John Lacombe
In the frigid mountains of North Korea, trained assassins, dark geniuses, government super-agents, elite soldiers and drug kingpins are thrown together in a ferocious fight to the death.
Yet even as these deadly killers circle each other in the snowy wilderness, the fate of each and every one of them may rest in the hands of a single man...
************
24-year-old Tim Sutton runs a humble comic book store in a small New Hampshire town. But Tim's simple life is about to be ripped from its foundation.
Unbeknownst to Tim, a round of deadly Winter Games has begun. And Tim is the key player.
Winter Games, the debut novel of author John Lacombe, weaves together many of today's hottest issues to form a complex, driving, relevant thriller.
A brother hunts for answers.
A warrior hunts for her own limits.
A nation hunts for both of them.
In a frosty wilderness of military cover-ups and international crime, everyone is a predator. And everyone is prey.
Winter Games.
John Lacombe lives and works in Chicago.
Winter Games is his first novel. When he's not hard at work on
Games' sequel, John enjoys the latest releases in literature, cinema, and music--and breathlessly follows the travails of his beloved Northwestern Wildcats.
From
Winter Games:
Hutchins inhaled
for a full five seconds, then slowly let the breath out. He wheeled around the corner.
The hallway was
long; it appeared to run under the entire terminal, at least 50 yards. Hutchins had jogged about ten of those yards
when he realized that Farrior and Weathers were resting at the far end of the
tunnel.
“Hey!” he called out, speeding up his run. Remembering he still had the radio, he
brought it up to his ear again.
The crackle startled
him. Lying on the ground, less than ten
feet away, was the other radio. It was
angled aimlessly on the hallway’s pink-and-white checkered floor. Next to it, smack in the middle of the
hallway, was an FBI-issue pistol.
“What
the…hey!” Hutchins reached down and
picked up the gun and the radio. He
called out to Weathers and Farrior.
“Why the heck did
you leave….”
Weathers and
Farrior didn’t answer.
They didn’t
move.
The two agents
were seated on the floor, their backs resting against the right wall of the
hallway. Hutchins began to jog toward
them.
“Hey! What’s going on? Are you guys alright?”
Now he was twenty
yards away.
Something is wrong, something is wrong,
something is wrong.
Now Hutchins could
see the blood.
Two streams of
crimson fluid were forming a neat pool between Farrior and Weathers. The rivers of blood snaked onto the men’s
spread legs, over their crisp black pants, up over their matching blazers,
starched white shirts and bold scarlet ties.
The agents’
throats had been slashed wide open.
Their eyes and faces were contorted, frozen in gruesome displays of pain
and shock.
Oh my God.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
Hutchins’ senses
abandoned him. His eyes rolled back in
his head as his feet gave way.
And then all was
black.
