by Jeff Abbott
The Honorable Nancy Pomykal, Justice of the Peace, Calhoun County, Texas, and the Honorable Patrick Daly, Justice of the Peace, Aransas County, Texas.
Sheriff Mark Gilliam of Aransas County and Rockport, Texas, Police Chief Tim Jayroe, for answering questions with great courtesy, patience, and humor.
Mark and Pam Kohler. Mark is a friend since early childhood and an extraordinarily gifted painter, and both he and Pam provided information on art.
Mindy Reed, for research assistance.
Dr. David Glassman, forensic anthropologist at Southwest Texas State University, who kindly walked me through the burial and recovery scenario.
Casey Edward Green and the staff of the Historical Center at Rosenberg Library in Galveston, for access to their famous Laffite archive and assisting me in my research.
Robert C. Vogel, Jean C. Epperson, Reginald Wilson, and Jeff Modzeleski, Laffite scholars extraordinaire, who answered questions on Laffite’s history and related subjects with patience, good humor, and thoughtfulness.
Patricia Mercado-Allinger, state archaeologist, Texas Historical Commission.
Malcolm Shuman, fellow author and contract archaeologist, for sharing his thoughts on his everyday working world.
David Lambert, for investments information.
John Bauer, attorney, for information on probate law and proceedings.
Scott Curren, who provided access to his sportfishing boat, the model for the Miss Catherine.
Horace Green, who provided information on metal detecting.
The Laffite Society, Galveston, Texas, for warmly welcoming me and then not stringing me up for playing goombah with their favorite historical persona. Needless to say, the Laffite Society consists of people far more polite, intelligent, friendly, and charming than certain members of the Laffite League, which is an entirely fictitious invention. The Laffite Society can be found at www.thelaffitesociety.com.
Of course, any errors are my responsibility, not theirs.
ALSO BY JEFF ABBOTT
Sam Capra series
Adrenaline
The Last Minute
Downfall
Whit Mosley series
A Kiss Gone Bad
Black Jack Point
Cut and Run
Other fiction
Panic
Fear
Collision
Trust Me
ACCLAIM FOR
JEFF ABBOTT’S SAM CAPRA THRILLERS
DOWNFALL
“Abbott packs a lifetime of thrills and suspense into a mere five days… Abbott excels at spinning complex webs of intrigue combining psychological twists and abundant action… Sam is both pawn and knight in an exciting chess game.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Action-packed, never-stop-for-a-breath storytelling.”
—Dallas Morning News
“Filled with action, intrigue, twists, and a variety of locales… It’s perfect for a summer weekend’s reading pleasure.”
—Fort Worth Star-Telegram
“[A] whirlwind ride… Downfall moves like a juggernaut out of control and is impossible to put down… a torrid read that grabs the reader by the throat and never lets up.”
—BookReporter.com
“Often wildly entertaining… a ton of action.”
—Austin American-Statesman
THE LAST MINUTE
“An explosive cocktail.”
—Washington Post
“[An] adrenaline rush that won’t stop.”
—San Antonio Express-News
“Abbott is one of the best thriller writers in the business, and he delivers action and complex characters… The next Capra novel cannot come fast enough.”
—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… 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… It should launch him into the Michael Connelly or Dennis Lehane stratosphere… 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… 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… 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… Great read!”
—Harlan Coben
“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
“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)
“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
“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.”
—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
When his best customer—and friend—is killed outside his Miami bar, ex-CIA agent Sam Capra goes undercover to bring down a criminal family unlike any he’s seen before…
Please turn this page for a sneak peek at
INSIDE MAN
0
THE CAR TUMBLED OFF THE CLIFF, hurtling toward the distant blue shimmer of the water.
The first, instinctive reaction is to draw in, brace yourself for the impact. Brace, never mind, survive the impact.
Next was the peculiar itch in my daredevil’s brain, figuring gravity’s pull at 9.8 meters per seco
nd squared, thinking, We have five seconds before we hit.
In the second of those seconds I felt the gun’s cool barrel press harder against my temple, realized my passenger was aiming right at my head in case the crash or the water didn’t end me.
That is attention to detail. That is commitment.
Three: The water rushed toward us. I moved forward, reaching, the cool steel barrel staying on me, my fingers along the floorboard groping for my one chance.
The sky, the water, my last breath, everything blue.
Four: The gun fired.
1
FOUR WEEKS EARLIER
YOU’RE SOMETHING, aren’t you, Sam?”
“I’m just a guy who owns a bar.” I slid Steve another draft beer. Someone had left an abandoned checkers game on the bar and I moved the glass around the game. The guys who’d left it might be back tomorrow to finish it. It was that kind of bar.
“But you used to be something.”
“A bar owner is being something.” Why is there no one-word term in American English for being a bar owner? Publican sounds too English and formal. Barkeep isn’t enough. I glanced through the windows. A young couple still sat on the outside couch, a dog at their feet, and I could tell from the angle of their beer bottles as they sipped that they were nearly done. The covered patio of the bar was otherwise empty, a slow Sunday night headed toward empty. I had to close at midnight, and that was twenty minutes away.
“But you used to be something.” And I couldn’t miss the prying hint in Steve’s voice.
“We all used to be something,” I said. “You too, Steve.”
Steve smiled. “The way you move. The way you eyed that jerk who bothered that young woman in here last night. You didn’t even have to raise a fist, threaten to call the cops. Or even boot him. Just the look you gave him.”
I shrugged. “Looks are cheap.”
“The way you study every person who comes in here, Sam. One glance of assessment. That’s a habit of being in tough situations.”
“I just don’t want trouble and it’s better to see it coming than be surprised.”
“So the something you were,” he said. “I think if you were ex-military or an ex-cop, you’d claim it right away. Proud of it. But you don’t.”
I shrugged again. Bartenders are supposed to listen more than they talk, anyway. We’re not the ones paying. I wiped the bar. Every night was too slow. My other bars around the world were high-end joints but Stormy’s wasn’t, it was a certified dive. It had been open for years, sliding through an assortment of owners until it came into my possession. The other nearby bars in Coconut Grove were a bit higher end than Stormy’s. Scarred bar, couches under a crooked TV, games such as checkers and Connect Four on the little tables. No fancy drinks; beer, wine, and your basic hard liquor. If I told people I owned a bar in Miami they’d automatically assume I owned some uber-trendy nightclub in South Beach, women pouring out of limos in tiny skirts and huge heels. Many of my customers walked to Stormy’s from the surrounding neighborhoods in Coconut Grove. We were not a tourist draw.
I wondered why I was bothering to keep this joint open. It was just me and the couple on the patio and Steve and two older guys watching a west coast basketball game on the corner TV; they’d already finished a pitcher. Miami wasn’t playing so there wasn’t a crowd.
“So. Since you won’t claim what you used to be, maybe you can’t.” Steve kept playing at Sherlock. He could play all day. I don’t talk about my past, not my real past, and for sure not to a guy who drinks too much. Even if he was my best friend in Miami.
“You mean like I was in jail?” I said. I didn’t smile. I had been in a prison once, but not the kind he thought. A CIA prison is a different proposition.
Steve laughed. “No. Maybe you were working in something you can’t talk about.”
“Maybe you’re just underestimating the skills involved in running a bar.” I didn’t have a manager in place here, which was why I’d spent two weeks in Miami. Maybe I could offer Steve a job. But that would mean being honest with him about what I did, what I’d done in my previous life, and asking him to stay silent. I wasn’t sure he could stay quiet.
I would wonder, later, if it would have all been different if I’d offered him work during the past two weeks. I needed someone to run the bar, and to keep the secrets associated with it, and Steve needed a purpose. If I’d let myself say, Here’s an old friend who could handle the secrets, the tough situations. If I’d let myself trust him. But I was worried he’d tell my parents. If I had trusted him… then it might all have been different for him, and for me. He might not have kept the job that he did.
“I know what I see,” Steve said, suddenly not smiling, serious. “You know how to handle yourself, Sam. I could use some help, maybe.”
“Help how?”
“Well, you know I used to work in freelance security.” I’d first met Steve when I was fifteen years old. He’d worked a security detail attached to my parents’ relief workers team in central Africa. He’d saved my family’s lives during a chaotic evacuation from a war-torn nation, pulling my parents and my brother and me from a wrecked vehicle and getting us to an airport to board the final military flight before the rebels bombed the runways. He’d stayed in steady touch over the years: sending us Christmas cards from distant corners of the world, a pen and pencil set for my high school graduation, flowers and a thoughtful note when my brother Danny, a relief worker in Afghanistan, was kidnapped and executed. When I’d come to Miami two weeks ago to address the nagging problems of my bar here, he’d showed up and claimed a barstool the next day. I first assumed my parents had sent him to spy on me; after years of estrangement they’d decided to take an interest in my life. But Steve was living in his parents’ house in Coral Gables and was already a semi-regular at this bar. He hadn’t done security work overseas in a while. He seemed happy to guard the bar against any potential danger.
But he saw something of himself in me right now. It was unnerving that he could read my past in my movements, my attitude. I thought I had mellowed more.
Part of me just wanted to tell him to forget it, that he was entirely wrong, and hope he’d let it drop. But spies, even former ones, are curious people. We want to know things. Even when we’re not spies anymore. I was twenty-six and had spent three years with a secret division in the CIA. I guess it showed. Or did Steve know more about me than he was willing to admit?
“You’re wrong about me, but what is the job?”
He looked at me as though he could recognize my little white lie and shook his head. “Am I wrong? Maybe I can tempt you. I could use an inside man.” He gave me a smile. I shrugged like I didn’t know what the term meant and went to the guys watching the basketball game to see if they wanted anything, which was an unusual level of service here at Stormy’s. But I wanted Steve to change the subject. Inside man. To be a spy again. When the guys wanted nothing more, I returned to the bar and resumed tidying.
Steve lowered his voice. “So. I’m meeting a friend here tonight.”
I frowned. If I was trying to impress a woman, Stormy’s was not my choice of venue, and I owned the damned place. “Uh, you know we’re closing in a bit?”
“I just need to talk to her for a bit. You don’t have to serve us. It’d be a big favor. You’ll be here anyway.” That was true. I lived in an apartment above the bar; every one of my bars around the world, they all had living quarters above them. There was a reason for that, and it was the reason I didn’t think I could offer my talkative friend a job. But Steve was here every night when I shut down the bar, and we’d hung out and chatted after I turned off the OPEN neon sign.
“I should charge you rent,” I said, joking. The couple on the patio left; the two guys watching basketball got up and left. I left Steve for a moment to collect their tips and their empties. I didn’t have a server on duty, the one I’d hired hadn’t bothered to show up. The staff, the location, the rundown look of the place, the long lack
of a manager, all were problems. I owned over thirty bars around the world and so far Stormy’s was the divey-est. I didn’t live here in Miami and the place was dying of neglect. Hence my past two weeks, trying to decide whether or not I’d sell. If I did, I’d have to buy another bar in Miami to replace this one. I have very secret bosses—who gave me the bars to run—and because this place doubled as a safe house for their operations, I could not sell it and then not replace it. Miami was a town where they would too often need a safe house.
I dumped the glasses and slid the money into the cash register.
“I could pay you, Sam.”
“What, your tab? I thought you had a friend coming…”
“No, dummy. To help me with this security job I got.” He was trying again.
“Thanks for the offer,” I said. “But like I said, I’m not anything. Just a bartender.”
Steve studied me. He was older than me, in his mid-forties, burr haircut going silver, a man who had once been handsome and still could be but there had been too much beer and too many fights. He looked worn and beaten down. “You sure? I still think I’m right about you.”
“My brother always told me to stay on my guard. I think that’s what you see.”
“You know how sorry I am about Danny.”
“I know.”
The thing was—I don’t think I’d talked to another guy as much as I had to Steve since my brother Danny died. Most hours that the bar was open, I was here and Steve was here, drinking sodas during the day, tapping at his laptop or reading or watching the TV. My closest friend from my days in the hidden Special Projects branch at the CIA was a guy named August Holdwine, and August and I no longer talked much. We didn’t have reason to; and as much as I liked him, he felt like a part of my past I didn’t care to revisit. And as far as my friends from my Harvard days went, to them I was a mystery. I graduated, went to work for a London consulting firm that was secretly a CIA front, and had now ended up owning bars. I had fallen out of the drawn lines for what was acceptable success. And I wasn’t on social media, posting pictures of my child, recording what I’d eaten for lunch, or talking about my favorite football team.