The Enforcer

The Enforcer
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Книга "The Enforcer", авторами которой являются Литагент HarperCollins EUR}, Anna Perrin, представляет собой захватывающую работу в жанре Зарубежные детективы. В этом произведении автор рассказывает увлекательную историю, которая не оставит равнодушными читателей.

Автор мастерски воссоздает атмосферу напряженности и интриги, погружая читателя в мир загадок и тайн, который скрывается за хрупкой поверхностью обыденности. С прекрасным чувством языка и виртуозностью сюжетного развития, Литагент HarperCollins EUR позволяет читателю погрузиться в сложные эмоциональные переживания героев и проникнуться их судьбами. EUR настолько живо и точно передает неповторимые нюансы человеческой психологии, что каждая страница книги становится путешествием в глубины человеческой души.

"The Enforcer" - это не только захватывающая история, но и искусство, проникнутое глубокими мыслями и философскими размышлениями. Это произведение призвано вызвать у читателя эмоциональные отклики, задуматься о важных жизненных вопросах и открыть новые горизонты восприятия мира.

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The Enforcer

Anna Perrin

Table of Contents


Title Page


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen


ANNA PERRIN grew up reading romance novels and thrillers so it’s no surprise that she loves writing romantic suspense. A two-time finalist in the RWA Golden Heart contest, she is delighted by the publication of her first Intrigue. She avoids housework as much as possible and enjoys hanging out with her supportive husband, two terrific daughters and pets including a temperamental calico, a blue-eyed husky and a mixed-breed horse.

To Patience Smith, who made my dream of publication happen. Thank you.

To Brenda Harlen, who brainstorms with me during dinners and road trips. What an extraordinary CP and friend. And to my wonderful family. You mean everything to me.

“What do you mean, he’s escaped?”

Dr. Claire Lamont gripped her cell phone tighter and stared out her kitchen window at the slashing rain. Two days ago, she had sent FBI agent Andy Forrester to Ridsdale Psychiatric Hospital for evaluation. Now he was out?

Gene Welland, her contact at the Bureau’s Cincinnati office, said, “At eight o’clock Forrester was in his room, an hour later he was gone.”

The explanation didn’t make sense to her. Not with the state-of-the-art security measures at the facility. “How could that happen?”

“We think he had inside help.”

“You suspect Ridsdale staff?” she asked, pacing between the wall oven and the granite-topped island. “Or someone within the Bureau?”

“Too soon to point a finger,” Gene said, clearly in no mood to speculate. “I’m calling because a nurse at the hospital reported he threatened to kill you.”

Dread twisted in her stomach. Her gaze darted to the patio door. One forceful blow would smash the glass, then Forrester could slip a hand inside, twist the lock and—

She stopped pacing. Exhaled a deep breath. A long day of interviews and flight delays had set her on edge. “Forrester probably lashed out at me without meaning it.”

Or maybe he did mean it. Maybe he was in such a rage about her confining him to Ridsdale that he’d try to harm her.

She resumed pacing, her mouth dry, her palms sweating. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a streak of lightning sliced through the sky.

“I’m not taking any chances,” Gene said. “In fact, I’ve already sent an agent to pick you up, so get ready to leave.”

“I’m just back from Minneapolis. My luggage is still in my front hall.”

“Then you’ll be set to go when our guy gets there.”

What if her enraged patient showed up first?

“I have a better idea,” she said. “You know the coffee shop where we met last month?”

“Java Heaven?”

“That’s it. I’ll meet him there.”

After a short silence, Gene relented. “Okay, Lisa is calling Brent to redirect him to that location.”

Brent? As in Brent don’t-waste-my-time Young?

Please let there be another agent in the Cincinnati office with the same first name.

“Who are we talking about?” she asked.

“Brent Young.”

Damn. That was the field agent she’d met several weeks earlier when Gene had asked her to talk to his team after the shooting death of a colleague, Pete Sanderson. No degree in psychology was necessary to interpret Young’s slouched posture, guarded expression or impatient tapping of his foot. Obviously, he viewed her presentation about counseling options as useless and had only shown up because he’d been ordered to.

Young’s disdain for counseling hadn’t surprised her. What had surprised her was the surge of attraction she’d felt for him. With his linebacker shoulders, coal-black hair and cheekbones that hinted at a Native American ancestor, he looked like a hard-core renegade. But there had been something appealing about his smile—which he’d let loose a few times in response to his colleagues’ wisecracks. Against all logic, she wished her remarks had elicited the same response.

The wind rattled the panes of glass. The storm was getting worse.

“You can count on Brent to protect you,” Gene said, correctly interpreting her silence as a lack of enthusiasm for her escort.

The overhead light went out, plunging the room into darkness. “Oh no,” she muttered.

“What’s wrong?”

“The storm just killed the power.” She lifted her free hand, but she couldn’t see it—or anything else.

“Check outside,” Gene said, his tone urgent. “See if the streetlights are on.”

Hadn’t he been listening to her? No power meant no streetlights. Unless—

Understanding dawned on her, followed by a stab of fear. Unless somebody had cut the power to her house.

Still holding her cell phone, she rushed to the window. After what seemed like an eternity, her shaking fingers forced apart two slats of the horizontal blinds.

“The whole neighborhood’s dark,” she said, relief making her voice thin and breathless.

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