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Resurrecting Midnight Hardcover – August 25, 2009

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About the Author

ERIC JEROME DICKEY is the New York Times bestselling author of more than twenty novels, as well as a six-issue miniseries of graphic novels featuring Storm (X-Men) and the Black Panther. Originally from Memphis, Dickey now lives on the road and rests in whatever hotel will have him.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

on dangerous ground

And their war began.

The stretch limousine exploded, became a time bomb moving at eighty miles per hour.

I verified the detonation in my side-view mirror. Its beautiful fire lit up the express lane on a humid night, the deadly cacophony forty yards behind me on I-95. The energy from that blast rolled through me, rattled both sides of the interstate and adjacent roads like we were in a San Francisco earthquake. Brake lights came alive in an abrupt chorus. Behind me, beyond that fiery limousine, four lanes of interstate crowded with cars, trucks, and motorcycles screeched to a halt, too late for speed demons to swerve and avoid flying debris.

I kept going.

The target was dead. The impossible mission was completed in less than forty-eight hours.

The corrupt and elusive con man inside the limo had been living a life of caviar and champagne, bodyguards at his side, men who were paid well and trained to shoot to kill. He was a man who didn't hesitate to take his enemies to the swamps and feed them to the gators.

A grifter named Arizona had been one of his problems.

And the man named Hopkins had become one of hers.

All I knew was what she had told me. And that wasn't much. The less the better.

What mattered was that deadly situation had been rectified.

The remote trigger that had caused that blast was inside my gloved hand. I dropped it, pressed down on the throttle, hit the century mark, moved from right lane to left lane to right lane, threaded traffic like a needle, became a fast-­ moving shadow vanishing down I-95.

In this gritty world, people called me Gideon. A biblical name made famous by an adjudicator in the Book of Judges. That Gideon was also known as Jerub-Baal. Destroyer. Mighty Warrior. I was Gideon. Not sent by God. Employed by those who thought they were.

I was a hired gun paid to do what people wouldn't do for themselves.

This has been my vocation since I was seven years old. Since I aimed a gun at an angry man they called Midnight. I had killed that man before I had been given the truth about what he was.

Since that day, I'd been on the run, reared in brothels, lived in red light districts, had been taken into a world of retribution and learned more than two dozen ways to end a life, all for a price.

Using a block of C-4 and a remote control wasn't even high on the goddamn list.

Late evening, the darkness of my bike and clothing mixed with the cruelty in the night.

I accelerated and felt like I was moving faster than the speed of sound, then slowed when I caught up and mixed with the next wave of fast-moving traffic on I-95, became a law-abiding commuter as I signaled and faded onto the next exit, took the streets, rode toward the causeways, breezed through city traffic, engine rumbling, balmy night air on my skin. Gun inside my messenger bag. Riding a Streetfighter. Trellis frame. Huge fork clamps. Solid performance. I sped toward the area called Aventura, hurried to meet my sponsor.

The international grifter named Arizona had arrived in the U.S. and was somewhere down here in Florida. The Hopkins job was done, but now I needed her assistance, had to work out my own problems. Problems that could have me sleeping six feet under.

Four days ago, after vanishing for almost a year, Arizona had resurfaced and sent a message. A job offer. The message had been a cryptic text, had come from an untraceable phone and was delivered to a temporary account on Gmail, one of a dozen we had set up for communicating. That particular account hadn't been used since I'd seen her in London. I'd gone to the Apple store in Minnesota's Mall of America, the country's largest retail and entertainment complex. If the IP addresses were traced, it would lead to that store. I blended with the Mac heads wore a baseball cap and shades, my face always down and away from the cameras.

I logged on to a laptop and checked my messages.

That con woman had sent me an encrypted message that gave me a location on the edges of Miami. Encryptions. Countersurveillance. Rendezvous points. Wire transfers.

It was the language and lifestyle of killers and cons.

Within the next few hours, I was on a flight heading to the land of gators.

When I had landed in Fort Lauderdale, Arizona had arranged what I needed. Ducati Streetfighter, black motorcycle helmet, racing gloves. All that and a messenger bag that was weighed down by a nine, two extra clips, a remote, and something that would blow my target's mind.

I took a deep breath, pulled up my face shield, and cruised.

Starbucks was on the corner of Biscayne Boulevard and Concourse Circle Drive. Inside a plaza dotted with palm trees and filled with BMWs, Hummers, Bentleys, and Benzes. This section of South Miami looked like a dealership for new and preowned luxury cars.

The competition of capitalism continued despite the economic downturn.

I circled the well-lit strip mall twice before I paused on that prime chunk of real estate.

It was a parking lot that covered all the blood that had soaked into the soil. Over a century ago, the Seminoles and the U.S. fought over this land, a bloody war that might have been the deadliest and costliest of the Indian wars, from the point of view of the U.S. of A.

The sound of gunfire and cannon booms had been replaced with the hum of cappuccino machines and the purr of extravagant automobiles. The scent of war was now the aroma of the perfect latte.

As soon as I headed inside, my cellular vibrated. It was a text message: FUNDS TRANSFERRED.

I deleted that message and moved on, looked out at a warm night that thieving man thought he would live to see. But someone with anger in their heart and money in their pockets had other plans.

Inside was like Antarctica, the AC blowing on high. The noise level was in the red, a dozen multilingual conversations being trapped by glass and walls. Cubans had conversations about one Castro in their homeland being replaced by another Castro, argued that the free health care and free education wasn't enough to make them remain a Fidelista and things needed to change in a land where Cubans couldn't own cell phones legally and computers were prohibited; the Cubans sipped five-dollar coffees and argued over the need to defender el socialismo. Next to them, groups of elderly Jewish men discussed a meeting for Holocaust survivors. Add to that chatter the nonstop whirr of the machines making lattes and cappuccinos, the din of jazz being piped in, people yapping on cellular phones, others tapping on laptops, listening to music or videos sans headphones.

Hairs stood up on my neck. Like in London. It felt like I was being watched.

I went into the bathroom, had to. Outside I was cool. But anxiety clung to me, shook me like a winter's chill. For a moment it felt like I was about to lose control. Another daymare. I'd had a few since Antigua. Images that attacked me while I was wide awake. I saw the dead. Faces I'd been paid to put in the ground. And I saw the faces of those who had tried to do the same to me. Standing behind them all, in the shadows, his face unclear but his silhouette unforgettable, was the man I had killed when I was seven. He was nothing more than a shadow.

The mercenary they called Midnight. The first man I had killed. My father.

My life was a haunted house filled with many ghosts.

Somebody tapped on the door and I pulled the nine-millimeter out of my backpack. I called out that the bathroom was occupied. Paused. Whoever was out there walked away. The police wouldn't leave. Neither would the FBI. Both would announce they had come for me.

I took out my iPhone. Dialed a number in Powder Springs.

I wanted to check up on Catherine and the boys, Steven and Robert. Catherine was the woman who had raised me. Robert's mother had been killed because of my vocation. Steven was the boy Catherine called her son. But I knew that was a lie. Everything had been a lie.

No one answered, but the answering machine kicked on.

I didn't leave a message. I blocked my number and never left messages, not there.

I splashed water on my face, wiped my skin down with a paper towel, and went outside.

The hunter had been hunted before, more than once.

I spied the room. Cubans sipping cappuccino. Jewish women doing the same. A teenaged guy wearing Dockers and black sandals was eyeing the olive complexion of a blond woman seated at the next table, her pink button-down shirt and ripped jeans not enough to mask a body that could lure most men straight to the gates of Hell.

I sat at a back table, my back to the wall. Darkness masked what had been blue skies and puffy white clouds. Nighttime humidity rose as I waited, my anxiety not betraying me.

A Maserati whipped up under the lights, pulled into the lot, and found an open space between my Streetfighter and a 7-series BMW. The Gran Turismo was beautiful. Gray coupe, red leather seats. It was her. That was her mode. Had been her style since she was coming up as a grifter in North Hollywood, back when she was a neophyte in the con game. She'd come up from sleeping on the streets to sleeping in penthouses. Had moved from Hyundai to Maserati.

Every time I read about a major scam, it felt like it was her doing. Maybe I was just hoping it was her criminal mind in full swing. I kept telling myself that it didn't matter, but no matter where I was in the world, no matter what job I was on, no matter whose bed I was in, no matter who was in my bed, when all was said and done, my mind always went back to her.

I needed her for her connections to the conniving world of high-tech cons and criminals.

Someone out there knew about me, some unseen foe existed, someone who had tracked my movements around the world, someone who had sold my information to a problem I'd had in Detroit, and that information was then passed on to other killers.

Those killers were dead, but the information was alive.

Arizona eased out of her Maserati Granturismo and I couldn't stop my schoolboy smile.

A part of me I couldn't control would always want her.

Arizona's back was to me at first, her right hand holding her cellular to her ear. Her hair was long and dyed light brown with highlights, hung over her shoulders. She glanced toward the boulevard and I saw she had on dark shades with wide lenses, shades that matched the dark brown blouse she wore, a blouse that probably had hints of her lacy bra showing hints of her soft breasts.

I spied out at the parking lot, made sure she wasn't trailed. Force of habit. Then I checked the room again. The teenaged guy wearing Dockers had made contact with the pretty blond woman in the pink button-down shirt and ripped jeans. He had scooted his chair closer to her table, smiled at her as she blushed at him.

Arizona kept her eyes on the boulevard.

She had on four-inch heels made by a designer who put red soles on all of his shoes. One glance at the Maserati and Louboutins and you'd think she had matriculated from one of the best schools in the country, maybe the prestigious Miss Porter's up in Connecticut.

Arizona glanced back toward the coffeehouse, a serious look on her Filipina flesh, a walking enigma who could break a man's heart or empty every dime he had in his portfolio. She looked extraordinary, possessed an otherworldly beauty. No one would know she was the queen of scams. Just looked like a woman men would want to marry and put in a case with the rest of their trophies.

I licked my lips, could never forget the five senses of her. I'd stop the world from spinning if she asked me to. I'd betray God the way Judas Iscariot betrayed His son.

Arizona kept her cellular up to her face. A moment later, mine rang. Area code 809. Good old 809 had been disgraced, used in many Caribbean area codes scams.

I answered, my voice heavy and serious. "I'm inside."

Arizona closed her cellular.

It had been over a year since I'd seen her.

A lot had happened since then.

She reached inside the car and took out a black briefcase, added that to the purse she was carrying. She gripped the briefcase by its handle, turned around, and what I saw her carrying made me sit up straight.

My heart stopped beating. Then my heart restarted, began beating as fast as it could.

Between Arizona's breasts and waist, there was roundness underneath her blouse.

A roundness that told me she was at least in her second trimester.


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Product Details

  • Hardcover: 464 pages
  • Publisher: Dutton Adult; First Edition edition (August 25, 2009)
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 0525950575
  • ISBN-13: 978-0525950578
  • Product Dimensions: 6.5 x 1.5 x 9.2 inches
  • Shipping Weight: 1.6 pounds
  • Average Customer Review: 4.6 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (165 customer reviews)
  • Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #265,547 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)

More About the Author

Eric Jerome Dickey is the author of twelve novels, including the bestsellers Genevieve, Drive Me Crazy, Naughty or Nice, The Other Woman, and Thieves' Paradise. Dickey writes full time and is developing a six-issue mini-series of comic books for Marvel Enterprises featuring Storm (X-Men) and the Black Panther.

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

59 of 60 people found the following review helpful By Jason Frost VINE VOICE on August 31, 2009
Format: Hardcover
Wow. And that my friends, is probably the understatement of the year. This is easily the best and purest action packed book in this insane series. The naming of this book is pure genius, almost like a "hidden in plain sight" type of thing. Like most of EJD's books this one starts out with a bang. Actually more like an explosion, and that carnage of metal and flesh sets the tone for the rest of this book. Gideon is back and he has the devil on his tail and the devil's wife in his heart.

Guys, when I say this book is pure action I really do mean it. I hate to make the comparison but, a day in the life of Gideon makes a day in the life of James Bond seem like a day in the life of K-Fed! Eric pens a story so polished, so refined that it's impossible not to get drawn in. Gideon is the main course, but the main course in and of itself is nothing. You need side dishes. Side dishes that bring OUT the main course, and make this meal perfect enough to be your last meal. The "side dishes" in this book/series would be Scamz, Arizona, Hawks, Konstantin, Catherine, and my favorite Alvin White. They are to Gideon what hot sauce is to fried gizzards.

One thing that I also like about EJD's writing is that he formulates the enemies as well as the main characters. They aren't one-dimensional nobodies. No, no, no, no, no. They are a mattress of unclean, shameless, resolute violence wrapped in sheet of unapologetic sexuality. In this book we follow Gideon as he dispenses his very bloody, very painful version of Judge Hatchett. Unfortunately, over the years he's made a lot of very powerful enemies and they are chasing him; bent on giving him back some of that blood and pain. However, Gideon is harder to kill than a vampire on "E" but the chase is oh so satisfying!
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27 of 28 people found the following review helpful By Nix on August 26, 2009
Format: Hardcover
OMG!!! I love Gideon! Is it okay for me to love a fictional character? From reading Sleeping with Stranger & Waking with Enemies, I knew that that Gideon was off the chain and that Dickey's writing had gone to another level.

Originally, he explored the con man world with Thieves Paradise, but with the Gideon chronicles, he has taken his action writing to almost a movie level. As you read about the car chases, shoot outs and fights, you feel like you are there. He takes you places in Argentina that the average person would never see, but you feel like you've seen it all. I'm still trying to figure out why none of his books haven't become movies!

Resurrecting Midnight is a great book. Make you that you read Sleeping with Strangers, Waking with Enemies and Revenge before Dying before you read this one, but all four books will keep you on the edge of your seat!
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20 of 20 people found the following review helpful By Gideon's Lover on August 27, 2009
Format: Hardcover Verified Purchase
OMG!!!! I don't even know where to begin. Gideon is the new James Bond/Jason Bourne with a whole hella LOT more sex appeal. I agree with the previous poster. I am in love with Gideon. I just want to bring him home and rescue him from all the violence, lies, destruction and cheats he has in his life. EJD has elevated his writing to a level that leaves me spellbound. I also agree that this series needs to be a movie. I hope he's getting some offers....EJD send the book to NEways needless to say Gideon is back in all his sexy hitman glory and that wench Arizona is back too. I hope he gets over his infatuation with her.....I agree with Hawks..."she's just a woman." I'm glad to see the boxer and Constantine from D4R back, but I'd really like to have a Lola/Miss Jones reunion:-).
Please run don't walk to get this book.
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5 of 5 people found the following review helpful By Bookreporter on November 9, 2009
Format: Hardcover
It is difficult to categorize Eric Jerome Dickey's work. His early titles dealt almost exclusively with the often tangled dance of relationships between men and women, yet they could not be classified as romance or erotic works despite containing elements of both. And while his early and mid-period novels occasionally strayed into the areas of mystery or crime fiction, they retained a strong pull toward the exploration of relationships.

Recently, however, Dickey has been writing books that fit comfortably, though not exclusively, within the thriller genre. His novels featuring the international assassin Gideon (of which RESURRECTING MIDNIGHT is the fourth) contain all of the genre's trademark elements while strongly retaining the erotic aspects of his earlier work. The result is something that is quite different from anything else out there at the moment.

Dickey's Gideon is a man who was born in poverty and has grown to become an assassin for hire. His background has been delivered piecemeal over the course of the Gideon novels and in such a way that the more that is revealed, the less we truly know. But what we do know is that Gideon is ruthless, not entirely likable, and seemingly without a moral code, which is what one might expect of someone in his occupation. Also, following the events of DYING FOR REVENGE, he trusts no one. But when he receives a call from Arizona, a former lover, he reluctantly finds himself drawn into an assignment on behalf of Scamz, a man who once saved his life and is now Arizona's husband.

As it turns out, Scamz is in possession of a briefcase that is part of a matched set. The other briefcase is with a group of assassins known as "The Four Horsemen" --- and they will do anything possible to complete the set.
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