by Lisa Hughey
“It’s our day.”
Bliss rested her head on his shoulder, her hand clasped in his as they swayed to the music and everyone watched.
His thumb rubbed the simple gold band around his ring finger.
He liked it. No. He loved it.
“I’m yours.”
“Yes, you are.”
That was just the way he wanted it. “Forever.”
Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading the final Family Stone book, Cold As Stone. If you loved John and Rissa’s story as much as I did, below are a few ways you can help a writer out!!
Good: Lend the book to a friend
Better: Recommend the book to your friends
Best: Leave a review at Amazon, BN, Kobo, Apple, Google, Goodreads, All Romance...basically any place they sell or review eBooks. Every review helps my work get out to other readers and I cannot even express how much it means to me when you let people know you liked my work. Readers have so many choices nowadays and limited dollars to spend. It can be difficult to take a chance on a new author even if the premise sounds appealing. By reviewing books, you give other readers insight into the story world and help them make informed purchases.
Thank you, thank you, thank you for your support!!
p.s. Would you like to know when my next book is available? You can sign up for my new release email list/newsletter at Lisa’s Latest News
p.p.s Sad to see the Family Stone series end? Check out my new spin-off series, ALIAS and the first book, Stalked.
Acknowledgments
The list of usual suspects who are always there for me:
Adrienne Bell and LGC Smith for our regular writing dates and moral support.
The Pens: Gigi Pandian, Rachael Herron, Juliet Blackwell, Sophie Littlefield, and Mysti Berry for the friendship and fun over the last five years. I am so happy to know you!
For my pal, Cecilia Gray, who is always willing to open her home for a mini-break retreat or head to a hotel for writing weekends with copious amounts of room service and plotting.
To LJ at Mayhem Cover Creations. Thank you, thank you for the beautiful covers!
Finally, to the new additions to my “team”:
And lastly, I’m so pleased to have the chance to work with a new editor, Deb Nemeth. Her input and corrections helped me immensely. I’m looking forward to continuing our working relationship!
Author’s Note
I took a little creative license for this story. There is no such service called Backdoor. There is a service BackPage which did in fact take over the Craigslist Adult Services listings, however I really, really didn’t want to give the site any web traffic so I chose to create an imaginary site.
Human trafficking is everywhere. And could in fact be going on in your hometown. Please be aware and speak up if something seems suspicious.
For more information on how to spot and combat trafficking visit the State Dept.
http://www.state.gov/j/tip/id/help/
There are organizations to help victims of human trafficking. One in particular is Thistle Farms. http://thistlefarms.org/
Finally, Michael Stokes is a real person. He is an amazing photographer and shoots many former military amputees. Do a search for him on Twitter and Facebook to check out his photos. http://michaelstokes.net/
Also by Lisa Hughey
Black Cipher Files Romantic Suspense
The Encounter, A Prequel to Blowback
Blowback
Betrayals
Burned
Dangerous Game
**These books are also available in paperback
Black Cipher Files Box Set (includes Blowback, Betrayals, and Burned)
The Seven
Archangel Rafe
Archangel Jed
Archangel Zach
Snow Creek Christmas
Love on Main Street: A Snow Creek Christmas – 7 Author anthology
One Silent Night (from Love on Main Street)
Miracle on Main Street (standalone novella)
Family Stone Romantic Suspense
Stone Cold Heart, (Jess, Family Stone #1)
Carved in Stone (Connor, Family Stone #2)
Heart of Stone (Riley, Family Stone #3)
Still the One (Jack, Family Stone #4)
Jar of Hearts (Keisha & Shane, Family Stone #5)
Queen of Hearts (Shelley, Family Stone #6)
Cold as Stone (John, Family Stone #7)
Family Stone Box Set (Stone Cold Heart, Carved in Stone, Heart of Stone, Still the One, & Jar of Hearts)
The Nostradamus Prophecies
View To A Kill #1
Never Say Never #2
ALIAS
Stalked (ALIAS #1)
Hunted (ALIAS #2)
Vanished… TBA
Billionaire Breakfast Club
His Semi-Charmed Life (Camp Firefly Falls #11 and Billionaire Breakfast Club #0)
Everything He Wants (Billionaire Breakfast Club #1 The Jock)
Queen of His Daydreams (Camp Firefly Falls #23 and Billionaire Breakfast Club #1.5)
About Lisa
USA Today Bestselling Author Lisa Hughey started writing romance in the fourth grade. That particular story involved a prince and an engagement. Now, she writes about strong heroines who are perfectly capable of rescuing themselves and the heroes who love both their strength and their vulnerability. She pens romances of all types—suspense, paranormal, and contemporary—but at their heart, all her books celebrate the power of love.
She lives in Cape Ann Massachusetts with her fabulously supportive husband, two out of three awesome mostly-grown kids, and one somewhat grumpy cat.
Yoga, hiking, and traveling are her favorite ways to pass the time when she isn’t plotting new ways to get her characters to fall in love.
Lisa loves to hear from readers and has tons of places you can connect with her. It’s a wonder she gets any writing done at all….
Be Lisa’s Friend on Facebook
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Excerpt from Stone Cold Heart
Family Stone #1 Jess
In the early evening dusk, Jess Stone lay on her stomach in the twenty foot high rubble of a demolished church, underneath a black and gray city-scape tarp intended to camouflage her position. A sharp-edged chunk of debris dug into her lower rib cage, the scope of the Remington M24 cool and familiar against her face.
Her standard uniform of jeans, running shoes, and plain black t-shirt rendered her just another anonymous and transient relief worker...which she was actually. A black baseball cap hid her distinctive multi-hued blonde hair. The paper mask kept out the contaminated dust from the destroyed buildings but did little to stem the overwhelming stench of decaying bodies.
Tanks rumbled through the destroyed coastal town, their public address system blasting warnings for citizens to stay in their homes, curfew was in effect. The threat was a joke. Ninety percent of the people in the town didn't have homes left. Those who did were terrified to go back inside. In the fetid, humidity choked air, the tent cities erected in the parks and on the beach were seething masses of the injured and shock struck.
The substandard construction in the small country had never been enough to withstand the angry might of Mother Nature. Buildings had toppled like a stack of Tinkertoys, and left crumbling cement walls with twisted rebar poking out of the jagged ruins like a skeletal hand.
Trapped in the concrete pieces that littered the ground, the heat from the tropical day seared through her thin sturdy clothing. The stank of the raw sewage that ran in rivulets through the streets overpowered the salt-laden breeze off the ocean. People, covered with the grit of pulverized buildings and humans, shuffled along
with blank vacant stares. Two weeks after the quake, still in shock, their lives decimated first by nature and then kicked and beaten by the ineffectiveness of a flawed relief system. Hundreds of humanitarian agencies had descended on the population duplicating efforts and yet completely missing the need in other areas. The government was ostensibly trying to coordinate the effort, however the mass chaos was undeniable.
Through the Leupold Ultra M3 fixed power sight, she tracked the movements of Henri LeRoy, leader of this tiny island nation, violator of human rights and dignity, and all around poor excuse for a human being.
Sickness roiled in her stomach. The power bar she’d eaten for breakfast threatened to add to the rubble pile as she tried to figure out how in the hell she'd ended up here. Back behind a sniper rifle with the power over life and death trembling in the muscles of her right trigger finger.
Dammit. When she'd decided to take control of her life and quit the FBI, she hadn't wanted to do this anymore.
She'd wanted to be a simple relief worker. She'd wanted to connect with her family, brothers and mother.
But that bitch, fate, had slapped her upside the head and now here she was, where she'd sworn she never wanted to be again. Looking through the scope of a high-powered rifle, with a crystal clear head shot and a murky sense of right and wrong.
With little fanfare, she could blast LeRoy's brain matter all over the silk-covered walls and the antique Louis the XIV scrolled chairs in the receiving room of his ridiculously elegant weekend mansion which, since built properly, had sustained minimal damage. Her muscles twitched with the knowledge and acceptance that with one slow slide of her finger, the despotic, amoral leader would be history.
Jess didn't want to kill him, didn't want to be directly responsible for another death. She didn't want this choice. She’d given up this kind of life. She'd left the FBI after a series of high stress cases to get away from the doubt and guilt that had crippled her. To make her own decisions about right and wrong rather than carry out the commands of her bosses.
But if Henri LeRoy lived, chances were astronomical that many other citizens would die.
And yeah, she'd probably been manipulated into this. Actually no probably about it. Assassination had not been listed as one of her duties when she'd joined Global Humanitarian Relief. Damn her brother anyway.
But now all she could do was lay here in the desecrated remains of the former church and hope that her special skill set wouldn't be needed.
Fortunately, she was secondary backup.
And unless several things went horribly wrong, she would break down her weapon, get back to the relief aid encampment, back to actually helping people, and be out of here without ever firing her rifle.
Then she could hand out seed packets to her heart's content and figure out what she was going to do next. If she'd stay with GHR and her brothers, or go. First, she had to get through the next two hours.
But if something did go wrong...she prayed that if she was called upon, she could make the right decision. Make the shot. Cold zero.
Excerpt from Blowback
Blowback (bloʹ bak) n. A deadly, unintended consequence of a covert operation.
Eerie blue light penetrated my consciousness first. The regulated thump-thump of tires pounded in my head, echoing with fierce resonance.
Where the hell was I? Why did I feel like this? I kept my eyes closed, knowing pretense was paramount to my survival. Wherever I was, it wasn’t normal.
Ha. My life would never be normal.
I tracked back to my last memory. I’d hooked up with a guy. Had relatively indiscriminate sex with him.
I inhaled shallowly, carefully, not wanting to give away anything. I still smelled like sex. Really great sex.
I wanted to smile but kept my expression lax.
I’d longed to stay in that bed. Sleep with him. Just sleep with the comforting warmth of another human being. The ache had been so intense that as soon as he dozed off--I left.
That was my last memory.
“You can stop pretending.”
I continued to fake sleep. I didn’t know that male voice. It was bland, not angry, but with a slight smirk, as if he knew something I didn’t.
“You should be awake by now. We calibrate our doses very carefully.”
That statement raised so many questions, I decided to comply with his unspoken request and let my eyes drift open. I calculated we were moving at a speed of about thirty miles per hour. Suburban, blacked out windows, bulletproof glass. The blue light came from the interior dome in the big SUV.
“The light is to protect your eyes. The drug affects your pupil’s ability to dilate and contract.”
What drug? I kept silent.
“Not very curious, are you?”
My last conscious memory was from the motel off of 295 near Alexandria around nine in the evening. It was pitch dark out now, so I’d been out for a while.
Lucas. Could the guy have been a plant? Possible. Since he was my last clear memory, it made sense.
I sifted through the spaghetti of my brain. For the past two days, I’d been undercover, shadowing Staci Grant’s life. Last night, I’d encountered Lucas Goodman, who’d been looking for Staci and thought he’d found her when he found me. The sexual heat between us had been instantaneous and mutual. A few sweaty hours later, I’d left, confident my movements as Staci had been tracked. My cover had been working.
They’d kidnapped Staci.
Excellent.
I was right where I needed to be.
Now I needed answers. My task was to discover why CIA, DIA, and NSA agents were being kidnapped, the method of interrogation, and who was doing the kidnapping. The answers would be coming. I just had to be ready.
I settled into the backseat of the car to wait, taking in details. Mistake number one. They hadn’t taken my ring, so the satellite audio transmitter should work. I twisted the unusual ring with my thumb and pressed the citrine stone twice. I was now sending voice-activated recordings back to Carson.
Mistake number two. They’d cuffed my hands, in front, but left my legs unshackled.
They’d taken my government firearm but missed the knife in the sheath at my waist. Mistake number three. Always, always check everywhere for hidden weapons.
Although my mind was the most powerful weapon I had.
My watch was gone and my government-issue GPS with it. Slouching to the side, I got a better view of the dashboard panel. My kidnapper had conveniently supplied me with another GPS system, live and tracking.
Coordinates. Latitude–47. Longitude–122. I was in the Pacific Northwest. I looked out the misted window to see a reflection of the Space Needle and pinpointed my location as Seattle. I was a long way from Virginia.
I returned my gaze to the kidnapper. Subject was male, small head, blond hair gelled into little spikes, crescent-shaped birthmark below his right ear.
The car rolled to a stop. The rocking intensified my queasy stomach. I ignored it.
“We’re here.”
Here was a warehouse near the water. The guy wasn’t rough but the sudden motion as he lugged me out of the SUV caused my stomach to roil.
I breathed in the cold, damp air through my nose, trying to quell the nausea. As he led me toward a semi-truck trailer, I noted the parking lot was empty except for one other truck and a car, too far away and too dark to make out details. The warehouse, constructed with long cinder block walls interrupted by doors at twenty foot intervals, was to my left and behind me.
The trailer was modified from a regular shipping container, doors locked up tight in the back, with another entrance on the side. It looked as if the stairs were all one solid block which could fold up into the interior of the trailer.
The recessed entrance looked exactly like an old-fashioned front door complete with screen door. A porch light flicked on. The screen door wheezed open as a dark-haired woman in a white coat stepped out onto the platform.
The light behind her fi
lled the doorway with shadows. I couldn’t make out her features but I caught a furtive movement, the light illuminating her hand as she tucked a syringe into her pocket.
“Thank you. You can go now.” She nodded regally to the man holding me. Her melodic voice held a hint of Asia, probably second-generation American.
He promptly let go of my arm and walked away. They must believe that the plastic restraint cuffs would be a big deterrent to resistance. The click of his heels echoed in the silence as she stared at me, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, so tightly her knuckles showed white.
There was something in her stance--tension, stress? I eased back a step.
“Welcome.” She put a hand on the railing and took a step down. Then she hesitated and glanced back at the open doorway. “We won’t hurt you.”
I thought about the syringe in her pocket. No thank you.
I’d had drug resistance training but honestly I didn’t want to put it to the test. At least, not yet. Although if that scenario became unavoidable and they pumped me full of drugs, the transmitter in my ring guaranteed I would get the information Carson and the NSA needed.
All of the kidnapped agents had an unidentified drug in their bloodstream and unknown consequences from those drugs. We had no idea what national secrets they’d given away or what kind of long-term effects were possible from the drug cocktail most likely in that syringe. My job was to get myself kidnapped, acquire the drugs, identify the perpetrators, and get out before they could accomplish their objective.
I wobbled as if unsteady on my feet and eased back two steps, assessing my position.
As the Suburban left, the beam from the head lamps shone on her. The shape of her face and the tilt of her eyes marked her as Chinese. Lines of strain curled around her mouth, the expression was supposed to be a smile but came off as more of a grimace. “Come with me.”
