A Wanted Woman
(Sprache: Englisch)
Winner of the 2014 NAACP Image Award, A Wanted Woman is a dangerous thrill ride like no other from New York Times bestselling author Eric Jerome Dickey.
The assassin called Reaper is a woman of a thousand faces, and just as many accents. In the...
The assassin called Reaper is a woman of a thousand faces, and just as many accents. In the...
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Winner of the 2014 NAACP Image Award, A Wanted Woman is a dangerous thrill ride like no other from New York Times bestselling author Eric Jerome Dickey.The assassin called Reaper is a woman of a thousand faces, and just as many accents. In the blink of an eye, she can become anyone. Some desirable. All dangerous.
For Reaper, the Trinidad contract should be simple: infiltrate the infamous Laventille Killers organization, earn access to her political target, eliminate him, and then escape from the island.
When complications arise and the job goes bad, Reaper has no viable exit plan. The LK warlords want her publicly executed, and their pursuit is far-reaching and merciless. Trawling for low-profile assignments is all Reaper can do to keep her skills sharp and garner money to survive. And for an assassin with so many changeable identities, her newest one is too frighteningly real as an expendable pawn between two warring organizations. Now, trapped on an island paradise turned prison, Reaper discovers that family ties run deep on both sides. Somewhere, sometime, someone has to be trusted but one wrong move could suddenly become her last breath.
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***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof.***Copyright © 2014 by Eric Jerome Dickey
ONE
Rituals Coffee House at City Gate, South Quay, Port of Spain, directly behind Independence Square
Fast food joints were all over. This was the main transportation hub on the island for buses and maxi taxis. It was seven o clock the next morning in the land of steel pan, calypso, soca, chutney, and limbo, on a mountainous island renamed by Christopher Columbus. I d come to town before sunrise to check out the area near the former Trinidad Government Railway headquarters.
By the time the sun had pulled itself from the sea, I had plotted three exits in case shit went wrong and I was forced to flee through an area that had thousands of visitors each day that plus the thousands of locals. I walked each route three times, each time at a normal pace.
Then I left the keys in the van s ignition, driver s-side door unlocked, a Minnie Mouse sunshade in the front window. A loaded gun was under the front seat, easy to reach if I came back running.
I dressed like a University of the West Indies student, wore a T-shirt from the St. Augustine campus, jean shorts, sexy sandals, my hair short and light brown. I went for young, but mature and intellectual. Anxious, I sat listening to the rapidly changing conversations of a group of women on the way to Port of Spain General Hospital. One wore a tee that read kamla have no jack to change she tyre. I listened to conversations, captured the rhythm of the tongue, picked up variations of the accent, pretty much mastered the singsong aspect, created a passable Trini accent, Chaguanas or Port of Spain, minus the proper idioms. Many had an interesting blend, a unique exoticness not seen in North America.
Despite the beauty of the people and the long lines for lattes, unrest was all around me. The newspaper spoke in volumes. Another social explosion was
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about to happen. Economy in decline. Frustration. Poverty. Political fallouts. IMF and World Bank called everything but the devil. Not enough to pay for housing. Not enough money to live. Barbados stealing their flying fish. School book prices high and salaries low. Teachers protesting. Nurses protesting. Police had their crimes. Army had their crimes. People losing their pensions.
And the band played on.
King Killer showed up by eight. I left my table, stood next to him as I ordered a second latte. Sat a table away from him. Sat facing him. Leg bouncing. Cleavage popping. Local paper open, pretending to read about killings, crimes, and drugs coming in from South America. The gunta didn t notice me. He wore tie clips, pocket squares, French cuffs. Charcoal-gray suit perfectly tailored, his shoes in brown hues. I watched the handsome 18-karat-gold wedding ring wearing thug and saw that he eyed professional women. Inside of thirty minutes, he befriended five women as they came to get coffee or iced drinks befriended them, took their cards, and exchanged fuck-you-later smiles with each as they left to rush to work. All had been well-dressed women. None had looked over twenty-five. I nodded. I understood. He was about status. He was attracted to women with smooth skin and young eggs.
The next morning I dressed like an executive: fitted, sleeveless dress, low heels, silver watch, bracelets, earrings, sat properly, was there when he arrived, a copy of the local paper on my bistro table as I sipped iced green tea and read, pretending to be interested in an article where the president of the St. Lucia Craft and Dry Goods Vendors Association was calling for heavy security ahead of the cruise season, in a bid to prevent tourist muggings in the city. Next page said that a major think tank based in Washington, DC, said that Caribbean360 had reported that gangs were stronger than the government here in Trinidad and Tobago. N
And the band played on.
King Killer showed up by eight. I left my table, stood next to him as I ordered a second latte. Sat a table away from him. Sat facing him. Leg bouncing. Cleavage popping. Local paper open, pretending to read about killings, crimes, and drugs coming in from South America. The gunta didn t notice me. He wore tie clips, pocket squares, French cuffs. Charcoal-gray suit perfectly tailored, his shoes in brown hues. I watched the handsome 18-karat-gold wedding ring wearing thug and saw that he eyed professional women. Inside of thirty minutes, he befriended five women as they came to get coffee or iced drinks befriended them, took their cards, and exchanged fuck-you-later smiles with each as they left to rush to work. All had been well-dressed women. None had looked over twenty-five. I nodded. I understood. He was about status. He was attracted to women with smooth skin and young eggs.
The next morning I dressed like an executive: fitted, sleeveless dress, low heels, silver watch, bracelets, earrings, sat properly, was there when he arrived, a copy of the local paper on my bistro table as I sipped iced green tea and read, pretending to be interested in an article where the president of the St. Lucia Craft and Dry Goods Vendors Association was calling for heavy security ahead of the cruise season, in a bid to prevent tourist muggings in the city. Next page said that a major think tank based in Washington, DC, said that Caribbean360 had reported that gangs were stronger than the government here in Trinidad and Tobago. N
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Autoren-Porträt von Eric Jerome Dickey
Eric Jerome Dickey (1961 2021) was the award-winning and New York Times bestselling author of twenty-nine novels, as well as a six-issue miniseries of graphic novels featuring Storm (X-Men) and the Black Panther. His novel Sister, Sister was honored as one of Essence s 50 Most Impactful Black Books of the Last 50 Years, and A Wanted Woman won the NAACP Image Award in the category of Outstanding Literary Work in 2014. His most recent novels include The Blackbirds, Finding Gideon, Bad Men and Wicked Women, Before We Were Wicked, The Business of Lovers, and The Son of Mr. Suleman.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Eric Jerome Dickey
- 2015, 480 Seiten, Maße: 13,4 x 20,2 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: NAL Trade
- ISBN-10: 0451466101
- ISBN-13: 9780451466105
- Erscheinungsdatum: 25.03.2015
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
Praise for A Wanted WomanA wild, thrilling ride. Ebony
There s a cinematic vibe here with James Bond fantastic escapes mixed with Game of Thrones Red Wedding type gore as blood flows Anticipate demand. Library Journal
More Praise for Eric Jerome Dickey
[O]ne of the most successful Black authors of the last quarter-century. The New York Times
Eric Jerome Dickey s work is a master class in Black joy....[his] characters bold, smart women oozing sexuality and vulnerability navigate interpersonal conflicts using dialogue that crackles with authenticity. The Atlantic
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