{"product_id":"the-takedown-isbn-9780593640395","title":"The Takedown","description":"\u003cb\u003eAn undercover CIA agent is sent home to investigate her sister's criminal fiance but the last thing she expects is to fall in love with his bodyguard along the way in this sexy romantic comedy.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s been a long time since Sydney Swift has gone home for the holidays. An unrelentingly successful CIA field officer, she has spent the last three years pretending to be someone—anyone—other than herself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut this year, the festive season is coming with some added surprises. Sydney’s beloved little sister has just announced that she’s engaged to Johnny Jones, the heir of an organized crime dynasty. With her built-in cover and her best-in-class reputation, Sydney is approached by the FBI as their way to infiltrate the Jones family at last.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSydney has until Christmas to gather enough evidence on Johnny to take him down before he pulls off his most dangerous heist yet, all without losing her sister forever. But she hasn’t counted on the challenge of pulling this off right under her family’s nose or the complications of a romantic entanglement with Johnny’s handsome friend and bodyguard, Nick. Sydney always gets her man — but this time love is a target she can’t afford to miss.“I absolutely loved this super-fun, believably romantic, and emotionally thoughtful novel. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I smiled so much while reading a book. Carlie Walker will be an auto-buy author for me.”—\u003cb\u003eAnnabel Monaghan, author of \u003ci\u003eNora Goes Off Script \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eSame Time Next Summer\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Steamy, swoony and laugh-out-loud funny, \u003ci\u003eThe Takedown \u003c\/i\u003e is part-Finlay-Donovan mystery, part-Emily-Henry-rom-com—and 100 percent perfect. The clever dialogue! The hot bodyguard! The twists I didn't see coming! I couldn't turn the pages fast enough, and can't wait to see what Carlie Walker writes next.\"\u003cb\u003e—Colleen Oakley, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Mostly True Story of Tanner \u0026amp; Louise\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Carlie Walker's debut novel is an absolute knockout! Her sparkling wit and keep-em-guessing plot had me totally smitten and also dreaming of a new career as a spy. One minute I was laughing, the next I was swooning, the next I was gasping in shock at the brilliant plot twists. This book is for everyone who (correctly) insists that Speed is a romance!\"\u003cb\u003e—Falon Ballard, author of \u003ci\u003eJust My Type\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Riotously fun and perfectly swoony, \u003ci\u003eThe Takedown\u003c\/i\u003e is the spy romcom you didn’t know you needed. I loved every page.” \u003cb\u003e—Allison Winn Scotch, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Rewind\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eThe Takedown \u003c\/i\u003eby Carlie Walker is hands down a masterclass in Romantic Comedy writing. The plot is original and thrilling and the heat between Sydney and Nick is a literal inferno right off the bat. Carlie has taken the genre to a new level with her razor sharp prose, quick wit and genuinely hilarious dialogue. I love everything about this book. I’m a Carlie Walker fan for life. The easiest five stars ever.”\u003cb\u003e—Lizzy Dent, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Summer Job\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Sizzling with romantic tension, \u003ci\u003eThe Takedown\u003c\/i\u003e effortlessly blends romance, action, and shifting sibling dynamics into one firecracker of a story—you won’t want to put this one down!\" \u003cb\u003e—Kayla Olson, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Reunion\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Walker makes her adult debut with this might-be-mob caper that is both a romantic comedy and a holiday mystery, complete with snow, carols, and gorgeous bodyguards wrapped in a bow.\"\u003cb\u003e—Library Journal (STARRED)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eCarlie Walker \u003c\/b\u003eattended the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where she first majored in Peace, War and Defense, a feeder program for intelligence services—before realizing that she is way too anxious to be a spy. Having gone on to study at Oxford University and at City, University of London, she worked briefly in publishing before becoming the bestselling author of seven books for children and young adults. She has a registered 250-pound dead lift, volunteers in a cat shelter, and used to spend her Saturdays practicing Krav Maga. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband and their American dingo.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Uppsala, Sweden\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e FIVE Days Earlier\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can't just approach him and ask to cut in. That would look suspicious. Instead, I've placed myself at the edge of the dance floor, and I'm sipping a glass of champagne so slowly that I'm hardly tasting it. What matters is my mouth. He should be looking at my mouth. On my lips is a thick coat of crimson lipstick. The color perfectly matches my dress: a strapless, thigh-slit gown that says, I am your Christmas present.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Every once in a while, Alexei spins his partner and cocks his head my way. It's subtle. But I notice things. Noticing things is my job. His gaze tracks from my ankle all the way up the bare skin of my thigh, and finally to my mouth. Automatically, I part my lips; my eyes capture his, sparkling for a calculated two seconds, before dipping shyly down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'm not shy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'm just smart. And well trained.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Also, itchy. Fingertips gripping the champagne glass, I ignore the prickle that's creeping its way under my wig. Maybe it goes without saying, but I prefer my own hair: a dirty-blond bob that almost dusts my shoulders. Unluckily for me, Alexei \"The Bulgarian\" Borovkov-my target-has a thing for brunettes. It's in the file. All four of his girlfriends (four simultaneous girlfriends) have long, dark waves. So tonight, that's what I have.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I take another ludicrously slow sip of champagne-and wait.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Half of this job is waiting, keeping your cool under pressure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Swishing the alcohol through my teeth, I survey the ballroom for the sixteenth time. Strings of fairy lights dangle from the ceiling, sprigs of greenery crest the snow-flecked windows, and a massive cut-glass chandelier shouts, Fancy! It's the kind of place I couldn't imagine myself in as a kid. Christmas bingo night at the Moose Lodge, maybe; a winter ball with tickets double the price of my first car, never.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There are two clear exit routes. Several bodyguards, milling around, attempting to look inconspicuous. And a man in the corner wearing an earpiece. Not one of our guys. One of Alexei's. At the far end of the room, a string quartet plays \"När det lider mot jul,\" a Swedish carol that's heavy on the violin, and my stilettos tap until the end of the song. Everyone applauds the violinist-then it's go time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I don't even need to steel myself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It's habit, muscle memory, my mind and body in sync.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alexei takes another step back from his partner, bows, and shoots a look straight at me. For a second, it's like we're the only two people in the ballroom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now, all that's left is to reel Alexei in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A slow lip bite should do it, like I'm thinking about how he might taste-but I stop mid-bite. I've caught myself. I'm so innocent! Alexei sees this and immediately struts over in his white tie and coattails, exactly like I knew he would.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You are beautiful,\" Alexei says. He speaks in heavily accented English and extends his white-gloved hand, confident that I'll take it. My fingers slip gently into his, like I'm this fragile little bird-not, say, a deceptively strong CIA case officer who could incapacitate him swiftly and silently. Beneath the dress, I'm all power and muscular curves. A handler once described me as \"more striking than beautiful.\" Emphasis on the strike.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alexei pulls me to the center of the dance floor as the quartet revs up again. A slower song this time, with more cello.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You're Bulgarian?\" I ask in English, affecting a Swedish accent. The ballroom is in Uppsala, a half-hour train ride from Stockholm, so a Swedish alias makes the most sense.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alexei grins, drawing my chest to his chest, and I make sure I don't stiffen. Make sure I'm breathing smoothly, normally. His neck smells like blood oranges, with a hint of leather, and his custard-blond hair is slicked behind his ears. In heels, I'm only two inches shorter than him. We match up. \"Smart girl,\" he says after a click of his tongue. \"You recognize my accent, then? You speak Bulgarian?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I speak six languages,\" I say honestly. It's the first and only truth I'll tell him all night. \"But my Bulgarian isn't so good.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"My Swedish isn't so good.\" Alexei's lips quirk. \"I bet there is a lot we could teach each other . . . ?\" He leaves the question open, waiting for my name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Annalisa,\" I lie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Annalisa Andersson. A socialite from Gothenburg. She's a Virgo. A horseback rider. Likes gin and Dubonnet with a slice of lemon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It's funny how much you can know about a person who doesn't exist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And how little you can know about a person who does.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alexei's fingers intertwine with mine in a way that-years ago-would've sent a chilled spike down my back. \"You are here all alone, Annalisa? It is no good to be alone at Christmas.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alone at Christmas.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In my line of work, people hunt for vulnerabilities. What Alexei doesn't know is, he's tiptoeing uncomfortably close to mine. My family briefly flashes in front of my eyes-Calla, Grandma Ruby, Sweetie Pie, even Dad-before I blink and they're gone. They can't be here right now. Alexei is not what you'd call \"a good guy.\" For the last three months, he's been financing arms deals against NATO allies. Give him anything less than total concentration, and I'll be flying back to the States in a body bag.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reaching up, I trace the sharp ridge of Alexei's jaw and whisper directly into his ear, \"I'm not alone anymore, am I?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can feel his heartbeat quicken through his shirt. His throat bobs in a discreet gulp, and I've got him. I know I've got him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ninety-five percent of the time, my work for the CIA isn't like this. Usually, I'm given a very specific set of instructions: Recruit foreign spies. That's it. That's what I do. I identify them, study them, and ally them with the US government. I've been posted all over Northern Europe and the former Eastern Bloc. Long, cold months of meeting assets in back rooms and bars-and then, sometimes, assignments come out of nowhere. Son of a Bulgarian billionaire, touring Europe, attending a charity ball in Uppsala. Someone's persuaded him into handing over his father's money to buy missile components. Audio and satellite surveillance so far unsuccessful. Need to find out who he's meeting later tonight. Suddenly, I'm trading in my cargo pants for a government-funded gown. I'm dancing, song after song, before slipping my hands under Alexei's suit jacket, tracing the slope of his chest. My fingers are nimble, delicate, skilled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alexei is practically purring. \"You know,\" he murmurs, \"you look like that American . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'm careful to avoid any tension in my shoulders.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \". . . actress,\" he finishes, which is very preferable to American spy. \"What is her name? The one with the face. The round face. Dark eyebrows, hair of blond.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Round face . . .\" I pretend to think, distracting him more, my fingers roaming the sides of his body, and-there. I stick the miniature audio recorder into the lining of his jacket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Ah!\" Alexei says, as if he's been stung by a baby wasp, and my muscles ready themselves to block an attack. Internally, I relax as he bleats out, \"Ah, I cannot remember her name. You are such a good dancer, my mind is gone.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e With a flick of my eyelashes, I thank him. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We don’t get wins like this very often: a mission that goes so freakishly smooth, it’s like a training exercise. Alexei might as well have been a farm instructor acting the part of a billionaire. It irks me: the suspicion that the assignment might’ve gone a little too well. But I was as diligent as possible-and I’ll be just as watchful on the way home. When the tech team finally pings my earpiece to confirm that, yep, they can hear everything through Alexei’s bug, I deploy a blunt, evergreen excuse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Need to pee! Goodbye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Bypassing the bathroom door, I duck down the opposite hallway and slip into the coatroom unnoticed. Everything's choreographed, methodical. I double-check that I'm alone-then I absolutely blitz through the next part. Wig off. Black parka on. High heels off. Rubber ankle boots on. I yank a well-worn pair of cargo pants over my dress, tucking the silken fabric into my waistline. Twenty seconds, that's all it takes, and I'm street ready. Swiping my rucksack from the corner cupboard, I walk slowly but purposefully out of the coatroom-and into downtown Uppsala.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cold wind and snowflakes nip past my ears, reminding me of Maine: snowshoeing in December; toes freezing before a campfire; that first lick of winter. I yank up the hood on my parka, obscuring the sharp angle of my hair; if anyone starts to trail me, all they'll see is the shape of a person: sleek, possibly athletic, relatively tall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Luckily, no one follows me to the train station. No one suspicious boards my carriage. No one looks over my shoulder while I pretend to read Plaza Kvinna magazine. In the train bathroom, I puff out a tired breath and run my wrists under the tap, scrubbing, until the makeup disintegrates and the black outline of my crescent-moon tattoo becomes visible again. Sometimes this tiny, tiny tattoo feels like the only true marker of who I was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Splashing a palmful of warm water onto my face, I gaze into the mirror and drag a paper towel over my sticky red lips. Do I look happy?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Maybe that's the wrong question. This job was never supposed to make me happy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This job was supposed to make me . . . what? Untouchable?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Back in Stockholm, I stop at the first open convenience store and buy a loaf of Swedish cinnamon bread, devouring a third of it on my walk home. Not home, exactly. The Stockholm Riverside Hôtel has just been someplace to crash for the last two days. It's fine. Way better than the station house in Macedonia, or that hostel in the Balkans. The vending machine makes a decent espresso (if you only care about the caffeine level; so-caffeinated-that-I-can-predict-the-future is about the right dosage for me). The hotel carpets are IKEA blue, paintings of extra-furry cows line the halls, and no one really asks any questions besides the occasional \"How are you finding your stay?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Which is good. Obviously.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In the wood-paneled lobby, I shift the grocery bag into the crook of my arm, press the elevator button to 3, and step in at the ping. My ankle boots stomp down the hallway, leaving a trail of snowy powder, and when I reach my room (306, by the caffeine delivery machine), I wrench off a mitten, searching deep in my parka for the key.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What's my family doing right now, six days before Christmas, at home in Maine? I can't help thinking about them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Also . . . I hear something. Someone. Right now, in my hotel room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The noise hits me like a dart to the neck. There has never been anyone in my hotel room before. Never, never. Definitely not after a mission.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I knew the assignment went too smoothly! Did someone see me plant audio surveillance equipment on Alexei? Have I been compromised? Who the hell is in my room? Bracing myself, I set down the bread, unshoulder my backpack, and reach for my gun. On the other side of the door is a female-sounding voice-and the blare of the television. The intruder is watching something. A game show, maybe? Can that be right? Every few seconds, a bell goes off, like Ding, ding, ding, you've won a prize! And the person inside my room lets out a loud, raucous laugh, like Miss Piggy in the Muppets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This has every hallmark of a trap. And not even a particularly good trap. Shouldn't she, at the very least, be hiding in a closet, ready to spring out and knife me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Even so, I can't stand out here forever. There's two months' worth of intel in that room, and it's not like I can abandon it. My handler would kill me. If the person in my room doesn't try to kill me first . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Suddenly, the television stops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then the voice calls out, \"That you, Sydney? In here, please.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her accent is American. Midwestern, by the sound of it. Another trick? My training kicks in like a reflex. Two deep breaths. Compartmentalizing any fear. Grabbing the pistol in my waistband, I sidestep the cinnamon bread and beep the door unlocked. I crack it open, peek inside. Blue carpets, blue walls. A pair of well-worn running shoes, placed by the door, exactly where I left them. Immediately, though, I'm met with the unmistakable scent of meatballs. In a . . . nutmeg-y cream sauce? Which is something that I did not order and have never brought into this room. I round the corner, past the entryway, into-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oh, good. You're here.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The woman in my room barely looks at me. She turns her head vaguely in my direction, just enough for me to see the harsh line of her profile. Short, chestnut-colored hair falls around her face. Everything about her says windswept, even though she's comfortably seated at the dining table by the TV. She must be about forty years old. Forty-two? Forty-three?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e More importantly, I have no idea who the heck she is.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Or why she's ordered so many meatballs. The table's crowded with a platter of smoked salmon, a bowl of spaghetti, and what appears to be venison. Or reindeer?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I was a bit hungry, so I just ordered everything.\" The woman shrugs, snapping a room service menu shut and fully looking at me now. Her eyes are hawkish, bright, and might scare the average person. \"You eat meat, yes? Should've ordered double, but I didn't know when to expect you back, exactly. Orange juice? There's more food coming. Keep your ears pricked for a knock at the door . . . Aren't you going to sit?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She gestures at the other dining chair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm sorry,\" I say, not sorry at all. Sarcasm bleeds through my voice. \"Who are you, exactly?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You're not going to shoot me, are you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My gun stays in position, pointed at her head, but the slight fear-taste dissipates from my mouth. \"Not unless you try to shoot me first.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Good,\" she says with a wave of her hand. \"That would be very messy. Too much paperwork, and it would probably make the news if you couldn't find somewhere to stash my body quick enough. Not many dumpsters in this city. You'd have to drop me in the river. But then, of course, the river is frozen, so you'd have to drill a hole. Quite time consuming.\" Grabbing the remote, she changes the channel, watches for roughly twelve seconds, then flicks a finger toward the TV. \"What do you think is going on here?\"","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304800735461,"sku":"NP9780593640395","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593640395.jpg?v=1767741765","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-takedown-isbn-9780593640395","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}