Department Thirty by David Kent

By David Kent

Ryan Elder was once a normal collage child while his existence was once torn aside by means of his parents' shattering double suicide. Years later, nonetheless haunted by way of his loss, he's attempted to bury the earlier and stay a typical existence. yet "normal" is set to get an entire new meaning....Out of the blue, Ryan gets a battered letter containing just a mobilephone quantity and the phrases "Department Thirty" -- written in his mother's hand. Lured again to his boyhood domestic in Oklahoma urban, he starts to solve his parents' connections to a mysterious executive agency...a net of assassination and betrayal...and a menacing, shadowy determine who is aware Ryan's previous -- and should verify his future. Now, to avoid an final act of family terror, Ryan needs to discover why he has develop into the following puppet in a legacy of deception -- and who's pulling the strings....
David Kent builds suspense and paranoia to a fever pitch during this heart-pounding conspiracy mystery, his debut novel. Twist by means of electrifying twist, a mystery executive time table involves mild -- and one guy fights to outlive.

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Sam was already on the back of our truck, pulling on a pair of surgical gloves from the trauma pack. ’ He laid his hand on the boy’s head.  . ’ I went to his other side. The kid’s clothes were in shreds and it was easy to see the huge slit down his left thigh. It looked like a sausage that had split in a frying-pan. Most of his flesh was peppered with fragments of broken stone. His hair and face were caked with blood, sweat and sand. We didn’t have any fluids to get into him. There was nothing we could do but plug up the holes and try to stop him losing any more blood.

I followed him. I wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light or the rebels were recruiting pygmies, but he didn’t cast much of a shadow. My foresight slowly passed his feet from behind, and as it got about three body widths ahead, I fired a longer, six-round burst. Rounds plucked at the sand around him, and he went down. More shouting. I looked down into the compound again. Frankenstein was getting Davy and some others to relieve the government troops of their RPG launchers and rounds. Standish exited the building, followed closely by the youngest of the women I’d seen by the crates.

The noise of eight weapons opening simultaneously was deafening. I was buffeted by shockwaves from the RPGs, then the hot back-blast washed over me. Gravel splattered me. My nose filled with the acrid smell of cordite and spent propellant. My eardrums zinged. I put another double-tap into the lead vehicle as one of the grenades hit home about three back. Its headlights swerved and the dustcloud it threw up obscured the set I was aiming for. Next thing I saw, my vehicle, too, was swerving. It went into a complete roll not more than twenty metres from the wall.

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