Genre Fiction
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Night Flight to Paris (A Kate Rees WWII Novel)
It is once again up to American markswoman Kate Rees to take the shot that just might win-or lose-World War II, in the followup to national bestseller Three Hours in Paris.
Three missions. Two cities. One shot to win the war.
October 1942: it's been two years since Kate Rees was sent to Paris on a British Secret Service mission to assassinate Hitler. Since then, she has left spycraft behind to take a training job as a sharpshooting instructor in the Scottish Highlands. But her quiet life is violently disrupted when Colonel Stepney, her former handler, drags her back into the fray for a risky three-pronged mission in Paris.
Each task is more dangerous than the next: Deliver a package of forbidden biological material. Assassinate a high-ranking German operative whose knowledge of invasion plans could turn the tide of the war against the Allies. Rescue a British agent who once saved Kate's life-and get out.
Kate will encounter sheiks and spies, poets and partisans, as she races to keep up with the constantly shifting nature of her assignment, showing every ounce of her Oregonian grit in the process.
New York Times bestselling author Cara Black has crafted another heart-stopping thrill ride that reveals a portrait of Paris at the height of the Nazi occupation.
Three missions. Two cities. One shot to win the war.
October 1942: it's been two years since Kate Rees was sent to Paris on a British Secret Service mission to assassinate Hitler. Since then, she has left spycraft behind to take a training job as a sharpshooting instructor in the Scottish Highlands. But her quiet life is violently disrupted when Colonel Stepney, her former handler, drags her back into the fray for a risky three-pronged mission in Paris.
Each task is more dangerous than the next: Deliver a package of forbidden biological material. Assassinate a high-ranking German operative whose knowledge of invasion plans could turn the tide of the war against the Allies. Rescue a British agent who once saved Kate's life-and get out.
Kate will encounter sheiks and spies, poets and partisans, as she races to keep up with the constantly shifting nature of her assignment, showing every ounce of her Oregonian grit in the process.
New York Times bestselling author Cara Black has crafted another heart-stopping thrill ride that reveals a portrait of Paris at the height of the Nazi occupation.
Editorial Reviews
Praise for Three Hours in Paris
A National Bestseller
A Wall Street Journal Best Mystery of the Year
A Washington Post Best Thriller and Mystery Book of the Year
A Seattle Times Best Crime Novel of the Year
"Heart-racing . . . Chances that you'll be able to put Black's thriller down once you've picked it up? . . . Slim to none."
-The Washington Post
"Beyond Black's encyclopedic knowledge of Paris, her deft interweaving of WWII history and spycraft with a relatable female protagonist puts Three Hours in Paris on par with other top thrillers about botched missions followed by harrowing escapes." -Paula Woods, Los Angeles Times
"Black . . . excels at setting vivid scenes, creating lively characters and maintaining pulse-elevating suspense. Three Hours in Paris, with its timetable structure and its hunt for a covert operative, recalls such comparable works as Frederick Forsyth's The Day of the Jackal and Ken Follett's Eye of the Needle."
-The Wall Street Journal
"Heart-stopping."
-The Seattle Times
A National Bestseller
A Wall Street Journal Best Mystery of the Year
A Washington Post Best Thriller and Mystery Book of the Year
A Seattle Times Best Crime Novel of the Year
"Heart-racing . . . Chances that you'll be able to put Black's thriller down once you've picked it up? . . . Slim to none."
-The Washington Post
"Beyond Black's encyclopedic knowledge of Paris, her deft interweaving of WWII history and spycraft with a relatable female protagonist puts Three Hours in Paris on par with other top thrillers about botched missions followed by harrowing escapes." -Paula Woods, Los Angeles Times
"Black . . . excels at setting vivid scenes, creating lively characters and maintaining pulse-elevating suspense. Three Hours in Paris, with its timetable structure and its hunt for a covert operative, recalls such comparable works as Frederick Forsyth's The Day of the Jackal and Ken Follett's Eye of the Needle."
-The Wall Street Journal
"Heart-stopping."
-The Seattle Times
Short Excerpt Teaser
October 1942
Scottish Highlands
Kate Rees slid into the Georgian mansion's salon and found herself staring into the shining eyes of a dead duck on a platter. An enormous oil painting.
Goosebumps crawled up her neck.
Kate's fingers roamed behind the painting's rococo gilt frame to find the rifle pieces taped to it. She slit the tape with the penknife she'd strapped to her ankle. Seconds later she'd assembled the rifle's shank and bolt head and attached the telescopic sight.
Adrenaline coursed through her. Her pulse thudded in her ears.
Outside the window, a curl of mist drifted in the dimness, blanketing the mansion's back garden. Night birds peeped and dewed grass gleamed in shafts of diffuse moonlight. She undid the window's latch and pushed. It wouldn't budge.
The sash was jammed. Painted shut.
Of all times.
Kate tried the second window, the third. All the same story. Her breath quickened. A sinking feeling bottomed out her chest.
Could this get any worse?
She had to get a window open. Somehow.
Bit by bit, the fourth window yielded to her knife. Paint flaked the sill. Grunting, she shoved aside the sash, lifting it the three inches she needed for a viable shot.
She poked the rifle tip out of the window and hoped the window's bubbled, distorted glass wouldn't throw off her aim. Aimed. Ticking off the variables-second nature to her-she factored in the evening breeze from the west and the clouded orb of the moon casting gray shafts of light.
Her eyes scanned the garden.
What if she got this wrong? Miscalculated?
Then her gaze caught and fastened on her target. She adjusted. Aligned the scope to reflect a half centimeter left. Prepared to double tap the target's temple.
Focused. Took a breath. Then another. Let everything in the world become this moment. Only this dark night, this dense black-green shrubbery, this hazy figure at the far end of the garden, barely visible against the copse of yews.
She inhaled. Squeezed the trigger on the exhale.
Thupt. A sharp crack.
She realigned and squeezed the trigger again. Double tap to be sure, Pa always said. And so she always did.
Now to escape.
By the time she'd skittered over the mansion's slippery roof tiles, torn her sleeve monkeying down the rust-flaked water pipe and legged it over the wet grass, her lungs were heaving.
She bent down. Turned the figure over. A dozen flashlight beams blinded her.
Wilkes clicked a stopwatch. "You're fifty seconds late, Madame X."
Absurd code name.
"Better luck next time," he added.
Better luck next time? She kicked the dummy, lifelike in a Gestapo uniform. Two head shots to the temple. It was perfection.
"Try not painting over the window sashes and I'd be here in a minute," Kate said.
"Field conditions vary; factors change," Wilkes said. "It can go pear shaped in seconds. Snipers need to adapt. Remember: any mission's a gamble."
He had that right.
Wilkes, a broad-chested former police sergeant from Shanghai and a specialist in bare-hand killing, held a clipboard and turned toward the huddled students. "You always face the unknown, as this exercise with Madame X illustrates. Learn to handle a worst-case scenario. The unexpected."
Three of them clustered around the dummy, with its painted leer and childish outlines of a Hitler mustache. The bullet holes in the temple leaked wood chips instead of blood. Kate heard a snigger.
"This lesson wasn't designed for Madame X to show off," Wilkes said. "You're seeing what can happen in the field, learning how to cope, manage, and think on your feet. Now, return to the classroom, dissect this operation and discover what else she could have done. Find the mistake she made."
Kate, the sniper instructor, hadn't made a mistake. But...
Scottish Highlands
Kate Rees slid into the Georgian mansion's salon and found herself staring into the shining eyes of a dead duck on a platter. An enormous oil painting.
Goosebumps crawled up her neck.
Kate's fingers roamed behind the painting's rococo gilt frame to find the rifle pieces taped to it. She slit the tape with the penknife she'd strapped to her ankle. Seconds later she'd assembled the rifle's shank and bolt head and attached the telescopic sight.
Adrenaline coursed through her. Her pulse thudded in her ears.
Outside the window, a curl of mist drifted in the dimness, blanketing the mansion's back garden. Night birds peeped and dewed grass gleamed in shafts of diffuse moonlight. She undid the window's latch and pushed. It wouldn't budge.
The sash was jammed. Painted shut.
Of all times.
Kate tried the second window, the third. All the same story. Her breath quickened. A sinking feeling bottomed out her chest.
Could this get any worse?
She had to get a window open. Somehow.
Bit by bit, the fourth window yielded to her knife. Paint flaked the sill. Grunting, she shoved aside the sash, lifting it the three inches she needed for a viable shot.
She poked the rifle tip out of the window and hoped the window's bubbled, distorted glass wouldn't throw off her aim. Aimed. Ticking off the variables-second nature to her-she factored in the evening breeze from the west and the clouded orb of the moon casting gray shafts of light.
Her eyes scanned the garden.
What if she got this wrong? Miscalculated?
Then her gaze caught and fastened on her target. She adjusted. Aligned the scope to reflect a half centimeter left. Prepared to double tap the target's temple.
Focused. Took a breath. Then another. Let everything in the world become this moment. Only this dark night, this dense black-green shrubbery, this hazy figure at the far end of the garden, barely visible against the copse of yews.
She inhaled. Squeezed the trigger on the exhale.
Thupt. A sharp crack.
She realigned and squeezed the trigger again. Double tap to be sure, Pa always said. And so she always did.
Now to escape.
By the time she'd skittered over the mansion's slippery roof tiles, torn her sleeve monkeying down the rust-flaked water pipe and legged it over the wet grass, her lungs were heaving.
She bent down. Turned the figure over. A dozen flashlight beams blinded her.
Wilkes clicked a stopwatch. "You're fifty seconds late, Madame X."
Absurd code name.
"Better luck next time," he added.
Better luck next time? She kicked the dummy, lifelike in a Gestapo uniform. Two head shots to the temple. It was perfection.
"Try not painting over the window sashes and I'd be here in a minute," Kate said.
"Field conditions vary; factors change," Wilkes said. "It can go pear shaped in seconds. Snipers need to adapt. Remember: any mission's a gamble."
He had that right.
Wilkes, a broad-chested former police sergeant from Shanghai and a specialist in bare-hand killing, held a clipboard and turned toward the huddled students. "You always face the unknown, as this exercise with Madame X illustrates. Learn to handle a worst-case scenario. The unexpected."
Three of them clustered around the dummy, with its painted leer and childish outlines of a Hitler mustache. The bullet holes in the temple leaked wood chips instead of blood. Kate heard a snigger.
"This lesson wasn't designed for Madame X to show off," Wilkes said. "You're seeing what can happen in the field, learning how to cope, manage, and think on your feet. Now, return to the classroom, dissect this operation and discover what else she could have done. Find the mistake she made."
Kate, the sniper instructor, hadn't made a mistake. But...
