Meredith Fletcher - Look-Alike

She raised the gun and swung into position just inside the door. The soft blue-white glow of a computer monitor filled the bedroom. Data streamed across the screen.

And the illumination fell across a figure lying in the middle of the floor. She knew exactly what the black dot in the center of the body’s forehead was.

Silently, a shadow separated itself from the darkness. She pulled the gun up and fired. A man cursed in surprise.

In the next handful of seconds, her feet were swept from under her as a weight fell on top of her, knocking out her breath. “Stop,” a deep voice said as she crashed a forearm into his nose and eye. “I didn’t kill him.”

She went still. “Then let me up.”

Cautiously, the man lifted his head and looked at her.

She gasped. “You!”

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Dear Reader,

Ever since I wrote Double-Cross about twin sisters Samantha St. John and Elle Petrenko, I’ve been dying to get back to them and tell more of their story. I mean, come on: twin sisters who were separated for twenty-three years! Who wouldn’t want to know more?

I love suspense/romance novels that introduce me to new places, so I really wanted this one to move around. And it does! From the Red Light District in Amsterdam to Germany to Russia to the Greek Islands. I also love stories about sibling rivalry and misunderstanding and I knew I had to include the problems Sam and Elle would have just trying to figure out the pecking order. That’s one of those things that can take all your life if you come from a big family—like I do. And Elle’s dad seems to be a great dad to have if you’re a spy. One of the things I’ve discovered in my own life is that no matter how out-of-the-norm your life is (and there are parts I still can’t discuss!), your family life tends to be normal and weird at the same time.

I hope you enjoy Sam and Elle’s new story. Please stop by my Web page at www.meredithfletcher.com to say hello and tell me what you thought.

Happy reading!

Meredith Fletcher

Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Meredith Fletcher for her contribution to the ATHENA FORCE miniseries.

doesn’t really call any place home. She blames her wanderlust on her navy father, who moved the family several times around the United States and other countries. The one constant she had was her books. The battered trunk of favorite novels followed her around the world when she was growing up and shared dorm space with her in college. These days, the trunk is stored, but sometimes comes with Meredith to visit A-frame houses high in the Colorado mountains, cottages in Maine, where she likes to visit lighthouses and work with fishing crews, and rental flats where she takes moments of “early retirement” for months at a stretch. Interested readers can reach her at MFletcher1216@aol.com.

To Drs. Donna and Brian Johnson, staunch supporters

of Athena Force and of my writing. And to my editor,

Natashya Wilson, who loves romance adventure as

much as I do and helped me straighten all the wrinkles.

Prologue

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

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Outside Suwan, Berzhaan

The Middle East

“Please! I beg you! Don’t kill me! I made a mistake! Just a mistake!”

Seated in the back of the luxury limousine, Vasilios Quinn listened to the man beg for his life. It was music to his ears. A return to days he hadn’t seen in many years.

Soundproof windows kept the man’s panicked cries from reaching the dark night outside the limousine. Less than five miles from Suwan, the capital city of Berzhaan, they were in desert highlands filled with hard stone ravines and shifting sandstorms.

It was the perfect place for an execution.

“I swear to you! It will never happen again! I will not allow myself to be so tempted!” Tears ran down the man’s quivering jowls. He was in his thirties yet covered in mounds of baby fat. He hadn’t known the hard life so many of his countrymen had suffered.

Berzhaan was part of the Middle East and had faced a precarious existence all its life. The current government, headed by Prime Minister Omar Razidae, suffered from internal strife. The United States was believed to support Berzhaan’s Kemeni guerrillas, who wanted control of the country. As a result, the native terrorist network—the Q’Rajn—attacked the government and the Kemenis alike to drive out the U.S., as well as American sympathizers. Death did a daily business in Berzhaan.

Quinn’s business was with the Q’Rajn. The man on the limousine floor had acted as go-between to the terrorists.

“I trusted you, Malik,” Quinn said.

Malik sobbed. “I swear, you can still trust me!”

“Unfortunately,” Quinn said, “trust is like virginity. Once given, it can’t be given again. You have to be careful whom you extend it to. I have been very careful. You—” he pointed the silenced Glock .45 at Malik’s nose “—are my first mistake in over twenty years.”

“I can fix it! I swear!” Malik clasped his hands in front of him. Held on his elbows and knees as he was, dressed in a robe and trembling, he was a poster child for subjugation.

Quinn had been at a soiree when his security team had called him to let him know they had Malik in custody. When he finished here, he intended to return to that soiree. His gray hair was carefully coiffed, and though he was a big man, his tuxedo fit him perfectly.

“You brought someone to our meeting,” Quinn said. “You knew I didn’t operate that way.”

“She won’t talk!” Malik said. “She’s just a girl! Young! She doesn’t know anything! I give you my word!”

Quinn almost laughed. The two bodyguards holding Malik grinned and shook their heads. Of course, they had already killed the girl and dumped her body.

Quinn’s cell phone rang. He wasn’t pleased at being interrupted. “Yes.”

“The breach in security may be more severe than we had believed.”

Quinn cursed and leaned back in the limousine. He’d thought dealing with Malik would be the end of it. “I thought you had a handle on this.”

“I still do.” The voice at the other end of the connection was calm and assured. The caller’s name was Arnaud Beck. He was a mercenary leader with international contacts, and Quinn had never met a more efficient killing machine. “Our competitors are working more quickly than we had imagined.”

The competitors were an intelligence team that Quinn hadn’t yet identified. His intelligence people had tracked them back to a nebulous agency that had ties to a Web site, www.AA.gov. The site appeared to be the home page of an all-girls school, but its advanced firewalls and security countermeasures had stymied every attempt Quinn’s people had made to crack it. Even the information brokers Quinn had access to had as much rumor as fact about the organization behind AA.gov. Maybe it was a cover for interagency information, or maybe—as a few reports indicated—it was an enforcement arm that stopped short of assassinations.