Countdown. Ruth Wind
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Only the extraordinary women of Athena Academy could create Oracle—a covert intelligence organization so secret that not even its members know who else belongs. Now it’s up to three top agents to bring down the enemies who threaten all they’ve sworn to protect….
Kim Valenti:
An NSA cryptologist, this analytical genius and expert code breaker is the key to stopping a deadly bomb.
COUNTDOWN by Ruth Wind
Diana Lockworth:
With only twenty-four hours until the president’s inauguration, can this army intelligence captain thwart an attempt to assassinate him?
TARGET by Cindy Dees
Selena Jones:
Used to ensuring international peace, this legal attaché has her biggest assignment yet—foiling a terrorist attack abroad.
CHECKMATE by Doranna Durgin
Countdown
Ruth Wind
MILLS & BOON
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RUTH WIND
is the award-winning author of both contemporary and historical romance novels. She lives in the mountains of the Southwest with her two growing sons and many animals in a hundred-year-old house that the town blacksmith built. The only hobby she’s had since she started writing is tending the ancient garden of irises, lilies and lavender beyond her office window, and she says she can think of no more satisfying way to spend a life than growing children, books and flowers. Ruth Wind also writes women’s fiction under the name Barbara Samuel. You can visit her Web site at www.barbarasamuel.com.
For my son Ian,
who helped a lot with this book.
Thanks, kiddo!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Prologue
Tuesday, October 5
I t was night and snowing when Kim Valenti parked at FBI headquarters in Chicago. Snow came in through the window of the stolen car—a 1971 gold Buick Skylark—that she’d hot-wired at the parking lot of the UBC television station. She’d be glad to get somewhere warmer.
Before she got out, she checked her face in the rearview mirror. If there was blood showing, she would draw attention to herself, and someone would be concerned or alarmed, which would cause more delays. She couldn’t risk losing any more time.
There was a bomb ticking away at the airport. Somewhere. Due to detonate in exactly—she checked her watch—seventy-nine minutes.
In the mirror, she saw that her lip was swollen. She’d have a black eye tomorrow. A few scrapes, but no damage that would make her stand out too much in a law enforcement agency.
She got out of the car and hid the gun she’d also stolen in the small of her back, tucked into the waistband of her jeans. The weight of it was comforting and cold. Her cell phone was in her hand, the cord around her wrist.
Snow fell more heavily now, and she was half-frozen from the drive through the Chicago streets in a broken-down car with a shattered window.
In spite of the cold, her torn and battered ear throbbed. She wished it would have frozen. At least that would make it stop hurting. Without breaking stride, she scooped a handful of snow from the hood of a nearby car and pressed the icy ball to torn cartilage.
As she approached the front doors of the FBI building, a group of men erupted into the parking lot, rushing toward cars and vans. They shouted directions to one another, pulled on gloves, carted cases and rifles.
All headed, no doubt, for the television station. Kim ducked into the shadow of a truck, watching, her mouth hard. She could tell them that their rush was futile, but they wouldn’t listen to her now any more than they had earlier.
No, if she had any chance of success, there was only one man for the job—Lex Tanner, FBI explosives expert and a compatriot she’d believed in before this morning.
She spied him toward the back of the group, carrying a metal suitcase. His dark hair was cut very short, the nose surprisingly recognizable from the pictures she’d seen, and he was quite tall. At least six-four. Rangy, lean and muscled, with shoulders big enough to shelter her from the wind.
As he neared her spot, she stepped out of the shadows. “Lex Luthor, I presume?”
He started, narrowing his eyes and sizing her up. Recognition washed over his features. “Valenti?” He looked more alarmed than pleased. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling all afternoon.”
“Long story. Right now, I need you to bring your little bomb kit and come with me to the airport.”
“I can’t. I’m on my way to UBC. There’s a terrorist—”
“Yeah, yeah—” she waved a hand “—never mind. That’s not the problem.”
“They’ve stolen a bomb they’re threatening to detonate—”
“It’s not at the station.”
“They’ve got hostages.”
“I know.” She took a breath. “Look, I don’t have time to explain everything, but the drama at UBC is a smoke screen—the bomb is at the airport.”
“It’s not there! Don’t you get it? We’ve been over it a hundred and forty-seven times.” His exasperation might have been understandable if they’d been strangers.
If he hadn’t seen that she was extremely skilled. If he didn’t know better.
If she hadn’t proved herself by trusting his instincts, sight unseen.
If, if, if. She shook her head. She could stand here and argue, wasting time, explaining, or she could—