Hostile Intent (A Matt Drake Novel, Band 3) - Softcover

Bentley, Don

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593333543 ISBN 13: 9780593333549

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2023

Inhaltsangabe

In the espionage community, Vienna is known as the City of Spies, and Matt Drake is about to learn why in the latest electrifying thriller from the New York Times bestselling author of Tom Clancy Target Acquired and The Outside Man.

When a mysterious walk-in to the US embassy in Vienna claims to have critical information about a Russian intelligence operation, he raises eyebrows. But when he asks for Matt Drake by name and calls himself the Irishman, he gets the DIA’s premier case officer on a one-way flight.

Matt arrives to find Austria’s charming capital lousy with intelligence officers, all swirling around Nolan Burke—a onetime member of the real IRA. But before Matt can debrief Nolan, the Irishman is kidnapped by a Russian direct action team. Now, Matt must find a way to repay the debt of honor he owes Nolan while stopping World War III in the process.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Don Bentley spent a decade as an Army Apache helicopter pilot, and while deployed in Afghanistan was awarded the Bronze Star Medal and the Air Medal with "V" device for valor. Following his time in the military, Don worked as an FBI special agent focusing on foreign intelligence and counterintelligence and was a Special Weapons and Tactics (SWAT) team member.

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one

Austin, Texas

Four shots rang out in quick succession, the retort thunderously loud even through my Peltor hearing protection. I detested indoor shooting ranges with their close confines and dingy interiors. Some jackass with a hand cannon always seemed to be in the lane next to mine, and today was no exception. Whatever. Shooting under crappy conditions was still shooting, and that beat the alternative.

Usually.

"What's he hitting?"

"Air," I said, eyeing the target adjacent to mine.

The crisp white paper overlaid with a bad-guy silhouette swung merrily beneath its metal hanger without a care in the world. I could see why. A scattering of holes graced the paper's edges, but the black target lines spiraling outward from the center were completely unbroken.

"You're kicking butt," I said, turning back to my own lane and the woman sharing it. "Put another couple pairs center mass, and we'll call it a day."

"Already?" the woman said. "You must have other plans. Or something."

As a matter of fact, I did have other plans.

Or something.

But I knew better than to take the bait.

"Less talking. More shooting."

I gave the instructions in my no-nonsense firearms-instructor's voice, and the woman responded accordingly. Settling into a shooter's stance, she adjusted her balance and extended a 9mm Glock away from her chest in a two-handed grip. Her hips shifted as she transferred weight to the balls of her feet. The movement was slight but noticeable.

At least to me.

Then again, I do love my wife's hips.

I reached forward, touching Laila's back. "Remember to square your shoulders," I said, fingertips pressing against her smooth, silky skin.

My wife was an exquisitely beautiful woman. With a Pakistani father and an Afghan mother, Laila was a melting pot of genes from one of the world's most ethnically diverse territories. Modern-day Afghanistan and Pakistan had hosted countless foreign conquerors, and Laila's appearance reflected the region's collective influence. Her dark complexion and waves of midnight hair framed emerald eyes that left me speechless.

This morning, she was wearing a simple white tank top paired with tight faded jeans and a ballcap embroidered with the Texas Gonzales flag. But there was nothing simple about the way the cream-colored shirt highlighted her almond skin or the thick black ponytail tumbling down her back. On a normal day, my wife was distracting.

Today, she was intoxicating.

"More coaching," Laila said. "Less touching."

She adjusted her stance again, snugging her hips against mine. Laila squeezed off a pair of shots before I could reply, but that didn't matter.

I'd lost the capacity for speech.

Laila followed up her first aimed pair with a second and then a third. The silhouette sported six new holes, all within the ten ring. The paper target was only five meters distant, but there was no doubt that Laila was getting the hang of this. I was a good coach, but she was a highly motivated student.

For good reason.

Her Glock's slide locked to the rear after the final shot. Laila ejected the spent magazine and placed it and the pistol on the tray in front of her. Just like she'd been taught.

"How'd I do?" Laila said, facing me.

I could tell by the way her green eyes sparkled that she already knew the answer. Even so, she'd more than earned a compliment or two. As her instructor, it was my job to give them.

"You did-"

The hand cannon erupted.

Again.

I jumped, and Laila shrieked.

A peal of male laughter greeted Laila's decidedly feminine exclamation, followed by an admonishment to grow a pair.

Charming.

"Just a sec," I said. "I've got to take care of something."

"Where are you going?" Laila said, grabbing my biceps.

"Only be a minute," I said, smiling the smile that had melted the hearts of interrogators the world over.

"Matthew," Laila said.

Her green eyes were no longer sparkling. They were shimmering. This was a very important distinction. Sparkling eyes meant a happy wife. Shimmering ones were akin to the buzzing of a rattlesnake's rattle.

"Quick chat with our neighbors," I said. "Nothing more."

"You're a spy," Laila said. "You lie for a living."

She had me there.

"But never to you," I said. "Besides, lying's only a small part of the job. I mostly build bridges of cultural understanding."

"Bridges to nowhere," Laila said.

Her tone was still less than pleased, but her eyes were no longer shimmering. Good. A pissed-off wife meant that my other plans were dead on arrival. On the other hand, a happy wife raised my chances of getting lucky a second time to at least fifty percent.

I'd toppled governments with less.

"Right back," I said.

This time my smile wasn't forced.

I'd been operational for the last six weeks and had just flown back into country the previous evening. We were at the shooting range this morning because Laila wanted to practice, but I had plans to help her out of her tank top once we got home. No way was I going to let a couple of redneck jackwads interfere.

Laila frowned, but she didn't ask me to stay.

Progress.

Sliding around the length of sheet metal dividing our lane from the hand cannon, I introduced myself to the gentlemen on the other side.

"Y'all need help?" I said, smiling my second-best smile.

My first-best smile was reserved for Laila.

And sometimes men who wanted to kill me.

My sudden appearance caught the shooters by surprise. They jumped at the sound of my voice. I thought that was funny.

They did not.

"Help with what?" the one on the left said.

He had the thick build of a former athlete whose frame now sported more fat than muscle. The smedium shirt he wore stretched Saran Wrap-tight across his pudgy chest jiggled as he spoke.

"Great question," I said, still grinning ear to ear. "From the looks of your target, you probably think I'm offering shooting pointers. I'm not. I'm just wondering if you need help with anatomy."

"Anatomy?"

This time the question came from the gentleman on the right. He looked as if he'd stepped from the pages of Soldier of Fortune magazine. Asolo boots, 5.11 pants, and a PFG shirt.

A regular tactical ninja.

"Yep," I said. "You geniuses just asked my wife to do something anatomically impossible. That means you're either idiots or rude. I'm hoping for idiots, because acting rude to my wife carries consequences. Or maybe this is all just a big misunderstanding and y'all want to apologize. What's it gonna be?"

The men sized me up before sharing a look. I understood. At six feet and one hundred eighty-five pounds, I wasn't physically insignificant. But neither was I Arnold Schwarzenegger. The 1980s Arnold Schwarzenegger, that is. Today's Arnold was still fit, but I could take him.

Probably.

In any case, I was sporting what Laila playfully termed my ragamuffin look. At least I hoped it was playful. My hair was long and my beard scruffy, but the Wrangler pearly-snap shirt I was wearing framed the wide shoulders and broad back of a person for whom physical fitness was more than just a passing fancy. Put that all together, and I don't know what you get. But whatever it was didn't seem to be enough to convince Beefcake and Mr. Ninja to back down.

"Who the hell are you?" Beefcake said, folding his arms across his chest.

Now we were getting somewhere.

"Great question," I said, my smile widening. "I'm-"

"Drake? Is there a Matt Drake here?"

The question came from behind me. I turned to see the man from the gun range's check-in counter holding open the door to the shooting lanes.

"I'm Drake," I...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2023
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593333543
• ISBN 13: 9780593333549
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 480
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: preigu; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; 49078; Deutschland