The Newton Prophecies

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

FBI, Boston Field Office. The evening before.

         "Son-of-a-bitch!" Camillin's face ripped through every curse-word known to man and slammed the office copy of USA Today on his desk. Filling the front page was a picture of renowned author, Michael DiBianco, in a hospital bed.
         "Rachel!" he shouted.
         Rachel's newly permed hair bounced as she peeked around the corner into Camillin's office, her lengthy fingers decorated in sparkling rings, swept wisps of hair away from her excessively made up eyes. "Yes?"
         "Book me the next flight to London. Heathrow Airport. Stat!"

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