I vaulted over the bar, surprising a woman sitting on a stool, sipping her Dos Equis. The dance pulse of the Bombay Dub Orchestra tune was loud and booming enough to cover the sound of my feet hitting the hardwood floor, so the two men did not turn around.
They hurried toward the back of the bar, free of the restraints of the crowd in the front.
The young woman screamed.
They each grabbed one of her arms, and she tried to wrench free and bolt. They manhandled her back toward the one red exit sign.
Four steps and I grabbed for the older guy’s shoulder; he looked to me like a suburban dad type. He tried to shrug free of me, but I’m stronger than I look. He sneered at me: navy suit, my normally short hair styled into a fauxhawk (being a bar owner I thought I’d try to look a little more hip than I actually am), an inch shorter than he was.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
The woman broke away from the mountain. She stumbled into a couple who’d risen from their small table, wanting to avoid being drawn into the confrontation. They stepped back from her like she might be a wayward drunk.
“She’s a thief,” the mountain said loudly, trying to be a voice of authority. I could hear the Russian accent in his voice.
“Then we’ll call the police,” I started to say and apparently my innocent choice of words acted like a lit fuse.
“No police,” the woman said. “None!” She held the purse up, close to her chest again.
The men turned to me, the suburban dad raising an eyebrow as if to say, “See?” I let the dad-type go and the mountain said, “Back off.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Back off. We’re leaving your bar—no worries, we don’t want trouble—but she’s coming with us. She stole something of mine, and I just want it back.”
The woman’s gaze met mine, and the plea again: Help me.
I grabbed the mountain’s shoulder just as the suburban dad again closed a grip on the woman’s arm, and her purse, as she tried to pull away from him. “We just want it back. We just want it back, that’s all. Best for you and your mom,” I heard the suburban dad say.
Instinct made me glance downward when my brain registered the flick of the mountain’s wrist. He held a blade, finely carved, the silver edge a sheen in the dim light of the bar. Now pointing at me.
Eight inches of steel. The knife lashed up—he wanted to wound my hand so I’d retreat, I guessed, not carve me open—and I dodged the upward swing. In the second he had the knife raised I hammered a kick into the man’s knee.
I have a policy of ending fights quickly when some jerk brings a knife into one of my bars.
And I run. A lot. Sometimes over rooftops. My legs are strong. Guys like the mountain always underestimate me. This amuses me, after the fight.
The mountain didn’t crumple. He gasped but smiled at me. The kick hadn’t bothered him and he’d moved back out of range. But it was a smile of a man who didn’t mind pain, who didn’t fear or flinch from it the way ordinary people do, a prelude to what he enjoyed. Violence.
I knew the look, knew the type.
“You are an idiot,” he told me, in Russian.
“You are quite correct,” I answered, in Russian.
It surprised him. For all of two seconds. He didn’t expect it of me and the stupidest reaction can make you pause on the verge of a fight. His two seconds of indecision let me launch a repeat of the kick; but that wasn’t the best move, because the mountain was ready. He blocked the kick, pivoted, and struck my throat with the flat of his hand.
Suddenly I looked up at the ceiling, the waves of steel undulating along the wall. I heard shouts and screams, but they sounded distant, people rushing out of the building.
Idiot down.
And then the mountain leaned over me, the knife pivoting in his grip to point downward, fingers now a fist around the polished pearl handle. I heard screaming and feet stampeding on the concrete floor.
He raised the blade and plunged it toward my chest. No hesitation, no mercy, no flinching at the striking of flesh, because he did not have time for me. Even as he stabbed I saw his gaze dart toward the woman; I was just a speed bump. I couldn’t die; my brain filled with thoughts of my son. I blocked the big man’s descending wrist with my forearm, the tip of the steel hovering above the lapel of my suit. For two beats, two seconds, the knife stayed still in its arc. It caught the lights from the retro disco ball moving in a lazy turn (from the last seventies night), the bits of broken light like snow against the steel.
Surprise for those two frozen seconds. I powered a knee hard into the mountain’s groin, hooked my fingers, and jabbed his eyes. He staggered, off balance, the knife’s edge skimming the floor as he swung downward at me in rage and missed, and I scrambled to my feet.
Then gunfire. I saw the woman. She’d fired at the suburban dad, through her purse, tattering the fabric. The dad type ducked for a moment, then charged at her, grabbed the purse, aiming it upward. After another shot, a bourbon bottle shattered against the mirrored bar. The gunfire cleared a path among the terrified club goers. A river of people surged toward the front exit, eager to put space between them and trouble.
I delivered a hammer fist to the face of the mountain, twice, faster than he expected. I pressed, grabbing the knife handle. I pivoted so he and I were facing the same direction. This needed to end. I tried to wrench his arm up and across my chest, to break it. He tried to kick out my foot, failed, and instead launched us both into the wall. The air whooshed out of my lungs. But I head-butted him without a lot of momentum, and as we staggered back, the knife fell from his grip, clattering on the floor.
I wrenched free, sending him crashing into a table of abandoned cocktails.
I saw the suburban dad dragging the woman toward a back exit, pulling on her purse. They slammed into a cart holding a plastic bin of empty beer bottles, used glasses, and wadded napkins. I saw the suburban dad’s mouth moving, whispering into the woman’s ear. She screamed again, wrenched free from him, swinging a beer bottle at his head. He ducked and staggered away from her.
The mountain lumbered up, threw himself into me, rage purpling his face.
I saw the woman grab a drink from the nearest table—an abandoned pint of lager, sitting between a couple of abandoned purses. She smashed the glass hard into the mountain’s face, beer spraying, the glass cracking. Trying to help me.
It didn’t slow him.
The knife was in my hand, but his fist covered mine and the blade stayed steady between us. He caught my leg with his own, sending me crashing to the floor, aiming the knife toward my throat. But he lost his balance as I tugged hard on his wrist, fighting for control, and the mountain fell.
Onto the blade.
Bad luck. There are places in the chest that can survive a bad stabbing. He didn’t land that way. The adrenaline kicked him hard and he staggered back from me, eyes fading of life, just enough to maybe see my face and the wicked blade too close to his heart.
The woman bolted and ran toward the back fire exit of the club.
“Stop her!” I yelled, but nearly everyone was gone, flooding the entrance out onto the sidewalks of the Haight. I saw the suburban dad scramble, running after the woman, not sparing a glance at the mountain.
I ran, nearly falling over a low cushion pulled up to a chair. I vaulted to my feet and the crowd was gone now, just me and the coughing, bleeding mountain on the concrete.
A man I didn’t know, who’d tried to kill me and now lay dying on my floor.
Everything going bad for me, in less than a minute. My life was supposed to be calm now. So I could be a father to my son. I wasn’t supposed to be a weapon anymore.
I bolted after the woman and the other man.
ALSO BY JEFF ABBOTT
Sam Capra series
Adrenaline
Whit Mosley series
A Kiss Gone Bad
Black Jack Point
Cut and Run
Other fictio
n
Panic
Fear
Collision
ACCLAIM FOR
JEFF ABBOTT’S
SAM CAPRA THRILLERS
THE LAST MINUTE
“Abbott is one of the best thriller writers in the business, and he delivers action and complex characters.”
—Associated Press
“This is the second in the Capra series, and he hasn’t slowed down. It has killings, betrayals, big-time conspiracies, and action galore.”
—Oklahoman
“Gripping… edgy… a breathless suspense novel… As a writer [Abbott] is fluid, smart, witty, and easy to take.”
—Dallas Morning News
“Like Adrenaline, this is a fast-paced thriller with a likable, morally conflicted hero. Sam is in a difficult situation, seemingly forced to commit murder to find his son, and—this is a testament to Abbott’s skills as a storyteller—we really don’t know whether he will follow through… Let’s hope Abbott isn’t through with Sam. He’s a very well-drawn character, and it would be nice to see him again.”
—Booklist
ADRENALINE
“Twisty, turny, and terrific.”
—USA Today
“Outstanding… genuinely moving… Abbott hits full stride early on and never lets up. Readers who thrive on a relentless narrative pace and a straight line to the finish won’t be disappointed.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Breathless fun… You really do keep turning page after page.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Deliciously crafty… heart-pounding thrills… a stunner… Adrenaline has all the hallmarks of a career-changer. It should launch him into the Michael Connelly or Dennis Lehane stratosphere… Abbott sets a merciless pace, but he never lets speed hinder his writing… glorious sensory acumen… with just the right amount of snarky wit.”
—Dallas Morning News
“Extremely compelling… a thriller that will get even the most jaded reader’s pulse racing… a grand slam home run… Adrenaline rivets the reader from the very first paragraph, and Capra proves to be a character with enough skills and depth to be extremely compelling… Everyone will want to see what Abbott, and Capra, have up their sleeve next.”
—Associated Press
“Thrilling.”
—New York Daily News
“Exhilarating… Confirms Abbott as one of the best thriller writers of our time… This is a book that’s getting a tremendous amount of buzz, everyone’s talking about it. I think Jeff Abbott’s the next Robert Ludlum. And I think Sam Capra is the heir apparent to Jason Bourne… The most gripping spy story I’ve read in years… It just grabs you. Great read!”
—Harlan Coben
“Exhilarating… keeps the intensity at a peak level…. Adrenaline proves worthy of its title.”
—Columbus Dispatch
“[A] complex, mind-bending plot… If Sam improves on his parkour skills, the future thrillers will spill over with nonstop action, just as Adrenaline does.”
—San Antonio Express-News
“This is a wonderful book and the start of one of the most exciting new series I’ve had the privilege to read… Sam Capra is now on my short list of characters I would follow anywhere. Adrenaline provides the high-octane pace one expects from a spy thriller, while grounding the action with a protagonist that anyone can root for.”
—Laura Lippman
“This one hooked me and didn’t let go… Abbott does a great job with pacing and switching perspectives.”
—Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“Adrenaline lives up to its name. It’s pure thriller in pace, but Abbott manages to keep the book’s heart anchored in the right place. The characters aren’t cardboard action figures, but people under incredible stresses and strains. I read it in a big gulp.”
—Charlaine Harris
“A white-knuckle opening leads into undoubtedly the best thriller I’ve read so far this year… Adrenaline will surely vault Abbott to the top of must-read authors. The relentless action will hook you from the heart-stopping opening to a conclusion that was as shocking as it was heart-rending.”
—Ventura County Star (CA)
“Nail-biting.”
—Austin Chronicle
“Adrenaline, like its namesake hormone, is all about pace, and a high-speed pace at that. A word of caution: Don’t start reading [it] just before bedtime!”
—BookPage
“Engaging from the first paragraph, terrifying from the second page, Adrenaline accomplishes what most modern thrillers can’t. It makes us care about its characters even while we’re speeding headlong down the ingenious Rabbit Hole of its plot. Well done!”
—Eric Van Lustbader
“Engrossing… flows rapidly from page to page… definitely a page-turner… wonderful descriptive writing… Abbott’s demonstrated ability creates a highly recommended 5-star book.”
—Kingman Daily Miner (AZ)
“The title of this book pretty much sets the pace for this action-packed thriller. Within its pages are all the best aspects of a very enjoyable good versus evil plot: intrigue, spies, double crosses, foreign locales, technology used for nefarious purposes, a good hearted hero, and the obligatory nasty bad guys.”
—Suspense Magazine
“Sam Capra is the perfect hero—tough, smart, pure of heart, and hard to kill. And Adrenaline is the perfect thriller. Taut and edgy, with breakneck pacing and perfect plotting, it’s a breathless race from the shocking, heart-wrenching opening sequence to the stunning conclusion. Jeff Abbott is a master, and Adrenaline is his best book yet.”
—Lisa Unger
“Hero Sam Capra likes to unwind with parkour, leaping from building to building, clambering up walls and hurtling through space across the urban landscape… The sport’s a fitting metaphor for Abbott’s style, tumbling from page to page with the frantic inevitability of Robert Ludlum… It all works beautifully.”
—Booklist
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Contents
Welcome
Dedication
Part One: A Very Private War
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part Two: The Red Notebook
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Part Three: Tu Mori
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Part Four: The Nursery
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Acknowledgments
About the Author
A Preview of Downfall
Also by Jeff Abbott
Acclaim for Jeff Abbott’s Sam Capra Thrillers
Newsletters
Copyright
Copyright
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.
Copyright © 2012 by Jeff Abbott
Excerpt from Downfall copyright © 2012 by Jeff Abbott
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.