Reviving Izabel (In the Company Of Killers)- J. A. Redmerski(ang.) - dokument [*. pdf] REVIVING IZABEL Book Two In the Company of Killers. Everything about Adria Dawson's life has changed in unimaginable ways: the shattering betrayal of her mother, the fight for her life and sanity the loss of her. J.A. Redmerski ePub Free Download. -Reading Order-#1 - KILLING SARAI #2 -. REVIVING IZABEL#3 - THE SWAN reviving izabel in the pdf.

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Reviving Izabel In The Company Of Killers 2 Ja Redmerski the norton anthology of african american literature vol 2 3rd edition,the new world champion paper. Report. Reviving Izabel (In the Company of Killers #2) by J.A. Redmerski # [email protected] J.A. Redmerski - Reviving 1 MB. Like Show likes. book pdf book reviving izabel in the company of killers volume 2: guilt the sunday times best selling psychological thriller that you need to read in reviving.

As Arthur Hamburg's right-hand man, Willem Stephens, closes in on his crusade to destroy Sarai, she is left with the crushing realization that she may have bitten off more than she can chew. But Sarai, taking on the new and improved role of Izabel Seyfried, still has a set of deadly skills of her own that will prove to be all she needs to secure her place beside Victor. But there is one test that Izabel must face that has the potential to destroy everything she is working so hard to achieve.

One final test that will not only make her question her decision to want this dangerous life, but will make her question everything she has come to trust about Victor Faust. Seduced in the Long Gone. Seduced in the Dark The Dark Duet, 2. Reviving Izabel In the Company of Killers, 2. Redmerski: : site Store.. Redmerski, comes a dangerous and boundary pushing new crime and suspense series, situation, but In the Company of Killers.. Redmerski Romance. I stand with my back pressed against the door and let out a long, deep breath.

Pretending is so hard. It helps me to visualize and to figure things out easier. I walk back to the window and gaze out at the city of Los Angeles, my arms crossed loosely over my stomach. Just from the cameras and from anyone else. I want Hamburg to see me.

I had made sure to shower and change into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and to leave the lights off in the room to make it appear as though I had been asleep.

But I rejected that idea quickly. But the two of them leaving was exactly what I needed. They solved it for me. Minutes after Eric leaves, I wait until Dahlia —in her room next to ours—changes out of her swimwear.

From the peephole in my door, I watch them walk down the hallway. I count to one hundred, pacing the floor, over and over again. And then I grab my purse and carry it out the door. I walk briskly down the hallway in the opposite direction and make my way to the secret room on the other side of the building.

A little paranoid about getting caught, I fumble around inside my purse, touching just about everything except the key to the room. Finally, I manage to get it into my fingers and I hurry inside, sliding the chain-lock into place afterwards. My alter ego, Izabel Seyfried, would know how to walk in them and look good doing it, so naturally, I needed to get with the program. Then I wet my hair and break it into two parts behind me, twist each half and then cross them over one another at the back of my head.

Several Bobby pins later, my long auburn hair is fixed tightly against my scalp. I slip the wig cap over the hair and then the wig, adjusting it for a long time until I get rid of any imperfections.

Lastly, I tighten a knife sheath around my thigh and drop the fabric of my dress back over it. I stand in front of the tall mirror, looking at myself at every possible angle. I feel odd as a blonde. Satisfied, I grab my little black purse and tuck it underneath my arm, the small handgun hidden inside making it bulge somewhat in the center. I reach out for the door handle letting my hand fall back to my side. Why the hell am I doing it?

Because I have to. The things this man admitted to, the people he killed because of a sick, sexual fetish. I see the face of his wife, emaciated and sickly, her sunken eyes glazed over with resignation.

I can even still smell the urine that had dried in her clothes and on the ratted cot she slept on in that hidden room. My chest fills with air and I hold it there for several long seconds before letting the heavy breath out. The need to kill him is like an itch in the center of my back. The moment I walk out the door I leave Sarai behind and become Izabel for the night. Izabel would never be seen riding in a cab.


I cock my head to one side and look upon him with a hint of annoyance. Am I not allowed to enjoy a meal by myself? Or, are you hitting on me? He takes an uncomfortable step back. For one. A waiter walks over as the host leaves and presents the wine menu. I reject it with the brushing movement of my fingers. As he strides through the room and away from me, I start scoping the place out.

Another one to my right, close to the stairs that lead to the second floor. The restaurant is much like it was the first time I came here: dark, not-sopopulated and fairly quiet, except this time I hear the light volume of jazz music playing from somewhere. I get lost in the memory, picturing everything precisely the way it happened. I slide over the few inches separating us and sit right next to him. His fingers dance along the back of my neck as he pulls my head toward him.

My heart pounds erratically when he brushes his lips against the side of my face. Suddenly, I feel his other hand slip in-between my thighs and up my dress. My breath hitches. Do I part them?

Do I freeze up and lock them in place? His hand moves closer to the warmth between my legs. The waiter is holding a food menu in his hand.

My water with a lemon wedged on the rim of the glass is already waiting in front of me.

A little flustered at first, I just nod, but then shake my head instead. I may order later. He sets the menu down and leaves me alone. I gaze up at the balcony and the tables perched alongside the extravagant railing. Where could Hamburg be? But where? I straighten my back against the chair and take a sip of my water, curling my fingers around the slim glass, all except for my pinky finger which makes me look that much wealthier, or just snootier.

Then I look down at the reddish-purple flower arrangement sitting in a small glass vase in the center of my table. Izabel Seyfried.

We need to talk, you and I. A few tense minutes pass and just when I start to think this night has been wasted and I really have talking to myself, I notice movement stirring on the balcony floor just above the south exit.

My heart is drumming rapidly as I watch the tall, dark figure emerge from the shadows and descend the stairs. I remember this man, broad-shouldered with salt-and-pepper hair and a dimple in the center of his chin. He steps up to my table with absolutely no emotion on his face, his big hands folded together down in front of him, his back straight, his chiseled chin solid.

Preferably now. He glances up at the area he came from and I notice a tiny black device hidden inside his left ear. Hamburg would be my guess.

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He looks back at me, his dark eyes cold and hateful, yet he retains his unemotional demeanor as flawlessly as Victor always had. I follow Stephens through the restaurant and up the stairs to the balcony floor.

And either this will be my first night as a killer, or my last night alive.

Just keep calm. Do what Izabel would do. I breathe in a heavy breath and sneer at both of them menacingly. Then I throw my little black purse at the guard.

He catches it as it hits his chest. I smirk at the guard glaring back at me with murder in his eyes. He takes the gun from my purse and hands the purse back to me. If at any time you no longer hear my voice for a full minute, come inside the room. As a precaution, of course. Hamburg steps to the side and gestures me in with an opened hand, palm-up. The room is generous in size with smooth, rounded walls seamless from one side to the other.

A series of large paintings depicting what appears to be scenes of a biblical nature are set near a large stone fireplace, mounted inside enormous glass shadow boxes with lights beaming upward from the bottom like spotlights. The overall lighting is low, like it is in the restaurant, and it smells of incense or maybe scented oil of musk and lavender. On the far wall to my left is an opened door leading into another room where the blue-gray light from several television screens glows against the walls.

The screens show different tables in the restaurant. Hamburg closes that door, too. I cross one leg over the other and keep my posture straight, my chin raised with confidence and my eyes on Hamburg as he moves through the room toward me. I reach down to pull the end of my dress fully over the knife sheathed at my thigh. My purse rests on my lap. He rests his sausage-like hands out in front of him across the mahogany. I can tell how badly he wants to kill me where I sit. No one in their right mind would do something like this, come here alone, inexperienced and reckless.

No one but me. Hamburg giving the guard one minute of not hearing his voice before he can burst into the room has further put a serious wrench in the plan that I never really had to begin with. But I admit, I like the red one better. Hamburg smiles creepily. I shudder inside, but keep a straight face. Hamburg narrows his gaze. I am a veteran. Maybe pointless talk will help ease my mind. Hamburg cocks his head to one side. There was no one inside before, at least not that I could tell.

I shake it off. The faint light underneath the surveillance room door moves again. I hold my breath hoping I saved myself.

Hamburg studies me quietly, searching my face and my posture for any signs of faltering confidence. He rounds his heavy, double-chin. I can feel it. I press my fingertips against the mahogany desk, holding my weight up on them as I lean over just slightly toward him.

Especially that look on your face when you realized Victor Faust was there to kill my wife instead of me.

That was the look of someone blindsided, who had no idea why she was there. It was the look of someone unfamiliar with the game. For a split-second, I had hoped it was Victor coming to save me right on cue.

But that was just wishful thinking. The guard is looking across at me with spiteful, grinning eyes. Hamburg nods to him and the guard starts to take off his belt. My heart falls into the pit of my stomach. My whole body is shaking; it feels like the blood rushing through my hands has become acidic. It charges through my heart and into my head so fast I feel momentarily faint. Hamburg rolls his eyes.

I see him glance at the guard, indicating a demand with just the look in his eyes. Before I can turn around fully the guard has both of my hands pinned behind my back. He forces me over to a square table and shoves me on top of it. The metallic taste of blood springs up in my mouth. Two seconds later my neck is twisted to the opposite side and held there, my left cheek pressed against the cool marble tabletop. Does that sound good to you, Izabel?

Rape me! Go ahead! The guard yells out in pain, releasing his hold on me as I pull the knife away still wrenched in my fist. My hand is covered in blood. He stumbles backward, holding one hand over the lower portion of his throat, blood gushing between his fingers. I run straight for him, my knife raised out in front of me, and we clash in the center of the room. The force of his weight knocks me flat on my ass and my knife falls from my hand, sliding across the bloodstained floor.

Hovering over me, Hamburg reaches out to grab me but I press my back against the floor and swing my foot out as hard as I can, burying the heel of my shoe in the side of his face.

He yelps and stumbles back, his hand pressed over his cheekbone. I crawl on my hands and knees toward my knife, seeing the guard splayed out in the floor surrounded by a pool of blood. I grapple the knife in my hand and roll over as Hamburg comes toward me, knocking the leather chair over onto its side on his way. I spring up from the floor fast and reach out for the table, pushing it into his path.

PDF - Reviving Izabel

He tries to shove it out of the way but it wobbles on its base and he trips over it instead. His body crashes against the floor belly-down, the table falling down right next to his head, narrowly missing him. I jump onto his back, straddling his thick body, my knees not even touching the floor.

I grab him by the hair, pulling his head backward toward me and I press the knife to his throat, rending him immobile in seconds. The smell of his sweat and fear rises up into my nostrils. With the blade against his throat a vociferous pounding on the door startles me. The distraction catches me off-guard.

Hamburg manages to buck underneath me like a bull, rolling onto his side and knocking me over onto mine. I roll out of the way right before Hamburg can get on top of me and I reach for the nearest object, a heavy rock paperweight that had been sitting on top of the table before it was knocked over, and I swing it at him. The sound of his cheekbone crunching under the blow turns my stomach. Hamburg falls backward covering his face with both hands. The pounding on the door is getting heavier.

In a split second I glance over to see the door moving violently in its frame and I know I have to get out of here. I run straight for the surveillance room, weaving my way through debris.

Thank God there is another door inside. A red EXIT sign lies out ahead. I dash across the dimly-lit hallway where just above me a long, fluorescent light flickers making the stairway all the more ominous. Thrusting both hands on the elongated door handle, I give it one hard push and the door opens up fully into a back alley. A man in a suit is sitting on the hood of a car smoking a cigarette when I run out into the open. I stop cold in my tracks. He looks at me.

I look at him. He notices the blood on my hands and then glances at the door and then back at me. I thank the man with my eyes and run around the dumpster, down the alley and away from the restaurant. I stay out of the open, running behind buildings in the cover of darkness, as much as my high-heeled shoes allow me.

When I feel far enough away for time to stop, I hide behind another dumpster and step out of the shoes. I take off my blonde wig, chucking it inside the dumpster. I feel sick. Oh God, I feel sick… I fall against the brick wall behind me, arching my back and planting my hands against my knees. I vomit violently onto the pavement, my body rigid, my esophagus burning. I get a few suspicious stares as I walk briskly through the front lobby, but I try to ignore them and hope no one calls the police.

Instead of further risking being seen by someone else, I take the stairs up to the eighth floor. I lean against the wall and catch my breath, both legs trembling uncontrollably. I no longer have my purse. My room keys. My cell phone. My gun.

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My knife. Are you in there? No answer. Ready to give up, I drop my shoes on the floor and brace both hands against the wall, my head falling forward between my shoulders. I look up to see her standing there. Not stopping long enough to question the strange look on her face, I push my way inside the room just to get out of the open. Eric is sitting in the chair by the window. I notice his hair is slightly disheveled.

I just stabbed a man in the throat and tried to kill another. I was almost raped. I just ran for my life through the back streets of Los Angeles from men with guns chasing after me. Nothing they could ever do could top that. Her eyes are wide and filled with concern. Eric gets up quickly from the chair. I feel like a deer in headlights, but my expression remains solid and unemotional, maybe a little confused.

I pull away from her and go to take my hair down from the wig cap, making my way into the bathroom. Eric steps into the bathroom behind me. He knows I saw it. I push my way past Eric and walk back into the room. Dahlia is looking right at me, shame and regret consuming her features. Eric looks flustered. He raises a hand to the back of his head and runs his fingers through his hair.

A huge part of me feels good about the truth, not for vengeance sake, but because I needed to get it off my chest.

Reviving Izabel (In the Company of Killers, #2)

But I admit, after finding out that the two of them have been fucking each other behind my back, a small part of me is happy to offend him just the same. I guess vengeance always finds a way, even if only in the smallest of gestures. No objections here. I have to go. After a few seconds of silence I get impatient and give her that yeah-out-with-it look. The normal lifestyle. I have more serious things to worry about than this. I sigh heavily, annoyed with their confused half-questions. Reluctantly, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls it out.

I take it from his hand and walk right out the door and head to the room next door. Because really it is stupid to me. Geez, do you have any idea how that sounds? No head-games. Tell Dahlia the same. In fact, I want you both to go out for the night. Finally, I open the door and step out into the hallway. We look at each other for a short moment and nothing else is said between us.

When I close myself off inside the room, the only thing I can manage to do is fall over onto the bed. The exhaustion and pain and shock of everything that has happened tonight catches up to me as soon as that door closes, rushing over and through me like a wave.

I fall hard against the mattress on my back. I stare up at the dark ceiling until it blinks out and I drift quickly off to sleep. I rise up from the bed like a catapult. I must still be dreaming. We run down the hall and another man rounds the corner with a gun in-hand. Victor raises his suppressed 9MM and drops him in the center of the hall before the man can get a shot off. He pulls me past the body, his strong fingers digging into my hand as we rush toward the stairwell.

He swings the door open, pushes me in front of him and we hurry down the concrete stairs. One floor. My legs are killing me. Finally on the fifth floor, Victor pulls me out into another hall and toward a back elevator.

When the elevator doors close and we are the only two inside, I finally get a chance to speak. My eyes start to burn with tears. I force them back. His tongue tangles with my own, his mouth stealing my breath in a passionate kiss that is what ultimately makes my knees buckle.

All of the strength I had been using to keep my body upright before vanishes when his lips touch me. He kisses me hungrily, angrily, and I wilt into his arms. Then he pulls away, his strong hands wrapped around my biceps as he keeps me pushed against the elevator wall. We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, our eyes locked in some kind of deep contemplation, our lips inches apart. All I want to do is taste them again. He shakes me. We weave our way through a large storage room with boxes piled high against the walls and then down a long, dark hallway that leads into an underground parking garage.

Two beeps echo through the space and the headlights on the car flash as we approach, illuminating the concrete wall in front of it. Seconds later, Victor is driving casually through the parking garage and out onto the street. He turns right at the light and the car picks up speed as we get on the freeway.

I screwed up. I screwed up bad. Victor glances over at me briefly.

I followed one of them to the room you were hiding in, let him unlock it and then I made my move. And the room numbers were written on the little paper sleeves the keys had been tucked into when the front desk clerk presented them to me. My room keys were in it. I left them bread crumbs!

What in the hell was I thinking?! He pauses and glances at me. He sighs. But it would probably be the wise thing to do. Despite his lack of emotions though, I know he missed me, too.

That kiss in the elevator said things that words never could. Victor takes an exit and pulls the car underneath an overpass bridge.She needs to stop them the only way she knows how. The smell of bacon is what wakes me. Eric reaches out and curls his fingers around my wrist.

He glances up at the area he came from and I notice a tiny black device hidden inside his left ear.

I followed one of them to the room you were hiding in, let him unlock it and then I made my move. Sarai viveu sob cativeiro de um traficante de drog With the blade against his throat a vociferous pounding on the door startles me.

Eric is great in bed.

CASSIE from Denver
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