Book One in the Gabriel series.
The first book in the Amazon Bestselling series by award-winning author David Hickson
New to the Gabriel series? Start here with Treasonous!
About this premium eBook
The new president is hiding a dark secret. The journalist who discovered that secret is dead.
Now there is only one man who can do anything about it …
Ben Gabriel’s life is falling apart. He has been discharged from the British Special Forces... fired from a job in military intelligence… his girlfriend has disappeared... and now he might be the only person who can stop the country from falling into the hands of a corrupt killer.
That country is South Africa, where Gabriel is struggling to build a new life. It is a country clogged with corruption and abuse of power. Here it takes someone willing to step outside the law to discover the truth…
And Gabriel is that someone. Because the path he treads is more than a little crooked.
Treasonous is the pulse-pounding first tale in the Gabriel thriller series. If you like complex heroes, hair-raising action, and gut-wrenching consequences, then you’ll love David Hickson’s electrifying story.
"Great characters, great story, great setting."
"The quality of the writing shines through on every page."
"Captivating from the very beginning!"
"From cover to cover, the quality of the writing never wavers. Powerful and evocative."
"I do love Gabriel. He’s a little dark and devious, but overall his heart is in the right place. Or maybe not entirely."
"Ben Gabriel continues to be the new thriller hero on the block."
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Enjoy a sample from TREASONOUS
“Gabriel?” Johansson’s voice had a sneering lilt that on other Swedes would have been a charming foreign accent.
“Who is this?”
“Lukas Johansson, The Sun. You’re going to want to hear this.”
“Hear what?”
“That’s what I’m telling you, Gabriel. You the Gabriel that worked with Fehrson’s crowd?”
“I stopped working there months ago.”
“I know. And now you’re doing the videos,” he said with a triumphant sneer. Then, like the punchline to a joke: “I knew your girl.”
That was a conversation stopper. The phone felt heavy in my hand. I had the sense it was radiating malice.
“What do you want to tell me?” I asked.
“We’ll meet at the Fireman’s,” said Johansson as if he was reading a crystal ball. “In half an hour.”
“Is this about Sandy?”
Johansson laughed in a way that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Nothing to do with your girl, Gabriel. I can’t help you with that one. It’s your friend Fehrson. He’s in big trouble and he doesn’t know it yet. You’re going to help him out. Don’t stand me up. You’re buying.”
The phone went dead before I could object. I placed it beside the laptop on which I was trying to compose some ideas about the Angolan bush war and gazed out of the window. Across the jumbled rooftops of Three Anchor Bay I could see a sliver of grey sea.
I knew of Johansson by reputation only, and that largely from the arms scandal that Sandy had worked on, which was probably why he claimed to have known her. Sandy had been one of a team of journalists who had uncovered the greatest abuse of political power to have happened in South Africa since apartheid, which was saying something: South Africa has an international reputation as a leader in political corruption. But Johansson’s angle on the scandal had been the grimy underbelly, the infected bedsores of the monster. It had been his idea to ask the prostitutes what they remembered. The scantily clad sex workers had been in the background of every clandestine meeting, lounging on the furniture of the five-star resorts, decorating the golf courses, and floating in the swimming pools beyond the meeting tables.
It turned out they remembered a good deal, and Johansson enjoyed a moment of fame for providing information that proved critical to the exposure of the scandal. But his reputation among serious investigative journalists was not improved. They regarded him as someone who stirred up the nasty sludge that sank to the bottom of the pond to see what bubbled up to the surface, whether or not that proved beneficial. At least that was what Sandy had said. And she had considered herself to be on the serious side of the business – although sometimes I found it difficult to distinguish between the two approaches.
But Sandy wasn’t around anymore to help me resolve the dilemma. She had chosen to find a different life, one that I sometimes hoped was a better one. On other days I felt less generous about her decision to disappear from my life. Because no matter how many carefully chosen words one might use, that was what she had done. One day she had been there, the next she hadn’t. No goodbye, no tearful discussion about why things were not working. The police had rejected my missing person claim. There was no evidence of wrongdoing, and missing people do not take a small suitcase of clothes with them. ‘Self-managed relocation’ was the term the police officer used, with a sidelong glance at me as the probable motivation for the relocation. But that didn’t change what she had done. She had arranged her own disappearance. Why not be real about it?