each shot between the eyes. “I never saw it…. I never heard anything….” One of the men said, “Neither did they.” The
between the British Isles and North America all their lives. His mother was English and his father a Spaniard—thus the surname—though he’d spent most of his youth in boarding schools in Switzerland, and spoke French, German, and Italian like a native. Frank Purcell cupped a cigarette in his hand and lit it. In the glow of the match he looked older than his thirty-odd years. Lines worked their way around his mouth and his brown-black eyes. Gray was sprinkled through his shaggy black hair and he
horse. She looked up at him. “You still here?” She looked back at the horse. “I have to get the saddle.” She unhooked the girth. “What the hell’s going on in there?” She tugged at the saddle. “You almost got me killed.” He helped her pull at the saddle, but it wouldn’t come loose. “Leave this here.” “I can’t. It’s police property.” “There’s police property strewn up and down Fifth Avenue.” He let go of the saddle and looked at the bell tower. “There’ll be people in these towers soon, if
confession.” The Cardinal nodded. “Take my hands.” Murphy felt the scrap of paper sticking to his palm. “No… I would like to go into the confessional.” The Cardinal stood. “We’ll go into the Archbishop’s sacristy.” “No…” Murphy felt a line of sweat collect on his brow. “They won’t let us. We can go into the confessional where I heard Miss Malone’s confession.” The Cardinal stared at him curiously, then nodded. “As you wish.” He came down from the throne and walked toward the rear of the
intersection of Fifty-first and Madison. An eerie silence hung over the lamplit streets around the Cathedral, and in the distance he could see the barricades of squad cars, buses, and sanitation trucks that made up the cordon. Strands of communication wire ran over the sleet-covered streets and sidewalks. Sentries stood silhouetted against half-lit buildings, and National Guardsmen cruised by in jeeps, rifles pointed upward. Bullhorns barked in the wintry air, and policemen patrolled the