Sep 18 2012 1:00pm

Father Night: New Excerpt

Eric van Lustbader

An excerpt of Father Night, a spy thriller in the Jack McClure/Alli Carson series by Eric Van Lustbader (available September 18, 2012).

At the end of the excerpt, registered commenters also have a chance to enter to win copies of Eric Van Lustbader’s First Daughter and Last Snow, so read on!

A tidal wave of reform is sweeping across the Middle East. Many lurk in the shadows, eager to seize power—giants of a vast criminal underworld, fueled by vengeance. Their wars know no end.  Their power knows no bounds. 

At the center of it all are two men who are inches away from holding the world in their hands: one is Dyadya Gourdjiev and the other is known only as the Syrian.

Department of Defense special agent Jack McClure has followed this trail of shadows and lies right into the arms of Gourdjiev’s alluring, powerful granddaughter, Annika Dementiev. The lovers are in Moscow when news of Dyadya’s failing health draws a slew of vultures—circling, anxious to seize the empire of secrets he spent a lifetime building. Jack and Annika find themselves locked in battle to ensure his safety . . . but when it comes to Dyadya, nothing is as it seems.

Alli Carson, the child of a dead U.S. president, has become Jack’s surrogate daughter. While Jack is in Russia, Alli is targeted by a cyber-stalker who knows more about her than anyone should. With no one to trust but her friend, Vera Bard, Alli is determined to discover the truth, but her path forces her to come face-to-face with the nightmarish terror of her past.

As these two stories play out, Secretary of Defense Dennis Paull, with the help of detectives Nona Heroe and Alan Fraine, follows a trail of lies, corruption, and secret pacts that begins with Washington D.C.’s Head of Detectives.

 All paths collide at the feet of one man, an old legend adapting to an ever-changing landscape . . . a man history might have forsaken, but whose heinous evil is still very much alive: Father Night.

December 4

Moonlight, and what comes after. The Moskva River shimmered in moonlight. Jack McClure and Annika Dementieva stood on her balcony looking out at snow-covered Red Square. The onion domes gleamed in floodlit splendor. The French doors of Annika’s second-floor apartment were thrown open, despite the icy chill. Somewhere beyond Moscow, the stars were out. A crescent moon rode high overhead.

The night sounds of the city were drowned out by Annika’s laptop, in split-screen mode, tuned in to both CNN and Al Jazeera. Competing talking heads, one in English, the other in Arabic, were proclaiming the continued rise and spread of what had quickly been dubbed the “Arab Spring,” started when the corrupt Mubarak regime in Egypt was ousted by a coalition made up of shopkeepers, teachers, students, doctors, me­chanics, bus and taxi drivers, and housewives—everyone, in fact, clamor­ing, it seemed, for an end to dictatorship and a start to democracy.

“It won’t last. A new beginning, indeed,” Annika scoffed as she went inside to stare at her laptop screen. “It all sounds so rosy now, every­one, Christian and Muslim, getting along, but it won’t last.”

“How cynical you are.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Merely realistic. Every regime in the Middle East is corrupt, it’s simply a matter of degree.”

Jack tried to get her back outside, but she was too wrapped in her feelings.

She pointed. “Look at them. No one knows what they’re talking about. Now that the Muslim Brotherhood has won the election, how long do you think it will take until the army starts muscling in, trying to regain the traditional power it’s lost? The Brotherhood knows what I know. Those other factions could never get along; they’ll continue to fight and tear each other apart. The Brotherhood was quick to move into the power vacuum.”

She turned to look at Jack. “I despised Mubarak, but one thing you could say in his favor, he kept the Brotherhood from insinuating them­selves into the fabric of Egypt’s government.”

“The price was high,” Jack said. “Instead of the Brotherhood, the Egyptian military insinuated itself into the fabric of not only Egypt’s government, but its economy as well.”

“There’s no good answer here.” Annika shook her head. “When it comes to the Middle East, there never will be. Mark my words, a feed­ing frenzy for power is going to erupt not only in Egypt, but through­out the Middle East.”

Jack closed the browser and shut down the computer. “That’s enough of feeling helpless for tonight.”

Annika smiled, first slyly, then more broadly. “Who says I feel help­less?”

As he slid his arms around her waist, she said, “There is no good answer, you know.”

He kissed her. “That’s why . . .” He kissed her again. “We’re tabling this discussion . . .” And again. “For the rest of the night.”

“There is an answer, you know,” she murmured into his mouth, “but it isn’t good.”

A high-low siren wailed like a muezzin, approaching along the em­bankment, before slowly fading away. They heard the hiss of car tires on the road below, and, once, the sharp, demented shout of a drunk, terri­fied of the demons in his head.

Jack backed her up against the wall. The prints on both sides of them trembled, then rattled. He kissed her hard, and she responded in kind. One of her legs drew up, her bare calf running up the outside of his leg. He rocked her like the sea.

“You should not even be here.”

When she spoke, her scent wafted over him, cloves and orange and a peculiar spice all her own.

“You should be with your American friends.” Her lips parted and her tongue flicked out. “With your American boss.”

“And yet I’m here with you.”

“Why? Why are you with me?” The tip of her tongue traced the outer whorls of his ear. “I am a Russian, and a murderer.”

“We’re all murderers.” His voice was thick with desire.

Her palms pressed against his shoulders as he pinned her to the wall. “You know that’s not true.”

“But it is. For us, killing is as much a part of life as eating or breath­ing.”

“Or making love.” Hips insinuating themselves.

“No. Making love is entirely different.”

“How?” Her lips slid down the side of his neck. “How is it differ­ent? Tell me.”

“When we’re together, making love, we’re different. We’re better people.”

“Only for a time—the space of a breath.” She took his hands, placed them on her buttocks. “Or a sigh.” She sighed deeply, an ecstatic explo­sive.

“Even that is enough.” He pulled the fullness of her hips into him. “My fear is that we will become like those before us. Living in the shad­ows, at the edges of society, gives us certain privileges, privileges that feed our egos, inflate them, until we believe that we are beyond the law.”

She unbuckled his belt. “But, darling, we are beyond the law.”

He unbuttoned her Shantung silk blouse. “Humans, unconstrained, are prone to develop criminal tendencies.”

Her fingertips traced a line from just below his navel down to his groin. “Those tendencies were there all the time.”

He smiled into the hollow of her throat, dizzy with her scent. “A fundamental illness in the human spirit, a cruelty, a capacity for killing without remorse.”

She moved against him, slithering her thighs open farther, pressing the center of herself against him with little grunts of lust. “This isn’t the time.”

“It’s the only time.” Cupping the back of her head, Jack tilted her up, pressing his lips against hers, feeling them soft beneath his, opening, their tongues twining. He drew back, slowly, reluctantly, because what he had to tell her was an urgency in the pit of his stomach, and needed to be said before their combined desire overwhelmed it and everything else.

“These moments together, no matter how brief, have to be enough to prove to us that we can go on with this life we’ve chosen.” He stared at her bare breasts, his hands seeking them out. “Without them, there’s only a descent into a perpetual dark from which we’ll never return.”

She looked up at him. “Do you think we kill without remorse?”

“I hope not.”

“But you don’t know.” She put her fingers across his lips. “We do what we have to do. There is no choice.” “There’s always a choice.” She started to run her hand up and down the length of him. “What? Walking away?” Her voice held an unmistakable mocking note.

“No,” he said. “That’s not an option.”

“Then let’s make the most of these moments.”

“Let’s make the world around us melt away. Let’s protect each other.”

He rammed her against the wall so hard her body shivered and shook all over. Her legs came off the floor, wound around him, heels drumming against his bare flesh. The wall was their bed; they did not notice how hard it was—they were only aware of each other’s bodies as more and more skin appeared. Shadows played over them as they moved in ragged rhythm, their breath mingling, sweat springing out on their flesh, warmed by their mutual heat. Desire and need commingled, fuel­ing their mutual lust. Every moment was breathless, each one another ecstasy, until the frenzy of the end.

The rapturous cries died slowly, the well-oiled bodies sliding against each other in long, languid caresses. Breathing slowed, along with heart rates. Jack watched the endless curves of her body, the mounds, the dells hidden in soft-edged shadow. He thought he had never seen anything more exquisite. His love for her rose like the sun, heating him, the en­tire room, filling him with a sure sense of iron purpose. Into the silence, he murmured her name.

And that was when he heard it.

He turned his head, saw the knob on the front door turning mi­nutely. Annika’s eyes were closed. He kissed her eyelids, each in turn. She murmured, rising up out of the fluttering drowse into which she had descended. When her eyes opened, she smiled. Then, at Jack’s silent urging, her gaze followed the direction in which he was pointing.

Then she heard it, too, the slight sound of metal on metal, as some­one just outside attempted to pick the lock.

They rolled away from each other, their sticky love now all but for­gotten. Jack grabbed a shoe just as the door flew open. He threw the shoe, heel-first. It hit the intruder square in the face. The man’s hand­gun went off, the bullet just missing Annika’s bare shoulder. Where it impacted in the corner of the wood dresser, needle-sharp shards sprayed outward. Annika cried out, one hand up to protect her eyes.

The intruder’s gun swung around, the muzzle aimed straight at Jack. He leapt directly at the figure, the barrel of the gun slamming into the side of his head as his momentum took them both down across the apartment’s threshold. The intruder struck Jack another blow, and Jack reeled. The figure grabbed Jack’s throat in a death grip, seeking to crush his larynx, while he brought the gun to bear on Jack’s face.

Before the man could pull the trigger, Jack jabbed him in the kid­neys, repeatedly smashed his gun hand against the doorframe until the weapon fell to the floor. With the intruder’s hand constricting his throat, Jack was losing oxygen at an appalling rate. He jabbed out, his knuckles connecting with the intruder’s throat. The man choked, his grip relaxing enough for Jack to sweep his hand away. Then he bore down with both hands in a stranglehold the intruder tried to break. Increasingly desperate, the man’s fingers tried to pry Jack’s hands away, then scrabbled on the floor for the handgun. But Annika, stepping over them both, picked up the weapon before he could find it.

“Jack,” she said. “Jack, stop. That’s enough.”

But it wasn’t, not for Jack. This man had violated their private space at the most intimate of moments. He had fired on Annika and almost hit her. No, it wasn’t nearly enough. He pressed in and down, putting his entire body into it, until the intruder’s eyes rolled up in their sockets and his breathing stopped.

It was long moments before Annika got through to him, could pull him to his feet. He stood panting over the body.

“Where did our better natures go, Jack?” she said softly. “They were imprisoned and starved to death by our overdeveloped sense of purpose.” She looked at him. “Do you understand me?”

He nodded. His chest was still heaving.

“This hit man,” she said softly, “I know him.” She took Jack’s hand in hers. “He works for one of my brothers, Grigori Batchuk.”

This name sent a splinter of shock through Jack’s brain. “Brothers?”

She nodded. “My father had two children with another woman. Grigori and Radomil.”

“Are you telling me that one of your brothers wants you dead?”

“That’s precisely what I’m saying. Grigori is determined to kill both me and my grandfather.”

“But why?”

“My father—” Her mobile sounded, interrupting her. She padded across the room, picked it up, and listened for a moment.

“Annika,” Jack said, coming toward her, “what is it? What’s hap­pened?”

Her face looked stricken, and when she spoke her voice was as thin and strained as a wire. “It’s Dyadya Gourdjiev. They’ve just taken him to the hospital.”

Chapter 1
December 6–December 9

 Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow hasn’t arrived.
—Francisco de Quevedo (1580–1645)

Alli Carson’s back slammed against the mat.

“I missed my opportunity.”

“Patience is opportunity.”

She stared up at the broad face with almond eyes and thick black eye­brows.

“I don’t understand,” she said, regaining her feet. “I missed my chance.”

Sensei smiled his enigmatic Ent-like smile. “You mistake chance with advantage.”

He squared to her, his bare feet set at shoulder-width. He was small and wiry, yet more powerful than a six-foot-six linebacker. “In hand-to-hand combat you must always seek the advantage. Advantage comes with patience.” He cocked his head. “Please explain.”

“I can’t,” Alli said.

“Yes,” Sensei insisted, “you can.”

Alli screwed up her face, but let her mind wander freely. “Everyone has a weakness.”

Sensei’s smile widened. “Everyone.”

“Even you, Sensei?”

“Together, we shall find out.” He lunged at her and she backed away. “Stand your ground. Parry, move not an inch, cede nothing.”

For the next five minutes she did as he ordered. She neither retreated nor advanced, no matter the method of his attack, and at the end of that time she saw the opening on his left side every time he advanced. She waited, patient, for his next attack, and when it came, she was ready, feinting left, then right, under his attack. She was just about to land her blow when his right arm whipped around, his hand gripped her shoul­der, and he spun her off her feet.

He stood over her for a moment, a big grin on his face. As he leaned over her, he said, “One half learned, one half only.” He held out his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, she took it. “You must make certain your opponent is not gulling you into a mistake.”

As he pulled her up, she whipped her left leg up, planted her foot on his chest, and pushed from her lower abdomen, the force traveling through her thigh, snapping her bent knee straight, extending through the sole of her foot.

Sensei stumbled backward, but did not let go of her hand. She was yanked forward, a sharp pain in her extended leg. He sought to take advantage of the momentary weakness the pain caused her, wrapping his right arm around her neck as she was falling against him. But she used his own momentum against him, rolling onto her left shoulder, dragging his body up and over her, slamming his shoulder blades against the mat.

Up on one knee, she rested a moment, breathing deeply to allow the pain to flow through her and dissipate. She found that her heartbeat was accelerated; she could hear her pulse in her ears.

Sensei rose to his feet, bowed, and, turning, walked out of the prac­tice room without so much as a backward glance. He said not a word; none was expected. Praise was something Sensei never extended, feel­ing it gave rise to ego, which had no place in his dojo.

She remained where she was and wiped her damp forehead on her sleeve. Then she collapsed, sitting on the mat in the center of the room, knees drawn up, arms locked around her shins, as she replayed the last two minutes with breathless wonder.

Some moments later, her roommate, Vera Bard, poked her head into the dojo. “Ah, you’re finished. Good.” Her expression troubled, she stepped into the room and tapped her iPad. “I’ve got to show you some­thing. It’s pretty weird.”

As she was about to step onto the mats, Alli waved her back, rose, and came across to her. Plucking her coat off a wooden peg, she slipped into it, and they went outside into the chill December weather. A bril­liant blue sky sparkled overhead and frost danced on their exhalations. The campus of Fearington, one of the prime secret services training centers in the D.C. area, surrounded them, the Federal-style buildings interspersed with stands of tall pines and chestnut trees. Farther away, hidden in a series of natural swales, were the Pits: obstacle courses, fir­ing ranges, and the like.

Alli breathed in the fresh air. Her body felt limitless, her mind drunk on her victory over Sensei. She took Vera’s iPad and checked out the screen. Vera took it from her and brought up an Internet site titled allicarsonbitchslave.com.

Alli gave a little gasp. “What the hell?”

“The link to the site was e-mailed to me and to everyone else at Fearington.”

“Who sent the e-mails?” Alli asked.

“They were sent by you.”

“What? But I didn’t—”

“Of course you didn’t,” Vera said.

There were a series of photos of nude girls bound and tied, arms ex­tended over their heads or out to the sides as they sat in a heavy wooden chair. All had Alli’s head or face Photoshopped onto them. Below each there was a price for photo sets and short films that could be ordered. Farther down were comments: filthy whore, pervert, hot bitch, and the like, but all of them ended with either a smiley face or LOL, cyber-shorthand for “laugh out loud.”

“The good news is that this cyber-smear attack is being viewed as a practical joke inside Fearington. It’s likely someone here is the culprit.”

“Well, it’s not funny.” Alli kept reading. “Look here . . . here at the end, a date for my supposed death—December twentieth.” She looked up at Vera, appalled. “That’s two weeks from now.”

“Hey, come on, you can’t believe this death threat is real. I mean, someone’s gaming you, sure, and we have to stop it, but . . .”

“After what I’ve been through I take everything seriously,” Alli said.

“Okay, but . . . I mean, no one in their right mind would think that’s really you in those photos. Look, here and here again, the light­ing’s off.”

But Alli, who had felt a chill run down her spine the moment she saw the images of girls bound into that nightmarish heavy wooden chair, felt plowed under by the intimate eeriness of the photos. And her fear only increased when she saw the date of her supposed death.

“Come on,” Vera said. “We’ll take this to the authorities. They’ll find out who’s behind this shit, put him away, and that’ll be the end of it.”

Alli began to shiver uncontrollably.

At once, Vera put her arm around her roommate’s shoulders, pull­ing her close. “You’re cold as ice. What is it?”

Alli remained mute, but her mind was churning with terror. Decem­ber twentieth was the fifth anniversary of the day she had been kidnapped by Morgan Herr.


Alan Fraine, captain of detectives of the Metro Police, was halfway through his strenuous thrice-weekly workout when he saw a man enter the cavernous second floor of Muscle Builders Unlimited, wrap a towel around his neck, and check out the rows of StairMasters. Something familiar about the man made the short hairs at the back of Fraine’s neck stir. He continued with his second set of biceps reps, but his mind was no longer in it, and he set the dumbbells aside before he injured himself.

He watched with curiosity as the man strode over to his section. It was then that he recognized Dennis Paull, secretary of the Department of Homeland Security.

Paull straddled the bench next to Fraine and said, “Alan, how’s it going?”

Fraine had had occasion to work with Paull and Jack McClure sev­eral months ago in connection with Henry Holt Carson and Middle Bay Bancorp. Carson had been part of a conspiracy to frame Fraine’s best detective, Nona Heroe. Paull had gotten her out from the Feds’ custody.

“Sorry.” Fraine tried to hide the depth of his surprise. “I didn’t rec­ognize you out of your suit, Mr. Secretary.”

“Hardly anyone does,” Paull said. “That’s a gift sometimes.”

“So I imagine,” Fraine said. “I had no idea you were a member.”

Paull produced a complicit grin. “I joined this morning.”

Fraine waited for the shoe to drop. The secretary wasn’t here to break a sweat or to exchange pleasantries.

“Alan, I have a proposition for you.”

Fraine’s ears perked up. “I’m listening.”

“I’m putting together a special group.”

“What kind of group?”

Paull leaned forward. “A SITSPEC—”

“A what?”

Paull waited while a couple of gym rats passed by, talking reps and sets and punitive diets. “A black-ops group. Situation-specific, hence the acronym.”



“Nothing. Go on.”

Paull nodded, lowering his voice, forcing Fraine to lean toward him. “This one is very special. I’d like you and Nona to be part of it.”

“Mr. Secretary, I appreciate the offer, but Nona and I are local and I’m sure your SITSPEC is not. It’s probably not even domestic.”

“There you’re wrong. It is domestic and, as of this moment, it’s local to the D.C. area.”

Fraine considered this possibility. “Why us?”

“I know I can trust you. You and Nona owe me; at the end of the day, I know you won’t turn me down.” He smiled. “Besides, before it’s over, there’s a good chance we’ll be intersecting with Henry Holt Car­son’s interests.” His smile turned sly. “I know you can’t pass up that op­portunity.”


“There’s a time and a place for everything,” the General said.

“Even peace?”

“No.” The General lit a cigar with a wooden match. He had a head like a helmet, with a fringe of prematurely white hair like a priest’s ton­sure. “Of course not peace.”

The other man, small-boned, sharp-nosed, and gray as a rodent, shifted in his wing chair. He wore a pale-colored suit and a black tie. By his side was a carved hickory walking stick. His name was Werner Waxman, though he also might be known as Smith or Jones, Reilly or Coen, depending on what country and what year he was in. In any case, Waxman was not his real name. “But you said—”

“For me, peace doesn’t exist.”

The two men were sunk into the dim, woody interior of a hunting lodge deep in the forests of Virginia. Far from the media spotlight glare inside the Beltway, they sat on either side of an enormous fireplace com­posed of stones as large as their heads. It was late, only a few scattered lamps left on, their pools of lights burnishing the wide polished floor­boards. A tray with the remains of coffee and dessert sat unnoticed on a low table nearby.

The General lifted his cleft chin, blew smoke at the coffered ceiling. “I, personally, don’t know what peace is, and, frankly, I don’t want to know.”

Waxman leaned forward, his muscles tense. A blue vein beat at the corner of his left eye. “Peace is death.”

The General’s gaze came down, fixed Waxman with the accuracy of a lawn dart. “Yes.” He seemed as much impressed as he was sur­prised. “You’ve caught the essence precisely.”

“Well.” Waxman inclined his head, a formal Middle European ges­ture. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t want that.” The General rounded the ash crown of his cigar on the lip of his plate. “I wouldn’t want the responsibility of mak­ing sense of it all.”

“We all have our roles to play.” Waxman’s eyes glinted as he turned his head. “You, General, are a man of action. You carry out a plan to perfection.”

The General stirred, wondering now what Waxman wanted. “This enterprise of yours—it had better work.”

“Trust me, General.”

“The last individual who said that to me is six feet under.”

Like a conjuror, Waxman produced a thin smile as if from nowhere. “As to that, I have no worries.”

The General sucked on his cigar. “The stakes are astronomical.”

“Such melodrama! This isn’t Hollywood.”

“You can’t afford to be wrong.” The General stared at the ash at the end of his cigar. “About anything.” He glanced up. “Or anyone.”

Waxman’s thin smile seemed set in cement.

The General regarded Waxman with carefully concealed distaste. He seemed pale and weak, unfit for anything outside a well-ventilated room, but, as he had said, they all had their roles to play, all of them. Each brought a different expertise to the enterprise. They were bound not by friendship, but by need. Better by far than friendship, the General judged. It was unthinkable to betray someone you needed. And betrayal was the one thing they all feared. He knew that, because it was what he feared, the fear muscled way down in the depths of him, but always keeping a wary antenna out for red flags.

The members had made a covenant with each other a long time ago on a dark and turbulent night filled with blood, death, and terror. They were determined to fill the power vacuum Waxman had foretold would come to pass in the Middle East. And, despite Acacia’s first failure, he had been right, damnit, all the way down the line, right.

“I know you,” Waxman said. “You like to give the people around you a hard time.”

“That’s my job.”

Waxman nodded. “The reins of power. I understand.”

“What reins? We’re all in this together.”

Waxman’s eyes grew diamond-hard as he sat forward on the edge of his chair. Had it been anyone else, the General might have been alarmed. But Waxman was Waxman; he lived in his own head.

“There’s bullshit and then there’s bullshit, General. You may have fooled the others, but never for a minute believe that you’ve fooled me.” Waxman inclined his narrow torso like an arrow aimed at the General. “History informs us that while rule by consensus may work for a short time, it breaks down.” He spread his white hands. “We’re all human, General, we all want what we want—and it’s never the common good. You want what you want, General. I know it and you know it.”

And what is it exactly that you want, Waxman? the General wondered.

He set aside the remains of his cigar. “You’re really in love with that mind of yours, aren’t you?”

“Mind games.” One corner of Waxman’s lips twitched. “You don’t want to start with me.”

“Is that a threat?” The General’s voice was languid as he rose.

Waxman had no choice but to get to his feet. One shoulder was no­ticeably lower than the other, as if he were poised to make a fast getaway. The General towered over him; nevertheless, he appeared anything but intimidated.

“Sun Tzu wrote, ‘All war is deception,’ General,” Waxman said as, leaning on his stick, he brushed past. “You would do well to keep that in the forefront of your mind.”

The tick-tock of the walking stick was like the beating heart of a clock. The General watched Waxman disappear into the innards of the hunting lodge. At length, he turned and picked up his cigar, but it was already cold. The taste he loved was gone.

Copyright © 2012 by Eric van Lustbader

To enter for a chance to win one of five prize packs including copies of Eric Van Lustbader’s First Daughter and Last Snow, make sure you’re a registered member of the site, and then simply leave a comment below.

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Eric Van Lustbader is the author of many New York Times bestselling thrillers, including First Daughter, Last Snow, and Blood Trust. Lustbader was chosen by Robert Ludlum’s estate to continue the Jason Bourne series, and his Jason Bourne novels include The Bourne Legacy and The Bourne Betrayal. He and his wife live in New York City and on the South Fork of Long Island.  Find him online at ericvanlustbader.com.

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Kelley Tackett
1. tackettfamilyky
Love any thriller set in Russia. I can't wait to read this book.
dale grim
2. michealgrim
i would love to win this it sounds out of this world,thank you for the chance!!!
3. Daryia
Omg where is the rest I need to read it.
Anne Muller
4. anne38
I don't think I've ever read a book by Eric Lustbader. This series sounds good though.
5. superhersh2002
Can't wait to read the book!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
6. Queerbec
Wwow! Lustbader gets it off to a great start! I haven't read any Lustbader for a great while; it may be time to reacquaint myself with him soon!
Joan Boose
8. joan.boose
My best friend in Mexico loves this author and now I see why. I would really enjoy reading this series and sharing them with her.
Jody Darden
9. jldarden
Read alot of Van Lustbaders early stuff. This looks like it could be as good as that.
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11. kcoliva
I am a big fan! I can't wait to get the rest on my Kindle!
12. vikki p
Looks like a good read. I have heard of the author but am not familar with his books.
Beth Talmage
14. wordygirl
How have I missed this author? Thanks for the introduction
Deanna Stillings
16. reader123
Very current...Thanks for the review. Dee
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Clydia DeFreese
19. clydia
I'm looking forward to winning this mystery. Thanks.
Shannon Scott
21. shannons
I am looking for a good thriller to read. This looks like it will be good.
Anna Mills
24. Anna Mills
She's a pragmatist. In Russia. Enough of the point right there!
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25. pegni@aol.com
Love books that are current. This definately intrigues me. Would love to read more of your work.
Paul Wirtz
26. mogrith
Been reading his stuff for a long time. look forward to more.
27. bn100
Very nice excerpt. The book sounds good.
Joanne Mielczarski
28. jtmswim
This exerpt is great - I do want to read this book.
29. maryc
Looking forward to reading the latest in the McClure series!
Melinda Singer
31. lindydnil
I've been reading Eric Van Lustbader for a couple dozen years! The McClure series has been a wonderful read.
32. Kathy C
Van Lustbader has always been one of my top 'go to' authors. Looking forward to this one.
Marjorie Pawley
33. marjip
All of his books are extraordinary & I enjoy reading whatever he writes!
This seems to be a must for my reading list-want to have it all. Fits right into world events and exciting word power. Please send me a copy!
37. Vicki S
Oh, boy, another exciting roller coaster ride.
Ann Thaxton
38. booklover23
Wonderful, sounds like a book I would love to read!
Irene Menge
41. Goldenmane
A very tantalizing excerpt. I can't wait to read this. Thank you for the great giveaway.
43. YvonneJ
Winning this giveaway would be a great way to move these off my to-be-read list....they've been there for way too long.
Hannah Beck
45. herblady
Yes, yes; I must read this book as well as the others in the series! Thanks for the opportunity.
Jeane Howell
46. jeaneintexas
Since I haven't read any of this writer's books, I am very interested in
trying out some of his books.

thank you for having the drawing.
Katrina Warr
50. cat198
I would love to read a great thriller, Thank's for the chance!
Joan OToole
53. Joniot
Wow, I can't wait to read this book. Please enter me in the giveaway. Thanks.
paul sproul
55. sproulzy
I've been reading Lustbader for longer than I can remember. Never a dull moment.
Laura McLendon
57. LMcLendon
Espionage, Thrills and Globetrotting all in one series. I can't wait for the latest installment. Thanks for the latest excerpt :)
Michelle Fidler
58. Micky
Haven't read any in this series. It's different from the books I normally read.
Carol Mintz
59. Carol M
I haven't read any of his books. This sounds like a great series! Thank you for the giveaway!
Justine Heredia
60. dogforever46
This sounds great! I can't wait to read the book.
vicki wurgler
61. bison61
sounds exciting-thanks, love to read the book
Edward Hitch
63. Travisbickle
Gimme Gimme! I would love to read the whole book!
Sandy Betley
67. sbetley612
Love Van Lustbader's writing! His continuation of the Ludlum story lines is fabulous, too!
Jackie Wisherd
69. JackieW
Your book sounds like one I would enjoy....thanks for the info.
Cindi Hoppes
71. CindiHoppes
I enjoy reading books by this author!
Many thanks...Cindi
76. renep
really want to win and read it, GOD BLESS YA'LL
Jodi Adams
81. purehrt5
Both books look great! Thanks for the chance.
kathy pease
85. klp1965
Thank you for the great giveaway please count me in :)
87. vrday68
Sure hope I win.
Edward Vandenberg
88. Crunch57
This looks like a good well written series of books.
Sally Winkleblech
90. sallyw
The new book sounds very intriguing with a very current background. I would love to receive both books.
Buddy Garrett
It sounds very interesting. Thanks for the giveaway.
Brenda Elsner
96. brat52101
Sounds like this will be great!! Can't wait to read it!!
101. Tammy Firth
Sounds like a great read
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