Ryder: Bird of Prey: An Ayesha Ryder Novel

by Nick Pengelley

Overview

Fans of Steve Berry and James Rollins will devour Ryder: Bird of Prey, the latest white-knuckle thriller featuring Palestinian-born, British-educated adventurer Ayesha Ryder. She’s one of fiction’s boldest heroines—and now she’s rewriting royal history.
 
According to the last words of a dying man, the Maltese Falcon was no mere legend: The fabulously jeweled golden bird really existed—still exists, in fact. And Ayesha Ryder is hot on its trail. Rumor says the Falcon conceals clues to the burial place of Harold II, the conquered Anglo-Saxon King of England—and to an artifact of astonishing significance that few besides Ryder would understand.
 
Hunted by Scotland Yard, MI5, and those who seek the Falcon to break up the United Kingdom, Ryder joins forces with Joram Tate, a mysterious librarian with a reputation for turning up things that don’t want to be found. Soon Ryder and her handsome, erudite new companion are venturing through lost tombs and ancient abbeys, following a trail left ages ago by the Knights Templar.
 
Ryder knows she’s close to a game-changing secret, hidden for a thousand years beneath an English castle. But with ruthless killers waiting in the wings, Ryder must go medieval—to defend her life, her country, and the world as we know it.
 
Praise for Ryder
 
“[Nick] Pengelley sets an unconventional story loose on and below the streets of London. With his unusual heroine, the author rejects the clichés of action-adventure thrillers and delivers a surprisingly entertaining read.”—Library Journal (starred review)
 
“An exciting thriller with characters that you can’t help but like . . . a thrill-a-minute story . . . well worth reading . . . Pengelley has a hit with the character of Ayesha Ryder.”—Fresh Fiction

“This fast-paced crime/political thriller not only is timely for today’s Israeli-Palestinian conflicts, but it delves into historical events that helped shape the way the region’s political climate has evolved. . . . Get ready for an edge-of-your-seat ride featuring a kick-butt heroine bent on justice . . . I had a blast reading Ryder.”—Popcorn Reads
 
“An Indiana Jones–type adventure . . . Ryder has an Angelina Jolie–esque quality about her. . . . She is strong, both mentally and physically, and she was an amazing character to read. . . . [Ryder is] a literary roller-coaster ride I truly appreciated!”—Read-Love-Blog

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780553393859
Publisher:	Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:	05/05/2015
Series:	Ayesha Ryder , #3
Sold by:	Random House
Format:	eBook
Pages:	238
File size:	5 MB

About the Author

Nick Pengelley is the author of the political thrillers Ryder, Ryder: American Treasure, and Ryder: Bird of Prey. Australian by birth, he’s had careers in Australia, Canada, and the United Kingdom as a law professor, legal consultant, and analyst on Middle East politics, which is his passion. Pengelley lives in Toronto with his family.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

“The Israelis! They’ve taken Omar!”

Ayesha dropped the yellowed paperback she’d been reading. She stared at the man who’d burst through the open front door of her family’s apartment. Normally fastidious in matters of toilette, Yasser Mahmoud was a wreck. His bare feet protruded from filthy jeans. A once-white T-shirt was torn and stained. His hair was wild and his face unshaved.

Ghayda, Ayesha’s little sister, burst into tears. Omar, Mahmoud’s ten-year-old son, was her best friend. Ayesha had often teased her about the relationship, but now her heart went out to the girl. She put her arm around her shoulders.

“What happened? Why did they take him?” Ayesha’s mother asked Mahmoud.

“Omar was throwing stones. Yesterday. At the army patrol. The Israelis came in the middle of the night. We were all asleep. They smashed the door in. Dragged Omar out of bed. He was in his pajamas! They handcuffed him. They took him away—” Mahmoud broke down, sobbing.

“What will they do to Omar, Ayesha?” Ghayda sniffed. “They won’t hurt him?”

“Of course not. He’ll be home soon. You’ll see.” Ayesha didn’t believe her own words. At the age of twelve, she’d seen too much.

Ayesha Ryder blinked and rubbed her eyes. She took a swift look around the Ship. She knew everyone by sight, so she knew Zilinsky hadn’t arrived yet. She nodded to a couple of the regulars who’d come in while she’d been lost in her past. They smiled, but made no move to approach her. She appreciated the way they gave her space; never pestered her; treated her as one of their own. They’d never give out any information about her. It was one reason she’d arranged to meet Zilinsky here.

Yasser Mahmoud and his little son Omar . . . It had been so long since she’d thought of them. It was soon after Omar’s arrest that Ayesha’s sister, Ghayda, had died in an Israeli air strike on Gaza—to take out a terrorist, a known bomb maker. Ghayda and five of her young friends had been waiting for a school bus to take them home, near the man’s supposed location. The Israelis hadn’t got the bomb maker, but the children were all killed.

It was the last time Ayesha had seen her mother . . . normal. Her mother had lost her reason after Ghayda’s death, telling people that her daughter hadn’t really been killed; assuming that she’d be coming home. Then her mother, too, had been murdered. Ayesha had never known who was responsible. Until a year ago. When Yael Strenger—spy, diplomat, and assassin—had taunted her that he was the one; that he’d killed her mother. Ayesha shot him dead. Instantly, in a fit of rage. It was a deed she regretted. She should have let him live—until she’d dragged the whole truth from him.

Ayesha stared at the bar, fighting the tide of memory that threatened to wash over her. Pat, the barman, looked up from pouring a pint and caught her eye. His broad grin brought her back from the brink. She smiled and raised her glass in salute. The ugly memories receded. Her mood changed; she felt almost happy. It had, she decided, been rather a good day. It had started when the British prime minister, Susannah Armstrong, had invited her to lunch at Chequers, the leader’s official country retreat, in Buckinghamshire, outside London. After lunch they’d walked in the gardens.

“What do you think?” The prime minister had gestured to a longbow, propped against a garden table. A quiver of arrows lay on the table next to it.

“It’s beautiful,” Ayesha told Susannah. “Yew?”

“Yes. Six foot and made from a single piece. It’s a replica of one they found on the Mary Rose.” The prime minister referred to the flagship of Henry VIII’s navy, sunk in the Solent in 1545. The recovery of a substantial part of the wreck in 1982 had cast new light on numerous aspects of Tudor life and society. Among thousands of other artifacts, hundreds of longbows had been recovered, providing accurate information as to their dimensions and draw weight—something only guessed at previously.

“Where did it come from?”

“A grateful constituent. A businessman from Nottingham who’s into Robin Hood.”

“I’d love to try it.”

“We all will. You, too, Bebe,” Susannah said to the other woman who’d made up their luncheon trio.
A target had been set up about sixty feet from the terrace; an easy distance. The light, on a perfect September day, was just right.

Susannah went first, having swept up her long dark hair into a bun. The prime minister gave up after less than a minute, red-faced with exertion. “Impossible!” she gasped. “You’d need to be a weight lifter to draw this bloody thing!”

“May I?” Bebe Daniels asked eagerly.

Susannah’s private secretary was slightly built, not much above medium height, with sallow skin, short-cropped black hair, brown eyes flecked with gray, and soigné good looks. Lesbian, or bisexual, Ayesha guessed, aware of her prime minister’s sexual orientation. She hoped Susannah was careful. Divorced and single she might be, but there was a fair percentage of the British public who wouldn’t understand, or forgive. Susannah had come perilously close to being outed early in the summer. That experience would have been enough for most people. The prime minister had a strong streak of recklessness, though. It was what made her so successful as a politician. It could also ruin her.

Bebe selected an arrow. Then she positioned herself and leaned her body into the bow.

Ayesha was surprised. The woman knew what she was doing—using the weight of her body to draw the bow, not relying on the strength of her arms and shoulders. This impression was confirmed moments later, when Bebe put the arrow into the dead center of the target.

“Well done, Bebe!” Susannah slapped her private secretary on the back. “Is there no end to your talents?” The prime minister winked at Ayesha. “Think you can match that?”

Ayesha accepted the longbow from a smirking Bebe Daniels, and a thirty-inch arrow made of ash with an iron arrowhead from Susannah. She faced the target, her body assuming the familiar stance as if twenty years had not passed since she’d last done so, when, as a teenage member of the Palestinian fedayeen, she’d reveled in her mastery of a weapon that men twice her size had struggled with. She leaned into the bow, feeling its weight, the tension. Perfect. She laid the arrow against the left side of the bow and spread her fingers in the basic Mediterranean draw: forefinger on the string above the arrow, middle and ring finger on the string below it.
She focused her gaze on the target, seeing the flight of the arrow in her mind’s eye. She drew back on the bow, let out her breath, and released the arrow in one fluid motion.

“Ohmigod!” Susannah clapped her hands. “I don’t believe it!”

“Incredible!” Bebe stared at the target. She rounded on Ayesha, her eyes wide. “I’ve never seen that done. I didn’t think it could be.”

Ayesha handed the longbow to Susannah. She walked to the target and retrieved her arrow from the center of the bull’s-eye. Then, stooping, she picked up the shattered pieces of Bebe’s arrow. Her own arrow had split it down the middle.

Ayesha smiled at the memory. The pub door opened and a man entered. Another regular. She checked the time, frowning. Zilinsky was late. He’d texted her when he arrived at St. Pancras International. That was nearly two hours ago. This time of night, with light traffic, he should have been here well before now. She hoped he hadn’t changed his mind. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had. She still didn’t know why he’d agreed to bring the Maltese Falcon to a London pub.