Love is a game of chance in this romantic suspense novel by New York Times bestselling author and American politician and activist Stacey Abrams, writing under her pen name, Selena Montgomery.
Dr. Raleigh Foster, an operative for a top-secret intelligence organization, knows that her undercover work has its risks. So she doesn't hesitate when asked to infiltrate Scimitar, the terrorist group that has stolen lethal environmental technology. But when she's assigned a partner—brooding, sexy Adam Grayson—to pose as her lover, Raleigh discovers that the most dangerous risk of all...is falling in love.
Adam blames himself for the botched mission that got his best friend killed by Scimitar, and he believes that Raleigh may have contributed to the man's death. But the closer he works with his alluring partner, the more his suspicions turn to trust—and intense desire. Now, as he and Raleigh untangle a twisted web of secrets and lies, the tension mounts between them...until their masquerade as a couple proves too tempting to resist.
Release date:
September 6, 2022
Publisher:
Berkley
Print pages:
336
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The explosion registered a few hours later. It was only then that the blood caked to the arm of the jacket began to chip and fall to the hard, uneven ground. It was only then that the numbness, the blessed mindlessness, wore off, leaving behind searing, tearing pain. Teeth clenched against the agony began to knock against one another. And the memories returned with a vengeance.
Behind the tightly closed eyes, she relived the moment the ball of amber flame hurtled toward her body as she tumbled down the slope, her final act of betrayal. Minutes before, she had run from behind the empty shop stalls, the scents of jasmine and dates and horses fading with the dying sunlight, replaced by the acrid stench of gunfire. She heard the staccato report of guns, saw Cavanaugh’s body fall behind a row of wine barrels left by a weary shopkeeper. Once again, the black- robed bodies in the vehicle turned their deadly weapons away from him and aimed at her. She reached for her belt, searching for the small explosive, running toward the hill’s edge, to him. Her hand circled the disc of plastique, pressed the release, and pitched it under the Jeep. The driver shouted to his comrades and fired one last round. A bullet ripped through her shoulder, and she lost her balance, stumbling against an empty trough. The Jeep exploded, and shrapnel rained down on the abandoned hilltop marketplace as she dragged herself to Cavanaugh’s body. Dismissing her shoulder, she crawled over him, protecting his face and wounded belly from the flying debris. With her uninjured arm, she reached for his face, turning it to hers.
“Jericho? Cavanaugh? Speak to me, please,” she begged, her voice harsh, ravaged by smoke and panic.
Cavanaugh’s glazed eyes stared past her. “Prax— Merlin.Is target.”
“Cavanaugh, get up. We’ve got to get to base camp.” She looked over her shoulder at the wreckage and, seeing no movement, began to slowly shift away. Cavanaugh’s hand gripped her forearm, halting her careful retreat. Blue eyes blazed into brown ones.
She struggled against the hand, surprised by the strength. “Cavanaugh, we’ve got to get you to shelter.” Please, don’t die on me. Please. Not again.
“No time. Listen. Chimera.” Cavanaugh paused, fighting for air.
“Go now. Tell Atlas. Need Merlin. Sphinx gone Lazarus. Praxis going to Scimitar. Four weeks. Go!”
“I’m not leaving you. Their reinforcements will come soon to collect the dead. I won’t leave you here.” I shouldn’t have left you alone. This is my fault. My fault.
He glared at her, forcing her eyes to his own. “Go now. Tell Atlas.”
“No. I can’t leave you here.” He made me run away, made me let him die. “I’ll help you up.” She slid her uninjured arm under his head and tried vainly to lever him to his feet.
“Damn you, go!” Cavanaugh twisted away, his face turned toward the gathering sunset. The blazing orange and dusky mauve of the fading day intensified in the glare of the incinerated Jeep and the ablaze stalls.
“No. Not without you.” Not again. I won’t run again. Ever. Again, she attempted to gather him in her arms, panting as pain lanced through her torn shoulder.
Cavanaugh groaned, tears streaming down his weathered face. “Go on. You can’t save me.”
She hushed him, “Shh. You’re not going to die.”
“I am dead. We both know it.” He coughed, his body shaking. “Let it go.”
“I can’t. Not again. And I won’t leave you behind.”
“Do your job, Chimera. I taught you better.” Cavanaugh stared at her, his eyes fierce. “Move!” he shouted as he contorted suddenly and shoved her down the slope. A few seconds later, behind her, another explosion filled the air as he detonated his own fatal disc.
So the explosion registered again and again, and consciousness returned in a rush. Unsure of how much time had passed, she scrambled off the rocky shelf where she’d landed after Cavanaugh pushed her. Her legs protested as the blood struggled to circulate again. She cradled her injured arm and slid down the hillside to the small cliff leading to the cave where they had stored their gear.
Disregarding her useless, protesting arm, she shoved aside the green, prickly brush that hid the cave’s entrance. Base camp, a cave they had discovered only six days before, was a recess on the side of one of the many hills of Jafir. No more than seven feet tall and only a few feet wider, the cave served as a hiding place for spiders and less-friendly animals. She dragged herself inside, replaced the camouflaging bushes, and flicked on the portable lamp they’d suspended near the entrance. She moved to the dark packs leaning against the far wall.
She rummaged through the first pack, found the medical kit, and opened the box. Clutching a brown bottle labeled disinfectant, she flipped open the lid and poured the liquid directly into the wound on her shoulder. Chimera doused the torn shoulder again, pouring liquid along first one scratched arm and then the other, to kill whatever may have come with her on her tumble down the hill.
Fighting the nausea that threatened to overtake her, she covered the flesh wound with a bandage, securing the adhesive. After probing her skull for cuts and finding none, she placed the base of a syringe between her strong, white teeth, uncapped the hypodermic with her free hand, then plunged the needle into her injured arm. As the miracle mixture of hydrocodone, vitamin boosters, and antibiotics coursed through her veins, she pulled the palm-sized communicator from the second pack.
“Chimera to Atlas. Chimera to Atlas. Over.”
“Atlas here. Status.” A disembodied voice filled the room, urgency masked only by training.
“Repeat transmission.” The voice barked out the command.
“Jericho terminated,” came the quiet reply.
“Remains?”
“Self-destruction
as ordered.”
“Verified?”
“Verified.”
“Chimera status and ETA.”
“Chimera temporarily down. ETA six hours. Metacure.” On the other end, Atlas noted that Chimera had been injured but had initiated the medical protocol. Chimera paused, fighting the drug and the guilt. “Jericho transmitted.”
“Transmission imperative?”
“Imperative.”
“Relay.”
“Sphinx gone Lazarus. Merlin next target. Praxis alive. Four weeks.”
“Copy. Rendezvous at Eagle Point in six hours.”
“Roger. Chimera out.” And for the second time that day, she slipped into unconsciousness.
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