By K. R. Dwyer (aka Dean R. Koontz)
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Extra resources for Dragonfly
He crouched behind an easy chair and braced the barrel of the pistol along the chair's padded arm. He watched the sofa. Overhead, thunder cracked and the rain battered the roof with great fervor. Ten seconds passed. Ten more. A minute. Suddenly the agent scuttled out from behind the sofa and waddled toward the gray light that spilled in from the kitchen. At the doorway he was perfectly silhouetted. Canning shot him. Damon's right leg buckled under him, and he col-lapsed onto the kitchen floor, failing to choke back a scream.
Get out of here. ” He picked up a pen, scribbled on the back of a used envelope, and handed the envelope to Dodson. “That's the num-ber of a phone in the agency's main file room. It'll be answered by a Miss Rockwalt. She's one of ours. ” “You take two men out to his house. Look it over. ” “There's no time for that approach,” Rice said ir-ritably. ” “Which airline? ” Dodson asked. ” “Well, I don't know which airline or which god-damned airport,” the fat man said. “McAlister didn't say. ” Dodson nodded.
The only other person present was Andrew Rice, the President's number-one man. To his credit, he didn't laugh at the duck joke; and Ms handshake was softer than the President's; and he had imperfect teeth. McAlister didn't particularly like the man, but he respected him. Which was exactly how he felt about the President, too. “You look as exhausted as I feel,” Rice said. ” As Rice groaned and shifted and tried to get com-fortable in his chair, McAlister wondered what David Canning, compulsively neat as he was, would think of the senior advisor.
Dragonfly by K. R. Dwyer (aka Dean R. Koontz)