{"product_id":"hostile-intent-isbn-9780593333549","title":"Hostile Intent","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn the espionage community, Vienna is known as the City of Spies, and Matt Drake is about to learn why in the latest electrifying thriller from the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eTom Clancy Target Acquired\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Outside Man\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen a mysterious walk-in to the US embassy in Vienna claims to have critical information about a Russian intelligence operation, he raises eyebrows. But when he asks for Matt Drake by name and calls himself the Irishman, he gets the DIA’s premier case officer on a one-way flight. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMatt arrives to find Austria’s charming capital lousy with intelligence officers, all swirling around Nolan Burke—a onetime member of the real IRA. But before Matt can debrief Nolan, the Irishman is kidnapped by a Russian direct action team. Now, Matt must find a way to repay the debt of honor he owes Nolan while stopping World War III in the process.\"In Bentley’s third terrific Matt Drake adventure...The intricate level of who’s-doing-what-to-whom adds twists. Readers who enjoy the world of special ops should add Bentley to their reading pile.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Don Bentley’s latest high-octane page-turner to feature Matt Drake, \u003ci\u003eHostile Intent\u003c\/i\u003e, is easily the best and most ambitious in the series yet.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eBookTrib\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eDon Bentley\u003c\/b\u003e spent a decade as an Army Apache helicopter pilot, and while deployed in Afghanistan was awarded the Bronze Star Medal and the Air Medal with \"V\" device for valor. Following his time in the military, Don worked as an FBI special agent focusing on foreign intelligence and counterintelligence and was a Special Weapons and Tactics (SWAT) team member.one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAustin, Texas\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFour shots rang out in quick succession, the retort thunderously loud even through my Peltor hearing protection. I detested indoor shooting ranges with their close confines and dingy interiors. Some jackass with a hand cannon always seemed to be in the lane next to mine, and today was no exception. Whatever. Shooting under crappy conditions was still shooting, and that beat the alternative.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUsually.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What's he hitting?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Air,\" I said, eyeing the target adjacent to mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe crisp white paper overlaid with a bad-guy silhouette swung merrily beneath its metal hanger without a care in the world. I could see why. A scattering of holes graced the paper's edges, but the black target lines spiraling outward from the center were completely unbroken.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're kicking butt,\" I said, turning back to my own lane and the woman sharing it. \"Put another couple pairs center mass, and we'll call it a day.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Already?\" the woman said. \"You must have other plans. Or something.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs a matter of fact, I did have other plans.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr something.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I knew better than to take the bait.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Less talking. More shooting.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI gave the instructions in my no-nonsense firearms-instructor's voice, and the woman responded accordingly. Settling into a shooter's stance, she adjusted her balance and extended a 9mm Glock away from her chest in a two-handed grip. Her hips shifted as she transferred weight to the balls of her feet. The movement was slight but noticeable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt least to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen again, I do love my wife's hips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI reached forward, touching Laila's back. \"Remember to square your shoulders,\" I said, fingertips pressing against her smooth, silky skin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy wife was an exquisitely beautiful woman. With a Pakistani father and an Afghan mother, Laila was a melting pot of genes from one of the world's most ethnically diverse territories. Modern-day Afghanistan and Pakistan had hosted countless foreign conquerors, and Laila's appearance reflected the region's collective influence. Her dark complexion and waves of midnight hair framed emerald eyes that left me speechless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis morning, she was wearing a simple white tank top paired with tight faded jeans and a ballcap embroidered with the Texas Gonzales flag. But there was nothing simple about the way the cream-colored shirt highlighted her almond skin or the thick black ponytail tumbling down her back. On a normal day, my wife was distracting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eToday, she was intoxicating.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"More coaching,\" Laila said. \"Less touching.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe adjusted her stance again, snugging her hips against mine. Laila squeezed off a pair of shots before I could reply, but that didn't matter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'd lost the capacity for speech.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLaila followed up her first aimed pair with a second and then a third. The silhouette sported six new holes, all within the ten ring. The paper target was only five meters distant, but there was no doubt that Laila was getting the hang of this. I was a good coach, but she was a highly motivated student.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor good reason.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer Glock's slide locked to the rear after the final shot. Laila ejected the spent magazine and placed it and the pistol on the tray in front of her. Just like she'd been taught.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"How'd I do?\" Laila said, facing me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI could tell by the way her green eyes sparkled that she already knew the answer. Even so, she'd more than earned a compliment or two. As her instructor, it was my job to give them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You did-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe hand cannon erupted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAgain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI jumped, and Laila shrieked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA peal of male laughter greeted Laila's decidedly feminine exclamation, followed by an admonishment to grow a pair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Just a sec,\" I said. \"I've got to take care of something.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Where are you going?\" Laila said, grabbing my biceps.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Only be a minute,\" I said, smiling the smile that had melted the hearts of interrogators the world over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Matthew,\" Laila said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer green eyes were no longer sparkling. They were shimmering. This was a very important distinction. Sparkling eyes meant a happy wife. Shimmering ones were akin to the buzzing of a rattlesnake's rattle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Quick chat with our neighbors,\" I said. \"Nothing more.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're a spy,\" Laila said. \"You lie for a living.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe had me there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But never to you,\" I said. \"Besides, lying's only a small part of the job. I mostly build bridges of cultural understanding.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Bridges to nowhere,\" Laila said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer tone was still less than pleased, but her eyes were no longer shimmering. Good. A pissed-off wife meant that my other plans were dead on arrival. On the other hand, a happy wife raised my chances of getting lucky a second time to at least fifty percent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'd toppled governments with less.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Right back,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis time my smile wasn't forced.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'd been operational for the last six weeks and had just flown back into country the previous evening. We were at the shooting range this morning because Laila wanted to practice, but I had plans to help her out of her tank top once we got home. No way was I going to let a couple of redneck jackwads interfere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLaila frowned, but she didn't ask me to stay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eProgress.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSliding around the length of sheet metal dividing our lane from the hand cannon, I introduced myself to the gentlemen on the other side.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Y'all need help?\" I said, smiling my second-best smile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy first-best smile was reserved for Laila.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd sometimes men who wanted to kill me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy sudden appearance caught the shooters by surprise. They jumped at the sound of my voice. I thought that was funny.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey did not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Help with what?\" the one on the left said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe had the thick build of a former athlete whose frame now sported more fat than muscle. The smedium shirt he wore stretched Saran Wrap-tight across his pudgy chest jiggled as he spoke.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Great question,\" I said, still grinning ear to ear. \"From the looks of your target, you probably think I'm offering shooting pointers. I'm not. I'm just wondering if you need help with anatomy.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Anatomy?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis time the question came from the gentleman on the right. He looked as if he'd stepped from the pages of Soldier of Fortune magazine. Asolo boots, 5.11 pants, and a PFG shirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA regular tactical ninja.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yep,\" I said. \"You geniuses just asked my wife to do something anatomically impossible. That means you're either idiots or rude. I'm hoping for idiots, because acting rude to my wife carries consequences. Or maybe this is all just a big misunderstanding and y'all want to apologize. What's it gonna be?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe men sized me up before sharing a look. I understood. At six feet and one hundred eighty-five pounds, I wasn't physically insignificant. But neither was I Arnold Schwarzenegger. The 1980s Arnold Schwarzenegger, that is. Today's Arnold was still fit, but I could take him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eProbably.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn any case, I was sporting what Laila playfully termed my ragamuffin look. At least I hoped it was playful. My hair was long and my beard scruffy, but the Wrangler pearly-snap shirt I was wearing framed the wide shoulders and broad back of a person for whom physical fitness was more than just a passing fancy. Put that all together, and I don't know what you get. But whatever it was didn't seem to be enough to convince Beefcake and Mr. Ninja to back down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Who the hell are you?\" Beefcake said, folding his arms across his chest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow we were getting somewhere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Great question,\" I said, my smile widening. \"I'm-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Drake? Is there a Matt Drake here?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe question came from behind me. I turned to see the man from the gun range's check-in counter holding open the door to the shooting lanes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm Drake,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Phone,\" the man said, \"inside. Says he's your boss.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm on vacation,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He said you'd say that. He also said to tell you that people who hunt terrorists don't take vacations. Pick up the phone or he'll send the FBI. Again. Sorry-his words.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm coming,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI waited a beat for the man to leave and the heavy soundproof door to close behind him. Then I turned back to Beefcake and Mr. Ninja.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We're short on time, so I'll cut to the chase,\" I said. \"Apologize to my wife, and we can all leave happy. Refuse, and I'll be forced to come find you after I finish putting another jihadi in the dirt. So what's it gonna be? Now or later?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey chose now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBridges to nowhere, my ass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etwo\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMatthew? Is that you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yep,\" I said, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder as I packed my shooting gear into my range bag.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven though our range time had been nearly complete before the interrupting phone call, Laila had been less than thrilled with our abrupt departure. She was now in the gun store attached to the range, expressing her annoyance in a manner designed to get my attention.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShopping.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShopping for a baby Glock to carry in her purse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat a woman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Then use your man voice. I can barely hear you over this racket.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI paused in the middle of zipping the bag closed. The check-in guy had been kind, or terrified, enough to let me take the call in his office. The soundproofing in the door and walls rendered a silence absolute enough to hear my heartbeat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Where are you, Chief?\" I said, dreading the answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"At a slam-poetry reading. At least, that's what the sign says. But none of it even rhymes. And don't get me started on the audience full of hipster jackasses. Cups of fufu coffee are the only thing slamming in this joint.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI could hear the disappointment in his voice even as I took a seat in the flimsy chair opposite the metal desk. Defense Intelligence Agency Branch Chief James Scott Glass, former Army Special Forces team sergeant and current night terror to jihadis everywhere, was attending a slam-poetry reading.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf this wasn't a sign of the apocalypse, I wasn't sure what was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Can you hear me now?\" I said, shouting into the phone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No,\" James said. \"Between the screaming from the stage and the yapping audience, I've been in firefights that were quieter. Wait one. QUIET.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe silence that greeted James's outburst made my soundproof room seem loud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy boss certainly knew how to work a room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Speak, Matthew,\" James said, coming back on the line.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Still here, Chief,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI debated barking, but didn't. Mostly because I was an adult and whatever had James desperate enough to call me from a slam-poetry session probably wasn't a laughing matter. But also because even ten years into forced medical retirement, my boss was not a man to be trifled with.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Good,\" James said. \"I need you to come in. Now.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I just landed last night. I haven't even been home for twelve hours. I'd remind you that I'm on vacation, but I suspect you're not familiar with the term. It's Sunday. Give me twenty-four hours with my wife, and I'll grab the direct to Washington Reagan tomorrow. I'll be in the office before lunch. The world's not gonna end today.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI thought it was a pretty good argument.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJames didn't agree.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're not going to DC,\" James said. \"Our embassy in Vienna had a walk-in.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWalk-in was slang for someone who came in off the street purporting to have information of interest to the US government. The vast majority of these folks were people hoping to trade something of minimal value for the ultimate prize-US citizenship. As such, walk-ins were normally relegated to the most junior CIA or DIA officer. But occasionally something of value did stroll in the door. If James was calling, I had to think the Vienna walk-in fell into this category.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Can you give me any specifics?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not over an open line. But I will say this-the walk-in asked for you. By name.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat was interesting, but not entirely unexpected. As an officer for the Defense Intelligence Agency, I ran and recruited assets the world over. While the goal of every recruitment was to snare an asset who produced meaningful intelligence for the duration of their career, this wasn't always the case. Sometimes an asset transitioned to a job without the requisite access. Sometimes they just stopped producing. When this happened, the asset was formally closed, but I always tried to part ways on good terms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery now and then, dormant assets found themselves in a position where they could again become useful. This was why I always provided mine with an email address and a phrase to employ if they needed to reestablish contact. These instructions didn't include plans to visit the American embassy, but the assets I ran were, by and large, intelligent men and women. If they believed that a crash meeting at the embassy was necessary, I wasn't going to second-guess them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs embassies went, Vienna was one of the most crucial. Although the Cold War had ended more than thirty years ago, Vienna was still a city of spies. Its central European location made the Austrian capital a geographical crossroads between East and West. Vienna would be an ideal venue for a spy on the run to contact an old handler.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Which of my aliases did the walk-in use?\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're not listening, Matthew,\" James said. \"He asked for you by name. Your true name.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI sucked in a breath, contemplating James's answer. Like any sane handler, I never operated under true name. If this man knew my identity, he merited my attention.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What's his name?\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Wouldn't give one. Just a message. He said to tell you the Irishman was calling in a favor. Ring a bell?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm booking a ticket to Vienna,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No need. A Gulfstream's sitting on the tarmac at Austin-Bergstrom. Get moving.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethree\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomewhere over the Atlantic\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe fading orange light streaming through the cabin window caressed Laila's sleeping face with gentle fingers as we hurtled east. Though the converted futon in the Gulfstream's conference room comfortably fit two, half the bed was empty. My wife was curled against me, head pillowed in my lap, midnight hair spilling across my legs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wasn't complaining.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter hanging up with James, I'd gone to tell Laila the bad news with more than a little trepidation. We'd both agreed that DIA, even with its long absences, was still the best place for me. For now. But to mitigate some of the strain the frequent separations placed on our marriage, I'd worked out an arrangement with James. Laila and I could live in the city we'd both come to love-Austin. In exchange, I'd deploy when needed. But when I was home, I worked from Austin with the mutual understanding that this \"work\" consisted mainly of being available should James need me.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302333108453,"sku":"NP9780593333549","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593333549.jpg?v=1767729248","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/hostile-intent-isbn-9780593333549","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}