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The Price of Eden
Published in Australia
Fiction - Thriller, Suspense

Print: 978-1-925595-46-8
ePub: 978-1-925595-47-5
Mobi: 978-1-925595-48-2

Date of Publication: 30 Nov 2016
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The Price of EdenContains Adult Content

John Douglas Gwyn

Published by IndieMosh

Find out more about John Douglas Gwyn: | Facebook | Other





Synopsis

The Price of Eden is an entertaining blend of adventure, action and intrigue.  A logging camp in Northern Ecuador is attacked. A dozen loggers are killed and a young Red Cross nurse attending to an injured man, is also brutally raped and murdered. The loggers were employed by Equico, a charitable organisation.

Shortly after the attack, Bart Montillo , one of Equico's principals is approached by a stranger, who confirms his suspicions that Francisco Ponti, a wealthy and corrupt Columbian businessman is behind the massacre. The stranger also informs Bart that an anonymous donor is willing to provide Equico with two and a half million dollars if Equico wishes to organise a reprisal attack on Ponti, another two and a half would be forthcoming on confirmation of Ponti's death.

Ex SAS Captain Edward Collins is contacted and agrees to assist Equico. Bob Mason a former soldier come farmer, now in a parlous financial situation is one of six men recruited by Collins, who travel to Ecuador.

At Equico's base they plan and train for an attack on Ponti's fortress but danger in various guises, still lurks around the base.

Others, who for one reason or another find themselves enmeshed in this deadly web include Sanchez Zoppo, another of Equico's principals, Jane Powell, an opal dealer from Lightning Ridge in north west New South Wales, Clare McGregor, a Red Cross nurse from Edmonton, Canada and Equico's bellicose and boozy mechanic, Texan, Ray Gardiner.

Prologue

The young woman watched in disbelieving horror, the carnage that was taking place outside the small hut in which she and her patient were sheltering.  A moment earlier the scene had been one of peace and relaxation as the loggers sat around the camp talking, laughing, waiting for their evening meal.  Now they, her driver and the cook lay dead or dying, cut down by a murderous burst of automatic weapon fire.  Immediately following the shooting a rag tag bunch of men led by a big bull headed man in a faded olive uniform had charged out of the forest.  They were now, with obvious relish, hacking and clubbing the bodies of their victims, even though few showed any sign of life.



The big man watched the butchery for a moment before walking to a nearby jeep.  The vehicle, fitted out as an ambulance, was clearly marked as belonging to the Red Cross.  An ugly smile creased his face as he turned and started towards the hut.  The lightweight screen door crashed inwards under the weight of his boot.  When he spotted the woman his malicious anticipatory leer chilled her to the very core of her being.  Despite her terror she moved to try and protect her patient.  Her efforts were countered by a brutal shove that slammed her painfully against the wall.  The injured man squealed in fear and pain, as a hand gripped his hair and dragged him effortlessly to the door.  At the door his squeal was replaced by more gruesome sound as a knife was dragged across his throat.  The body was flung from the hut and raised dust as it flayed briefly but violently on the loose ground.  When it was still, the man turned.  He glanced meaningfully at the bed before moving towards the woman.  She looked about desperately but there was no way out and nothing she could use as a weapon.  She knew with sickening certainty that her own life was also nearing its end.  She envied those who were already dead.



 



Many days later and many thousands of miles away, a man walked slowly towards the freshly turned earth.  Although only lightly clad he was oblivious to the chill of the early morning air and equally oblivious to the beauty of the slowly unfolding panorama being presented by the rising sun.



He’d been at the funeral the previous day but so had many others.  He’d come this morning to be alone with her and to try and assuage, at least to some degree, his own feeling of guilt.  He stood by the wreath-covered mound for over an hour never once ever glancing at a neatly tendered double grave nearby.  There were no tears and there was no gentle ‘goodbye Libby’, before he finally turned and walked away.  He could not do that.  He still carried grief and guilt but it was the rage that had been growing in him since he’d learned the manner of her death that dominated his emotions.  It would have to be contained for some time yet but he knew it would continue to burn white hot.  It would not cool, would not be sated, until it had bathed in blood.



 







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