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Table of Contents Gideon Table of Contents Title Page Back Cover Copy Acknowledgements Map of COSIO ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY TWENTY-ONE TWENTY-TWO TWENTY-THREE TWENTY-FOUR TWENTY-FIVE TWENTY-SIX TWENTY-SEVEN TWENTY-EIGHT TWENTY-NINE THIRTY THIRTY-ONE THIRTY-TWO THIRTY-THREE THIRTY-FOUR THIRTY-FIVE THIRTY-SIX THIRTY-SEVEN THIRTY-EIGHT THIRTY-NINE FORTY FORTY-ONE FORTY-TWO FORTY-THREE FORTY-FOUR FORTY-FIVE FORTY-SIX About Cherry Adair Cherry Adair's Book Store Copyright Title Page Back Cover Copy T-FLAC is back in an exciting action-adventure romance filled with danger, subterfuge and steamy, red-hot attraction. NO MEMORY OF HIS PAST Powerful cartel leader Sin Diaz lives a dangerous life filled with secrets and lies, and surrounded by people who claim to have known him all his life. Yet flashes of another life, totally unrelated to the jungles of Cosio, hang tantalizingly on the edges of his memory. He’ll trust no one until he remembers his true past. NO VISIONS FOR HER FUTURE T-FLAC operative Riva Rimaldi’s mission is simple. Go undercover, learn terrorist Escobar Maza’s agenda, then kill him. But when the helicopter she’s on crashes deep in the jungle she finds herself in the wrong hands. Is the sexy as hell leader of the ANLF, Sin Diaz, the enemy of her enemy, worse than Maza himself? TOGETHER THEY HOLD THE KEY Sin and Riva must work together to stop a madman who will go to any lengths to attain his terrifying goal. But can they unravel the truth in time? The countdown clock is ticking. What they don’t know could get them killed. Acknowledgements For Mandi Beck because I promised. Map of COSIO T he proverbial shit was about to hit the fan. The fan: the vintage SE3160 Alouette helicopter carrying T-FLAC operative Riva Rimaldi. The shit: a vision of a fiery explosion followed by the chopper hurtling toward the ground in flaming pieces. Five out of the six people on board were about to die. In lieu of a seatbelt, Riva gripped the cracked seat on either side of her hips as the chopper shimmied and rattled through pockets of turbulence. Whatever the cause of the explosion, she was sorry she couldn’t forewarn the two operatives accompanying her of their impending death. A head’s up would be useless. That was the bitch of her psychic ability. When she had a vision, she knew precisely what would happen, but not when. Cheerful morning sunlight flooded the cabin, highlighting the hirsute, overweight pilot, Manny Ferrari. Anything less like a sleek, Italian sports car would be hard to find. A dirty wife-beater tank top showed hairy, beefy arms oily with sweat. His concentration was evident in the beetling of his Neanderthal brows and his white-knuckled grip on the throttle and cyclic control stick. For a moment, she was downwind of him and her eyes watered at the smell. Garlic, sweat, and booze oozed out of his pores. Despite the chopper being doorless, he stank as badly as the two armed soldiers seated behind her. She didn’t need to read the microexpressions on his face to know what was going on in his head. He was shit-scared, and praying just as hard as any of his passengers. Ferrari let out a string of obscenities as they bounced on a gust of air and he had to fight the controls. The cargo was too heavy; weapons, she knew. It was a damn miracle the bird had managed to lift off the ground in the first place. “Are you capable of landing this piece of shit without killing us?” Riva demanded so that she had a reason to lean in and scan the controls. No GPS on this old chopper. Like the helicopter, the comm was crappy and crackled with feedback. His GPS was his watch, which she couldn’t read from her position. Pilot error and antiquated equipment was not what was going to kill him, though. Sweat ran from Ferrari’s temple to the thick black shadow of his jaw. It took a full minute for him to respond. “Don’t you know, Señorita Estigarribia?” Riva settled back against the ripped plastic seat, cinching her arm more tightly around the bag on her lap. “Would you like me to tell your future for you, Manny?” she asked sweetly. With a shake of his head and muttering under his breath, the pilot crossed himself, then raised the fingers of his right hand to his lips. Then he was back white-knuckling the controls. For the last-minute flight from Montana to Bogotá, she’d been given shots, pills, and the dossier and audio files of the woman she was impersonating— Psychic Graciela Estigarribia. Riva had spent every second in flight reading the intel on Maza and Graciela, and listening to recordings of their conversations. She was immersed in her role. Now, it looked as though she might not need any of that intel. The engine sounded asthmatic. The shitty condition of the chopper came as a surprise, because Escobar Maza had a fleet of high-tech planes at his disposal. As an added touch to throw off any observers, a faded red cross was visible on the fuselage. He was, quite literally, flying his psychic in under the radar. The verdant canopy, whizzing by below, seemed dangerously close. Almost close enough to brush with her fingertips. As far as the eye could see, lush green. Jungle. Mountains. Trees. No signs of habitation, though Riva had no doubt there were plenty of dangerous humans, animals, and assorted other nasties lurking beneath the canopy.
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