Verwandte Artikel zu Nameless

Nameless - Softcover

Webb, Debra

 
9780312942236: Nameless
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0312942230 ISBN 13: 9780312942236
Verlag: Tor Books, 2008

Inhaltsangabe

The victim herself of a vicious kidnapping, rookie FBI agent Vivian Grace is on a personal mission to hunt down a ruthless child kidnapper, joining forces with Ryan McBride, an ex-agent who had become the scapegoat of an investigation gone horribly wrong, to solve the case. By the author of Traceless. Original.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Debra Webb is the bestselling author of Traceless, Everywhere She Turns, Anywhere She Runs, Missing and Safe by His Side. Born in Alabama, Webb wrote her first story at age nine and her first romance at thirteen. But it wasn’t until she spent three years working for the military behind the Iron Curtain—and a five-year stint with NASA—that she realized her true calling. A collision course between suspense and romance was set. Webb lives with her family and two dogs in Alabama.

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WHAT SHE DOES NOT KNOW
KEEPS HAUNTING HER.

Vivian Grace is an FBI rookie on a mission: To hunt down a kidnapper with all her heart. Because for Vivian, herself a victim of a vicious kidnapping years ago, this case is about more than justice. This time, it s personal.

WHAT HE KNOWS

COULD DESTROY THEM BOTH.

Ryan McBride is an ex-agent who was scapegoated three years ago for a kidnapping case gone fatally wrong. Since then, he has been drinking himself into oblivion, trying to forget the past. Until Vivian shows up at his door and knocks him head-first into the present. Someone is using his and Vivian s darkest secrets against them and time is running out for the victims...

The only one who knows the truth is Nameless

A riveting entanglement of intrigue, secrets, and passions that had me racing to its breathless end. USA Today bestselling author Karen Rose on Traceless

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter 1

Waking up dead would have been preferable to waking up with this screaming throb inside his skull.

Ryan McBride cracked open his eyes and blinked to focus. Morning light barged into his bedroom through the slits in the blinds. “Damn.” He licked his lips and swallowed back the shitty taste in his mouth.

A few seconds passed before he dared to sit up, and still he regretted the move. He reached for his half-empty pack of Marlboros and parked a cigarette in one corner of his mouth then lit it. Gratefully inhaling the noxious chemicals necessary for tolerating his continued existence, he stifled a coughing jag.

Die, you son of a bitch. Cigarettes were doing their part. The irony was if he’d given one damn about living, he’d be dead by now.

He got up, waited for the room to stop spinning before taking a step. A muffled sigh drew his bleary gaze back to the bed. He scratched his bare chest. Who was the redhead tangled in his sheets? With effort he vaguely recalled picking her up at the club. Barbie or Becky. Something like that.

Maybe he’d think of her name later. Right now he had to take a major piss. He ambled into the bathroom wishing he hadn’t consumed enough alcohol to totally erase his memory, since he couldn’t recall bringing anyone home—not even himself. Just one of the many bad habits he’d acquired since moving to the Keys. A hazard of the job. Mingling, blending in. Then again, if he drank enough he slept like the dead and he didn’t have to worry about dreaming.

Even the thought of the dreams that haunted his sober nights made his gut clench. His hand shook as he took another drag from his cigarette. Blocking the nightmares required the drinking that resulted in mornings like this.

Considering his downward spiral during the three years since his career at the Bureau abruptly ended, he had decided that, in his case, FBI stood for Fucking Bad Idea. It was a shame it had taken him ten years of active duty to realize that. Just in time to be fired by the biggest prick carrying a badge.

There were some things a man just couldn’t get past.

Ryan McBride, this is your life.

What a monumental waste of air space.

More of that damned battering at his skull had him closing his eyes and trying hard to calm the assault between his temples.

Wait a minute.

He struggled to focus enough brainpower to isolate a source.

The pounding wasn’t in his head . . . it was at his front door.

He tossed the butt of his cigarette into the toilet then flushed it. Moving slowly to maintain his equilibrium, he followed the trail of abandoned clothing across the bedroom and along the length of the hall. He gave up on finding his boxers but managed to locate his jeans just in time for more of that confounded banging. Dragging them on, he stumbled toward the door, wrenched it open, and glared at the person waiting on the other side.

Female.

Her perfume’s subtle fragrance resuscitated his sluggish senses. The tailored navy suit, buttoned-to-the-throat white blouse, and rigid posture told him two things right off the bat: professional and uptight.

“Ryan McBride?”

She knew his name. That couldn’t be good.

He sagged against the doorjamb, exhausted from the effort of surviving a category IV drunk, and measured his visitor with an assessing look. Dark brown hair cinched in a French twist. Oh yeah, definitely uptight. Wide brown eyes lacking any sign of weariness or cynicism and devoid of the slightest hint of crow’s-feet. Young, early twenties maybe. Despite the inexperience her age gave away, her determined bearing told him she’d come prepared for battle. The idea stirred his curiosity even as he reminded himself that her appearance at his door had to mean trouble.

“Are you Ryan McBride?” she repeated firmly, drawing his full interest to her mouth.

Nice lips. Voluptuous, pillowy. Made him think of hot, raunchy sex.

“Depends on who’s asking.” He’d spent all that time checking her out and she hadn’t once allowed her attention to stray from his eyes. Talk about discipline. Uptight and a control freak.

As if she’d read his mind, she squared her shoulders and drew in an impatient breath. The movement accentuated the slight bulge beneath her jacket he hadn’t noticed before. On the left of her torso just above her waist.

Well, well. The lady was a cop.

What the hell else did he not remember about last night?

“I’m Special Agent Vivian Grace. I need to speak with you on an urgent matter. May I come inside?”

A fed. Perfect. Before he could come up with some profound statement that would clarify his position on what the Bureau could do with their need to talk or anything else, a sultry, feminine voice called out from behind him, “Who’s at the door, baby?”

The redhead he’d left in his bed, dressed in slut-tight jeans and a hoochie-mama blouse, appeared next to him. She smiled for the agent, whose disapproval was written all over her lovely, prim face.

“I can come back in half an hour,” Agent Grace offered crisply.

“Don’t trouble yourself, honey.” The redhead leaned in and kissed his stubbled jaw. “I gotta go anyway.” She dragged her French-manicured fingers down his bare chest as she backed out the door, forcing the agent to step aside. “Call me, baby.”

He watched her strut off toward the yellow Mustang parked next to his aging Land Rover, purse and strappy sandals dangling from her hands. The wicked sway of her hips jogged his memory as to why he’d picked her out of the crowd last night.

Bonnie? Betty? He didn’t have a clue.

McBride straightened away from the jamb. “I need a smoke.” He left Grace standing at the door and went in search of his cigarettes. For about three seconds he contemplated calling Quantico and asking what the hell they meant sending some baby agent-in-training down here to harass him.

Vivian Grace couldn’t be more than twenty-four, twenty-five tops. Probably hadn’t even finished her in-service probationary period. He flicked his lighter, sucked hard, and held the smoke deep in his lungs, mulling over what she’d said. What the hell urgent matter could the Bureau need to discuss with him? Had one of his old cases gone active again? That was doubtful. Every damned case he’d worked was closed with the perp or perps serving time or dead and the victim recovered safely.

Except one.

Pushing the memory aside, he decided there was only one way to find out why she was here. He wandered back to where he’d left her. She hadn’t moved. The good little agent doing her sworn duty, braced and ready for battle.

If this was going to be complicated, he needed a little bracing of his own. “I won’t be any good to either of us until I’ve had coffee,” he warned.

She didn’t object so he headed for the kitchen. If she wanted to continue with whatever she had to say she would follow. The front door creaked closed and her heels clacked on the hardwood.

Persistent, he liked that in a woman.

He scooped the grounds into the basket, added the water and flipped the switch. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee instantly began to fill the air, signaling relief was on the...

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Verlag
Tor Books
Erscheinungsdatum
2008
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0312942230
ISBN 13 
9780312942236
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
335
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Verantwortliche Person
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