Earl Drake 1-4 by Dan J. Marlowe

"Two guys with guts and a go-to-hell-with-you-Jack regard for consequences have about three chances in ten of pulling off a big, well-planned smash-and-grab. If one of them can shoot like me... the odds are a damn sight better."

In the course of his line of business, the man who calls himself Roy Martin has robbed a bank in Phoenix, killed three men, and caught a bullet in his arm. Safety--and one half of $178,000--awaits him on the other side of the country. All that separates "Martin" from his destination are two thousand treacherous miles and three lethal temptations: to trust the wrong friend, to love the right woman, and to start believing that a man like himself can ever be safe.

The Name of the Game is Death combines a narrative as taut as a hangman's rope with chillingly authentic insights into the psychology of casual murder.



I has a new face, a new name, and I had buried the past...



Five strangers ...Two million bucks ...One lusty redhead ...And no holds barred.Staying out of trouble might be relaxing for some guys. But too much peace and quite make me very nervous.Hazel-the luscious lady who keeps me busy and happy during long winter evenings-was trying to sell me her retirement plan.I was tempted.But then suddenly an old pen pal turned up with a couple of friends and a scheme that started my motors going full blast.A two million dollar heist. Cash. Already out of the bank and stashed in a nice, respectable museum-in Cuba.They needed me to help them get it back to the States. That should have tipped me. A hijacker trying to get back from Cuba?I shoulda stood in bed. With Hazel



I had lived so long on the wrong side Of. the law I felt
out of place as a special undercover agent for Uncle Sam. But I had no choice.
One of the top brass in U.S. Intelligence had my number. So we made a deal-his
silence for my services in tracking down and infiltrating a gang of Mid-East
terrorists. Besides, I had a personal interest in this job. They had stolen
$75,000 from me.
So there I was-Earl Drake, bank robber and safecracker,
playing on the side of the angels to outwit a bunch of fanatic Turks who were
using their embassy for cover.
I started with a Turkish delight. Talia. I conned her
into leading me from the bedroom to their inner sanctum. I wished I
hadn't.
One look at the cold, bulbous eyes in the mound of flesh
seated on the cushioned sofa before me told me I had stepped in the path of a
rattlesnake. And if I couldn't charm it, I was a dead Drake.

**Requested by jdeebad94