"Take it from me, getting yourself shot hurts like hell." When the latest assignment for ex-Special Forces soldier turned bodyguard Charlie Fox, ends in a bloody shootout in a frozen forest of New Hampshire, she's left fighting for her life, with her client dead. Simone Kerse had just become a lottery millionaire but never lived long enough to enjoy her riches. Charlie was supposed to keep Simone's troublesome ex-boyfriend at bay and accompany her on a trip to track down the father Simone had never really known-a relatively low-risk job.But Simone's father has secrets in his past that are about to come back and haunt him, and the arrival of his long-lost daughter may be the catalyst that blows his whole world apart. But the closer Charlie gets to the truth, the bigger threat she becomes. Only this time she's in no fit state to protect anyone, least of all herself…
Writing this book would not have been possible but for the patience and understanding of a number of very special people who allowed me to pick their brains without a murmur. They are, in no particular order, fellow mystery author D. P. Lyle, M.D., for his superb detailed medical information; other fellow mystery authors Fred Rea and James O. Born, for gun stuff and for U.S. law enforcement info; gunshot wound survivor Mick Botterill, for his unique insights; fellow mystery author and lawyer Randall Hicks, for legal info and for attempting to keep me straight on some of my accidental Britishisms; and friend Lucette Nicol, for filling in some of the bits of Boston I’d forgotten. As always, if it’s wrong, it’s probably my invention.
Other answers to probably stupid questions were given freely, and with grace, by Barbara Franchi, MaryEllen Stagliano, and Jann Briesacher, as well as a number of the enthusiastic contributors to the DorothyL Web site. Thank you all for your invaluable assistance.
My thanks, too, to the staff at the White Mountain Hotel, and Jonathon’s Seafood Restaurant in North Conway, New Hampshire, and the Boston Harbor Hotel in Boston, for generously allowing me to set parts of the action in these outstanding locations.
As always, my advance readers were ferocious and vigilant. Thanks go to Judy Bobalik, Peter Doleman, Claire Duplock, Sarah Harrison and Tim Winfield for not flinching, even when I did.
I am forever indebted to my wonderful agent, Jane Gregory, and to Emma Dunford and all the team at Gregory amp; Company Authors’Agents for
Also, to the indefatigable Marcia Markland, Diana Szu, and all the staff at St. Martin’s Minotaur, especially those in sales and marketing, who work so hard to make this book a reality in the United States. And to Susie Dunlop and all at Allison amp; Busby, for picking up the baton with such energy and style in the UK.
Some extraordinarily talented and generous people deserve thanks for lending more than their share of support to this book when they didn’t have to. Above and beyond. I’m speechless other than to list their names-masters of their art Ken Bruen and Lee Child, and the incomparable Jon and Ruth Jordan at
But, of course, the biggest thanks of all go to my husband, Andy, who helps more than he will ever know, every step of the way.
Finally, a special mention goes to Frances L. Neagley, who made the generous successful bid in the charity auction in support of the Youth Literacy Program run by Centro Romero-held at the Bouchercon mystery convention in Chicago, 2005 — to have her name used as a character in this book. You are included with great pleasure.
Take it from me, getting yourself shot hurts like hell.
Not like absorbing a punch, or breaking a bone, but that full blown, relentless, ripped-inside kind of pain. The kind where I prayed for oblivion and yet feared the darkness more than anything I’d ever known.
I’d taken one 9mm round through the fleshy part of my left thigh and another through the back of my right shoulder. The first shot was nasty, but it was a through-and-through, passing clean in and out of the muscle apparently without hitting anything vital. Yes, I was bleeding and it burned like a bastard. But under normal circumstances-like reasonably prompt medical assistance-it was not liable to be a life threatener.
The second shot was the one that worried me. The bullet had plowed into my scapula, twelve grams of lead and copper traveling at roughly 280 meters a second. It had hit plenty hard enough to put me on the ground and deflected off to God knows where inside my body.
The whole of my torso was screaming. When I coughed I tasted blood in my mouth and knew that, whatever other damage it had done, the round had penetrated my lung. I had a vivid mental picture of it still slowly progressing, maybe in a slow-motion tumble, contaminating whatever soft tissue it passed through, like a cancer.
The good news was that I was still conscious, my heart still pumping, my brain still functioning, more or less. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t still going to kill me, given time.
And, one way or another, time was not on my side.
Right now I was lying on my belly in the bottom of a snow-crusted shallow ditch, bleeding into the dirty trickle of icy water that had collected there, and trying to decide if I really was prepared to die here or not.
“I know you’re out there!” shouted a distant voice in the trees farther up the mountain. “I know you can hear me!”
