Deceiver's Game Collector's Edition (4-6 Left Behind)(Paperback)Tim Lahaye & Jerry B Jenkins
The series that became a phenomenon is now available in a four-volume Collectors Edition. The New York Times and USA Today best-selling series that has sold over 63 million copies will now be available in a four-volume Collectors Edition. With three books in each volume, this is the perfect way to revisit the series that captured your imagination or discover it for the first time. Volume I, Rapture’s Witness, contains Left Behind, Tribulation Force, and Nicolae. Volume II, Deceiver’s Game, contains Soul Harvest, Apollyon, and Assassins.
ByTim Lahaye & Jerry B Jenkins
Series - CollectionLeft Behind
Number of Pages800 pp
PublisherTyndale House Publishers
RAYFORD STEELE wore the uniform of the enemy of his soul, and he hated
himself for it. He strode through Iraqi sand toward Baghdad Airport in his dress
blues and was struck by the incongruity of it all.
From across the parched plain he heard the wails and screams of hundreds he
wouldn’t begin to be able to help. Any prayer of finding his wife alive depended
on how quickly he could get to her. But there was no quick here. Only sand.
And what about Chloe and Buck in the States? And Tsion?
Desperate, frantic, mad with frustration, he ripped off his natty waistcoat
with its yellow braid, heavy epaulettes, and arm patches that identified a senior
officer of the Global Community. Rayford did not take the time to unfasten
the solid-gold buttons but sent them popping across the desert floor. He let
the tailored jacket slide from his shoulders and clutched the collar in his fists.
Three, four, five times he raised the garment over his head and slammed it to the
ground. Dust billowed and sand kicked up over his patent leather shoes.
Rayford considered abandoning all vestiges of his connection to Nicolae
Carpathia’s regime, but his attention was drawn again to the luxuriously
appointed arm patches. He tore at them, intending to rip them free, as if busting
himself from his own rank in the service of the Antichrist. But the craftsmanship
allowed not even a fingernail between the stitches, and Rayford slammed the
coat to the ground one more time. He stepped and booted it like an extra point,
finally aware of what had made it heavier. His phone was in the pocket.
As he knelt to retrieve his coat, Rayford’s maddening logic returned—the
practicality that made him who he was. Having no idea what he might find
in the ruins of his condominium, he couldn’t treat as dispensable what might
constitute his only remaining set of clothes.
Rayford jammed his arms into the sleeves like a little boy made to wear a
jacket on a warm day. He hadn’t bothered to shake the grit from it, so as he
plunged on toward the skeletal remains of the airport, Rayford’s lanky frame was
less impressive than usual. He could have been the survivor of a crash, a pilot
who’d lost his cap and seen the buttons stripped from his uniform.
Rayford could not remember a chill before sundown in all the months he’d
lived in Iraq. Yet something about the earthquake had changed not only the
topography, but also the temperature. Rayford had been used to damp shirts and
a sticky film on his skin. But now wind, that rare, mysterious draft, chilled him
as he speed-dialed Mac McCullum and put the phone to his ear.