The #1 bestselling author delivers the first in a trilogy that will begin to answer questions that have haunted her legion of fans for over a decade, in her newest novel of breathtaking suspense
Eve Duncan’s mission in life is to bring closure to the families who have experienced the agony of a missing child. As a forensic sculptor, she is able to piece together bones, create a face, and bring an identity to a child who would have otherwise gone unidentified…maybe forever. Eve is brilliant, and driven, and tormented--because her own daughter, Bonnie, was taken from her years ago. And Eve has never discovered what happened to her. But now a name from the past resurfaces, thanks to CIA agent Catherine Ling who knows all too well what it’s like to lose a child.
After teaming up with Agent Ling to find her missing son, Eve and Catherine share a bond forged by their mutual pain. Now, Catherine challenges Eve with a name: John Gallo. A man from Eve’s past. A man, seemingly raised from the dead, whose whereabouts are unknown. Could Gallo be the missing piece to the puzzle that has haunted Eve for years? Why was he in Atlanta just before Bonnie’s disappearance? With a brilliant narrative that goes back to Eve Duncan’s early life, exploring her history and motivations like no other novel before, Eve reveals long-guarded secrets and is guaranteed to leave Johansen fans panting for more—soon to come in Quinn (October 2011).<
Iris Johansen is the New York Times bestselling author of Chasing the Night, Blood Game, and Eight Days to Live, among others. She began writing after her children left home for college, and first achieved success in the early 1980s writing category romances. In 1991, she began writing suspense historical romance novels, and in 1996 she turned to crime fiction, with which she has had great success. She lives near Atlanta, Georgia.<
"Gripping ... explosive finale."--Publishers Weekly "With events coming to a terrifying head, Johansen is on track to deliver a truly unforgettable trilogy!"--RT Book Reviews (Top Pick!)<
Malua, SamoaPresent Day
TWO MINUTES.
The explosive was in place beneath the back veranda of the house. The charge set.
Agent Art Benkman slid behind the garden wall that surrounded the pool and house and waited.
No mistakes this time. His superior wouldn't tolerate another near miss. It had been made clear that Black must be destroyed. He was a monster who knew too much.
No, he'd seen Paul Black go into the house an hour ago. It was the best time for the kill. Only one person in the house beside that son of a bitch. A housekeeper who occupied the end bedroom of the rambling bungalow. He'd seen her light go out two hours ago. She'd be asleep by now.
Good night.
And good-bye.
No one would survive this blast. He'd had to be sure.
One minute.
The flames from the blast would probably reach the top of those palm trees hovering over the roof.
"I've got you, Black," he murmured. "Burn in--"
Pain.
He was flipped over and was looking up at the man who had sent the needle- sharp stiletto deep into his back.
Black. But it couldn't be Paul Black. He was in the house.
No, he was here. That dark, devil's face . . .
"Who sent you?" Black asked. "Who told you I was here?" He was searching in Benkman's pockets, pulling out his wallet, and the e-mail that he'd received two days ago. He glanced at it and smiled. "Very explicit. And you obeyed blindly like a good agent? Never mind. You don't have to answer. I don't need you now."
"Kill you . . ." Benkman whispered. "I have to--"
"Die," Black supplied as he picked up Benkman as if he were a child. "That's all you have to do." He was carrying him over to the house. "How do you feel about cremation?"
"No!" He started to struggle as panic overcame pain. "Don't leave me here. It's going to--"
"Blow?" Black dropped him on the floor of the great room. "In about forty seconds." He looked down at him. "Why don't you see if you can make it through the French doors and out onto the terrace? You might survive then." He turned and strolled out of the house.
Bastard.
Benkman rolled over and started to crawl toward the French doors.
Pain.
The blood was pouring out of the wound as he moved.
Weak.
The blood was slippery . . .
He was dying.
No, he'd be okay. He was always okay. He just had to get out of this damn house.
So slow. He was moving so slow.
He reached the French doors. Now crawl out onto the veranda. He was almost there . . .
And then he saw Black stand
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