The fate of the world hangs in the balance when the ultimate biological weapon is unleashed in the stunning finale of a classic trilogy set in the Wild Cards universe created by the #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Game of Thrones— previously published as Wild Cards: Black Trump . Now featuring a stunning new cover! An alien virus ravages the world, with effects as random as a hand of cards. Those infected either draw the black queen and die, draw an ace and receive superpowers, or draw the joker and are bizarrely mutated. The uninfected are known as nats.   The Card Sharks—a shadowy organization determined to wipe out the wild card virus at all costs—have been brought to light thanks to the efforts of nat investigator Hannah Davis and ace-politician-turned-joker Gregg Hartmann.  But a cornered animal is a dangerous animal, and the Sharks have one final card to play: the Black Trump. This is the ultimate biological weapon, designed to kill everyone with the wild card virus—and its success rate is one hundred percent.  Across the world—from New York’s teeming Jokertown and the Joker Quarter of old Jerusalem to the Republic of Free Vietnam—the viral bombs are ticking . . . and time is running out. Book Three of the Card Shark Triad CARD SHARKS • MARKED CARDS • SHOWDOWN George R. R. Martin is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of many novels, including those of the acclaimed series A Song of Ice and Fire— A Game of Thrones , A Clash of Kings , A Storm of Swords , A Feast for Crows, and A Dance with Dragons —as well as related works such as Fire & Blood , A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms , The World of Ice & Fire, and Rise of the Dragon (the last two with Elio M. García, Jr., and Linda Antonsson). Other novels and collections include Tuf Voyaging , Fevre Dream , The Armageddon Rag , Dying of the Light , Windhaven (with Lisa Tuttle), and Dreamsongs Volumes I and II . As a writer-producer, he has worked on The Twilight Zone , Beauty and the Beast , and various feature films and pilots that were never made. He lives with his lovely wife, Parris, in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Eight The smell of blood twisted around the muezzin’s ululating predawn call to the faithful. A red, slick, looping skein snaked through the night and intertwined with the yodeled vowels; a dream—not a dream. In the silence that followed, Zoe opened her eyes and lay still as Needles walked by her. Inches from her cot, his clawed hand swung past her face. His hand carried the musky stink of fresh blood. Needles opened the door to the tiny bathroom and slipped inside. Metered water gurgled in the sink. Moonlight marked out the narrow rectangle of the archer’s window near the door and outlined the low mounds of sleepers in the high-ceilinged room. Angelfish, Owl, and Jellyhead lay on their benches on the far wall. They looked so peaceful, her “Escorts,” New York street kids who could at least sleep under a roof now, under Zoe’s fragile protection. Anne, Zoe’s mother, was quiet on her cot. Jan, the littlest of the kids, slept with her feet sticking out from beneath the sheet that she had, as usual, pulled over her head like a tent. Croyd slept in the alcove, screened off from the rest of the room by a curtain. Croyd had been asleep for weeks. He’d signed on as a boarder, vanished, and then staggered through the door three weeks ago, red-eyed and angry. Needles had listened to Croyd rant for hours until the Sleeper just stopped in midsentence and went limp. Zoe had helped carry him to the alcove and shove him into the narrow bed. He didn’t seem to be changing much, not yet, anyway. In the bathroom, the water kept on running. Needles patrolled with the Twisted Fists. He was a child. The Fists had sent him home with blood on his hands. Anger made Zoe want to shout out obscenities to the rooftops; the need for silence made her tremble. She jerked the thin cotton sheet from her cot, wrapped it around her, and tiptoed across the room, her bare feet welcoming the feel of smooth, cool concrete. She leaned close to the bathroom door and hissed. The light inside clicked off and Needles opened the door. Zoe slipped inside with him. Shower stall, commode, sink, the little closet was small enough that you could brush your teeth while sitting on the pot. Needles turned off the tap and dried his hands, working a thin terry rag over each claw, polishing them in the yellow glow of the night-light plugged into the single outlet over the sink. “What happened?” Zoe whispered. “It’s nothing,” Needles said. He had been in a major growth spurt since they had reached Jerusalem. He was as tall as Zoe, and he shaved, every single day. Zoe reached out and touched his cheek. “You missed a spot.” Needles jerked his face away and looked in the mirror. He scrubbed at the sticky black mark with the damp cloth in his hand. “Shit,” he whispered. “Oh, shit. Zoe, it’s . . .” “Did you kill someone?” Zoe asked. Needles su