"Dark, gritty, sexy suspense with one hell of a hot hero." -USA Today bestseller Debra Webb
A soldier is nothing without his honor.
To avoid a dishonorable end to his decorated military career, John Noble made a deal with the devil. He gave up his name, endured harrowing training, and accepted every mission thrown at him for one purpose: redemption.
When he accepts his latest orders, providing personal security for a reporter in trouble, he bargains hard to guarantee it will be his last job for the shadow agency he knows only Unknown Identities (UI).
An ambitious reporter, Amelia Bennett, is about to break the story of her career, if she lives long enough to tell it. Caving to her boss's demand, she hires a bodyguard and soon it is obvious John Noble is the only obstacle standing between her and certain death.
Just when John believes he has found someone he can trust and love, who loves him unconditionally for who and what he has become, his orders are amended: Amelia Bennett is to be terminated.
The Unknown Identities is an alternative for elite soldiers and spies facing criminal charges... if they can survive the program.
He lifted his glass to knock back the last of the tequila, then abruptly stopped. Anticipation whispered through him, bunching his muscles in an instinctive fight-or-flight response to what he couldn’t quite see... couldn’t quite hear.
But he knew.
No amount of time or distance lessened that innate recognition.
Once a hunter, always a hunter.
Never let anyone catch you off guard.
The air in the room thickened like syrup, oozing into his nostrils but failing to fuel his lungs.
John Noble blinked and performed a quick mental assessment of just how much tequila he’d consumed.
Not enough... for this.
He surveyed the crowded tavern, noting the man at the bar in the Red Sox sweatshirt who stared at him without bothering to look away. The baseball fan allowed his gaze to linger a moment or two more then, as another patron stumbled over to join him, turned away.
Just your imagination.
Imagination or not, his senses automatically initiated a second inventory of his surroundings. Waitresses clad in ass-hugging jeans and cleavage-revealing tops continued to weave around and between the crowded tables with their precariously balanced serving trays. The Friday night revelers persisted in their sensual battle with the blaring music, bodies grinding and voices pitched for carrying across the sea of sweaty, visceral sensations. That it was only a few days before Christmas amplified the weekly rituals.
Still... something was off, out of sync. That nagging awareness just wouldn’t go away. Time felt slower. Sound grew distant, sluggish as if a killing blizzard had abruptly swept through the city, leaving a frozen wasteland between John and all else. None of the other patrons paid the slightest attention to the fact that the world around them seemed to have closed in on itself.
John tightened his grip on the shot glass and downed the tequila. With a grimace he lowered the empty tumbler to the table. It was doubtful that any action on his part would stop whatever was coming. The best he could do was brace for its arrival.
His gaze snagged on the scars on his wrists partially exposed by the cuffs of his cheap flannel shirt. Rows of twisted zeroes seared into his skin. He closed his eyes and wished away the stir of awareness that persisted. Inherently understood that it was useless.
“Good evening, John.”