With political tensions running high due to a controversial new motorway scheme, the chilling and ritualistic murder of a high-flying local government minister sends shockwaves through the island.
When her home is ransacked and another brutal killing occurs, Isabel Flores Montserrat, unorthodox former detective, joins up once again with Mallorca's police chief, Tolo Cabot, in a perilous race for answers.
Meanwhile, fear and distrust grow in Isabel's village as fake signs and cairn markers send disorientated hikers plunging off cliffs.
Is this mountain mischief the work of environmentalists or is something far more sinister afoot.
As part of this #RandomThingsTours Blog Tour, I am delighted to share an extract from the book with you today.
Inside the claustrophobic, heavy-duty body bag, Sebi blinked hard, trying to get a sense of place despite the impenetrable darkness. There was a sharp jolt and he groaned in agony through his gag as his body was hurled with force into the air and allowed to drop heavily onto a cold, hard surface. His hands and feet were tightly bound and on all sides something soft and damp writhed about him. What was it, earth? Seconds later he was airborne again and being rocked gently from side to side. Who were his bearers? Surely they had to be fit guys to support his weight so effortlessly? Where were they taking him?
He shook with the intense chill as rain drummed on the surface of the bag and winced when what felt like light, fluttery wings kissed his cheeks and arms. Something scurried across his legs and nipped his skin, causing him to squirm in revulsion. What was it? It had to be a rodent, something he couldn’t bear to think about. Wedged inside his mobile prison and with a splitting headache, he shuddered when something heavy, wet and cold skimmed his naked body. Please God, not an eel: his childhood phobia resurfaced. He wriggled in the limited space, trying to shake it off. In relief, he closed his eyes when it landed to his right, forcing the bag to sag slightly on that side. Whatever it was, at least it didn’t appear to be alive, but the fluttery things were another story. They were everywhere, tickling his bare flesh, face, abdomen and legs. He detested insects of any kind.
The rain ceased and for a while, all Sebi could hear was the eerie call of a barn owl, the methodical croaking of frogs and the sound of feet trudging forward on either side of him. The sharp plastic chord that bound his limbs was beginning to chafe and burn his skin and his heart was pounding. Never before had he felt so helpless – such sheer, unadulterated terror.
An inveterate traveller & experienced freelance journalist, she regularly participates in humanitarian aid expeditions overseas with British explorer Colonel John Blashford-Snell, CBE & is a Fellow of the RGS.
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