Excerpt from Ark Angel by Anthony Horowitz, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Of course, that was out of the question. He couldn’t go that far. But he was still determined to reach the main reception with its sliding glass doors and—just beyond—a real street with people and cars and noise and dirt. By day, three receptionists answered the phones and dealt with inquiries. After eight o’clock there was just one. Alex had already met him—a cheerful Irishman named Conor Hackett. The two of them had quickly become friends. Conor was sixty-five and had spent most of his life in Dublin. He’d taken this job to help support his nine grandchildren. After they’d talked awhile, Alex had persuaded Conor to let him go outside, and he had spent a happy fifteen minutes on the sidewalk in front of the main entrance, watching the passing traffic and breathing in the night air. He would do the same again now. Maybe he could stretch it to half an hour. Conor would complain; he would threaten to call the nurse. But Alex was sure he would let him have his way.

He avoided the elevator, afraid that the noise of the bell as it arrived would give him away. He walked down the stairs to the first floor and continued along a corridor. From here he could look down on the polished floor of reception and the glass entrance doors. He could see Conor sitting behind his desk, reading a magazine. Even down here the lights were dimmed. It was as though the hospital wanted to remind visitors where they were the moment they came in. Conor turned a page. Alex was about to walk down the last few stairs when suddenly the front doors slid open.

Alex was both startled and a little embarrassed. He didn’t want to be caught here in his dressing gown and pajamas. At the same time, he wondered who could possibly be visiting St. Dominic’s at this time of night. He took a step back, disappearing into the shadows. Now he could watch everything that was happening, unobserved.

Four men came in. They were in their late twenties, and all looked fit. The leader was wearing a combat jacket and a Che Guevara T-shirt. The others were dressed in jeans, hooded sweatshirts, and sneakers. From where he was hiding, Alex couldn’t make out their faces very clearly, but already he knew there was something strange about them. The way they moved was somehow too fast, too energetic. People move more cautiously when they come into a hospital. After all, nobody actually wants to be there.

“Hey—how are you doing?” the first man asked. The words cut through the gloom. He had a cheerful, cultivated voice.

“How can I help you?” the receptionist asked. He sounded as puzzled as Alex felt.

“We’d like to visit one of your patients,” the man explained. “I wonder if you can tell us where he is.”

“I’m very sorry.” Alex couldn’t see Conor’s face, but he could imagine the smile in his voice. “You can’t visit anyone now. It’s almost one o’clock! You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

“I don’t think you understand.”

Alex felt the first stirrings of nervousness. A note of menace had crept into the man’s voice. And there was something sinister about the way the other three men were positioned. They were spread out between the receptionist and the main entrance. It was as if they didn’t want him to leave. Or anyone else to enter. “We want to see Paul Drevin.”

Alex heard the name with a shiver of disbelief. The boy in the room next to his! Why would these men want to see him so late at night? “What room is he in?” the man in the combat jacket asked.

Conor shook his head. “I can’t give you that information,” he protested. “Come back tomorrow and someone will be happy to help you then.”

“We want to know now,” the man insisted. He reached into his jacket and Alex felt the floor sway beneath him as the man produced a gun. It was equipped with a silencer. And it was pointing at the receptionist’s head.

Reprinted from Ark Angel by Anthony Horowitz by permission of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © April 2006, Anthony Horowitz. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.