The Last Man: A Novel (Mitch Rapp Book 13)

Review "Flynn is a master--maybe the master--of thrillers in which the pages seem to turn themselves." (Book Reporter)"Flynn has never been better." (Providence Journal)“ The Last Man is arguably Flynn's best work yet. Tight, right and dynamite.” (Minneapolis Star Tribune)"Certainly, The Last Man is one of Flynn’s most complex installments in the Rapp canon to date. And Flynn, master storyteller that he is, skillfully navigates the reader through the twists and turns of the tale to a conclusion that puts the main plot elements to rest while setting up the next intriguing volume." (Bookreporter)"Flynn fans will not be disappointed. Absolutely first rate." (Men Reading Books blog) About the Author #1 New York Times bestselling author Vince Flynn (1966–2013) created one of contemporary fiction’s most popular heroes: CIA counterterrorist agent Mitch Rapp, featured in thirteen of Flynn’s acclaimed political thrillers. All of his novels are New York Times bestsellers, including his stand-alone debut novel, Term Limits . The Mitch Rapp story begins with American Assassin , followed by Kill Shot , Transfer of Power , The Third Option , Separation of Power , Executive Power , Memorial Day , Consent to Kill , Act of Treason , Protect and Defend , Extreme Measures , Pursuit of Honor , The Last Man , The Survivor, Order to Kill, and Enemy of the State. American Assassin will be released as a major film in 2017. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The Last Man CHAPTER 1 JALALABAD, AFGHANISTAN THE four dead men were lined up on the living room floor of the safe house. Mitch Rapp started with the one on the left. The bearded face, the dark, lifeless eyes, and the dime-sized bullet hole that marked the center of the man’s forehead were all expected. One bullet, nice and neat—the way Rapp would have done it. The next two bodyguards looked the same, including red pucker marks in the center of their brows. The fourth Afghani was a different story. He’d been shot through the back of the head. A quarter of his face was now a jagged crater of flesh, blood, and bone. The exit wound told him the man had been shot by something a lot bigger than a 9mm—probably a .45 caliber with ammunition that pancaked and tumbled for maximum damage. There was nothing about this mess to give Rapp any assurance that things would be fine, but this last little twist cracked open the door on something he did not want to consider. Rapp set the troubling thought aside for a second, tried to imagine how it had gone down. The early signs pointed toward a well-coordinated assault. The perimeter security had been breached; phone line, cameras, motion sensors, heat sensors, and even the pressure pads had all been taken off-line. The backup connection through the satellite dish on the roof had also been disabled. Whoever had attacked the safe house had the knowledge and skill to hit the place without setting off a single alarm and alerting the quick-reaction force less than a mile away at the air base. According to the experts at Langley this was never supposed to happen. Four years earlier they had claimed the safe house was impregnable against any threat that the Taliban or any other local group could come up with. Rapp had told those same experts that they were full of shit. He’d never seen an impregnable safe house for the simple reason that people had to come and go. As with most CIA safe houses, this one was intentionally bland. There was no American flag flown out front and there were no snappy Marines standing post at the main gate. This was a black site where the more unpleasant aspects of the war had been coordinated. Langley didn’t want any official records of the comings and goings of the drug dealers, warlords, arms dealers, local politicians, police, and Afghan Army officers who were on the take. The house looked like your run-of-the-mill two-story blockhouse in Jalalabad. There were quite a few upgrades that made it unique, but from the outside it looked dingy and run-down just like all the other houses in the neighborhood. The cinderblock wall that surrounded the property was coated with a special resin designed to prevent it from exploding into a million pieces and shredding the house in the event of a car bomb. The simple-looking front door contained a one-inch steel plate and a reinforced steel frame. All of the windows were bulletproof Plexiglas and the high-tech security cameras and sensors were concealed so as to not attract the attention of the neighbors. Langley had even taken the unusual precaution of buying the houses on each side and moving in the bodyguards and their families. All to protect one man. Joe Rickman was the most cunning and brilliant operative Rapp had ever worked with. They’d known each other for sixteen years. At first Rapp didn’t know what to think of him. Rickman was pure vanilla. There wasn’t a single physical characteristic about him that was memorable. At five-feet-ten he was neither tall nor short. His mousy brown hair matched his dull brown eyes, and his weak chin completed the bland lines of his roundish face. On the rare occasion that you heard him speak, he was never animated and his voice was pure monotone—the kind of thing that could put the most restless baby to sleep. Rickman’s forgettable face allowed him to blend in and those who met him were almost underwhelmed by his presence. For Rickman that was just fine. Much of his success was built on fools underestimating him. He’d worked for the CIA for twenty-three years and it was rumored that he had never set foot inside headquarters. Only a few months earlier Rapp had asked him if the rumor was true. Rickman responded with a soft smile and said that he’d never been invited. At the time, Rapp took the comment as a self-deprecating attempt at a little levity. Later he realized Rickman was dead serious. Rickman was one of those people who were tolerated only during tough times—usually war. For the last eight years he’d run America’s clandestine war in Afghanistan. More than a billion dollars in cash had passed through his hands. Most of it was used to bribe people into playing on the right team, but a fair amount of the money was used to kill enemies and for a laundry list of other unpleasant things that went with the territory. People back at Langley didn’t want to know what Rickman was up to. They only wanted results, and that was something Rickman was exceedingly good at. Underneath Rickman’s bland façade was a cunning mind that was perfectly suited to the duplicitous, infinitely complicated world of espionage. Rapp understood the tinge of fear in his boss’s voice when she’d called him a little over two hours ago. When the morning guards showed up, they had discovered the bodies and the absence of Joe Rickman and had immediately alerted John Hubbard, the CIA’s Jalalabad base chief. Hubbard rang his boss in Kabul and the shit rolled uphill from there. Rapp received a call from CIA Director Irene Kennedy while he was sitting down for breakfast in the big mess hall at Bagram Air Force Base. He had just arrived in-country the previous evening on a high-priority mission that was now on hold. Kennedy passed along what little information she knew and ordered Rapp to grab the next Blackhawk to Jalalabad. Rapp didn’t argue. He and four of his team members made the trip and were on the ground in Jalalabad before nine in the morning. Hubbard met them with a three-SUV convoy and a security detail and they rolled to the house. Langley would want Rickman back, but Rapp got the strange feeling that all things considered, they would prefer the black-ops boss delivered in a body bag. It would be impossible to keep the kidnapping a secret. Rickman’s operational knowledge and reach was too vast to ignore. Entire teams would already be gathered at Langley, working around the clock to assess the damage. If Rapp didn’t find Rickman quickly, then complex, expensive operations would have to be unwound or assets would start showing up in morgues all across the Middle East, Southwest Asia, and beyond. Sooner or later Congress would get wind of the disaster and they would want answers. For a good number of people back at Langley, the only thing worse than Rickman spilling the Company secrets to an enemy would be Rickman testifying before Congress. Rapp had a long and somewhat complicated history with Rickman. He respected the man, but it had taken a while. Rapp was considering how he would handle a possible order to eliminate Rickman when the towering Hubbard approached. “This shit is really bad.” Rapp nodded. “It’s about as bad as it could get.” Hubbard rubbed his bald head and asked, “How in the hell are we going to find him?” “At this point I’m not sure.” Rapp knew their chances for success were remote, but they had to start somewhere. “This is going to get really nasty, and if you don’t have the stomach for it, Hub, I suggest you go back to the base and lock yourself in your office.” Hubbard studied Rapp for a moment and then nodded. “You don’t have to worry about me getting all sensitive on you. I’ve been over here for two years. I’ve seen all kinds of crazy shit.” Most of that “crazy shit” was stuff done by the enemy. This time they would be the ones crossing the line. “I know you have,” Rapp said, “but trust me, if we’re going to get him back we are going to have to be more ruthless than you can imagine, and if at any point you start to have doubts, that’s fine, step aside, but I need you to promise me you’ll stick your head in the sand and keep your mouth shut.” Hubbard gave him a nervous smile. “I can do a Sergeant Schultz when I need to.” “Good,” Rapp replied, even though he had his doubts. “So where do you want to start?” Rapp returned his attention to the row of dead men. “The bodyguards.” Hubbard turned his six-foot-five-inch frame toward the row of men and pursed his lips. “I think we can rule these four out.” Rapp focused on the man with the cratered face. An inside job was the obvious conclusion, but the bodyguards were all hardened Northern Alliance types. It was possible that one of them could have been bribed into giving up the crucial information on the security system, but unlikely. If one of them had turned, however, it was also possible that the Taliban, or whoever was responsible for this, had decided to kill the inside man as soon as they got what they wanted. The wrench in the works was that Rapp was pretty certain the Taliban had nothing to do with this. He pointed at the man missing part of his face. “Focus on this one. I want to know everything there is to know about him . . . especially his family. Do his parents or wife or kids have medical problems? Does he have a drug problem? Anything you can find.” “And the other eight?” A team of interrogation experts from D.C. were in flight but not expected to land for another thirteen hours. “If you have the manpower, you can get started with them, but I doubt they’d hang around after something like this. What would you do if someone gave you a pile of cash to betray your buddies and a man like Rick?” Rickman’s first name was Joe, but everyone who worked with him called him Rick. “I’d run.” “That’s right.” Rapp pointed to the man who’d been shot with a .45 caliber. “Focus on this one for now.” “So you think the Taliban turned him?” Rapp ignored the question for the moment and asked, “Who moved these bodies?” “What do you mean?” “The bodies,” Rapp said as he pointed at the row of four. “They weren’t shot here. Look at the blood on the floor. They were dragged here after they were killed.” Rapp pointed at the stairs. “One of them was dragged down from the second story.” Hubbard shrugged. “They were lined up like this when I got here.” “Did the bodyguards move them?” “Not that I know of. Do you want me to find out?” “In a minute.” Rapp looked toward the front door where one of the bodyguards was standing post with an AK-47 gripped in both hands. “The neighbors . . . did they hear or see anything last night?” “No. Not a thing.” “No signs of forced entry?” “Not that we’ve discovered, but they wouldn’t need to force their way in if one of these guys were helping them.” “So no forced entry . . . four bodyguards . . . four headshots . . . four dead men. Anything about that seem unusual to you?” Hubbard thought about it for a moment and said, “Not sure what you’re driving at.” Rapp pointed at the bodies one after another, saying, “Nine-millimeter, nine-millimeter, nine-millimeter, .45 caliber, and my bet is they were all fired from suppressed weapons. Pretty accurate work. Good fire discipline. Look at the walls.” Hubbard did a 360-degree turn and said, “What about them?” “You see anything?” “No.” “That’s the point. You ever seen the Taliban operate like this? Four shots, four hits, and not a shot more. The Taliban likes to get the lead out. You know their MO. They would have rolled up on this place with three or four trucks and started unloading RPG rounds at all three buildings. This place would be riddled with bullets. This was done by pros.” Hubbard made a sour face and then nodded. “Yeah . . . you’re right. The towelheads like to blow shit up. This is more like something our guys would do . . .” Hubbard kept talking, but Rapp had stopped listening. The idea that U.S. Special Operators had been involved was something he hadn’t considered and something he didn’t want to consider. From the moment Rapp had heard Rickman was missing, there was a gnawing fear that he was about to head down the rabbit hole. Rickman excelled at his job for the simple reason that he could think five, ten, fifteen, even twenty steps ahead of the enemy, and everyone else, for that matter. There had been many times when Rapp didn’t understand what the man was up to because he wasn’t smart enough to follow Rick’s thinking. “How about those assholes from the ISI?” Hubbard asked. Rapp had considered the less-than-loyal members of the Pakistani Intelligence Service. They would be on the list as well as others. “Don’t forget the Iranians, the Russians, and the Chinese.” And there was one other possibility that Rapp wasn’t quite prepared to mention. “My money’s on the ISI. This is just the kind of bullshit they’d pull.” A thought occurred to Rapp. “Where’s the dog? That big frickin’ Rottweiler that never left Rick’s side?” “Ajax . . . he died a month ago.” Rapp was surprised by the news. “What was wrong with him?” “Don’t know. Rick was pretty bummed out, though. Dog got sick, he took him to the vet and had to put him down. I think Rick said it was cancer or something like that.” One of Rapp’s team members came down the stairs with a disturbed look on his face. The man had blond hair and blue eyes and was pushing fifty. “Not good,” was all he had to say. Rapp looked at Scott Coleman and said, “Please tell me you’re talking about something other than the safe. Tell me the safe is untouched and all the cash, drives, and laptop are safely tucked inside.” Coleman shook his head. “All gone. Completely cleaned out.” Even though Rapp had expected it, he had held out some hope that he could give his boss a piece of good news. “Shit, I need to call Irene and let her know.” Rapp reached for his phone, but stopped upon hearing a commotion at the front door. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

Leaving Annalise (What Doesn't Kill You, #2): A Katie Romantic Mystery

Review "An exciting tale . . . twisting investigative and legal subplots . . . a character seeking redemption . . . an exhilarating mystery with a touch of voodoo." -- Midwest Book Review Bookwatch"A lively romantic mystery." -- Kirkus Reviews"A riveting drama . . . exciting read, highly recommended." -- Small Press Bookwatch""Katie is the first character I have absolutely fallen in love with since Stephanie Plum!" -- Stephanie Swindell, Bookstore Owner About Pamela: 2020 Amazon Top 15 Best Seller2020 Amazon Top 100 Author2018 USA Today Best Seller 2017 Silver Falchion Award, Best Mystery2016 USA Best Book Award, Cross-Genre Fiction2015 USA Best Book Award, Cross-Genre Fiction2014 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Quarter-finalist, Romance Praise for Pamela's other books: What Doesn't Kill You: Emily Bernal Texas-to-New Mexico Romantic Mysteries "You won't be able to put it down." -- Ken Oder, author of Old Wounds to the Heart"Full of heart, humor, vivid characters, and suspense." -- Gay Yellen, author ofThe Body Business"Hutchins is a master of tension." -- R.L. Nolen, author of Deadly Thyme"Intriguing mystery . . . captivating romance." -- Patricia Flaherty Pagan, author of Trail Ways Pilgrim"Everything about it shines: the plot, the characters and the writing." -- Marcy McKay, author of Pennies from Burger Heaven What Doesn't Kill You: Michele Lopez Hanson Texas Romantic Mysteries "Immediately hooked." -- Terry Sykes-Bradshaw, author of Sibling Revelry"Spellbinding." -- Jo Bryan, Dry Creek Book Club"Fast-paced mystery." -- Deb Krenzer, Book Reviewer"Can't put it down." -- Cathy Bader, Reader What Doesn't Kill You: Maggie Killian Texas-to-Wyoming Romantic Mysteries "Maggie's gonna break your heart-one way or another." Tara Scheyer, Grammy-nominated musician, Long-Distance Sisters Book Club"Nails that Wyoming scenery and captures the atmosphere of the people there." -- Ken Oder, author of Old Wounds to the Heart"I thought I had it all figured out a time or two, but she kept me wondering right to the end." -- Ginger Copeland, power reader What Doesn't Kill You: Ava Butler Caribbean Romantic Mysteries "Just when I think I couldn't love another Pamela Fagan Hutchins novel more, along comes Ava." -- Marcy McKay, author of Stars Among the Dead"Ava personifies bombshell in every sense of word. -- Tara Scheyer, Grammy-nominated musician, Long-Distance Sisters Book Club"Entertaining, complex, and thought-provoking." -- Ginger Copeland, power reader The Patrick Flint Series Transports readers deep into the mountains of Wyoming for a thriller that has it all--wild animals, criminals, and one family willing to do whatever is necessary to protect its own. Hutchins writes with the authority of a woman who knows this world. She weaves the story with both nail-biting suspense and a healthy dose of humor. You won't want to miss it." -- Danielle Girard, Wall Street Journal-bestselling author of White Out"As many twists and turns as a high-country trail. Every parent's nightmare is the loss or injury of a child, and this powerful novel taps into that primal fear." -- Reavis Z. Wortham, two time winner of The Spur and author of Hawke's Prey"Starts at a gallop and had me holding on with both hands until the riveting finish. Highly atmospheric and nearly crackling with suspense. Highly recommend!" -- Libby Kirsch, Emmy awardwinning reporter and author of the Janet Black Mystery Series"Best book I've read in a long time!" -- Kiersten Marquet, author of Reluctant Promises What Amazon readers are saying: "A Bob Ross painting with Alfred Hitchcock hidden among the trees.""Edge-of-your seat nail biter.""Unexpected twists!""Wow! Wow! Highly entertaining!""Beautifully descriptive, with an underlying story of human connection and family.""Well drawn characters, great scenery, and a kept-me-on-the-edge-of-my-seat story!""Absolutely unputdownable wonder of a story.""Must read!""Gripping story. Looking for book two!""Intense!" About the Author If you like Sandra Brown or Janet Evanovich, you will love USA Today Best Seller Pamela Fagan Hutchins. A former attorney and native Texan, Pamela lived in the U.S. Virgin Islands for nearly ten years. She refuses to admit to taking notes for this series during that time. If you'd like Pamela to speak to your book club, women's club, or writers group, by streaming or in person, shoot her an e-mail. She's very likely to say yes. You can connect with Pamela via her website (pamelafaganhutchins.com) or e-mail (pamela@pamelafaganhutchins.com).

Saving Grace (What Doesn't Kill You, #1): A Katie Romantic Mystery

Fifty Shades Of Grey: Book One of the Fifty Shades Trilogy (Fifty Shades of Grey Series, 1)

Review A GoodReads Choice Awards Finalist for Best Romance "In a class by itself." - Entertainment Weekly About the Author E L James is an incurable romantic and a self-confessed fangirl. After twenty-five years of working in television, she decided to pursue a childhood dream and write stories that readers could take to their hearts. The result was the controversial and sensuous romance Fifty Shades of Grey and its two sequels, Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed . In 2015, she published the #1 bestseller Grey , the story of Fifty Shades of Gre y from the perspective of Christian Grey, and in 2017, the chart-topping Darker , the second part of the Fifty Shades story from Christian’s point of view. She followed with the #1 New York Times bestseller The Mister in 2019. In 2021, she released the #1 New York Times , USA Today , Wall Street Journal , and international bestseller Freed , the third novel in the As Told by Christian trilogy. Her books have been published in fifty languages and have sold more than 165 million copies worldwide. E L James has been recognized as one of Time Magazine ’s Most Influential People in the World and Publishers Weekly ’s Person of the Year. Fifty Shades of Grey stayed on the New York Times bestseller list for 133 consecutive weeks. Fifty Shades Freed won the Goodreads Choice Award (2012), and Fifty Shades of Grey was selected as one of the 100 Great Reads, as voted by readers, in PBS’s The Great American Read (2018). Darker was longlisted for the 2019 International DUBLIN Literary Award. She was a producer on each of the three Fifty Shades movies, which made more than a billion dollars at the box office. The third installment, Fifty Shades Freed , won the People’s Choice Award for Drama in 2018. E L James is blessed with two wonderful sons and lives with her husband, the novelist and screenwriter Niall Leonard, and their beloved dogs in the leafy suburbs of West London. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. CHAPTER ONE I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair―it just won't behave, and damn Katherine Kavanagh for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too big for her face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi-presentable. Kate is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she'd arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon I've never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram for and one essay to finish, and I'm supposed to be working this afternoon, but no―today I have to drive 165 miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our university, his time is extraordinarily precious―much more precious than mine―but he has granted Kate an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her extracurricular activities. Kate is huddled on the couch in the living room. "Ana, I'm sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we'll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can't blow this off. Please," Kate begs me in her rasping, sore throat voice. How does she do it? Even ill she looks gamine and gorgeous, strawberry blond hair in place and green eyes bright, although now red rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy. "Of course I'll go, Kate. You should get back to bed. Would you like some NyQuil or Tylenol?" "NyQuil, please. Here are the questions and my digital recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I'll transcribe it all." "I know nothing about him," I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic. "The questions will see you through. Go. It's a long drive. I don't want you to be late." "Okay, I'm going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later." I stare at her fondly. Only for you, Kate, would I do this. "I will. Good luck. And thanks, Ana―as usual, you're my lifesaver." Gathering my backpack, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Kate talk me into this. But then Kate can talk anyone into anything. She'll make an exceptional journalist. She's articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful―and she's my dearest, dearest friend.  The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, Washington, toward Interstate 5. It's early, and I don't have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Kate has lent me her sporty Mercedes CLK. I'm not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I hit the pedal to the metal. My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Grey's global enterprise. It's a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect's utilitarian fantasy, with GREY HOUSE written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It's a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I'm not late as I walk into the enormous―and frankly intimidating―glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby. Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She's wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate. "I'm here to see Mr. Grey. Anastasia Steele for Katherine Kavanagh." "Excuse me one moment, Miss Steele." She arches her eyebrow as I stand self-consciously before her. I'm beginning to wish I'd borrowed one of Kate's formal blazers rather than worn my navy-blue jacket. I have made an effort and worn my one and only skirt, my sensible brown knee-length boots, and a blue sweater. For me, this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn't intimidate me.  "Miss Kavanagh is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Steele. You'll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor." She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in. She hands me a security pass that has "visitor" very firmly stamped on the front. I can't help my smirk. Surely it's obvious that I'm just visiting. I don't fit in here at all. Nothing changes . I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators and past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits. The elevator whisks me at terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I'm in another large lobby―again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I'm confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young blonde woman, this time dressed impeccably in black and white, who rises to greet me. "Miss Steele, could you wait here, please?" She points to a seated area of white leather chairs. Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Seattle skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. It's a stunning vista, and I'm momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow . I sit down, fish the questions from my backpack, and go through them, inwardly cursing Kate for not providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this man I'm about to interview. He could be ninety or he could be thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I've never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic British novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colossal glass-and-stone edifice. I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Steele . Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Grey is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel. Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blondes? It's like Stepford here. Taking a deep breath, I stand up. "Miss Steele?" the latest blonde asks. "Yes," I croak, and clear my throat. "Yes." There, that sounded more confident. "Mr. Grey will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?" "Oh, please." I struggle out of the jacket. "Have you been offered any refreshment?" "Um―no." Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble? Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk. "Would you like tea, coffee, water?" she asks, turning her attention back to me. "A glass of water. Thank you," I murmur. "Olivia, please fetch Miss Steele a glass of water." Her voice is stern. Olivia scoots up and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer. "My apologies, Miss Steele, Olivia is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Grey will be another five minutes." Olivia returns with a glass of iced water. "Here you go, Miss Steele." "Thank you." Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits down, and they both continue their work. Perhaps Mr. Grey insists on all his employees being blonde. I'm wondering idly if that's legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive African American man with short dreads exits. I have definitely worn the wrong clothes. He turns and says through the door, "Golf this week, Grey?" I don't hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Olivia has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She's more nervous than me! "Good afternoon, ladies," he says as he departs through the sliding door. "Mr. Grey will see you now, Miss Steele. Do go through," Blonde Number Two says. I stand rather shakily, trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my backpack, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door. "You don't need to knock―just go in." She smiles kindly.  I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet and falling headfirst into the office. Double crap―me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Grey's office, and gentle hands are around me, helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow―he's so young. "Miss Kavanagh." He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I'm upright. "I'm Christian Grey. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?" So young―and attractive, very attractive. He's tall, dressed in a fine gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with unruly dark copper-colored hair and intense, bright gray eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.  "Um. Actually―" I mutter. If this guy is over thirty, then I'm a monkey's uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate. "Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Grey." "And you are?" His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it's difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested but, above all, polite. "Anastasia Steele. I'm studying English literature with Kate, um . . . Katherine . . . um . . . Miss Kavanagh, at WSU Vancouver." "I see," he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but I'm not sure. "Would you like to sit?" He waves me toward an L-shaped white leather couch. His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there's a modern dark wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white―ceiling, floors, and walls, except for the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite―a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking. "A local artist. Trouton," says Grey when he catches my gaze.  "They're lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary," I murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently. "I couldn't agree more, Miss Steele," he replies, his voice soft, and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.  Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Kate's questions from my backpack. Next, I set up the digital recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Grey says nothing, waiting patiently―I hope―as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he's watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he's trying to suppress a smile. "S-sorry," I stutter. "I'm not used to this." "Take all the time you need, Miss Steele," he says. "Do you mind if I record your answers?" "After you've taken so much trouble to set up the recorder, you ask me now?" I flush. He's teasing me? I hope. I blink at him, unsure what to say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. "No, I don't mind." "Did Kate, I mean, Miss Kavanagh, explain what the interview was for?" "Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year's graduation ceremony." Oh! This is news to me, and I'm temporarily preoccupied by the thought that someone not much older than me―okay, maybe six years or so, and okay, mega-successful, but still―is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand. "Good." I swallow nervously. "I have some questions, Mr. Grey." I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "I thought you might," he says, deadpan. He's laughing at me. My cheeks heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look professional.  "You're very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?" I glance up at him. His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.  "Business is all about people, Miss Steele, and I'm very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn't, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well." He pauses and fixes me with his gray stare. "My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is it's always down to good people." "Maybe you're just lucky." This isn't on Kate's list―but he's so arrogant. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise. "I don't subscribe to luck or chance, Miss Steele. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said, 'The growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.' " "You sound like a control freak." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Steele," he says without a trace of humor in his smile. I look at him, and he holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again. Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? His overwhelming good looks maybe? The way his eyes blaze at me? The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip? I wish he'd stop doing that. "Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret reveries that you were born to control things," he continues, his voice soft. "Do you feel that you have immense power?" Control freak . "I employ over forty thousand people, Miss Steele. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility―power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so." My mouth drops open. I am staggered by his lack of humility. "Don't you have a board to answer to?" I ask, disgusted. "I own my company. I don't have to answer to a board." He raises an eyebrow at me. Of course, I would know this if I had done some research. But holy crap, he's arrogant. I change tack. "And do you have any interests outside your work?" "I have varied interests, Miss Steele." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Very varied." And for some reason, I'm confounded and heated by his steady gaze. His eyes are alight with some wicked thought. "But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?" "Chill out?" He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. I stop breathing. He really is beautiful. No one should be this good-looking. "Well, to 'chill out,' as you put it―I sail, I fly, I indulge in various physical pursuits." He shifts in his chair. "I'm a very wealthy man, Miss Steele, and I have expensive and absorbing hobbies." I glance quickly at Kate's questions, wanting to get off this subject. "You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?" I ask. Why does he make me so uncomfortable? "I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?" "That sounds like your heart talking rather than logic and facts." His mouth quirks up, and he stares appraisingly at me.  "Possibly. Though there are people who'd say I don't have a heart." "Why would they say that?" "Because they know me well." His lip curls in a wry smile. "Would your friends say you're easy to get to know?" And I regret the question as soon as I say it. It's not on Kate's list. "I'm a very private person, Miss Steele. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don't often give interviews . . ." "Why did you agree to do this one?" "Because I'm a benefactor of the university, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn't get Miss Kavanagh off my back. She badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity." I know how tenacious Kate can be. That's why I'm sitting here squirming uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze, when I should be studying for my exams. "You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in that area?" "We can't eat money, Miss Steele, and there are too many people on this planet who don't have enough to eat." "That sounds very philanthropic. Is it something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world's poor?" He shrugs noncommittally. "It's shrewd business," he murmurs, though I think he's being disingenuous. It doesn't make sense―feeding the world's poor? I can't see the financial benefit of this, only the virtue of the ideal. I glance at the next question, confused by his attitude. "Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?" "I don't have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle―Carnegie's: 'A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.' I'm very singular, driven. I like control―of myself and those around me." "So you want to possess things?" You are a control freak . "I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do." "You sound like the ultimate consumer." "I am." He smiles, but the smile doesn't touch his eyes. Again, this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so I can't help thinking that we're talking about something else, but I'm mystified as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room is rising, or maybe it's just me. I just want this interview to be over. Surely Kate has enough material now. I glance at the next question. "You were adopted. How much do you think that's shaped the way you are?" Oh, this is personal. I stare at him, hoping he's not offended. His brow furrows.  "I have no way of knowing." My interest is piqued. "How old were you when you were adopted?" "That's a matter of public record, Miss Steele." His tone is stern. Crap . Yes, of course―if I'd known I was doing this interview, I would have done some research. Flustered, I move on quickly. "You've had to sacrifice family life for your work." "That's not a question." He's terse. "Sorry." I squirm; he's made me feel like an errant child. I try again. "Have you had to sacrifice family life for your work?"  "I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I'm not interested in extending my family beyond that." "Are you gay, Mr. Grey?" He inhales sharply, and I cringe, mortified. Crap . Why didn't I employ some kind of filter before I read this straight out? How can I tell him I'm just reading the questions? Damn Kate and her curiosity! "No, Anastasia, I'm not." He raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in his eyes. He does not look pleased. "I apologize. It's, um . . . written here." It's the first time he's said my name. My heartbeat has accelerated, and my cheeks are heating up again. Nervously, I tuck my loosened hair behind my ear. He cocks his head to one side. "These aren't your own questions?" The blood drains from my head. "Er . . . no. Kate―Miss Kavanagh―she compiled the questions." "Are you colleagues on the student paper?" Oh no . I have nothing to do with the student paper. It's her extracurricular activity, not mine. My face is aflame. "No. She's my roommate." He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his gray eyes appraising me. "Did you volunteer to do this interview?" he asks, his voice deadly quiet. Hang on, who's supposed to be interviewing whom? His eyes burn into me, and I'm compelled to answer with the truth. "I was drafted. She's not well." My voice is weak and apologetic. "That explains a great deal." There's a knock at the door, and Blonde Number Two enters. "Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes." "We're not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting." Andrea hesitates, gaping at him. She appears lost. He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She flushes bright pink. Oh, good. It's not just me . "Very well, Mr. Grey," she mutters, then exits. He frowns, and turns his attention back to me. "Where were we, Miss Steele?" Oh, we're back to "Miss Steele" now . "Please, don't let me keep you from anything." "I want to know about you. I think that's only fair." His eyes are alight with curiosity. Double crap. Where's he going with this? He places his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. His mouth is very . . . distracting. I swallow. "There's not much to know." "What are your plans after you graduate?" I shrug, thrown by his interest. Move to Seattle with Kate, find a job . I haven't really thought beyond my finals. "I haven't made any plans, Mr. Grey. I just need to get through my final exams." Which I should be studying for right now, rather than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under your penetrating gaze. "We run an excellent internship program here," he says quietly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is he offering me a job? "Oh. I'll bear that in mind," I murmur, confounded. "Though I'm not sure I'd fit in here." Oh no. I'm musing out loud again. "Why do you say that?" He tilts his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "It's obvious, isn't it?" I'm uncoordinated, scruffy, and I'm not blonde . "Not to me." His gaze is intense, all humor gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. What's going on? I have to go―now. I lean forward to retrieve the recorder. "Would you like me to show you around?" he asks. "I'm sure you're far too busy, Mr. Grey, and I do have a long drive." "You're driving back to Vancouver?" He sounds surprised, anxious even. He glances out of the window. It's begun to rain. "Well, you'd better drive carefully." His tone is stern, authoritative. Why should he care? "Did you get everything you need?" he adds. "Yes, sir," I reply, packing the recorder into my backpack. His eyes narrow, speculatively. "Thank you for the interview, Mr. Grey." "The pleasure's been all mine," he says, polite as ever. As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand. "Until we meet again, Miss Steele." And it sounds like a challenge, or a threat, I'm not sure which. I frown. When will we ever meet again? I shake his hand once more, astounded that that odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves. "Mr. Grey." I nod at him. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide. "Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss Steele." He gives me a small smile. Obviously, he's referring to my earlier less-than-elegant entry into his office. I blush. "That's very considerate, Mr. Grey," I snap, and his smile widens. I'm glad you find me entertaining , I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer. I'm surprised when he follows me out. Andrea and Olivia both look up, equally surprised. "Did you have a coat?" Grey asks. "A jacket." Olivia leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Grey takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, I shrug it on. Grey places his hands for a moment on my shoulders. I gasp at the contact. If he notices my reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting―awkwardly on my part, coolly self-possessed on his. The doors open, and I hurry in, desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I turn to look at him, he's gazing at me and leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking. It's unnerving. "Anastasia," he says as a farewell. "Christian," I reply. And mercifully, the doors close. Read more

The Man Without A Country and Other Tales: (Timeless Classic Books)

Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words

Review We think we know what we are talking about, the meaning of things, the basic rules of language, until we read David Whyte's Consolations; where we are forced to reassess everything and begin again. Such an essential and beautiful book. --Nick CaveBeautiful, elegant, tiny essays on the consoling power of words, written by one of my favorite living poets. I think Whyte is as much a mystic as an author, and this book proves it. Beautiful, soulful, thoughtful. --Elizabeth GilbertConsolations remains one of the most luminous books I've ever encountered. --Maria Popova About the Author David Whyte grew up with a strong, imaginative influence from his Irish mother among the hills and valleys of his father's Yorkshire. He now makes his home in the Pacific Northwest of the United States.The author of seven books of poetry and four books of prose, David Whyte holds a degree in Marine Zoology and has trav- eled extensively, including living and working as a naturalist guide in the Galapagos Islands and leading anthropological and natural history expeditions in the Andes, Amazon and Himalaya. He brings this wealth of experience to his poetry, lectures and workshops.His life as a poet has created a readership and listenership in three normally mutually exclusive areas: the literate world of readings that most poets inhabit, the psychological and theological worlds of philosophical enquiry and the world of vocation, work and organizational leadership.An Associate Fellow at Said Business School at the University of Oxford, he is one of the few poets to take his perspectives on creativity into the field of organizational development, where he works with many Europen, American and international companies. In spring 2008 he was awarded an honorary doctorate from Neumann College, Pennsylvania.In organizational settings, using poetry and thoughtful commentary, he illustrates how we can foster qualities of courage and engagement; qualities needed if we are to respond to today's call for increased creativity and adaptability in the workplace. He brings a unique and important contribution to our understanding of the nature of individual and organizational change, particularly through his unique perspectives on Conversational Leadership.

Okinawa No Bushi No Te The Hands Of The Okinawan Bushi

About the Author Ronald L. Lindsey is a American Martial Artist who has devoted his entire adult life to the study, practice and teaching of the one of the original styles of Okinawan Karate. He is also one of the American military servicemen who brought Okinawan Karate to the United States. His specialty is teaching Shorin Ryu Matsumura Seito (orthodox) Karate/Kobujutsu. Mr. Lindsey learned his art from six Okinawan Teachers; five of which became Grandmasters. Mr. Lindsey holds teaching licenses from four of these Okinawan Masters. Mr. Lindsey does not teach sport karate; rather he has earned International Renown as an authority and teacher of "Okinawan no Bushi no Te" which is one of the old names for the karate of the Okinawan Samurai.

This is a great kid's book

All the Old Knives: A Novel

Review “A sneaky little gem... Steinhauer sustains the difficult balancing act of melding a heart-racing espionage plot with a credible dinner table conversation.” ― The New York Times “A splendid tour de force...without neglecting the turmoil of the geopolitical landscape, the novel focuses more intensely on the equally treacherous landscapes of the human heart.” ― The Washington Post “It's not news that Olen Steinhauer is among the best contemporary espionage writers, and All the Old Knives confirms it. If you're a fan of intelligent spy novels that don't need much bang-bang, details about ordnance, or people who save the world single-handedly, this one's for you.” ― Seattle Times “Most of All the Old Knives revolves around Pelham and Favreau's dinner, and the fact that the book moves so swiftly and alluringly is a testament to Steinhauer's skills as an entertainer. He stretches considerable tension across an entire book, rather than a handful of swift scenes, and it's gratifying to watch him do something so daringly retro and contrary to what we've come to expect in a thriller.” ― The Richmond Times-Dispatch “Terrific standalone thriller...There's great narrative energy in the thrust and counterthrust of the dinner conversation, as well as in the re-creation of the Viennese events; Steinhauer is a very fine writer and an excellent observer of human nature, shrewd about the pleasures and perils of spying.” ― Publishers Weekly (starred review) “Masterfully plotted and suspenseful stand-alone...Steinhauer expertly shifts perspectives between the two spies in both their present and past lives, when Henry was a rough-and-tumble field agent and Celia wielded power behind a desk. It's an understatement to say that nothing is as it seems, but even readers well-versed in espionage fiction will be pleasantly surprised by Steinhauer's plot twists and double backs.” ― Kirkus Reviews (starred review) “A compelling spy story that takes place at a restaurant table...It delivers intrigue, suspense, and a heart-stopping finale. In his acknowledgments, Steinhauer tells us he wrote it in one month. You'll devour it in one night.” ― Booklist (starred review) “This genre-bending spy novel takes Hitchcockian suspense to new heights. Over the course of a meal with flashbacks, the eternal questions of trust, loyalty, and authentic love are deftly dissected. Readers drawn to the story of a loving couple trapped in a terrible embrace will be thrilled to follow Henry and Celia's tortured pas de deux.” ― Library Journal (starred review) --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From the Artist Olen Steinhauer; Read by Ari Fliakos and Juliana Francis Kelly --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Amazon.com Review An Amazon Best Book of the Month for March 2015: All the Old Knives has a disarmingly quiet start, but good spy novels are like good spies: they draw you in, earn your trust, and then grab hold with both hands. In Vienna during the mid-2000s Henry and Celia were intelligence agents and lovers who witnessed a terrorist hijacking as it took a shocking turn. Five years later, the two meet over dinner at a restaurant in Carmel-by-the-Sea where Celia now lives as a civilian, to recall the events of the past. As the remembrances overlap with the present moment, tension mounts and questions of who did what to whom, and why, become increasingly urgent. By the last 100 pages Steinhauer’s hook is firmly embedded and it’s hard not to race to the finish. And the ending? I can sum it up in one word--brilliant. – Seira Wilson --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. About the Author OLEN STEINHAUER, the "New York Times" bestselling author of nine previous novels, is a Dashiell Hammett Award winner, a two-time Edgar award finalist, and has also been shortlisted for the Anthony, the Macavity, the Ellis Peters Historical Dagger, the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger, and the Barry awards. Raised in Virginia, he lives in New York and Budapest, Hungary. --This text refers to the paperback edition. Review Praise for "The Cairo Affair ""Stunning...It has become de rigeur to compare Steinhauer to le Carre, but it's nearly time to pass the torch: for the next generation, it's Steinhauer who will become the standard by which others are measured."--"Booklist" (starred) "Elaborate, sophisticated...A long, twisty road full of cleverly placed potholes and unexpected turns...Mr. Steinhauer draws his spies as flesh-and-blood characters."--Janet Maslin, "The New York Times "Praise for "The Tourist" series "Not since le Carre has a writer so vividly evoked the multilayered, multifaceted, deeply paranoid world of espionage, in which identities and allegiances are malleable and ever shifting, the mirrors of loyalty and betrayal reflecting one another to infinity. In this intensely clever, sometimes baffling book, it's never quite clear who is manipulating whom, and which side is up."--"The New York Times Book Review ""Stunning...Readers are irresistibly drawn into Weaver's dogged struggle to unravel a complicated game of cat and mouse...Steinhauer is at the top of his game--but when isn't he?"--"USA Today ""Here's the best spy novel I've ever read that wasn't written by John le Carre."--Stephen King, "Entertainment Weekly" --This text refers to the paperback edition. Read more

Yamato: A Rage in Heaven

From Publishers Weekly This debut novel, the first of a projected series of five, recasts the defeat of the Spanish Armada with a Japanese motif in a World War II-like setting that takes place in a putative 25th century. Here sailing ships, cannons and gold have become space ships, beam weapons and aurium; and Sir Francis Drake, Queen Elizabeth I, Mary Queen of Scots and the Pope have their counterparts also. Each former Earth power occupies one of the Hours of Heaven, clock-shaped sectors in space. England is now known as Amerika, Spain has turned into Yamato (Japan) and the Netherlands is Korea; in this space grid the Neutral Zone physically takes the place of what in the 15th century was the New World. What little plot exists is skewed to accommodate historical parallels, so that neither political infighting nor military conflict holds surprises for the reader. Adding to the difficulties of Kato's inert prose are too many offstage scenes, destroying both continuity and any hope of providing motivation for the individual characters. Copyright 1990 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Library Journal As overtures of war break out between sectors of space colonized by America and Japan, the fortunes of two brothers mirror the complexities of diverse cultures in a 24th century characterized by the politics of power. This first in a five-volume series chronicling humanity's far future combines military sf and sf adventure with a tribute to James Clavell's Shogun . Less convincing in its political maneuverings than in its gripping battle scenes, this belongs in large sf collections.Copyright 1990 Reed Business Information, Inc.