Nina Pryce and her husband, Phil Broker, couldn't have more opposite views of the military. Broker's loyalty to the men he served with in Vietnam is matched only by his certainty that they shouldn't have been there in the first place. Nina is a new breed, a decorated and ambitious vet of the first Gulf War.
Incommunicado for months as part of a top-secret Delta anti-terrorist operation, Nina suddenly emerges in a town in the heart of the old Minuteman II missile belt. When Broker arrives, he immediately discovers that the legacy of those warheads still casts a sinister shadow across the desolate north border country, in the person of a damaged psychopath.
Broker discovers he's been drawn into an elaborate con within a con and made an unwitting participant in a black-bag anti-terrorist detail. But his anger toward Nina for involving him and putting their daughter at risk quickly fades as a larger, more deadly reality becomes evident. With time running out, husband and wife unite with local North Dakota law enforcement to form a last line of defense against a brilliantly simple act of espionage with potentially catastrophic consequences.
Performed by Kevin Conway
|Edition description:||Abridged, 5 CDs, 6 hours|
|Product dimensions:||5.16(w) x 5.84(h) x 0.81(d)|
About the Author
Chuck Logan is the author of eight novels, including After the Rain, Vapor Trail, Absolute Zero, and The Big Law. He is a veteran of the Vietnam War who lives in Stillwater, Minnesota, with his wife and daughter.
Kevin Conway has starred on stage in The Elephant Man and Other People's Money and in such films as Gettysburg, The Confession, and Ramblin' Rose.
Read an Excerpt
After the Rain
The young brown guy, the slightly older black guy, and the old white guy had been in the room for thirty minutes and now the sweat was running down their arms. They didn't need to be reminded, but the black guy went and said it anyway.
"Damn, it's hot."
"It ain't so hot," the old white guy said. "Panama was hot. Somalia was hotter. Kuwait was really hot, but that was a dry heat. Now, you take your triple-canopy jungle in Laos ... "
"Don't start," the black guy said.
The temperature in the windowless room had topped ninety degrees at ten A.M., and that was half an hour ago. The room was in a suite of unused offices in an almost vacant strip mall off Highway 12 on the western edge of the Detroit metro area. The building was deserted except for a one-room telemarketing sweatshop at the other end.
The white guy was closer to sixty than to fifty, and his shaggy white-blond hair was shot with gray, and he'd given up trying to hide the bald spot on top. Once he'd been cinched down tight all over. Now his skin and muscles were starting to look like they were a size too large. He shook his head, toed the dirty carpeting, and laughed.
"Figures. No A/C. No nothing. Lookit this place. Some op. Shows how much we rate. Where are we? Inkster? What kind of name is that?"
"Yeah, yeah," said the black guy, who was in his late twenties. Unlike his older partner, he enjoyed looking in the mirror every morning. His skin fit him nice and tight.
They wore Nikes and faded jeans and oversized polo shirts that did not entirely conceal the holstered Berettas, the pagers, the plastic hand ties and cell phones hanging from their belts. They were obviously exhausted. They had not shaved in the last twenty-four hours.
They were not cops.
Nobody would admit who or what they were now. Only what they'd been. The old one was former Delta, former SF. The young one had also been with Special Forces. They'd been through the looking glass and now they carried nothing in their wallets or on their gear that could be traced back to the military. They were simply known by their mission name: Northern Route.
They were volunteers, totally on their own.
An hour ago they snatched a Saudi Arabian businessman off a busy street, stuffed him in a Chevy van, and brought him to this crummy little room from which the air conditioning, the desks, and the chairs had been removed. There was a touch of method in the selection of this room: the sensation of slow suffocation as an interrogation tool. For now the prisoner remained blindfolded. A little later they would take the blindfold off.
So it was just the three of them, and a lot of sweat, and the worn gray carpet, the bare walls, and the gray ceiling tiles crowded overhead with their grids of monotonous dots. And now the walls, carpet, and ceiling started closing in to form a solid block of heat.
The old guy wiped sweat from his forehead and said, "The right way to do this is we should be sitting on a runway. Three hundred thousand Arab types down the road in Dearborn for these wrongos to hide out with. And there's not a single military base in this whole town. That's real smart."
"Hollywood, man -- just cool it. It's only half an hour. They're on the way in from Willow Run to pick him up." On him, the black guy nodded at the third man in the room.
"What would be nice, Bugs, is for Omar here to tell us something."
Bugs shook his head. "Never happen. We can't make deals, that's for the suits. But my guess is this guy's hardcore Qaeda. No way he's gonna talk to anybody. Nah, I think he's gonna sit out the war on the beach in Cuba."
Hollywood nodded. "You hear that, Omar? Camp Delta. Nice eight-by-eight chain-link dog kennel. Got your little rug and your prayer arrow scribed on the concrete floor."
The third man in the room showed lots of brown skin, as he'd been stripped down to his jockey shorts. He sat stiffly on a metal folding chair, his hands bound tightly behind his back in plastic cuffs. In contrast to his scruffy captors he was clean-shaven, his thick dark hair was styled, his fingernails and toenails looked recently manicured. He smelled of cologne rather than sweat and fatigue. In further contrast, a comfortable two inches of belly flab drooped over his waistband. According to the word, he was the renegade nephew of a Saudi prince, one of the world's ultimate rich kids.
But right now he was seriously separated from his Rolex and his Mercedes, and he had a band of duct tape wrapped around his head, covering his eyes. The intell on him suggested he was a dilettante slumming in jihad, that he was soft, that he would crack. So far, the intell was wrong.
Hollywood scrubbed at the stubble on his chin with his knuckles, then he grimaced at the prisoner. He crossed the room in three swift strides, grabbed a handful of the prisoner's sleek black hair, yanked him to his feet, and shouted, "We know you're getting set to move something. So what is it, where is it, and who's doing it?"
The prisoner hunched his shoulders and drew his chin into his chest.
Hollywood's frustration blew on through to outright anger. He seized the prisoner with both hands and roughly spun him in a circle. "So which way's Mecca, Omar? Take a fuckin' guess!"
"Hey, hey, knock it off," Bugs said, moving in quick. Their good cop/bad cop choreography was getting out of hand. It was the heat.
"Yeah, right." Hollywood rammed the staggering prisoner's head against the wall ...After the Rain. Copyright © by Chuck Logan. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Broadway trained actor Kevin Conway gives a first rate reading to the latest thriller by Chuck Logan. This is the third Logan tale featuring Vietnam vet Phil Broker, and Conway performs with gusto. They're quite a pair - Broker and his estranged wife, Nina. He's fiercely devoted to the men with whom he served in Vietnam, and equally fierce in his belief that none of them should have been there in the first place. Nina, a Gulf War vet has her sights set on greater things to come. To this end she's spent quantity time undercover as part of an anti-terrorist mission. The plot grows trickier as the setting turns to North Dakota where Nina draws Broker into a scheme, which is not only perilous for him but also places their daughter at risk. However, there's no time for him to extricate himself or lash out at Nina as soon the two must join forces to prevent an act which would have cataclysmic results for the innocent. One more gripping story from the multi-talented Logan.
I bought one of the Phil Broker books by Chuck Logan and was hooked. I immediately went to B&N and order the other five books in the series. I have read them all and will read them again.
Evidence surfaces that bombs have been smuggled from Canada to the heart of Minutemen Country Langdon, North Dakota. Not trusting the Headquarters Pogues after 9/11, Army Major Nina Pryce, ex-Special Forces Colonel Holland Wood and Jane Singer go undercover concentrating on the activities of liquor smuggler Ace Shuster. Though married to Nam veteran and retired cop Phil Broker, Nina is to seduce the truth out of their quarry....................... Phil arrives from Devil Rock, Minnesota to take their seven year old daughter Kit, used as part of the cover, out of danger. However, when he sees the Cold War dinosaurs and proof of the deadly intent of American terrorists, he concludes that his anger at his wife for jeopardizing their daughter is fruitless. If the terrorists can pull off their objective, Armageddon could arrive in the American Heartland unless Phil and Nina can stop them.......................... This exhilarating post 9/11 thriller will hook readers from the beginning and never let up until the climax. The story line makes the threat of terrorism so real that All the President¿s Men and woman will believe this could happen here. The solid cast, including the lead protagonists, eccentric local smugglers, a psycho, and a lesbian warrior who kicks butt, add to that genuine feeling that a catastrophe could occur. Readers will get so involved in the terse plot; they will open umbrellas to keep the deluge that drenches the heroes from soaking them as Chuck Logan provides another terrific stormy tale................... Harriet Klausner