James W. Hall
When her parents were murdered, Hannah Keller was 3,000 miles away, on leave from her job with the Miami Police Department. Her family's only survivor on that deadly day was Hannah's six-year-old son Randall. While fishing on the dock behind his grandparents' house, the boy glimpsed the killers, and later discovered his grandparents' bullet-riddled bodies. Five years later the trauma of that day still haunts the boy. He lives in terror that the killers will return for him. Hannah is no longer a cop but now works full time as a novelist, and is trying to do whatever she can to heal her son's wounds. But when she receives a coded message apparently from her parents' killers, the entire episode explodes again. Teaming up with a maverick FBI agent from the Miami field office, Hannah begins to track the killer. As she moves deeper into the labyrinth, she discovers, to her horror, that she and her son are being used as pawns in an elaborate scheme - a trap designed to catch one of the world's deadliest assassins. Hannah and Randall become entangled in a bitter feud, a burning vendetta, and the mind of a bloodthirsty professional killer.
standoff.” She had a small silver pistol pressed to the side of Randall’s head. “Hold on, Randall, it’s going to be all right,” said Hannah. “Trust me. Everything’s going to be just fine.” The boy opened his mouth to reply but no sound escaped him and he shut it again. He was swaying as if to music only he could hear. “Put your piece down now,” Misty said. “Or I’ll drop the boy.” Randall’s gaze drifted left and right as though the music he was hearing was sending him into a swoon. Hannah
he said to her. He could tell from her look that this wasn’t the right response. He nodded and smiled. That usually worked when he’d made a mistake. Or sometimes he shrugged. At that moment the desk clerk’s phone rang and she answered it. Hal stood there a few seconds longer, then turned and went back to the elevator. Hal looked at himself in the mirrored walls of the elevator. He was wearing jeans and a white button-down shirt. His hair was cut very short. He wasn’t good-looking or
listless voice. “You didn’t come say hi. What’s wrong?” “I didn’t want to interrupt your writing.” “You can interrupt me anytime you want, Randall. You know that. I like it when you interrupt me.” A blade of sunlight from the west window cut across his desk and lit up the side of his face and she could see the faint dusting of peach fuzz on his cheek. He was going to have a beard as downy and inconsequential as his dad’s. “How was school? You do okay on that English composition?” “I got a
passed the EMS truck on their way out of the lot. She swerved into traffic, headed east to the Palmetto Expressway, gunned it up the ramp faster than she needed to, burning some rubber. Frank looked over at her, tightened his seat belt, but said nothing. She jumped into the speed lane and stayed ahead of the traffic till the expressway ended and emptied out onto Dixie Highway. “Okay, okay, so you’re a tough cookie. I’m convinced.” “Am I scaring you, Frank?” “Scared isn’t the word I would’ve
past was locate someone and kill them. But this was far more complicated and Hal was starting to tire. Starting to feel a knot of muscle tighten inside his head. Then he thought of Misty Fielding, and he felt the knot relax. He thought of her some more and the pressure continued to ease. All the way across the city of Miami, Hal saw Misty’s green eyes staring at him out of the dark. TWENTY-FOUR Hannah took a long, hot shower in Frank’s tiny bathroom. After drying off and slipping into a