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Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection
Sam Bourne
Four nail-biting thrillers from No. 1 bestselling author Sam Bourne.THE RIGHTEOUS MEN:THE LAST TESTAMENT:THE FINAL RECKONING:THE CHOSEN ONE:
SAM BOURNE
4-BOOK THRILLER COLLECTION
CONTENTS
Title Page (#u32a87bec-9d8d-562a-8d20-3f620ee8fd92)
The Righteous Men (#u7ca13400-5034-5eb4-b9e2-0a1ba891ab73)
The Last Testament (#u7b53ce83-47e4-58fc-ac4c-976d396a1eeb)
The Final Reckoning (#u03a86c8b-40a0-5094-aec2-55206f1d36fa)
The Chosen One (#uea9e18e0-313f-5140-8b30-0f7822bd4079)
If you liked these thrillers, try Pantheon (#u4efdf7ba-5fe9-5d08-8404-4878eb5215a8)
About the Author
By Sam Bourne
Copyright
About the Publisher
(#ulink_ad288985-f246-5dab-a40b-7c1569058bd3)
SAM BOURNE
THE RIGHTEOUS MEN
DEDICATION (#ulink_ec615ce0-14d4-5f88-888f-49993f48b4ae)
For Sam, born into a family of love
CONTENTS
Cover (#u7ca13400-5034-5eb4-b9e2-0a1ba891ab73)
Title Page (#u14a73e59-0993-5110-ad3b-5fb552a54f94)
Dedication (#ulink_86b2e944-ded4-5892-9299-174ecbf0c062)
One (#ulink_e9aa1c8d-2e69-5d9a-9f4f-0e89eba19541)
Two (#ulink_39360a43-dd9b-5a00-ae94-9851cce56c8c)
Three (#ulink_75b6897a-c40f-5cda-8bfc-f1fffd5fc4c5)
Four (#ulink_fd868839-c115-5980-b117-9abdfe7fe1df)
Five (#ulink_191a3ba2-a40e-5042-a123-27b4e127f9a2)
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Copyright
ONE (#ulink_086acd48-7f1c-5511-aeca-4e46444b0bd8)
Friday, 9.10pm, Manhattan
The night of the first killing was filled with song. St Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan trembled to the sound of Handel’s Messiah, the grand choral masterpiece that never failed to rouse even the most slumbering audience. Its swell of voices surged at the roof of the cathedral. It was as if they wanted to break out, to reach the very heavens.
Inside, close to the front, sat a father and son, the older man’s eyes closed, moved as always by this, his favourite piece of music. The son’s gaze alternated between the performers – the singers dressed in black, the conductor wildly waving his shock of greying hair – and the man at his side. He liked looking at him, gauging his reactions; he liked being this close.
Tonight was a celebration. A month earlier Will Monroe Jr had landed the job he had dreamed of ever since he had come to America. Still only in his late twenties, he was now a reporter, on the fast track at the New York Times. Monroe Sr inhabited a different realm. He was a lawyer, one of the most accomplished of his generation, now serving as a federal judge on the second circuit of the US Court of Appeals. He liked to acknowledge achievement when he saw it and this young man at his side, whose boyhood he had all but missed, had reached a milestone. He found his son’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
It was at that moment, no more than a forty-minute subway ride across town but a world away, that Howard Macrae heard the first steps behind him. He was not scared. Outsiders may have steered clear of this Brooklyn neighbourhood of Brownsville, notorious for its drug-riddled deprivation, but Macrae knew every street and alley.
He was part of the landscape. A pimp of some two decades’ standing, he was wired into Brownsville. He had been a smart operator, too, ensuring that in the gang warfare that scarred the area, he always remained a neutral. Factions would clash and shift, but Howard stayed put, constant. No one had challenged the patch where his whores plied their trade for years.
So he was not too worried by the sound behind him. Still, he found it odd that the footsteps did not stop. He could tell they were close. Why would anybody be tailing him? He turned his head to peer over his left shoulder and gasped, immediately tripping over his feet. It was a gun unlike any he had ever seen – and it was aimed at him.
