by Greg Cox
Meet the crew…
NATHAN “NATE” FORD (“The Mastermind”): Former insurance fraud investigator who leads the team and calls the shots.
SOPHIE DEVEREAUX (“The Grifter”): British wannabe actress. Onstage, she’s no award-winner, but running a con, she makes brilliant use of her skills with character and accents to manipulate the marks.
ALEC HARDISON (“The Hacker”): The crew’s computer specialist, hacker, and all-around techno-geek who handles communications and info gathering.
ELIOT SPENCER (“The Hitter”): Ex-soldier, martial artist, and hard case who takes care of team security.
PARKER (“The Thief”): Master thief, cat burglar, pickpocket, and safecracker with a dark past. If it has a lock, she can open it.
The Leverage Novels
THE CON JOB
THE ZOO JOB
THE BESTSELLER JOB
GREG COX
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.
THE BESTSELLER JOB
A Berkley Boulevard Book / published by arrangement with
Leverage Holdings, Inc., and Greg Cox
Copyright © 2013 by Leverage Holdings, Inc.
TNT logo, photography, and key art ™ and © Turner Network Television,
A Time Warner Company. All rights reserved.
Photographer: Gavin Bond.
™ Electric Entertainment, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Berkley Boulevard Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.
Berkley Boulevard and its logo are registered trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York 10014
ISBN: 978-1-101-62224-7
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Boulevard mass-market edition / May 2013
Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.
Cover design by Jason Gill
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Table of Contents
Prologue: Manhattan
One: Boston
Two: Boston
Three: Frankfurt
Four: Frankfurt
Five: Long Island
Six: Manhattan
Seven: Long Island
Eight: Long Island
Nine: Manhattan
Ten: Manhattan
Eleven: Manhattan
Twelve: Manhattan
Thirteen: Manhattan
Fourteen: Brooklyn
Epilogue: Los Angeles
Acknowledgments
About the Author
| | | | | | PROLOGUE | | | | | |
MANHATTAN
Gavin Lee’s wrist hurt.
After autographing books all night at his favorite midtown bookstore, until his signature devolved into an in decipherable scrawl, he never wanted to sign anything again—or at least not until the big book tour started next week. The line for his autograph had stretched all the way out to the sidewalk and he had felt obliged to keep on signing until closing time. Who knew so many people still read books these days? He had even signed the backs of a few ebook readers.
Still, he couldn’t complain. At this point, Assassins Never Forget had been climbing the bestseller lists for weeks now and only seemed to be gaining in popularity. Not bad for a first novel by a relatively obscure photojournalist. A poster in the store window proudly displayed Gavin’s author photo, showing a trim, thirtysomething young man with short blond hair and some decorative stubble. He shook his head in disbelief, still not used to seeing his photo everywhere. To be honest, it was more than he—or Denise—had ever anticipated.
Which reminded him…
Standing on the sidewalk in front of the store, after all the well-wishers and bookstore staff had finally dispersed, he fished his phone from his pocket and dialed his girlfriend. She picked up right away.
“Gavin?”
“Hi there,” he said. “Just wanted to let you know that I’m running a little late.”
“The signing a big success?” she asked.
“A mob scene.” He looked forward to telling her all about it. “You should’ve seen it.”
“Uh-uh,” she demurred. Shy of crowds, she seldom attended his public appearances. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“It’s a trip, I admit. All those people, so excited about the book… and hungry for a piece of the author.”
“Better you than me,” she insisted. “You heading home now?”
“You bet.” He glanced at his watch and saw that it was already well past eleven. Their apartment was several blocks away on Bank Street. With any luck, he’d be home before long.
“You going to catch a cab?” she asked.
“Nah. It’s a nice night. I think I’ll walk.”
“Well, be careful. Watch your back.”
He smiled at her concern. Like he had never walked home late at night before. “Will do. Should I swing by an all-night market and pick up something? You need anything?”
“Just you,” she said, her voice adopting a sultry tease. “Assuming your adoring public left me anything.”
“Never fear. I saved all the best parts for you.” He imagined her waiting for him in their cozy one-bedroom apartment and felt warm despite the crisp night air. “Just hold that thought.”
“I will,” she promised. “And, Gavin, I’m serious. Be careful, okay?”
He heard the genuine worry in her voice. He knew better than to dismiss it.
“Always. See you soon, sweetie.”
Putting his phone away, he took a moment to orient himself. The store was on West Twenty-third Street, about a dozen blocks north of the Village. He took off down the sidewalk.
Traffic cruised past him on Eighth Avenue. For a second, he considered the taxi option again, but decided against it. It felt good to stretch his legs after sitting behind a shrinking stack of hardcovers all night. The cool spring night was a pleasant change from the hot, overcrowded bookshop. He hummed quietly to himself as he made his way down the street. A slight limp, left over from that ambush in Somalia, barely slowed him down, although his days of dashing about war zones were probably over.
Good thing I have this “bestselling author” thing to fall back on, he thought. Wonder when we’re going to start seeing some serious royalties.
It was a weeknight, so the sidewalks, if not totally deserted, were hardly crammed with pedestrians. Even the traffic was sparse this time of night. A cool breeze stirred up the litter in the gutters. Horns honked a couple blocks over. A siren blared in the distance. Years of navigating dicey neighborhoods all over the globe, along with his promise to Denise, kept him alert
to his surroundings. He knew she wasn’t wrong to be worried. They were playing a dangerous game.
What if it blows up in our faces—literally?
He heard footsteps behind him, keeping pace with his own. A glance back over his shoulder revealed a stocky-looking bruiser whose face was shadowed by the brim of a baseball cap. He loped after Gavin, keeping his gaze turned toward the pavement. His hands were buried in the pockets of a rumpled windbreaker. For all Gavin knew, one or both of those hands was clutching a weapon.
A chill ran down the back of Gavin’s neck. The title of the book he had been signing all night flashed through his brain:
Assassins Never Forget.
He was probably just being paranoid, but why take chances? He quickened his pace, hoping to put a little more distance between himself and his (inadvertent?) tail. A taxi was sounding better and better, but now that he actually wanted one, he looked in vain for an unoccupied cab. Darkened storefronts, guarded by iron bars and pull-down metal shutters, offered little in the way of shelter should he need to get off the street in a hurry. He searched his own pockets for something to defend himself with, just in case, but found only his favorite Sharpie.
Great, he thought sarcastically. Whoever said the pen was mightier than the sword had obviously never been stalked down a lonely city street by a guy who looked like he could go nine rounds with Bigfoot. Next time I arrange for an escort home.
If there was a next time…
He risked another backward glance. If anything, the other guy appeared to be gaining on him. Gavin glanced around; all of a sudden they had the sidewalk all to themselves. He considered cutting across to Seventh, which was likely to be more heavily populated at this hour, but would his pursuer let him get that far? Gavin mentally calculated the distance to home.
Only five or six more blocks to go.
An intersection beckoned up ahead. The crosswalk signal was already flashing, but if he hurried he might be able to make it before the light changed—and leave the other guy on the wrong side of don’t walk. If nothing else, he could find out just how determined the hulking stranger was to keep up with him. Surging forward, he reached the curb and looked both ways to make sure nobody was running the light. A black stretch limo was idling to the right. The driver signaled him to go ahead.
Thanks, buddy, Gavin thought sincerely. You have no idea.
A heavy tread approached from behind, sounding even closer than before. Gavin stepped out in front of the limo—which hit the gas at the worst possible moment. Its engine roared.
The limo hit Gavin head-on. His body went flying into the street.
His wrist stopped hurting.
| | | | | | ONE | | | | | |
BOSTON
“‘Overblown’? ‘Self-indulgent’? ‘Sublimely awful’?” Sophie Devereaux stared indignantly at the screen of the laptop, which rested atop their usual table at McRory’s Bar and Grill. A posh English accent added class to her outrage. She turned toward Nate Ford, who was sitting next to her, nursing his second scotch, even though it was barely lunchtime. “Can you believe these reviews?”
He tried to pivot the laptop away from her. “Just some random opinions on the Internet,” he said, dismissing them. “You shouldn’t even bother with them. What do those people know?”
“But it’s not fair, Nate. I put my heart and soul into that show, you know that. How many actresses can play Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, Madame Curie, and Mata Hari in one night?” A classically beautiful brunette, stylishly attired in a striped Jersey-knit sweater and slacks, she spun the screen back toward her. “And yet some snarky hack at Boston Theater Buzz says that my one-woman show had, quote, one so-called actress too many.” She sighed theatrically. “Small wonder the show closed after only a single night, after hatchet jobs like that!”
“It’s a crime,” he agreed, none too convincingly. Unruly hair and a rumpled sport jacket belied his razor-sharp mind. A careworn face hinted at his tragic past, which included a dead child and a failed marriage—in that order. Shrewd brown eyes glanced at his watch. “So what’s keeping our prospective new client?”
Sophie ignored his transparent attempt to change the subject. She turned toward the third member of their party. “What do you think, Eliot? Tell me the truth. Was my performance truly ‘more cheesy than aged Havarti’?”
Damn, Eliot Spencer thought. His perpetual scowl deepened. A mane of long, brown hair framed his surly expression. A scruffy goatee carpeted his chin. He was dressed more casually than either Nate or Sophie, in a flannel shirt and jeans. A weathered windbreaker was draped over the back of his chair. I was hoping to stay out of this.
Post-traumatic flashbacks of being trapped in a stuffy hole-in-the-wall theater while Sophie emoted for the ages surfaced from the darkest recesses of his memory, where he had done his best to bury them. That had been a long night; Afghanistan and North Korea had been breezes by comparison. No way was he telling her the truth about her acting. I’m a hitter, not a sadist.
“You have a very… distinctive… style,” he said diplomatically. “Not everybody gets it.”
“You see!” she said, vindicated. “That’s just what I’m saying. So which of my portrayals did you find most convincing? Cleopatra? Saint Joan?”
“Er, I honestly couldn’t choose.” He concentrated on his calamari, avoiding her eyes. Truth to tell, he hadn’t been able to tell the characters apart. “They were all very… you.”
“But you must have some preference,” she pressed. “Please. I’m certainly open to constructive criticism.”
He looked to Nate for assistance. Help me out here, man, he thought, but their ringleader stared pensively into the amber depths of his scotch, apparently content to let Eliot take the heat. Sorry, Eliot thought. That’s not how we’re playing this.
“I don’t know,” he said. “What do you think, Nate?”
Nate shot him a dirty look.
Tough, Eliot thought. You’re the one who’s sleeping with her. Sometimes. Maybe.
He had given up trying to figure out Nate and Sophie’s relationship, whatever it was. He figured it was none of his business, as long as it didn’t cause trouble on the job. Bad enough that Parker and Hardison were kinda, sorta a couple these days. The last thing this crew needed was boyfriend/girlfriend crap getting in the way of staying in one piece. In his experience, emotions and missions didn’t mix. That’s why he kept his private life private.
“Yes,” she said. “What about you, Nate? You know my work better than anyone.”
Nate squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, I’m biased, of course, but—”
The door to the bar swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and an attractive redhead who looked to be in her midthirties. A scuffed leather jacket, turtleneck sweater, and jeans flattered her slim, athletic figure. A canvas tote bag hung from her grip. Henna tinted her long red hair. Emerald eyes were rimmed with red, as though she had been crying recently. Dark shadows under her eyes suggested that she hadn’t been sleeping well. A small brass compass dangled on a chain around her neck.
“Ah, here’s our client,” Nate announced, sounding more than a little relieved by the timely interruption. “Only a few minutes late.”
And none too soon, Eliot thought.
The woman glanced around the bar uncertainly before her gaze lighted on Eliot and the others. She headed toward them. Eliot sat up straighter. He didn’t usually do the initial meeting with the client, but this time was different. He should’ve met this particular woman years ago.
“You must be Eliot,” Denise Gallo said. “I recognize you from Gavin’s photos.”
“Likewise.” He stood up and pulled out a chair for her, then introduced her to Nate and Sophie. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make the funeral.”
They had been running a con in Rajasthan when he’d gotten word that Gavin Lee had died in a hit-and-run accident in Manhattan. With Nate busy fixing a camel race, and the water rights to a crucial oasis at stake, hopp
ing a plane back to the States for the memorial service simply hadn’t been an option.
Not even for an old friend.
SEVERAL YEARS AGO:
The terrorist camp was hidden deep in the Sumatran rain forest. A lush green canopy shielded the compound from aerial surveillance. Hanging roots and vines, slowly choking the life from the trees that hosted them, added to the dense foliage sheltering the camouflaged base, which consisted of a large command center surrounded by several smaller outbuildings, including weapons depots and munitions dumps. As was common in Indonesia, the wooden structures were supported by stilts that lifted them ten to twelve feet above the jungle floor. Ladders, which could be withdrawn to deter intruders, provided the only means of access. Spiky vines covered the rooftops. Sentries, armed with black-market AK-47s, patrolled the perimeter.
Bamboo, palms, ferns, and creepers encroached on the camp from all sides. The abundant flora surrounding the camp was a two-edged sword. While it effectively insulated the compound from the outside world, it also made it easier to approach the camp undetected. A moonless night filled the gaps between the trees and underbrush with impenetrable black shadows. Monkeys capered through the overhanging branches, squeaking in the night. Nocturnal predators rustled through the jungle.
Some of them were human.
Eliot Spencer, a fresh-faced young American soldier, lay belly down in the ferns and vines abutting the compound. Cradling a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun, he spied on the terrorist base. His hair was short, his features clean-cut. Green camouflage paint, masking his features, matched his jungle gear, which bore no identifying insignia. Only recently inducted into Special Forces from the regular army, he was primed for action.
His recon team had located the base a few hours ago. After a terse, hushed huddle, it had been decided to clean out the compound now before the terrorists could use it to stage more attacks and bombings on civilian targets and foreign nationals. At this very moment, the rest of the six-man team were taking up positions in preparation for an all-out assault on the central command center. The plan was to go in hard and fast before the rebels even knew what hit them. With any luck, the team would take out the whole nest in a matter of minutes, and maybe even capture vital intel on the guerrillas’ plans and support systems. Eliot judged the potential rewards well worth the risk.
