When Holly finds herself in trouble, the only weapons at her disposal are her brains and her body. But they won't be enough to handle the man who's following her. He's going to turn her world upside down. This book is sharp-edged and smart. Nick Andris rubbed his closed eyes with the heels of his hands, then looked up at the clock.
Almost midnight. Nick now knew more about this woman than she knew about herself. If Holly Bradshaw were some kind of underworld operative, a foreign agent, a traitor who sold US secrets, then he was Elvis fucking Presley. Bauer had recalled Nick from assignment in Tbilisi amid whispers that a handful of officers were missing or dead and that the Agency was conducting an internal investigation of its Special Activities Division, or SAD, the top-secret branch of the CIA that had recruited Nick out of Delta Force nine years ago.
Keep Bradshaw under surveillance, recover the data, and neutralize them both using any force necessary. Dudaev had played the Agency and brought the Batumi op down on their heads. Nick had been there that night. Okay, so it was an understandable error. As understandable as the error might be, nothing changed the fact that Nick had now wasted three weeks discovering that Holly Bradshaw was exactly what she seemed to beβan entertainment writer; a smart but shallow blonde; a woman who loved sex, expensive clothes, and good times with her friends.
Kramer had contacted him this afternoon, insisting they speak face-to-face. Nick took another swig of cold coffee. In his earpiece, Bradshaw and her friend Kara McMillan were still talking. Nick doubted that. McMillan, Kara. Journalist, author, journalism instructor at Metro State University.
Wife of Sheridan, Reece, lieutenant governor of the state of Colorado. No arrests. No suspected criminal associations. Three children. Met Bradshaw through work. Close personal friend. Nick rolled his eyes. The last thing she needed was one more pairβespecially one that cost three fucking grand. Killing her had been nothing more than a business transaction to him. He could change his name, wear designer suits, and open a dozen art galleries to make himself seem respectable, but nothing could wash the blood off his hands.
