The Target

Book 3: An FBI Thriller

by Catherine Coulter

Genres: Police Procedurals; Romantic Suspense; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Hoping to escape unwanted celebrity in the aftermath of a notorious incident, Ramsey Hunt settles in the Rockies, determined to bury himself in the safety of a solitary existence. But his isolation is shattered when he stumbles upon a small girl unconscious in the high-altitude forest. When strangers pursue Ramsey to his private meadow in an attempt to kill him and the girl, he's mystified that anyone would wish her harm. And the child can't shed any light on the subject: she's mute.

Molly Santera, the girl's mother, catches up with Ramsey and her daughter, mistaking her daughter's savior for a kidnapper. But soon Ramsey's real role becomes clear. With the strangers in pursuit, the trio flees to Chicago for sanctuary. Even there, however, the child's enemies prove as relentless as their motives are baffling.

With an unexpected assist from FBI agents Dillon Savich and Lacey Sherlock (last seen in The Maze), Molly and Ramsey begin to unravel the clues, and in the process they make an astonishing discovery as to the true nature of the target.

Release date: August 1, 1999

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 400

Sample

Prologue

HE SAW THE man clearly: tall, with dark clothes, a

stark figure against the misty gray sky. He was walking into

the big granite building, ugly and flat-looking, with scores

of windows that didn’t look out over much except if you

were up high. Then, suddenly, he was behind the man, just

over his shoulder, keeping pace with him, watching him

take the elevator to the nineteenth floor. He was nearly

beside him as he walked down the long corridor and opened

the door to a large office. A smiling receptionist greeted

him, laughing at something he said. He watched the man

greet two other people, a young man and a young woman,

both well dressed, both obviously subordinate to him. He

went into a large office with the man, saw a United States

flag, a huge desk with its computer on top, the built-in

bookshelves behind him, the windows beside him. He

punched up the computer. Then, he was right behind

the man; he could have reached out and helped him put on

the long black robe. He watched him fasten the two clips

closed. The man opened a door and walked into a big room,

the look on his face somber, becoming cold, all the earlier

humor wiped clean. There was a buzz. It stopped abruptly

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when he came into the room. Then the place went deathly

silent.

Suddenly the room began to spin, faces blurred into one

another, the very air of the room turned dark and darker

still, and then the great main doors burst open and three

men slammed into the room. They were carrying guns,

assault guns like Russian AK47s. They were shooting, people

were screaming, blood was spewing everywhere. He

saw the man’s face tighten with horror and fury. He saw the

man suddenly leap over the railing that had separated him

from the rest of that roomful of people, his black robe

swirling. His leg was up, he was turning, striking out, his

motion so fast it was hard to see it clearly. Someone

screamed loudly.

He was right behind the man now, heard him breathe,

could feel the controlled rage in him, the vicious tension

and determination, and wondered.

Suddenly, the man whirled about again, turning this time

to face him. He stared at himself, looked deeply into the

eyes of a man who had just killed and would kill again. He

felt the spit pool in his mouth, the coiled muscles, and felt

his arm fly out, striking a man’s throat.

He jerked up, flailing at the single sheet that was wound

tightly around him like a mummy’s shroud, a yell dying on

his lips. He was soaked with sweat, his hair plastered to his

head. His heart was pounding so fast and hard he thought

he’d explode. Again, he thought, that bloody dream yet

again. He didn’t think he could stand it.

An hour later, he let himself out of his house, carefully

locking the door behind him. He was on the way to his car

when a man jumped out of the bushes and blinded him with

a good half dozen photo flashes. It was too much.

He grabbed the photographer, hauled him up by his shirtfront,

and yelled right in his face, “You’ve gone over the

line, you little bastard.” He grabbed his camera, pulled the

film out, and threw him aside. He tossed the camera to

the man, who was lying on his back, gaping at him.

“You can’t do that!”

“I just did. Get off my property.”

The man scrambled to his feet, holding his camera to his

chest. “I’ll sue you! The public has a right to know!”

He wanted to beat the guy senseless. The urge was so

strong he was shaking with it. It was then he knew he had to

leave. Otherwise it might not stop before he went nuts and

really hurt one of the jerks. Or he simply just went nuts.