{"product_id":"the-medusa-protocol-isbn-9780593717448","title":"The Medusa Protocol","description":"\u003cb\u003eWelcome back to Assassins Anonymous, the only twelve-step group where joining can be deadly.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Astrid, known in her assassin days as Azrael, stopped showing up to Assassins Anonymous, the group assumed her past had caught up with her. Only her sponsor Mark, formerly the deadliest killer in the world, holds out hope that she’s okay. Then, during a meeting, the group gets a sign, or rather, a pizza delivery. Is there another psychopath out there who actually likes olives on their pizza, or is Astrid trying to send Mark a message?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeanwhile, Astrid wakes up in the cell of a black site prison, on a remote island. A doctor subjects her to mysterious experiments, plumbing the depths of her memory and looking for a vital clue from her past. She’ll do anything to escape, except…killing anyone. Hmm. Turns out it’s not easy to blow this joint without blowing anything, or \u003ci\u003eanyone\u003c\/i\u003e up.“[B]oth books are fun, quick involving adventures where you find yourself rooting for the deadliest people on the planet.” —\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Terrific . . . This new entry in Hart’s solid series is just as good as the first, with thrills, humor, and an ingenious plot. The cast of characters continues to grow, and each is fleshed out enough to lead their own book. Readers should get on the \u003ci\u003eAssassins Anonymous \u003c\/i\u003ewagon.\" —\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If you like them fun, fast, violent, explosive, and gritty, don’t miss this one.” —\u003ci\u003eCrimeReads\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“When I first picked up this book, I thought Rob Hart had said all that needed to be said about a recovering assassin on a journey towards redemption. How wrong I was! \u003ci\u003eThe Medusa Protocol\u003c\/i\u003e contains stories that are worth telling and savoring. It also makes for some of the best thriller writing of the year.” —\u003ci\u003eBookReporter\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hart triumphs with this deliriously enjoyable sequel to \u003ci\u003eAssassins Anonymous\u003c\/i\u003e . . . He keeps the tone sharp and the intensity high. Fans of Jeff Lindsay and Jeffery Deaver will delight in this series’ effortless mix of wit and brutality.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[C]heeky, swiftly paced . . . [T]he stakes are human, the worldbuilding is fun, and the vibrant supporting cast is stocked with spinoff-worthy personalities. Hart brings the heart in this entertaining tale of redemption, sacrifice, and found family.” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“This spirited addition to the series is just as rip-roaring and builds on the tremendous cast of characters.” —Barnes \u0026amp; Noble, \u003ci\u003eThe Best Books of June\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"High octane and irresistible, this page-turner is not only breathtakingly smart, but heartbreakingly unique. Completely cinematic, constantly entertaining, and written with Hart's signature dark wit, The Medusa Protocol offers non-stop suspense with the highest of stakes. Do not miss this!\" — Hank Phillippi Ryan, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eOne Wrong Word\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThe Medusa Protocol\u003c\/i\u003e is an exhilarating, pulse-pounding sequel to \u003ci\u003eAssassins Anonymous\u003c\/i\u003e that expands the world while standing on its own as a startlingly original thriller. Not to be missed.\" —S.A. Cosby, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e best selling author of \u003ci\u003eAll the Sinners Bleed\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThe Medusa Protocol\u003c\/i\u003e is a cracking-whip of a read. From characters and settings to fight scenes, Rob Hart knows how to land a punch—to the gut and to the heart. This follow-up to the kinetically-brilliant \u003ci\u003eAssassins Anonymous\u003c\/i\u003e buzzes with energy and action.\" —Rachel Howzell Hall, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Last One\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hart strikes an incredible balance between nonstop action and unforgettable characters to examine the nature of violence and repentance. \u003ci\u003eThe Medusa Protocol\u003c\/i\u003e is thrilling, funny, and heartfelt—clear your calendar before you start because it's impossible to put down.\" —Mark Greaney, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of the \u003ci\u003eGray Man\u003c\/i\u003e series\u003cb\u003eRob Hart\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of \u003ci\u003eAssassins Anonymous, The Paradox Hotel\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Warehouse\u003c\/i\u003e, and the Ash McKenna crime series, and the co-author of \u003ci\u003eScott Free\u003c\/i\u003e with James Patterson. He’s worked as a book publisher, a reporter, a political communications director, and a commissioner for the city of New York. Hart lives in Jersey City.Mark\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChinatown\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne Month Later\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe take our places around the statue of Dr. Sun Yat-sen in Columbus Park, everyone spreading out so we have room to move. As usual, I am the only white face, and the only person who doesn't qualify for an AARP card.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Your form has been improving, but you're too much in your own head,\" Ms. Nguyen says, stretching her arms in the spot next to me. \"Drop into it this time. Let everything else go.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Just doing my best to keep up with you, sweetheart,\" I tell her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMs. Nguyen is wearing athletic pants and an oversize T-shirt, her gray hair tied back in a ponytail. Despite being in her seventies, the outfit makes her look like a kid. I'm in running shorts and a tank, the least modest outfit here. I tend to run hot, and by the time the class ends, the sun will have peaked the line of buildings and roared into the park.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Remember,\" she says, \"if you get overheated, you're welcome to take your shirt off.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're not worried about the other ladies getting jealous?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe leans over and smacks the exposed flesh of my thigh. \"I bring you here to show you off,\" she says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaster Feng takes his place at the front of the group. He stands for a moment, in his cream-colored cotton uniform, his hands clasped behind his back. The man must be pushing ninety, but his eyes exude a penetrating sense of inner calm and presence, like he could count the droplets in a rainstorm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe offers us a slight bow, and we all bow deeper as a sign of respect. Then he leads us through the opening movements, placing his arms out in front of him, before bringing them around to the right and toward his hip as he steps, delicately and deliberately, forward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Ms. Nguyen first suggested I do tai chi with her, I brushed it off. I know a dozen fighting styles, all of them designed to injure and kill as quickly and efficiently as possible. Tai chi looked to me like a bunch of old folks waving their arms around in a park.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd it's exactly that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut it's more, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI've come to appreciate the gentleness of it. The focus of being in my body. Thinking of it less as a tool designed to inflict pain-which is something I spend every day actively working to forget-and seeing it more for what it is.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA tool in service of myself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy own little temple, in which I can find peace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don't know the name for the movements we do, but I watch Master Feng, and the men and women around me, as I try to emulate them and get lost in the flow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe ache in my shoulder whistles in my ear, reminding me of the chunk of deltoid muscle that got torn out by a bullet. The practice has brought back some range of motion, more than physical therapy did. I'm able to move into the pain and then through it-like I'm manipulating something inside me, a little ball of energy I can toss from side to side.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eObserving it and experiencing it without fighting it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe getting out of my head part, that I'm still struggling with.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI called Astrid this morning, like I have every morning since she disappeared. I used to leave voicemails, then I stopped doing that. Today the robotic voice on the other end told me the line had been disconnected.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was only a matter of time, I suppose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt sounded like a period on the end of a sentence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eConfirmation she was back in the game, or dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor people like us, for me and Ms. Nguyen and the other members of our homegroup, I'm not sure if there are any other options. There's a reason working as a high-level assassin doesn't come with a 401(k) match.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEventually, you cash out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs we flow through a downward movement, Ms. Nguyen clears her throat. I glance over and she's tossing me a sharp eyebrow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe doesn't need to say it. She can hear the gears grinding in my head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOkay. Stay in the movement.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI follow Master Feng, try to match his energy, and let the surroundings fall away. For a little bit, it works. The ambulance screaming around the corner turns to a dull buzz. The kids playing in the adjoining park muffle into raindrops on a window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI breathe deep and follow the peace of that breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBreathe in for four, hold for four, exhale for four, empty lungs for four.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen I think about Astrid and it all goes to shit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere's really not much to do at this point. I sit within the acceptance of it and continue the movements, enjoying the feel of my body brushing the dust off my muscles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother half hour, and we're done.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaster Feng bows to us, and we bow in return. The practitioners break into cliques, most of them rounding up expeditions for tea or dumplings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA hand appears on my shoulder and I turn to find Master Feng. He offers me a serene smile. \"Next time, less effort.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI bow to him again. \"Thank you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm not even sure if he heard it-he's off mingling with the other students, offering them words of affirmation. Ms. Nguyen appears in front of me, a sheen of sweat on her brow, but before she can say anything, an older woman grasps her arm, leans in to her ear, and says, \"Tā hěn shuài.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe's handsome.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Tā shì woˇ de,\" Ms. Nguyen responds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe's all mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman scrunches up her face, looks at us both like she's discovered a conspiracy, and leaves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You know,\" I tell Ms. Nguyen, \"I never said we were exclusive.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm protecting you,\" she says. \"That one would eat you for lunch.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"My hero.\" I offer her my arm. \"May I escort you home, darling?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe loops her arm into mine. \"Of course.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sun is out full blast now, June coming in hard. We wend our way through the streets of Manhattan, toward the West Village, navigating the morning crowds of commuters and tourists.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm assuming Astrid didn't pick up the phone this morning,\" she says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Disconnected.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMs. Nguyen gives a little shake of her head. \"People go out.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"She was my sponsee. Which means she was my responsibility.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The only person responsible for Astrid is Astrid. You can't take that on.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe stop at Canal Street, waiting for the light to change, letting the conversation drop as people crowd around us, knowing better than to say something that could be overheard by the wrong person.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce we've crossed and we're clear of prying ears she says, \"The point of sponsoring someone isn't to save them. It's to save yourself.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI respond by being obstinate and not saying anything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo blocks later she asks, \"How's the new apartment?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It's fine. I like the East Village a little better than the West. It's quieter. Fewer drunken college kids.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You sure it's safe to be here?\" She nods up toward the glasses on my face. \"Those things really work?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI tilt them down at her. They look so stupid. Which is sort of the point. Thick black frames, wide lenses, the shape of them designed to screw with facial recognition software, by making it hard to take accurate measurements of my features. As an added layer, they project a low level of infrared light onto my face, so on CCTV, I'll appear slightly washed out and less identifiable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Been fully back three months and no one's killed me yet,\" I tell her. \"Had a friend set up a new identity to overshadow my lack of an old one. But look, I live in acceptance of the fact that this is a risk. I was bored living up in the mountains. P. Kitty's not a good conversationalist.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm glad you're back,\" she says. \"I missed that cat.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And you missed shamelessly hitting on me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMs. Nguyen smiles. \"Sooner or later, you'll come around. Older women know what they want.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe make it to her building-my old building, too, before my apartment was firebombed in an attempt to draw me out of recovery-and she stops. She looks up at me and smiles. It's the way you would smile at a child who has just discovered some harsh reality about the world, like Santa isn't real.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It's not your fault,\" she says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Feels like it is.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Then you should talk about it tonight. See you later?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Wouldn't miss it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe winks at me and heads inside. I watch her go, a little wistful for the life I had here. I really did love this building.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut, you know, the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, and all that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy footsteps echo through the basement of St. Dymphna’s, bouncing off the black-and-white checkerboard floor and the robin’s-egg blue walls. I love the ritual of showing up early and setting up the space. Putting out the donuts, making the coffee. Dragging out the folding chairs and setting them in a circle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne for Booker, our former Marine turned black ops mercenary. It's been more than five years since he's taken a life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne for Valencia, formerly of the Special Operations Group, the covert paramilitary arm of the CIA. Seven years sober.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne for Ms. Nguyen, former employee of the Agency-a clandestine group of government agencies, and financial and industrial leaders. Retired ten years, sober sixteen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne for Astrid, a former Agency hitter who operated under the name Azrael. She would have six months, and I put her chair out every week in case she shows up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne for me. Formerly known as the Pale Horse, who, if you had asked my old bosses at the Agency, or anyone in the game really, was one of the best assassins in the world. Something that used to be a point of pride, and now is just an uncomfortable truth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFinally, one for Kenji. Former Yakuza hitter, former chair of this group. My sponsor. Dead now, sacrificing both his recovery and his life to save mine a year and a half ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy friend.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI miss him so much.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEspecially on days like today.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt does comfort me, putting his chair out, feeling his confident, gentle presence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe same way Astrid's empty seat screws with my sense of inner peace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe lights flicker, and Booker and Valencia enter, the two of them dressed for the summer heat: Valencia in yoga pants and a loose-fitting T-shirt, Booker in a black tank and camo pants. Valencia is pushing the baby stroller that Booker and I got for her baby shower. It cost what most people would spend on a month's rent, but that little girl in there only gets the best.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eValencia had wanted to be a mom for a long time. It's why she stopped killing, why she got into recovery. She didn't want to be a mom who killed people. And every week she would unpack that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne day she decided she was ready, she found a donor, and: Lucia.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBorn three short weeks ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat baby isn't just a milestone for Valencia. She is a tiny, breathing, sometimes-screaming example that the program works. She bound us tighter, giving us someone to love together. It's personal, too; I can't ever see my son, and every day that feeling twists like a blade in my stomach. I will do whatever it takes to make sure this kid grows up safe and loved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eValencia rolls the stroller up to me. Lucia is swaddled in a blanket, snoozing away. The wisps of black hair on her head are thickening. \"She's looking more like you and less like a potato,\" I tell her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eValencia beams when I say this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI like her smile. She didn't used to smile this much.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBooker slaps me on the back, a little too hard, but exactly as hard as I would expect him to. \"How are we today, Uncle Mark?\"  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Good, Uncle Booker. How about you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I never signed off on her calling either of you 'uncle,'\" Valencia says, adopting her usual look of barely restrained contempt.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That's why I'm going to keep on saying it,\" Booker says. \"She'll pick it up through osmosis.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe lights flicker again, and Ms. Nguyen comes in, carrying a plate of shortbread cookies, which she places next to the donuts. I've given up on telling her not to do that; no one eats the donuts, then I have to take them home, and I spend the whole week trying to finish them before I have to buy more. It's too many carbs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI could always stop buying them, but, habits.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat's why we're here. It takes work to break them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes the best way to do that is to replace them with other habits.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eValencia and Ms. Nguyen step away to get themselves settled and coo over the baby. Booker glances over at the chairs and asks, \"Anything?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI shake my head. \"Number was disconnected.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Shit.\" He sighs, his shoulders sagging. \"Might be time to put away her chair.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not until I know, one way or the other.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I know what you're doing,\" Booker says. \"Kenji lost sponsees, too. Difference was, he didn't blame himself.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm not blaming myself.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're a shitty liar.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Out of practice, I guess.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBooker surveys our little group. \"Maybe it wasn't for her. Six months, she never shared.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You don't have to share to be here.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But did she want to be here?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I can't come up with a good answer, Booker pats me on the chest and points a nonthreatening finger in my face. \"Share about it, okay? The only way out is through.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The through part sucks,\" I tell him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe make our way to the circle of chairs and sit. I take out the lipstick-sized transmitter from my pocket, switch it on, and place it on the floor next to me. It'll serve to prevent any other devices from listening or recording the things we say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then I start:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Assassins Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength, and hope with each other, that they may solve their common problem and help each other to recover. The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop. We are not allied with any sect, denomination, politics, organization, or institution; our primary purpose is to stop killing and help others to achieve the same.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We do not bring weapons into Assassins Anonymous, nor prior political affiliations. If any of us were known by any particular handle or nickname, we do not use it here. We share our stories, but we obscure details as best we can. If any of us seek to bring in new fellows, we agree to have them properly vetted. This is to protect us, not just from prying ears, but from each other.\"","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48532206190821,"sku":"NP9780593717448","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593717448.jpg?v=1773183056","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-medusa-protocol-isbn-9780593717448","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}