Lynne Heitman - The Pandora Key (Alex Shanahan)

Alex Shanahan goes undercover
to expose a deadly crime ring
at 30,000 feetin Lynne Heitmans

FIRST CLASS KILLING

This action-filled thriller packs an erotic punchgathers strength as it goes along.

The Boston Globe

Enthralling. A very compelling crime thriller complete with blackmail, murder, and an internet-run prostitute ring. The well-written storyline [leaves] the audience eagerly turning the pages.

Harriet Klausner, barnesandnoble.com

Get ready for the plane ride of your life. Heitman is an excellent storyteller who creates wonderful and believable characters. First Class Killing will leave readers eagerly awaiting the next Alex Shanahan novel.

Old Book Barn Gazette

HARD LANDING

A confession: I love to have an insider from a field I thought I understood show me how I was wrong. Lynne Heitmans debut mystery, Hard Landing , delves beneath the ticket counters and departure gates to expose how both a major airline and a major airport really work. The Boston settings are dead-on, and Alexandra Shanahan is credibly tough and genuinely sensitive at all the right times. Highly recommended.

Jeremiah Healy, Shamus Awardwinning author of Turnabout

Hard Landing goes down easy, and will keep you guessingand flipping pagestill three a.m.

John J. Nance, New York Times bestselling author of Orbit

Theres something mysterious happening at Bostons Logan International Airport, and the novels heroine, Alex Shanahan, the new manager of the fictitious Majestic Airlines, is thrust into the middle of it. Fasten your seat beltthis story, written by an airline industry insider, is exciting from start to finish.

American Way , American Airlines in-flight magazine

Sometimes a reviewer just wants to read a book because its goodthis isa good novel. Heitman leads Alex in a lively dance.

The Boston Globe

An edge-of-your seat thriller that sweeps you up and carries you along for the ride.

Lisa Gardner, New York Times bestselling author of Gone

Terrifictwists and turns and keeps you on the edge of your seat.

Kate Mattes, Kates Mystery Books

TARMAC

Fast-moving and as fascinating as a natural disaster, the novel is suspenseful and electric and has the appeal of any insider story. Ms. Heitman is a former airline employee of 14 years, and her words ring true.

The Dallas Morning News

A fast-paced thriller that kept me turning the pages into the nightyou can practically smell the grease and gasoline.

Kate Mattes, Kates Mystery Books

An intricate and explosive thrillerevocative prose[a] tightly woven, compelling read. One of the years most notable thrillers.

Publishers Weekly (starred review)

Heitman is proving to be an accomplished thriller writer.

Bookseller Star Ratings

Truly excellentthe best white-knuckle ride Ive taken in a long time.

Lee Child, New York Times bestselling author of One Shot

[ Tarmac ] needs no blurbsthe book can lift off for itself.

The Boston Globe

the story kept me turning the pages rapidly. Recommended.

Barbara Franchi, reviewingtheevidence.com

Also by Lynne Heitman

HARD LANDING

TARMAC

FIRST CLASS KILLING

An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2006 by Lynne Heitman

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 1-4165-2308-1

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com

Prologue

MY ASSIGNMENT IS TO KILL THE HOSTAGES. I HAVE GROWN to like some of them over our ten days together, but my duty is clear. The army is gathering outside the airplane. It is time to execute the plan. We all know our places. We all go to our duties. I dig an extra clip out of the bag. I do not know how many rounds it will take.

I stop at the front of the airplane, in the section that we have reserved for ourselves to pray. Then I go back through the curtains, and when they look at me, they know. By the way I hold the Kalashnikov or by the way I stand or by the way I look at them. Something tells them I am there to finish it.

But Ive never killed anyone before. Ive dreamed of it. I lied about it to be part of this operation, but I have never done it before. I level the rifle. The first one gets down on the floor between the seats and curls into a ball. I point the barrel at his head and fire. The recoil jams my shoulder back. When the bullet hits, it stops him in the middle of a scream. His head ruptures.

The others run like frightened beasts. They climb over the backs of the seats. They stumble and fall and step on each other, but there is no place for them to go. I smell the fear. They should die like men, as we all will soon.

Outside, firing begins. At first it is like rain, a sprinkling against the outside of the airplane. But then the deluge. The first bomb goes off. The floor rises up, then drops from under me. A wave of pressure pushes me down. My ears hurt, and when I get to my knees, I cant hear. One of them is coming. I find the rifle and shoot. Hes screaming, but I cant hear, and he keeps coming. I shoot again, and he falls. When I try to stand, there is too much smoke. My eyes burn, but I can still see they are all coming. Their faces look like my sons crayon drawings. I try to raise the rifle again, but they push me down and step on me as they go over.

Another bomb goes off. The seats are on fire. The air feels greasy, like kerosene. Because I cant hear, everything feels slow. I crawl up the aisle. A man with blood on his face and his arms on fire runs toward me. He bumps into something and falls backward. On the floor in front of me, he twists and kicks and turns and screams until he is still. I pull myself into one of the seats. And I wait.

HARVEY BALTIMORES HOUSE WAS DYING. ONCE STATELY, the Tudor had become an embarrassment to its Brookline neighbors. Glossy black paint flaked off the shutters, the pocked shingled roof covered the house like a disease, and the other half of the duplex, which had long been a source of good, steady income for Harvey, had been vacant and closed off for almost six months. The dwelling, like its owner, seemed to be declining at an accelerating pace.

The doorbell was broken. I let myself in with my key. For someone as private as Harvey, giving me the key to his house had been a monumental concession, but it only made sense. He wasnt exactly mobile anymore.

Its me, I called out while I wiped my shoes on the welcome mat in his foyer. No response, as usual, but I knew what I would find. If it was a good day, he would be clean-shaven, reading his newspaper by the light of the sun slanting through open blinds. If it was a bad day, hed be sitting at his computer in the dark, unshaven, playing Minesweeper. Either way, hed be in his wheelchair, his body ravaged by the multiple sclerosis that had been stealing function from him in excruciating increments. I hoped for a good day. There hadnt been enough of those lately.