Stuart Woods' Golden Hour

Book 7: A Teddy Fay Novel

by Brett Battles

Genres: General Fiction; Action & Adventure; Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Former CIA operative Teddy Fay returns for another heart-pounding Hollywood-fueled adventure in this latest installment in the New York Times bestselling series.

Teddy Fay is ready to embark on the European press tour of Peter Barrington’s latest film Storm’s Eye, when he receives an unexpected visit from Lance Cabot, director of the CIA. Several CIA agents have been turning up dead. The commonality? They were all part of a mission Teddy was involved in: Golden Hour. Lance wants Teddy to use his trip as a cover to investigate who is behind these killings.

From Venice and Budapest to their last stop at a film festival in Berlin, Teddy must dodge excited fans, enamored women, and a few too many assassins who seem dead set on tracking down Golden Hour agents. And if Teddy doesn’t work fast enough, his identity—and life—might just be the next target in the killer’s ruthless plot for revenge.

Release date: December 3, 2024

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons

Print pages: 320

Sample

1

Dirt crunched under Tyler Storm as he was rolled onto his back.

The brute looming above him frowned, then said over his shoulder, "He ain't dead yet."

One of his buddies stepped next to him, then snorted. "He's as good as."

Bloodied and bruised, Storm cracked open his eyes. Around him stood half a dozen of Caleb Donovan's men, all looking at Storm with disdain.

"Out of the way," a familiar voice said.

The men parted and Donovan himself stepped forward and crouched beside Storm.

"Not your best day, is it?" Donovan said. "I did warn you this would happen."

A smile crept across Storm's face. "You did."

Donovan narrowed his eyes. "I don't think you fully grasp what's about to happen to you."

"You're going to kill me."

"Huh. How about that? You do understand."

Storm's grin widened.

"Are you smiling because you're thinking I'll do it fast and end your pain?" Donovan looked at him with pity. "Sorry, Storm, I have bad news for you."

A wet laugh slipped past Storm's lips.

"What's so damn funny?"

"It doesn't matter what you do to me," Storm said. "You're done."

It was Donovan's turn to laugh. He rose to his feet. "You got some balls. I'll give you that. But you couldn't be more wrong. I'm not even close to done. Soon everyone in this city will know who I-" He paused and looked around. "You guys hear that?"

The whomp-whomp-whomp of helicopter rotors began echoing off the abandoned buildings surrounding them, making it impossible to tell from which direction it came.

As Donovan twisted around looking for the source, the copter appeared above him, lighting him up with its spotlight. Dozens of police sirens could now be heard closing in.

The shot cut to Storm as his eyes fluttered closed, the smile still on his lips. The camera began to rise and the shot widened, first showing Storm surrounded by Donovan and his panicked men, then encompassing the police cars speeding in from all directions, and finally moving above the police helicopter hovering over the area.

The soundtrack hit a crescendo, and the screen went dark. After a beat, the credits began to roll.

When the film ended and the lights came on, everyone in the screening room applauded save Peter Barrington, the director of Storm's Eye, who was scribbling notes on a pad of paper.

"Fantastic," Ben Bacchetti said. He was head of Centurion Pictures, one of the film's producers, and Peter's best friend. "No question, you've done it again. People are going to love it."

"I couldn't agree more," Billy Barnett said. He was the other producer. "Peter, I think this is your best yet."

"You're just saying that because it stars Mark Weldon," Ben said.

Billy placed a hand dramatically on his chest. "Why, Ben, are you calling me biased?"

"Me? Never."

The others laughed.

Everyone in the room was a member of the very select club who knew that Billy Barnett's true identity was that of Teddy Fay, formerly of the CIA, and someone who, as far as most of the world knew, had perished several years ago.

They also knew that Billy Barnett wasn't Teddy's only alternate persona. He was also Academy Award-winning actor Mark Weldon, aka Tyler Storm in Storm's Eye.

Hattie Barrington, the film's composer and Peter's wife, eyed her husband, who was still writing in his notebook. "Why do I get the feeling you're not happy?"

Peter glanced up. "Why do you think I'm not happy?"

"That worry line on your forehead, for one."

"That obvious?"

"To me, yes."

"Well, I wouldn't say I'm not happy, but I could be happier," he conceded.

"You say that about all your films," Tessa Tweed, Ben's wife, said. She was an Oscar-winning actress herself and had starred as Tyler Storm's niece in the film.

"You do recall that you told us this would be the final cut, don't you?" Ben said.

Peter grimaced. "Yeah, about that-"

Before he could continue, Ben said, "And that we're already two weeks past when you were scheduled to have picture lock?"

"I do, but-"

"And, most importantly, the final film must be in the can before you leave for Europe in a few days."

"It's only one scene," Peter said quickly.

"Which one?"

"The confession at the house."

"I loved that part," Tessa said. "I wouldn't change a thing."

Peter shook his head. "The pacing's off."

To Billy, Ben said, "Thoughts?"

Billy considered it for a moment, then said, "It's a good scene, but if Peter thinks there's room for improvement, then I trust him."

"You're supposed to be on my side," Ben said.

"I'm on the movie's side, always and forever. Besides, there's still time for him to work his magic. And we are under budget."

"For which I thank you," Ben said.

"It's what I do."

"I promise I'll be done before we get on the plane," Peter said.

"The day before you get on the plane," Ben said.

"You don't trust me?"

"Oh, I trust you. But I also know that if the deadline is right before you board, you'll find some way to keep tweaking it during the ride to the airport."

Peter opened his mouth to argue the point, then shrugged. "You know me too well."

On that coming Sunday, Peter, Billy, Tessa, and Hattie were departing on a European press tour to promote Storm's Eye's upcoming release, finishing with the film's world premiere at the inaugural World Thriller Film Festival in Berlin. Adriene Adele, one of the film's other stars, would also be joining them.

"Question," Hattie asked, raising a hand like she was in school. "What about Tom Norman's new movie?"

Peter looked at her, confused.

"The premiere is in two nights," she reminded him. "You're taking me, remember?"

He winced. "Right. Um, sorry, sweetheart. Not sure I'll be able to make it."

She sighed. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"I have an idea," Billy said. "I was going solo, but if you wouldn't mind the company of an old movie producer, I would be honored to be your date."

"Billy, are you hitting on my wife?" Peter said.

"I wouldn't dare."

"I happily accept," Hattie said.

Peter grinned. "Thanks, Billy. If I were to choose anyone to stand in for me, it would be you."

"Excuse me, but your best friend is sitting right here," Ben said, pointing at himself.

"You'd be on that list, too. Just a few slots farther
down."

"A few slots?"

Peter shrugged and stood. "Now, if you'd all excuse me, I need to get back to work."

2

Owen Pace tugged down on the brim of his baseball cap and adjusted his wool scarf so that it covered his mouth and nose. Once satisfied, he exited the Saint-Michel Notre-Dame Metro station.

As he'd hoped, the sidewalk was packed with a mix of tourists and Parisians on their way home from work. Melding into the crowd, he entered Paris's Latin Quarter unnoticed.

He maintained his vigilance as he made his way through the quarter's warren of narrow, cobbled roads, and reached his destination without any of his internal alarms going off.

Bar Dupuy was in the basement of a centuries-old building. Owen had been there many times and knew the layout well, which was why he had suggested it as a meeting place. The long, dimly lit room was about twice as wide as the narrow alley above. Booths ran down the wall on the right, and stools lined the bar on the left. At the back was a shadowy hallway, where the restrooms and an emergency exit were located.

The only customers were all sitting at the bar. Owen ordered a whiskey and carried it to the booth closest to the back hallway, sitting so that he faced the main entrance.

The meet was set up for ten p.m., but that time came and went without the other party showing up. This was not unexpected.

Tonight was to be Owen's first meeting with a potential source. The person in question worked for the embassy of a former Soviet republic. Owen had learned that the man had become disillusioned by the corruption in his government and his president's rapid turn toward authoritarianism. Owen's hope was that he could persuade him to become an inside source for the CIA.

Cultivating these kinds of connections was Owen's specialty, so he was well aware that an aborted first meeting was not out of the ordinary.

He nursed his whiskey, giving the man extra time in case he was only running late. His stomach began to rumble, and he cursed himself for not picking up something to eat earlier.

He checked his watch. It was nearly ten-thirty. He'd waited long enough. He tipped back the rest of his whiskey and pushed himself out of his booth.

But the moment he stood his bowels twisted into a knot. He doubled over and grabbed the table to keep from falling.

"You all right, my friend?" the bartender asked.

"Something I ate, I think." Owen tried to recall what that could have been, but he was having a hard time concentrating.

"Do you want some water?"

Owen shook his head. "I just need to-"

He was hit with a cramp so intense he had to sit back down.

The bartender hurried over. "You don't look good."

Owen could feel the sweat beading on his forehead as he tried to ride out the cramp. Gritting his teeth, he whispered, "Toilet."

The bartender helped him to his feet and guided him into the back hallway.

Owen shuffled forward, unable to focus on anything but the pain in his gut.

A door opened, and he assumed they'd reached the men's room. But then another pair of hands grabbed him and pulled him forward. The next thing he knew, he was moving up a set of stairs.

He tried to look around and see what was happening, but between the darkness and his inability to open his eyes beyond slits, all he could see were shadows.

With as much strength as he could muster, he whispered, "What's . . . going on?"

Someone leaned next to his ear and said, "Payback."

Owen felt a prick in his arm, and within moments, his world went black.


The sedan pulled in behind the row of police vehicles, and the driver killed the engine.

"Would you like me to check first?" he asked.

Rick La Rose shook his head. "I've got this."

The CIA's Paris Station Chief climbed out and made his way toward a group of floodlights set up at the edge of a pond, thirty yards from the road.

An officer near the front of the park put up a hand and said, "I'm sorry, sir. This area is currently closed to the public. Please return to your vehicle."

Rick flashed his ID and said in French, "I'm expected."

"One moment." The officer spoke softly into his radio, then waved Rick through.

Several cops were huddled in conversation near the pond. As Rick approached, a woman broke from the group and intercepted him.

"Monsieur La Rose," she said. "I am Ann de Coster, DGSI." DGSI was the acronym for France's internal security agency.

They shook hands.

"Sorry to have you come out in the middle of the night like this," she said.

"Not your fault. Part of the job. The body?"

"This way."

She led him to a body bag that lay on the grass.

"Shall I open it?" she asked.

"Please."

She unzipped it halfway but hesitated before pulling it open. "It is not pleasant."

"Death seldom is."

"More than usual."

"I understand."

She separated the halves, exposing the body from head to stomach.

While bruises and cuts vied for space on the man's torso and face, it was the slice across his throat that undoubtedly ended his life. Even with all the damage, however, there was no question that the victim was Owen Pace.

"One of yours?" de Coster asked.

"He is."

"I am sorry."

"Thank you. Was he searched?"

"He was."

"May I see?"

"Of course."

She led him to a portable table on which sat a clear plastic bag holding Owen's belongings. Without opening the bag, Rick pushed the items around so tha he could see everything-a thin wallet, some coins, a few hundred euros, keys, and a business card.

It was this final item that caused his jaw to tense. The only thing on the card was a stylized letter T printed in black.

Rick had been right to come here himself.

He turned back to de Coster. "Thank you."

"The police will have to process the body," she said.

"I understand. If you could ask them to contact my office as soon as it's released, I'd appreciate it."

"I will."

When he returned to his car, his driver asked, "Home?"

"I'm afraid my day's begun already."

"The office, then."

"Please."

Rick raised the privacy divider and called CIA Director Lance Cabot.

"Is it Pace?" Lance asked.

"Yes."

"And?"

"The business card was there."

"So there's no chance his death is a coincidence."

"None whatsoever."

"Then we have a serious problem."


After hanging up with Rick La Rose, Lance pondered how to proceed. A conventional route, using only Agency resources, would be the safest bet. But safe meant slow, and in this case, slow meant more deaths, likely many more.

There was a potentially quicker way of ending the assassinations of his people. If successful, it could drastically cut down the number of dead. The only problem was it would mean involving someone no longer associated with the CIA, a man who might not be keen on working with Lance.

Lance would need help convincing him, and as luck would have it, he knew just who to call.

The man answered on the first ring. "Stone Barrington."

"Stone, it's Lance. Do you have a moment?"

3

"Tessa! Tessa! Over here!"

Tessa paused and waved at the gathered press as they took pictures.

"Tessa! This way!"

A red-carpet pro, Tessa swiveled smoothly from side to side so everyone could get a perfect shot of her in her Veronica De Piante dress.

"Over here! Hey, Tessa!"

"We may be here a while," Billy whispered to Ben and Hattie.

They were standing several feet away to give Tessa the spotlight. While they, too, were award-winning celebrities in their own right, the press would take a superstar actress over a composer, a producer, and a studio head any day of the week.

After a few more shots, one of the publicists working the line ushered the trio over to Tessa for a few group pics.

Another PR person then guided them farther down the carpet to a reporter from Glitter Entertainment, who was just finishing up interviewing one of the costars of Not on My Watch, the movie they were here to see. Behind the reporter was a roped-off area filled with excited fans.