Now she has killed once, she knows she can do it again…
After two long years spent in a secret British prison, Nadia Laksheva is suddenly granted her freedom. Yet there is a dangerous price to pay for her release: she must retrieve the Russian nuclear warhead stolen by her deadliest enemy, a powerful and ruthless terrorist known only as The Client.
But her mysterious nemesis is always one step ahead and the clock is ticking. In 37 hours, the warhead will explode, reducing the city of London to a pile of ash. Only this time, Nadia is prepared to pull the trigger at any cost…
The deadly trail will take her from crowded Moscow to the silent streets of Chernobyl, but will Nadia find what she is looking for before the clock hits zero?
The gripping second novel in J.F. Kirwan’s brilliant spy thriller series. Perfect for fans of Charles Cumming, Mark Dawson and Adam Brookes.
Nadia Laksheva Spy Thriller Series
66 Metres
37 Hours
J.F. Kirwan
J.F. KIRWAN
In his day job, J.F. Kirwan travels worldwide, working on aviation safety. He lives in Paris, where he first joined a fiction class – and became hooked! So when a back injury stopped him scuba diving for two years, he wrote a thriller about a young Russian woman, Nadia, where a lot of the action occurred in dangerously deep waters. It was the only way he could carry on diving! But as the story and characters grew, he realised it was not one book, but three… J.F. Kirwan would love to hear from readers. You can follow him on Twitter at: @kirwanjf.
Thanks to my Parisian writer colleagues Chris, Dimitri, Marie, Gwyneth and Mary Ellen, to my pre-readers Beatrice, Ruth, Andy and Gideon, to Maxi and my fellow HQ authors, and to my editor Charlotte, the HQ cover designer and the entire HQ team. Last but not least, thanks to all the readers of 66 Metres who demanded a sequel.
For Kevin
Contents
Vladimir was cuffed and hooded, but his guards had made a fatal mistake. His hands were behind him, but not attached to the inner structure of the military van, a standard Russian UAZ 452 – he’d know those rickety creaks and the pungent blend of oil and diesel anywhere. The vehicle trundled towards some unknown destination where he would be interrogated, beaten some more, then shot in the back of the head.
Three of the four