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Overview
"The United States refuses to negotiate with terrorists." Meg Moore remembered the warning from her job as a translator in a European embassy. Those same words will spell out a death sentence for her daughter and grandmother who have been kidnapped by a lethal group called the Extremists. Meg will do anything to meet their unspeakable demands; anything—even kill—to save her child.
When Navy SEAL Lieutenant, junior grade, John Nilsson is summoned to Washington, D.C., by the FBI to help negotiate a hostage situation, the last person he expects to see holding a foreign ambassador at gunpoint is Meg. He hasn't seen her in years, but he's never forgotten how it feels to hold her in his arms. John could lose his career if he helps her escape. She will lose her life if he doesn't. . . .
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780804119535 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Random House Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 02/27/2001 |
| Series: | Troubleshooters Series , #2 |
| Edition description: | Reissue |
| Pages: | 416 |
| Product dimensions: | 4.10(w) x 6.80(h) x 1.20(d) |
About the Author
Hometown:
Boston, MADate of Birth:
1960Education:
Attended Boston UniversityWebsite:
http://suzannebrockmann.comRead an Excerpt
Meg didn't understand at first.
The man was smiling, and his pleasant expression and tone of voice didn't match his words. "We've taken your daughter hostage."
She was in the parking garage beneath her condo, hauling a box of files from the back of her car, when he approached her. She wasn't even a hundred feet away from Ramon, the building's security guard.
The smiling man must've seen the confusion in her eyes, be-cause he said it again. In a Kazbekistani dialect. "We have your daughter, and if you don't follow our orders, we'll kill her."
And this time, Meg understood. Amy. She dropped the box.
"Everything okay over there, Ms. Moore?" Ramon was down off his stool, starting toward them. There'd recently been a rape in another parking garage in this part of Washington,
DC.
"Tell him yes," the smiling man murmured, opening his baseball jacket, giving her a flash of a very deadly looking gun.
Oh, God. "Where is she?"
"If I don't make a phone call to my associates within the next hour, she's dead," he told her as he bent down to pick up the box. "My associates are Kazbekistani Extremists."
Terrorists. But not just regular terrorists. The Extremists were religious zealots, capable of terrible violence and cruelty,
all in the name of their god. And they had Amy.
Oh, God.
"Everything's fine," Meg called to the guard, her voice shaking only slightly.
"We're old college friends." The man turned his friendly smile on Ramon. "I thought I recognized Meggie. I didn't mean to appear before her like the ghost of Christmas past,
though, and scare her half to death."
Ramon's hand was on the gun holstered at his waist. He smiled politely, but his dark brown gaze was on Meg. "Ms.
Moore?"
Help.
She'd prepared for situations like this, back when she was working at the American embassy in Kazbekistan, an Eastern
European country also know as K-stan or "the Pit" to the Americans who served time there. During her stay, she was reminded regularly that the United States didn't negotiate with terrorists. The best solution was preventive—stay safe, stay secure, stay away from dangerous persons and situations.
It was a little late for that now—although who would have thought a K-stani terrorist would show up here in Washing-ton,
all these years later?
Meg knew what she should do in this situation. She should enlist Ramon's help while this man held her box of files, while his hands were full and he couldn't easily reach for his gun. She should be a strong American and refuse to negotiate with terrorists. She should seek help from the FBI.
Who, no matter how good they were, wouldn't be able to find her ten-year-old daughter within the next sixty minutes.
After which time Amy would be killed.
Meg forced a smile. American be damned. She was playing this one out as Amy's very frightened mother. "It's all right, Ramon," she lied. "We're . . . old friends."
"How about I carry this upstairs for you?" The man continued the charade. His English was remarkably good—he had only the faintest of accents. "We could talk about old times over a cup of coffee."
"Great." She smiled again at Ramon, who watched them all the way over to the elevators.
"Where is she?" Meg hissed from behind her frozen smile. "Where's Amy? And what about my grandmother?"
Amy had planned to take her great-grandmother, Eve, to the
Smithsonian while Meg picked up these files she'd been hired to translate. Meg hadn't been sure exactly who was the baby-sitter—the ten-year-old or the seventy-five-year-old.
"The old lady's your grandmother." He nodded as he pressed the elevator's call button. "I thought she was too old to be your mother. We've got her, too."
Meg felt a rush of relief. At least Eve was with Amy. At least Amy wasn't alone and terrified and . . . "I don't under-stand.
I'm not rich, and—"
"We don't want your money." The elevator doors opened and he stood back, politely letting her on first—the perfect terrorist gentleman. "We want you to do us a little favor."
Oh, God.
"You frequently do business at the Kazbekistani embassy across town, right?"
Oh, mighty God. The doors slid closed, but she kept her smile in place. Ramon would be watching through the security cameras.
"I only work as a consultant, a translator. It's never, I
never . . ."
He pushed the button for twelve. Somehow this man she'd never seen before knew she and Amy lived on the twelfth floor.
Meg took a deep breath and tried again. "Look, I'm not allowed into any areas inside the embassy that contain confidential information or—"
"We don't want you to spy for us. We already have an agent in place inside the embassy for that purpose." He laughed and it wasn't purely for the cameras. This man was enjoying him-self,
amused by her fear.
A fear that morphed hotly into anger as she turned her back to the security camera. "Then what do you want, damn it? How do I even know you've got Amy and Eve?"
The elevator doors opened at the twelfth floor. He stepped back, again to let her go first. "If you like, we'll send you the old lady's head in a box—"
"No!" Oh, God.
He laughed again. "Then I guess you've just got to trust me, don't you, Meggie?"
Meg's hands were shaking so badly, she couldn't get her key into the lock.
He shifted the box to one arm and a hip as he gently took her key ring from her, opened the door, and pushed her in-side,
following her into her living room. "I'm afraid I can't be as trusting," he continued, setting her box next to the couch. "After we discuss strategy and negotiate terms, I'm going to drive with you over to the embassy. I know it's after five, but there's a function tonight. Nothing formal. You can wear jeans. In fact, I want you to wear jeans. With those boots you have. What are they called? Cowboy boots. Or should it be cowgirl boots?"
"Negotiate terms?" Meg didn't give a damn what she wore. "What terms?"
"Well, it's actually a pretty simple negotiation with only one or two minor points. But the bottom line is that if you want to see your daughter and grandmother again, you'll do what we tell you to do. If you don't . . ."
"I do."
"Good." He crossed to the windows, pulled the curtains.
"Once you're in the embassy, our inside agent will keep an eye on you. If you make any attempt to get help or to contact the authorities at any time, we will kill your daughter. Have absolutely no doubt about that."
His smile was gone.
Meg nodded. She didn't doubt him. After living and working in Kazbekistan for years, she knew quite well what the Extremists were capable of.
"What do you want me to do?"