Death Mask (Rogue Angel, Book 52) by Alex Archer, Steven Savile

By Alex Archer, Steven Savile

The face of evil.

And the face of greed…

The video confirmed a virtually bare guy bloodied and crushed. while archaeologist and television presenter Annja Creed watched, the clock on his suicide vest ticked down, and helpful seconds have been misplaced. yet this used to be no stranger. Garin was once her buddy. Their fates have been sure by means of the secrets and techniques of Joan of Arc's sword. And Annja had under twenty-four hours to save lots of his life….

The cost for Garin's lifestyles was once the misplaced masks of Torquemada, rumored to were solid by means of the Grand Inquisitor himself, years in the past through the Spanish Inquisition. deserted crypts, misplaced palaces and a merciless and historical brotherhood: all clues to the mask's advanced and lethal secret that Annja, and her mentor, Roux—using all in their significant assets and cunning—must resolve ahead of Garin runs out of time.

Annja Creed is dealing with her maximum trial. and never even the holy sword of Joan of Arc can spare her from the ultimate judgment.

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Additional resources for Death Mask (Rogue Angel, Book 52)

Example text

The thought made him laugh. It was not, Sharpe sus­pect­ed, the an­tic­ipa­tion of ex­cite­ment that had brought Sergeant Oba­di­ah Hakeswill to this state of near jovi­al­ity, but rather the thought that a bat­tle would cause ca­su­al­ties and mis­ery, and mis­ery was the Sergeant's de­light. He liked to see men cowed and fright­ened, for that made them bid­dable, and Sergeant Hakeswill was al­ways at his hap­pi­est when he was in con­trol of un­hap­py men. The three of­fi­cers had stopped their hors­es at the head of the col­umn and now used tele­scopes to in­spect the dis­tant ridge which was cloud­ed by a ragged fringe of smoke left from the last dis­charge of the en­emy can­non.

See it? ' His face twitched again as he re­leased the stock. ' 'Mad as a hare, ' Tom Gar­rard mut­tered. ' Hakeswill whipped around to stare at Sharpe, but Sharpe was so pal­pa­bly still and star­ing mute­ly ahead that his in­no­cence was in­dis­putable. Hakeswill paced back down the Light Com­pa­ny. 'I have watched men die, bet­ter men than any of you pieces of scum, prop­er men, but God has spared me! So you do what I says, boys, or else you'll be car­rion. ' He abrupt­ly thrust the mus­ket back in­to Sharpe's hands.

In­stead he leaned for­ward in his sad­dle with one hand clasped over the tiger hilt of his curved sabre as he watched his in­fantry march on the in­fi­del British. The sword was slung on a silken sash that crossed the pale yel­low silk jack­et that the Tip­poo wore above chintz trousers. His tur­ban was of red silk and pinned with a gold badge show­ing a tiger's mask. ' Above it, pinned to the tur­ban's brief white plume and bril­liant in the day's sun­light, there glit­tered a ru­by the size of a pi­geon's egg.

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