White Heat
A Novel
Counterterrorist operative Max Aries flung a leg over the crumbling second-floor balustrade, then dropped lightly onto the narrow stone terrace. He’d spent some pretty damned phenomenal days and nights in this sixteenth- century palazzo. But he wasn’t here to seduce Emily Greene. Not this time.
He presumed she was here. Her little yellow Maserati was parked out on the street, but she hadn’t answered the doorbell when he’d rung a few minutes ago. Of course there were any number of places an attractive, single woman could be at two in the morning. If not for the urgency of her calls Max might have waited until a decent, civilized time to see her. He’d been awake for a straight ninety-seven hours, and he was punchy as hell. Sleep would’ve been good. A shower would probably be appreciated. But there hadn’t been time for either.
He’d been on the T-FLAC jet, halfway home from an op in Grozny, when he’d called his answering service to check for messages during a break in debriefing. He rarely had personal messages; operatives didn’t have time for real lives, so he was ...
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