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New from Eric Van Lustbader, the author of The Bourne Legacy and The Bourne Betrayal, comes Father Night, the thrilling fourth installment in the New York Times bestselling Jack McClure series.
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 revenge and 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 known as 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 US 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 Hendryx and Alan Frain, 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.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
- Sales Rank: #335397 in eBooks
- Published on: 2012-09-18
- Released on: 2012-09-18
- Format: Kindle eBook
Review
“Lustbader is an automatic buy-today-read-tonight author for me--and should be for you.” ―Lee Child, New York Times bestselling author of the Jack Reacher novels
“Like Robert Ludlum, Lustbader is at his best when he is creating a twisted web of intrigue, violence, and double crross...a master storyteller.” ―Publishers Weekly
“One of the great thriller authors.” ―Joseph Finder, New York Times bestselling author of Buried Secrets
“A master who knows how to manipulate the reader in fiendishly exciting ways.” ―Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author of The Jefferson Key
About the Author
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. He and his wife live in New York City and on the South Fork of Long Island.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
ONE
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 allicarsonbitch-slave.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.”
“Fed-speak.”
“What?”
“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...
Most helpful customer reviews
7 of 8 people found the following review helpful.
Lame
By Ken C.
Father Night is not the best novel of the year, far from it. It is a series of supposedly exciting incidents that happen to characters who are either with the good guys or the bad guys, and a few who stroll between the two. Nothing happens that doesn't require some cheesy writing by the author. When I got to the page that said "Part Three" I laughed as if this novel required different parts. The story is so cloudy that I was never sure who to root for. What bothers me is that I did read a good novel written by this author, so I am confused as to why this one is so bad.
3 of 3 people found the following review helpful.
Who's on first?
By J. W. Scales
I have read and enjoyed several of Eric Von Lustbader's books over the years, including some the the Jason Bourne series which he took up after the death of Robert Ludlum. This book, however, was difficult to read, and impossible to enjoy. There are three or four different plots, but, in the end, you are left wondering who was trying to accomplish what and why. All of the characters, good and bad, seem to have serious psychological problems. There are bodies strewn all over Washington, DC, and Europe, in large part because all of the military, para-military, and police officers involved seem to have left their body armor at home. I don't know if this is the first of a series, but there are enough loose ends to indicate that this might be true. If it is, I hope the author's future efforts are up to his past works, and not down to the level of FATHER NIGHT.
6 of 7 people found the following review helpful.
Sophmoric
By Reb
I have read nearly all Eric Van Lustbaders various series. This story is poorly written ,with a needlessly complex plot. Last 50 pages are the only satisfying part. Almost abandoned it several times.
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