By Michael C. White
A breathtaking story of affection, loyalty, and intrigue set within the early days of worldwide warfare II from the acclaimed writer of Soul Catcher
World warfare II turns out misplaced for the beleaguered Soviets as they try to carry again the emerging German tide at Sevastopol. yet a fearless woman sniper evokes desire in the course of her nation's darkest hour. note of the extreme Soviet heroine, Tat'yana Levchenko, reaches American First girl Eleanor Roosevelt, who invitations the gorgeous murderer to journey the U.S. together with her. For the Russians, Tat'yana's stopover at is a chance to achieve aid and helpful U.S. intelligence. yet Tat'yana is aware she is a pawn in a dangerous online game of treachery and deceit, pressured to query the motivations of everybody round her . . . even the speeding and sympathetic American captain assigned as her translator. after which, as by surprise as she rose to foreign reputation, Tat'yana vanishes with no trace.
Her unusual disappearance will stay a secret for decades—until a decided journalist stumbles throughout Tat'yana's tale . . . and uncovers the outstanding truth.
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Extra info for Beautiful Assassin: A Novel
That was the key. You had to turn your hatred into ice. Still, I’d wanted this particular gitlerovets so badly. I burned to defeat him. Over the past week, he’d scored some two dozen kills against my comrades—dispatching machine gunners, a female medic, a mortar team, two officers, a cook, a radioman, even several wounded soldiers being evacuated to a field hospital. The Red Cross sign meant nothing to him. He killed without discriminating, as one would crush ants beneath his boot heel; he seemed almost to take a capricious delight in his selection of targets, not out of military necessity, but like some arrogant god striking down whom he wished simply to show that he could.
From the vantage point of the tree, I felt I’d have the upper hand. It looked right down the valley, on the German lines below. Wherever he would take up today, as soon as he fired, I would have him in my grasp. I would kill him. But I should’ve known he’d counter my move, and now he was the one with the advantage. Wherever he was. It was early, but already the sun exploded into my hiding spot. What had seemed before dawn to be the perfect position, now appeared for what it was: a trap. Too many leaves had fallen, making the upper branches of the tree resemble the head of an old man going bald.
Shoot and move, that was how we were taught. But now it was too late to move. I’d been discovered, my position known by my foe. So I did the only thing I could—I adjusted my feet on the branch below me, shifted my weight a bit, and accepted whatever slight protection the tree’s narrow trunk offered. Save for the raspy cawing of a lone crow somewhere in the distance, it was quiet for a long while. Then I heard Zoya calling me. “Sergeant,” she whispered hoarsely. Zoya had hidden in the foxhole over at the cemetery’s edge, behind a hedgerow.