Merrick's Eleventh Hour. Wendy Rosnau

>

      

      “It’s been twenty years,” Merrick said. “The irony is you don’t look a helluva lot different.”

      Johanna looked away, then turned back and raised her chin. “Perhaps it’s the fugitive lifestyle that agrees with me. Or being pampered by lies, and deceived by rogue agents out for revenge on my husb—” She cut herself off.

      “Husband?”

      “Not for long.”

      She had a right to be angry, but dammit, so did he. He tried not to notice how short her towel was. Tried unsuccessfully. He knew every inch of her body. He’d dreamed of her so often he could envision every curve beneath that damn towel.

      In that moment all he wanted to do was pick her up and claim his wife.

      Dear Reader,

      I’d like to say I’ve saved the best for last in this seventh and final book in my SPY GAMES miniseries. And yet each book in this series has been special to me in so many ways. As I began to delve into Adolf Merrick’s character with all his trials and all his grief, I realized what a treasure he was. Once a government assassin, now the commander of the NSA Onyxx Agency, he’s a man who has truly survived hell.

      They say survival is everything. That justice will come to those both good and evil. That the journey makes you or breaks you. I admit that the inception of this story was based on survival and justice, but as I joined Merrick in his eleventh hour, it became evident that his journey was a resurrection of heart and soul. For a man’s valor and redemption are weighed by his undying loyalty, honor, trust and his humanity to forgive.

      Come with me on this final leg of SPY GAMES. My hope is that you fall in love with Merrick as I did. His broken heart has been waiting a long time to be set free. For even the deepest wounds can be healed by a miracle. So yes, perhaps I have saved the best for last. If you missed one of the previous SPY GAMES books, log on to www.wendyrosnau.com.

      Until next time,

      Wendy Rosnau

      Merrick’s Eleventh Hour

      Wendy Rosnau

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      WENDY ROSNAU

      resides on sixty secluded acres in Minnesota with her husband and their two children. She divides her time between her family-owned bookstore and writing romantic suspense. Her first book, The Long Hot Summer, was a Romantic Times BOOKreviews nominee for Best First Series Romance of 2000. Her third book, The Right Side of the Law, was a Romantic Times BOOKreviews Top Pick. She received the Midwest Fiction Writers 2001 Rising Star Award. Wendy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her Web site at www.wendyrosnau.com.

      For Tyler and Jen. No mother could

       be more blessed. You are my

       greatest fortune and priority.

      A special thank-you to Joyce Alt

       for her expertise on asthma.

       Any inaccuracies are mine alone.

      Contents

      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

      Chapter 14

      Epilogue

      Chapter 1

      An amputee for twenty-two years, Peter Briggs had a certain routine—work at eight, supper at seven, in bed by nine. But the flu had disrupted his staid life for the past week. At 10:30 p.m. he rolled his wheelchair out of the bathroom and into the bedroom for the third time that night.

      Weak and nauseated, he reached for the bar that hung above his bed and hoisted himself onto the mattress. Snuggled beneath the blankets, conscious of his old routine, he slid his hand beneath the pillow, his fingers brushing the cool steel of a 9mm SIG. A grunt of assurance, a moan, then exhaustion sent Peter into a restless sleep.

      An hour later he woke up shivering, his body racked with chills. He pulled the blanket up around his neck, and that was when he noticed how cold the air was. If he hadn’t known better he’d have thought the heat had been shut off in his D.C. apartment.

      Peter reached for the bar overhead and pulled himself up. He turned on the lamp, and found the source of his discomfort. The window was open, a stiff breeze whipping the lacy beige curtain into a ghostly dance, driving in the cold April rain all over the floor.

      He was staring at the open window in a confused daze when he heard a noise in the living room. Instinct sent his hand under his pillow to retrieve the SIG, at the same time he reached out to his wheelchair.

      No SIG.

      No wheelchair.

      As if his rising panic summoned his lifeline, the bedroom door opened and his wheelchair rolled slowly inside.

      The smell of vomit and diarrhea was caustic. It had turned the small apartment into a war zone. Cyrus Krizova leaned back in the wheelchair and studied his old comrade on the narrow bed. The SIG in his lap, he said, “You look like hell, Briggs. Rough week?”

      “The worst of my life.”

      Cyrus’s dark eyes shifted to the lower half of the bed where Peter’s legs should have been. “I doubt that. I imagine you’ve had plenty of dark days.”

      Peter rubbed his eyes, rheumy from lack of sleep. “You haven’t left Greece in years. What brings you to Washington?”

      “Merrick has uncovered our little secret.”

      “That’s impossible. There’s no data to prove it. I’ve been careful.”

      “That’s good to hear. But he’s looking for that nonexistent data. I suppose I’m going to have to take credit for that. Still, I believe I only confirmed what he suspected. Onyxx has been looking for a mole inside the Agency for some time.”

      “You told him it’s me?”

      “He’s been leaving you out of the loop for months. That’s why you weren’t able to warn me when he arrived in Greece and stole my prisoners from Vouno weeks ago. Not to mention his untimely arrival at Lesvago days later.”

      “I had nothing to do with that.”

      “My point. You’ve been isolated. Merrick’s unscheduled raid cost me billions, as well as my daughter. Melita has defected to the enemy’s camp.”

      Beads of perspiration popped out on Peter’s forehead. “I had no idea Merrick had left Washington until he’d returned. If you need someone to blame, blame that bastard Sully Paxton. You should have killed him a long time ago.”

      “What I should have done is irrelevant now. You really don’t understand this little parody you’ve been living this past week, do you?”

      “I contracted the flu. I—”

      “The flu is it?” Cyrus smiled. “The infection running through your body is no flu strain. It’s a manufactured virus. Think, Briggs. Where were you the night you took ill?”

      “I was at Chadwick’s. Merrick took me to dinner.”

      “Go to dinner with him often?”

      “No.”