By Jeff Lindsay
Hollywood will get greater than it bargained for whilst television's most popular famous person arrives on the Miami Police division and develops an excessive, expert curiosity in a camera-shy blood spatter analyst named Dexter Morgan.
Mega-star Robert Chase is legendary for wasting himself in his characters. while he and a bunch of actors descend at the Miami Police division for 'research', Chase turns into fixated on Dexter Morgan, the blood spatter analyst with a candy teeth for doughnuts and a likely regular existence. To ideal his position, Chase is enthusiastic about shadowing Dexter's each flow and studying what fairly makes him tick. there's only one tiny challenge . . . Dexter's favourite pastime contains weeding out the worst killers to flee felony justice, and introducing them to his designated model of playtime. It's a mystery top stored out of the highlight and clear of the prying eyes of bloated Hollywood egos if Dexter desires to remain out of the electrical chair. the very last thing he wishes is vivid lighting and the paparazzi .
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Additional info for Dexter's Final Cut (Dexter, Book 7)
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.