Flashpoint (Troubleshooters, Book 7)
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From unrelenting action to intense emotion, from high-stakes drama to break-neck pacing, bestselling author Suzanne Brockmann is a novelist who does it all. Now Brockmann delivers an exciting thriller about men and women operating where agents of the U.S. government cannot, where America’s most ruthless enemies thrive—and where every step you take just might be your last. . . .
Jimmy Nash has already lived two lives—and he can’ t talk about either of them. Formerly an operative of a top secret government agency, he has found a new job with a shadowy company called Troubleshooters Inc. Created by a former Navy SEAL, Troubleshooters Inc. helps anyone in desperate need—which provides a perfect cover for its other, more perilous objective: covert special operations.
Now Nash and a quickly assembled team of expert operators have come to the earthquake-ravaged country of Kazbekistan in the guise of relief workers. There, amid the dust and death, in a land of blood red sunsets and ancient blood feuds, they must track down a missing laptop computer that may hold secrets vital to national security.
To get it done, Nash does what he does best: break every rule in the book and manipulate those who can help him get what he needs. But this time, Nash may have met his match in Tess Bailey, an Troubleshooters operative with all the right instincts—and zero field experience. The deep attraction between them is immediate . . . and potentially explosive, with risk at every turn. Now these two professionals must play out their dangerous games in the world’s most dangerous place—cut off from their own government, cutting deals with people they can’t trust, and guarding forbidden passions that threaten to compromise their crucial mission.
A full throttle adventure teamed with heated emotion, Flashpoint proves that Suzanne Brockmann can spin suspense unlike any other author working today.
From the Hardcover edition.
their conversation that had her sweating. “Can you hack into the hotel records from here?” he asked. “If we have to go in, I’d prefer knowing the room number in advance—spend the least amount of time possible in a building that’s about to fall.” She nodded. “I’ll try.” She glanced back at the house, where Sophia was standing just inside the door, in the shadows, watching them. She lowered her voice even more. “Excuse me for being out of line, sir, but you and Jimmy were nearly killed last night
his gaze lowered, pretending he had no intention of following them out the door. Yeah, sure. Jimmy looked at Decker in despair. “Don’t make me be the one to do this,” he said. Decker had mercy on them both and gave the kid what looked to be an almost gentle tap. It was amazing how effective that could be—like pushing an on-off switch. Khalid’s legs buckled, and Deck lowered him to the floor as Jimmy pushed Sophia’s rolled up jeans beneath the boy’s head. He’d wake up tomorrow morning with one
up at her. “I’m sure. Sophia, you’re good. I mean . . .” He laughed, embarrassed. “Jesus, this is hard—” He put his hand up right in front of his face, palm outward, as if to say Stop, and he closed his eyes again. “I’ll just stop talking now.” Sophia laughed, and he glanced at her, chagrin in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you don’t think it’s funny, but . . .” She laughed again. She couldn’t help it. “It’s nice to hear you laughing,” he told her. “I mean, really laughing—not that
had Decker said those exact words to him? Other ways . . . Like Tess Bailey. Who was waiting for him in the ladies’ room. Who was unbelievably hot. Who liked him—really liked him. He’d seen it in her eyes. She pretended to have a cold-day-in-July attitude when he flirted with her in the office. But Jimmy saw beyond it, and he knew with just a little more charm and a little bit of well-placed pressure, she’d be giving him a very brightly lit green light. Tonight. He’d let Decker handle Doug
kill him . . .” Tess looked from Decker to Murphy to Dave to Nash. “She’s in some serious trouble. And there’s no embassy here to help her.” “You know, there was a local merchant named Ghaffari.” Dave was thinking aloud as he leaned over to get a look at that photograph. “I remember he was doing extremely well. Importing American products—pop culture. T-shirts, blue jeans, videos, books, CDs. Of course, this was a few years back. I never met him. Or his wife. Yes, I definitely would’ve