New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
LAURA GRIFFIN
“DELIVERS THE GOODS.” —Publishers Weekly
Praise for FAR GONE
“Perfectly gritty. . . . Griffin sprinkles on just enough jargon to give the reader the feel of being in the middle of an investigation, easily merging high-stakes action and spicy romance with rhythmic pacing and smartly economic prose.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Crisp storytelling, multifaceted characters, and excellent pacing. . . . A highly entertaining read.”
—RT Book Reviews (4 stars)
“A first-rate addition to the Laura Griffin canon.”
—The Romance Dish (5 stars)
“Be prepared for heart palpitations and a racing pulse as you read this fantastic novel. Fans of Lisa Gardner, Lisa Jackson, Nelson DeMille, and Michael Connelly will love [Griffin’s] work.”
—The Reading Frenzy
“Far Gone is riveting with never-ending action.”
—Single Titles
“A tense, exciting romantic thriller that’s not to be missed.”
—New York Times bestselling author Karen Robards
“Griffin has cooked up a delicious read that will thrill her devoted fans and earn her legions more.”
—New York Times bestselling author Lisa Unger
Praise for the Tracers series
BEYOND LIMITS
“Another fast-action, high-octane read that grabs you from the first page to the last.”
—The Romance Reviews (Top Pick)
“Daring escapades, honest emotions, and heart-stopping danger.”
—Single Titles
EXPOSED
“Laura Griffin at her finest! If you are not a Tracer-a-holic yet . . . you will be after this.”
—A Tasty Read
“Explosive chemistry.”
—Coffee Time Romance & More
“Explodes with action. . . . Laura Griffin escalates the tension with each page, each scene, and intersperses the action with spine-tingling romance in a perfect blend.”
—The Romance Reviews
SCORCHED
2013 RITA winner for Best Romantic Suspense
“A sizzling novel of suspense . . . the perfect addition to the Tracers series.”
—Joyfully Reviewed
“Has it all: dynamite characters, a taut plot, and plenty of sizzle to balance the suspense without overwhelming it.”
—RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars)
“Starts with a bang and never loses its momentum . . . intense and mesmerizing.”
—Night Owl Reviews (Top Pick)
TWISTED
“The pace is wickedly fast and the story is tight and compelling.”
—Publishers Weekly
“With a taut story line, believable characters, and a strong grasp of current forensic practice, Griffin sucks readers into this drama and doesn’t let go.”
—RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)
UNFORGIVABLE
“The perfect mix of suspense and romance.”
—Booklist
“The science is fascinating, the sex is sizzling, and the story is top-notch, making this clever, breakneck tale hard to put down.”
—Publishers Weekly
UNSPEAKABLE
“A page-turner until the last page, it’s a fabulous read!”
—Fresh Fiction
“Laura Griffin is a master at keeping the reader in complete suspense.”
—Single Titles
UNTRACEABLE
“Evolves like a thunderstorm on an ominous cloud of evil. . . . Intense, wildly unpredictable, and sizzling with sensuality.”
—The Winter Haven News Chief
“Taut drama and constant action. . . . Griffin keeps the suspense high and the pace quick.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
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For Jessica
PROLOGUE
The whole thing took four seconds, maybe less.
Exactly three minutes before it happened, Marine Captain Liam Wolfe was standing in the dusty courtyard feeling hot, hungry, and pissed off. The first two barely registered after four long tours in Afghanistan’s summer fighting season. The last was pretty much standard since he’d started pulling personal security detail for a delegation of American politicians visiting the region.
It was an election year, and the base was thick with VIPs dropping in for photo ops. They wanted to mingle with the troops and eat in the mess hall and visit wounded children in hospitals staffed by international aid workers. This afternoon’s destination was a newly built school—a true nightmare from a tactical perspective. To add to the funfest, details of the mission hadn’t been communicated until the last minute, giving Liam’s CO almost no time to brief his team, which consisted of sixteen Marines squeezed into a three-Humvee convoy with a Virginia congressman.
Today, like all days, the team was locked and loaded and ready for anything. Bitter experience had taught them that no corner of the country was safe from bullets and IEDs, not even a school yard. Especially not a school yard.
Liam stood beside the compound’s west gate, holding his M-4 loose but ready. The sun hammered down. His nerves jangled as children’s high-pitched voices echoed around him. Just beyond the school’s cinder-block walls, the sound of car horns and truck engines rose from the dirty street. Exhaust hung in the air as Liam scanned the surrounding rooftops for the hundredth time.
In some countries, PSD work was a cushy assignment. Not in Afghanistan. Here personal security detail was a tedious job requiring total concentration. It was a constant process of seeing and assessing—people, situations, and objects, no matter how inconsequential. Anyone from the kid on the moped to the ambling old man might be jocked up with explosives and ready to ruin your day. The mission was to spot something, anything, from a furtive look to a thread of wire in the road that signaled trouble.
The hours were long. No time for distractions. No time to think about getting food or getting a nap or getting laid. No time to do anything besides be in the moment and take all that it offered.
Liam squinted into the sun, his gaze skimming over the roofline. Sweat seeped into his eyes. He lingered on the two dark windows where Marine snipers had overwatch. He looked for any sign of foreign surveillance—not just by the Afghans but by the other countries that had been monitoring the American delegation since it first came to town.
He shifted his attention to street level. Trash tumbled along in an eddy of hot air. A bearded Afghan policeman was stationed across the road, and Liam gave him a long, hard look, paying close attention to his AK. Another policeman was positioned inside the school yard, manning the east gate. Liam had his eye on both of them.
He studied the street again as banged-up trucks held together by little more than duct tape whisked past. The people here were resourceful and could make a viable vehicle out of damn near anything with wheels. Liam watched the pedestrians coming and going. An elderly man carrying a basket approached the policeman, then glanced back at the school. Liam’s fingers tensed. The old man shuffled away.
“Alpha, this is Bravo,” came a voice over the radio.
“Alpha here.”
“Yo, we’re ready to roll out.”
“Roger that.”
Liam stepped through the gate and checked the convoy. The lead vehicle had a 50-cal mounted on top, manned by Tony Lopez, the team’s best gunner. Liam caught his eye.
“Where’s Burleson?”
Lopez nodded down the street, where two of Liam’s men were milling on a corner. They were supposed to stay with the Humvees. As team leader, Liam had taken Burleson off point. He was probably still sulking.
Liam got him on the radio. “Get ready to move,” he told him, then called up Bravo. “You guys coming?”
“Negative. Another photo op.”
Liam scanned the street again. He scanned the courtyard. The policeman at the east gate shifted his weight. Eye contact.
And Liam knew.
In that fraction of a second, he read the deadly intent, and then everything happened at once.
The congressman stepped into the sunlight, surrounded by photographers.
“Gun!” Liam shouted, lifting his weapon, but there were kids and bystanders in the line of fire.
Liam launched himself across the courtyard. Gunfire erupted. Marines sprang into action. The congressman hit the ground—taken down by a bullet or a Marine, Liam didn’t know.
Liam barreled into the shooter as bullets spewed from his Kalashnikov. They slammed into the dirt. White-hot fire tore through Liam’s arm as he wrestled with the weapon.
A sharp crack.
Liam’s vision blurred. The air around him was a mist of red.
CHAPTER ONE
EAST TEXAS PINEY WOODS
THREE YEARS LATER
Evenings were the hardest, the time when everything unraveled. Catie’s mind overflowed, her chest felt empty, and the craving dug into her with razor-sharp claws.
Her shoulders tensed as she pulled into the park. All her life, she’d been addicted to work and approval and success. Now she was simply an addict.
Her high-performance tires glided over the ruts, absorbing the bumps as she eased along the drive. She turned into the gravel parking lot and swung into a space. Forty-six days.
Resting her head on the wheel, she squeezed her eyes shut. Her throat tightened, and she fought the burn of tears.
“One day at a time,” she whispered.
She sat up and gazed through the windshield. She’d never thought she’d be one of those people who gave themselves pep talks. She’d never thought she’d be a lot of things. Yet here she was.
Catie shoved open the door and popped the trunk. She tossed her purse inside, then rummaged through her gym bag, looking for her iPod. On second thought, no music. She slammed the trunk closed, locked the car, and tucked the key fob into the zipper pocket of her tracksuit. She leaned against a trail marker and stretched her quads. A few deep lunges and she was ready to go.
She set off at a brisk pace, quickly passing the dog walkers and bird enthusiasts who frequented the trail. Her muscles warmed. Her breathing steadied. She passed the first quarter-mile marker and felt the tension start to loosen.
The routine had become her lifeline. She registered the familiar scent of loblolly pines, the spongy carpet of pine needles under her feet. She put her body through the paces, then her mind.
It was Wednesday. She was halfway through the week, another daunting chain of days that started with paralyzing mornings in which she had to drag herself out of bed and force herself to shower, dress, and stand in front of the mirror to conceal the evidence of a fitful night. Then she faced the endless cycle of conference calls and meetings and inane conversations as the secret yearning built and built, culminating in the dreaded hour when it was time to go. Time to pack it in and head home to her perfectly located, gorgeously decorated, soul-crushingly empty house.
But first, a run. Or a spin class. Or both. Anything to postpone the sight of that vacant driveway.
Almost anything.
Catie focused her attention on the narrow trail. Thirst stung her throat, but she tried to clear her mind. Rounding a bend, she noted the half-mile marker. She was making good time. Another curve in the path, and she came upon a couple jogging in easy lockstep. Twenty-somethings. At the end of the trail, and still they had a bounce in their stride. The woman smiled as they passed, and Catie felt a sharp pang of jealousy that drew her up short.
She caught herself against a tree and bent over, gasping. Shame and regret formed a lump in her throat. She dug her nails into the bark and closed her eyes against the clammy onset of panic.
Don’t think, Catie, Liam’s voice echoed in her head. Be in the moment.
God, she missed him. Liam was way too smart and way too intense, and he didn’t know how to turn it off. And she liked that about him. So different from David.
Liam never belittled her.
He knew evil lurked in the world, and he faced it head-on, refusing to look away, even relishing the fight.
Snick.
Catie’s head jerked up. She swung her gaze toward the darkening woods as awareness prickled to life inside her.
The forest had gone quiet.
No people, no dogs. Even the bird chatter had ceased. She glanced behind her, and a chill swept over her skin.
Look, Catie. Feel what’s around you.
She did feel it. Cold and predatory and watching her.
David would tell her she was paranoid. Delusional, even. But her senses were screaming.
She glanced around, trying to orient herself on the trail. She wasn’t that far in yet. She could still go back. She turned around and walked briskly, keeping her chin high and her gaze alert. Strong. Confident. She tried to look powerful and think powerful thoughts, but fear squished around inside her stomach, and she could feel it—something sinister moving with her through the forest, watching her from deep within the woods. She’d felt it before, and now it was back again, making her pulse quicken along with her strides.
I am not crazy. I am not crazy. I am not crazy.
But . . . what if David was right? And if he was right about this, could he be right about everything else, too?
A sound, directly left. Catie halted. Her heart hammered. She peered into the gloom and sensed more than saw the shifting shadow.
Recognition flickered as the shape materialized. With a rush of relief, she stepped forward. “Hey, you—”
She noticed his hand.
Her stomach plummeted. All her self-doubt vanished, replaced by a single electrifying impulse.
Catie ran.
SPECIAL AGENT TARA Rushing drove with the windows down, hoping the cold night air would snap her out of her funk. She felt wrung out. Like a dishrag that had been used to sop up filth, then squeezed and tossed aside.
Usually, she loved the adrenaline rush. Kicking in a door, storming a room, taking down a bad guy—anyone who’d done it for real knew nothing compared. The high could last for hours, even through the paperwork, which was inevitably a lot.
Typically, after a successful raid everyone was wired. The single agents would head out for a beer or three, sometimes going home together to burn off the energy. But tonight wasn’t typical.
After so many weeks of work and planning, she’d expected to feel euphoric. Or at the very least satisfied. Instead she felt . . . nothing, really. Her dominant thought as she sped toward home was that she needed a shower. Not just hot—volcanic. She’d stand under the spray and scrub her skin raw and maybe get rid of some of the sickness clinging to her.
Tara slowed her Explorer as the redbrick apartment building came into view. Her second-floor unit looked dark and lonely beside her neighbor’s, where a TV glowed in the window and swags of Christmas lights still decorated the balcony.
She rolled to a stop at the entrance and tapped in the access code. As the gate slid open, her phone vibrated in the cup holder. Tara eyed the screen: US GOV. She’d forgotten to fill out some paperwork or turn in a piece of gear, or maybe they needed her to view another video.
She felt the urge to throw her phone out the window. Instead she answered it.
“Rushing.”
&nb
sp; If she put enough hostility into her voice, maybe they wouldn’t have the balls to call her back in.
“It’s Dean Jacobs.”
She didn’t respond. Because of shock and because she couldn’t think of a single intelligent thing to say.
“You make it home yet?” he asked.
“Almost. Sir.”
Jacobs was her SAC. She’d had maybe four conversations with him in the three years since she’d joined the Houston field office.
“They were just filling me in on the raid,” he said. “Good work tonight.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The gate slid shut again as she stared through the windshield.
“I understand you live north,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“There’s a matter I could use your help on.”
Something stirred inside her. Curiosity. Or maybe ambition. Whatever it was, she’d take it. Anything was better than feeling numb.
“I need you to drive up to Cypress County. They’ve got a ten-fifty off of Fifty-nine.”
His words surprised her even more than the midnight phone call. Tara knew all the 10-codes from her cop days, but dispatch had switched to plain language, and nobody used them anymore. A 10-50 was a deceased person.
She cleared her throat. “Okay. Any particular reason—”
Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9) Page 1
