Dark Sundays (CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Book 15) by Donn Cortez

By Donn Cortez

A lavish penthouse get together on most sensible of a Vegas resort and on line casino performs host to a extraordinary set-up to homicide during which a safety protect is trapped and killed in a personal elevator--and the physique quickly vanishes . . . prime crime scene investigators Nick Stokes and Greg Sanders immediately to an uncanny circus troupe with lethal connections to none except the Russian mafia. meanwhile, Ray Langston and Catherine Willows are referred to as to a psychiatric facility the place sufferers have simply escaped after attacking an orderly. one of many escaped sufferers, an Iraq conflict veteran, controlled to smuggle in a military-grade nerve gasoline, inducing life like and shared three-d illusions and hallucinations . . . and Ray and Catherine needs to race opposed to time to be able to locate very harmful members now roaming freely at the streets of Las Vegas. . . .

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Extra resources for Dark Sundays (CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Book 15)

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And I know what it feels like to be in a box. You’ll do anything to get out. ’ I’ll take your word for it. In any case, the traffic seems to be settling down. ’ The suit’s spimescape is back up at last. It shows me a reconstructed view of the router’s innards. The price of being invisible is being blind – which makes it somewhat tricky to break into a vast machine constantly creating and dissolving new components. At least for the moment I’m in the stable outer layers, away from the heavy processing centres.

The mirrored sphere bounces around the cabin and starts to glow. Lasers, Mieli thinks at the ship, arming her own weapons. Get ready to throw it out and burn it. She positions herself between the knife-thing and the thief, who is floating motionless, eyes closed, puts up another q-dot wall to keep him safe. Tactical gogols feed analysis results into her metacortex. The thing’s beam is scanning, like an aggressive version of a zoku Realmgate, capturing information but destroying the source, sending the results to someone.

Then she pulls away, opens her bag, takes out the beemee net and carefully weaves it in her hair. ’ he whispers. ‘This is not how it usually goes,’ she says, laughing. ’ She opens her bodystocking at the neck, pulls it open all the way to her navel. She takes his hands and places them on her breasts. She whispers the Secret Name of al-Latif the Gentle, sees its shape before her eyes, focuses on its spirals and recursive twists like she was taught, and the tingle of a beemee connection comes in an instant.

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