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Praise for Collateral Damage “Doesn’t disappoint.”— Publishers Weekly “Fans won’t want to miss this action-packed thriller.”— Booklist “A fast-paced thriller from beginning to end.”—Midwest Book Review More Praise for Stuart Woods “Stuart Woods is a no-nonsense, slam-bang storyteller.”— Chicago Tribune “A world-class mystery writer...I try to put Woods’s books down and I can’t.”— Houston Chronicle “Mr. Woods, like his characters, has an appealing way of making things nice and clear.”— The New York Times “Woods certainly knows how to keep the pages turning.”— Booklist “Since 1981, readers have not been able to get their fill of Stuart Woods’ New York Times bestselling novels of suspense.”— Orlando Sentinel “Woods’s Stone Barrington is a guilty pleasure...he’s also an addiction that’s harder to kick than heroin.”— Contra Costa Times (California) Informationen zum Autor Stuart Woods Klappentext Stone Barrington returns to the Big Apple in this New York Times bestselling thriller that blends "exciting action, sophisticated gadgetry, and last-minute heroics" (Publishers Weekly). After a productive trip to Bel-Air, Stone Barrington is back in Manhattan-and back in his element, ready to return to the world of deluxe fine dining and elegant high society that New York does best. But then an unexpected visit from his friend and periodic lover, CIA assistant director Holly Barker, draws Stone into a dangerous game of murder and vengeance, against an enemy with plans bigger than they could ever imagine... Leseprobe Elaine’s, late. Stone Barrington opened the taxi door. “Wait for me,” he said. “I won’t be long.” He got out of the cab and looked around. The yellow awning was gone, but “Elaine’s” was still painted on the darkened windows. A film of soap obscured the interior, but Stone found a bare spot and put his hands up to shield from the glare. What he saw was, in short, nothing. The book jackets, photographs, and posters that had adorned the walls for forty-seven years were gone. The bar and mirrors behind it were still there, but there were no stools. The dining room contained no tables or chairs and no blue-checkered tablecloths. The two old pay phones still hung on the wall near the cashier’s stand at the bar; they had always been the only phones in the place. For a tiny moment Stone could hear the babble of a crowded room, chairs scraping, people calling the length of the room to say hello to a friend. Then a passing bus obliterated the sounds and returned Stone to the present. He got back into the cab and gave the driver his home address. His cell phone buzzed at his belt. “Hello?” “It’s Dino. Where are you?” “At Elaine’s.” A brief silence, then: “You shouldn’t do that.” “You’re right,” Stone said. “The memory is better than the reality. Have you had dinner?” “I was just thinking about it.” “Where’s Viv?” “She’s working.” “Come over and I’ll make you some pasta.” “You, yourself?” “Me, myself. I can cook, you know.” “There was a rumor, but I never believed it.” “Fifteen minutes.” “Okay. Oh, how are we dressing?” “Unarmed,” Stone said. “I’m always armed.” “Then you can check your gun at the door.” “Whatever you say.” “How late is Viv working?” “Until ten.” “Tell her to come over after, and I’ll save her something.” “I’ll see if she’s brave enough.” “See ya.” Stone hung up. — At home, he shucked off his jacket in the kitchen and checked the fridge. It was stuffed, as usual. Helene was an overshopper, and she liked to be ready for anything. Stone found some Italian sausages, some mushrooms, some broccoli rabe, and some garlic. He sliced the sausages and tosse...
