Hidden Peril (Code of Honor Book #2) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Irene Hannon

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226 pages

English

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Description

As teenagers, Kristin Dane and her two best friends took a vow to make the world a better place. Twenty years later, she's fulfilling that pledge through her fair trade shop that features products from around the world. All is well until, one by one, people connected to the shop begin dying. Detective Luke Carter, new to the St. Louis PD, wants to know why. Before he can answer that question, however, the FBI weighs in and Kristin suddenly finds herself in the middle of international intrigue--and in the sights of the ruthless mastermind behind an ingenious and deadly, scheme. Can this cold-blooded killer be stopped before more people die . . . including Kristin?Three-time RITA Award-winner and "queen of inspirational romantic suspense" (Library Journal) Irene Hannon doesn't disappoint in this edge-of-your-seat thriller that will have readers up late as they rush toward the explosive conclusion.

Sujets

Romance

Thriller

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	02 octobre 2018
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781493415137
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0461€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
© 2018 by Irene Hannon
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks .com
Ebook edition created 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-1513-7
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Praise for Dangerous Illusions
“The suspenseful conclusion and believable romantic element will leave readers eager for the next installment.”
Publishers Weekly
“Hannon delivers a new romantic suspense series that starts off slowly but then races full speed ahead, spinning out a twisty plot. The author’s many fans will devour this work.”
RT Book Reviews
“Hannon is at the top of her game. Dangerous Illusions , the first in the Code of Honor series, will satisfy any suspense reader.”
Christian Market
“Hannon’s latest novel is a page-turner that will keep the reader up late at night, trying to finish the book and uncover the truth.”
Christian Library Journal
Dedication
To my father, James Hannon—who encouraged me to write suspense.
Thank you for the countless tea-and-scones sessions at Starbucks to brainstorm story ideas, reminisce . . . and solve all the world’s problems!
Your love, support, and generosity have enriched my life in ways too numerous to count.
No one could have a better father—and friend.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Praise for Dangerous Illusions
Dedication
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
Epilogue
An Excerpt from Irene’s Next Hope Harbor Novel
Author’s Note
About the Author
Books by Irene Hannon
Back Ads
Back Cover
Prologue
A MONASTERY NEAR AL HAFAR, SYRIA
Why was a light burning in the workshop at midnight?
Suppressing a shiver, Brother Michael Bennett peered at the sliver of illumination seeping under the bottom of the heavy wooden door at the end of the long, vaulted passageway.
There could be only one explanation.
The monk who’d closed up the shop for the day had forgotten to flip a switch.
He wiped a hand down his face and leaned a shoulder against the rough stone wall. That wouldn’t have happened on his watch. Last chore before he left each night, he extinguished all the lights.
Eyeing the door, he gauged the distance. Could his legs handle the detour? Questionable. The bug that had felled him at noon had left his muscles wobbly as Jell-O. If his parched throat wasn’t screaming for some chipped ice, he wouldn’t be making this taxing trek to the kitchen.
Fuel for the workshop generator, however, was expensive.
And they had better uses for the funds entrusted to their care.
Shoring up his waning strength, he pushed off from the wall and trudged down the drafty passage, the February chill creeping into his Florida-born-and-bred bones . . . as it always did in winter.
Yet not once in the past ten years had he regretted his decision to join this simple religious community in the shadow of the Qalamoun Mountains. Christianity had flourished amid the harsh beauty of this high desert for centuries, and it was an honor and privilege to make a contribution to that tradition . . . no matter how small or insignificant.
Life might not be easy here—but it was good.
Tonight, however, he could have done with a few luxuries.
Like room service.
And heated hallways.
Another shiver rolled through him. It wasn’t as cold in here as it was outside, where the temperature was probably hovering near freezing—but it couldn’t be much above fifty.
Then again, no one was supposed to be wandering the halls at this hour.
He picked up his pace.
At the door to the workshop, he paused to catch his breath. All he had to do was flick off a light, continue to the kitchen for his ice, and return to his warm bed.
The sooner the better.
He twisted the knob . . . pushed the door open . . . and froze.
A dark-haired man was hunched over a workbench against the far wall, a high-pitched whine abrading the midnight stillness. It was impossible to identify him from behind.
But whoever he was, he shouldn’t be here.
A prickle of unease skittered through him, and he gripped the edge of the door to steady himself. “Hello?”
His raspy greeting was no more than a hoarse whisper.
He raised his voice and tried again, wincing as the words scraped past his raw throat.
The whirring noise stopped abruptly, and the man spun around.
“Khalil?” Brother Michael stared at the refugee who’d arrived on their doorstep two years ago, one of the many desperate souls who’d lost everything in this war-ravaged land. He switched to Arabic. “What are you doing here?”
Beads of sweat broke out on the twenty-six-year-old’s forehead. “I’m working.”
“At midnight?”
“I wanted to finish a . . . task.”
God knew the small contingent of brothers needed all the help they could get to keep the place running, and Khalil was a hard worker. That was one of the reasons he’d been allowed to stay on as a volunteer in exchange for room and board.
But no one expected him to toil at the expense of sleep.
“You don’t have to put in nighttime hours. You more than earn your keep as it is.” Brother Michael leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “This can wait until tomorrow.”
“As you wish. I’ll just clean up before I leave.” The man gave a slight bow, his back brushing against the workbench.
A flutter of shavings drifted to the floor.
Too many, given the nature of the work they did here.
Odd.
And what had produced that whine he’d heard when he’d opened the door?
Certainly none of their usual equipment.
Brother Michael’s pulse quickened.
Something wasn’t right.
He needed to check that workbench.
“I’ll help you with the cleanup.” He forced himself to walk toward the bench, each step a supreme effort.
“No.” The sweat on the man’s forehead glistened in the overhead light. “You’re sick. I’ll take care of it.”
“I insist.” The workshop was his responsibility—as was Khalil. When you pled a refugee’s case with the abbot and other monks, it was your duty to ensure he abided by the rules. If the man was using the space for questionable purposes after hours, the issue needed to be addressed.
He continued toward the bench, stopping a few feet away, waiting for his protégé to give him access.
For several seconds they locked gazes. A parade of emotions darted through the younger man’s eyes. Panic . . . fear . . . resignation. And then resolve.
Without a word, Khalil moved toward him, stepping aside as they exchanged places.
Now that he had a clear view of the bench, Brother Michael scanned the items on the wooden surface. Added them up. Gripped the edge of the worktable.
Dear God!
How could he have made such a terrible mistake?
Khalil wasn’t here to support their mission.
He was here to . . .
A shattering pain exploded in the back of his head, and Brother Michael staggered.
Groped for the edge of the bench.
Missed.
Legs crumpling, he slumped to the stone floor.
And in the scant few moments before the darkness swirling around him snuffed out the light, he sent a silent, desperate plea to the Almighty.
Please, God, let someone—somewhere—discover the truth and put a stop to the evil deception that is defiling this holy place.
1
SIX WEEKS LATER
Brother Michael was dead.
Kristin Dane gripped the edge of the corrugated, travel-worn shipping carton that had logged more than six thousand miles on its journey from Syria to St. Louis, blinked to clear her vision, and forced herself to reread the letter.
Dear Ms. Dane:
I am pleased to send you the 50 pillar candles you ordered from our humble workshop here in the cradle of Christianity. We are grateful for your willingness to support our humanitarian work by selling the labor of our hands in your shop. As you know, every dollar we receive is used to help victims of the terrible violence here, Christians and Muslims alike. We continue to be amazed at the resilience and strength of the remarkable Syrian people, who have suffered so much.
And now I must pass on some sad news. Brother Michael has, quite suddenly, gone home to God. On February 22, he grew ill and took to his bed. The next morning, we found him on the floor in the workshop. We believe he rose during the night and went to the shop for some reason. It appears he tripped, or perhaps grew dizzy, and fell backward, hitting his head on the corner of a workbench.
I know this will be a shock to you, as it was to all of us. Our American brother spoke often of your kindness to him when you met three years ago while he was visiting your city.
Here at the monastery, we are already missing his selfless work and the deep spirituality and trust with which he lived his life. And we grieve the shortness of his days. Forty-four seems far too young to die.
Please pray for the repose of his soul, as we will continue to do here in the land he adopted—and loved.
With gratitude in Christ, Abbot Jacques Gagnon
“Kristin?”
From a distance, a voice penetrated her shock.
Refolding the single sheet of paper, she lifted her chin. Susan Collier was standing in the doorway between WorldCraft’s stockroom and the retail section of the shop.
“Are you okay?” The woman took a step toward her.
“No. I’m trying to . . . to absorb some bad news.” She relayed the contents of the letter to her part-time clerk.
“I’m so sorry.” Sympath