by Ben Coes
“Not the ocean, dummy. That.”
“Oh, that’s the moon.”
She turned and looked at him. They were just a few inches apart.
“You know what I’m pointing at,” she said.
He leaned forward. She was pointing behind the barn.
“That’s a backyard hockey rink.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. We used to flood it every winter.”
Dewey could see, up close, in the moonlight, the sharpness of Daisy’s nose. She smelled like flowers.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
He could feel the warmth coming off of her body in the darkness. His hand brushed against hers, then held it. His eyes, which had been looking off into the distance, moved to hers. He clutched her hand in his, rubbing his thumb along her palm.
“I should probably let you go to sleep.”
“Don’t you owe me something?” said Daisy.
He shut his eyes, fighting back emotion. It took every ounce of strength, but he didn’t move. She put his thumb into the middle of her fist and clenched it tight. Her other hand touched his chest. He opened his eyes. Daisy looked at him as if she was searching for something. His mind was a torrent of emotion. He wanted to say something, yet the scars that crossed his past were like chains now. His stomach tightened as a foreign warmth took him and he was no longer in control.
He looked at her puffy, perfect red lips, at her white teeth. In the moonlight, he could see soft peach fuzz above her lip. She let go of his hand and moved her hand up to his cheek. Their eyes were locked now, and he put his arm around her, holding her lower back. He pulled her closer and pressed against her, continuing to stare. He saw, in that moment, vulnerability, even pain. All of it crossed her face, and he looked away.
Daisy stood on her tiptoes, shut her eyes, and leaned up to him and their lips touched. For a brief moment, he forgot about Robbie, and Holly, and Jessica. He forgot about it all.
After more than a minute, she pulled away.
“I’m not sure we should do this,” she whispered.
“I agree.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“Well, no, not really. But if you don’t want to…”
“It’s not you, Dewey, I just promised myself I wouldn’t.”
She pressed herself even closer now, as a smile came to her lips, which she attempted to hide by biting her lip.
“Wouldn’t do what?”
“Fall for someone like you.”
“Is it because I work for your dad?”
She shook her head.
“No. I just promised myself I’d never fall for your type.”
She stood on her tiptoes again, brushing her lips against his, not quite kissing him.
“My type?” he said.
“Yeah, your type.”
She moved a hand beneath his shirt, rubbing his muscled chest.
“And what is my type?”
“Do I have to spell it out for you?” she said, pushing Dewey’s shirt gently up as her lips again found his.
She tried to stifle a laugh as her other hand found Dewey’s belt.
“A professional miniature golfer.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It is with deep gratitude that I express my appreciation to so many individuals who helped during the writing of First Strike.
I’ll start with a huge thanks to everyone at St. Martin’s Press, my publisher, and Macmillan Audio, whose brilliant, hardworking, and nattily attired men and women continually express their faith in me with their enthusiasm for each book. Thank you all, and particularly Sally Richardson, Jennifer Enderlin, Hannah Braaten, George Witte, Jeff Capshew, Vannessa Cronin, Paul Hochman, Justin Velella, Martin Quinn, Alison Ziegler, Joseph Brosnan, Rafal Gibek, Jason Reigal, Ervin Serrano, Robert Allen, Laura Wilson, and Mary Beth Roche.
An even bigger thank-you to Keith Kahla, my editor at St. Martin’s Press. I don’t know what I would do without Keith. He sees the flaws in the story, the plot, and the characters in a way that I can’t and then gracefully offers a path to fixing it all. It’s never easy. It’s always worth it.
Just as insightful, tough, and patient is my agent, Nicole James. Nicole is much more than an agent, however. She is Keith’s partner in figuring out what ails a particular draft, chapter, or scene. At the same time, Nicole somehow also represents me as only a true partner can. More than anything, Nicole is a friend, always there for me, often times for nothing having to do with my books. For her critical role in my career, I’m grateful beyond words. For her friendship, I don’t have words.
Thank you also to my buddy Chris George, whose efforts in Hollywood on my behalf make Captain Ahab look like a quitter.
A sincere thank-you to Marc Gillinov at the Cleveland Clinic, one of the world’s preeminent heart surgeons. Marc guided me through the intricacies of heart massage, displaying the same adept touch with my words as he did on the operating table when he saved my life five years ago. Thanks also to Adrian King, my best friend, whose thoughts on various aspects of the plot were vital. Rorke Denver, Michelle Goncalves, Sam, Kelly, and Nick Adams, Sue H., Pam P., and Brad Thor: Thank you. A special thank-you to Alex and Kelly for your love and support.
Most important is my family: Shannon, Charlie, Teddy, Oscar, and Esmé. They had to endure yet another tortured year of me wandering around in boxers and Bean boots talking to myself. The way I get through the tough process of writing a book is by having the love, support, and humor of my family. At night, I read to my youngest, Esmé, before she goes to bed. Every night with her I’m reminded of the way books do so much more than merely entertain when they are shared by two people. I also read to Oscar, though his popularity with the ladies at age twelve offers a tempting distraction for him. I thought I had a few more years of Oscar to myself. Luckily, every day I see the values Shannon and I instilled in him, and when he offers to carry Esmé’s hockey bag to the bus stop, when he clears the table without being asked, when he stands up for a teammate, it gives me strength. Teddy, at fourteen, is tall, handsome, and thin, but when I started writing so many years ago he was a little chubby. We called him the “Butterball Turkey.” For every ounce of baby fat he lost, however, Teddy gained in brain size. He understands politics better than almost anyone I’ve ever met. When I was writing First Strike, it was Teddy’s questions, comments, and insights that enabled me to write what I did. I cherish the memory of lugging that big pudgy dude around when he was younger, but it pales in comparison to the brilliant young man I know now. Charlie, our oldest, is the rock who anchors our family, and his golden heart casts a glow that binds us together. When I started writing, he would bring me coffee in the morning. Now he quietly does his job as an older brother and son, providing a role model to his siblings—and a young gentleman who makes his parents proud every day. Of course, if Charlie is the rock, then Shannon is the sea itself. The one we all rely upon. For me, she’s the unbreakable steel and ageless beauty that guides me. Thank you sweetheart for everything.
ALSO BY BEN COES
Power Down
Coup d’État
The Last Refuge
Eye for an Eye
Independence Day
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BEN COES is the New York Times bestselling author of international espionage thrillers, including Eye for an Eye and Independence Day. Before writing his first novel, Power Down, he worked at the White House under two presidents and was a fellow at the John F. Kennedy School of Government. He lives with his wife and four children in Wellesley, Massachusetts. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Ben Coes
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
FIRST STRIKE. Copyright © 2016 by Ben Coes. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photographs: shadowy figure © Don Denton / Arcangel; target © Makhnach_S / Shutterstock
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print version as follows:
Names: Coes, Ben, author.
Title: First strike / Ben Coes.
Description: First Edition.|New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2016.|Series: Dewey Andreas novel; 6
Identifiers: LCCN 2016004718|ISBN 978-1-250-04317-7 (hardback)|ISBN 978-1-4668-4127-7 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Terrorism—Prevention—Fiction.|Intelligence officers—Fiction.|Hackers—Fiction.|BISAC: FICTION / Thrillers.|GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.O2996 F57 2016|DDC 813/ .6—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016004718
e-ISBN 9781466841277
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: June 2016
