The ny Public Library. A silent sanctuary of information; a 100-year-old labyrinth of towering bookcases, slim aisles and lengthy marble hallways. For health professional Stephen Swain and his daughter, Holly, it's the web site of a nightmare. simply because for one evening this ancient development is to be the venue for a competition. a competition during which Swain is to compete - even if he likes it or not.

The ideas are uncomplicated: Seven contestants will input, just one will depart.

With his daughter in his hands, Stephen Swain is plunged right into a terrifying struggle for survival. The stakes are excessive, the chances brutal. He can decide to run, to conceal or to struggle - but when he desires to reside, he has to win. For during this contest, until you allow because the victor, you don't depart at all.

Readers worldwide were cheering approximately Matthew Reilly’s lightning speedy event thrillers. Contest, the action-packed extravaganza that introduced this overseas bestselling profession, is classic Reilly at his explosive best.

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Like anything sliding alongside the dusty flooring of Sub-Level . Hawkins drew his gun and listened back. It used to be certainly coming from the appropriate, from someplace in the maze of bookshelves round him. He swallowed. There’s anyone in the following. He grabbed the radio on his belt. ‘Parker! ’ he hissed. ‘Parker! Do you replica? ’ No resolution. Jesus. ‘Parker, the place are you? ’ Hawkins switched off the radio and became to appear again on the receding rows of bookshelves prior to him. He pursed his lips for a second. Then he lifted his gun and ventured out into the maze. Gun in hand, Hawkins quietly zig-zagged his method among the bookshelves, relocating fast and simply, looking for the resource of the sound. He got here to a halt on the base of a bookcase jam-packed with dusty hardcovers. Held his breath for a second. Waited . . . There. His eyes snapped left. There it used to be back. The sweeping sound. It was once getting louder—he needs to be getting nearer. Hawkins darted left, then correct, then left again—moving easily out and in of the aisles, preventing each few metres on the flat finish of a bookcase. It was once disorienting, he suggestion. each aisle appeared just like the only sooner than it. He stopped back. Listened. back, he heard the gentle brushing sound. Like a brush on a dusty wood flooring. basically louder now. shut. Very, very shut. Hawkins moved quickly on alongside a passageway that reduce around the lengthy vertical aisles of the Stack till unexpectedly he used to be faced by means of a wall of bookshelves—a reliable wall of bookshelves that appeared to stretch away into darkness in either instructions. A wall? Hawkins inspiration. He has to be on the fringe of the floor—at one of many lengthy aspects of the big rectangle. The sound got here back. in basic terms this time, it got here from . . . at the back of him. Hawkins spun, raised his gun. What the hell—? Had it grew to become? carefully, he edged his means down the alleyway of books. The aisle closed in round him. the closest cross-passageway branched away to his right—there used to be not anything however the unbroken wall of bookshelves to his left—about twenty toes away. It used to be cloaked in shadow. Hawkins advanced slowly. The passageway got here totally into view. It used to be assorted. It wasn’t a T-junction, just like the final one. extra like an L-shape. Hawkins frowned, after which he realised. It was once a corner—the very nook of the ground. He hadn’t realised that he’d come this faraway from the stairwell on the centre. Listening. not anything. He got here to the L-junction and listened back. there has been no sound. no matter what it used to be, it was once long past now. after which Hawkins started to imagine. He’d the sound, the resource of which had most likely been ignorant of his presence. yet its previous couple of hobbies have been strange. It used to be as if whoever it was once had misplaced course and had begun circling . . . Circling, Hawkins suggestion. No-one may consciously pass in a circle, could they, until they have been misplaced or . . . or until they knew a person was once following them. Hawkins’ blood went thoroughly chilly. Whoever it used to be, it wasn’t simply circling. It used to be doubling again. It knew he used to be right here. Hawkins spun to stand the lengthy aisle at the back of him, jamming his again into the nook shelving.

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