I love connecting with readers and would love to hear your thoughts on this story! If you’re interested in learning more about this book—or other books and series I have written—I have more information on my website: sherrishackelford.com. I can also be reached by email at [email protected], and snail mail, PO Box 116, Elkhorn, NE, 68022.
Happy Reading!
Sherri Shackelford
Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.
—John 14:27
To Tina Radcliffe and Stephanie Dees. Thanks for coming to Nebraska to visit me. The weather is always that nice. Really.
Contents
Note to Readers
Adjusting his tie, Jordan Harris checked his reflection in the mirrored glass window of the coffee shop. His civilian haircut camouflaged the crescent scar looping around his left ear, and the extra volume of his suit jacket concealed his weapon. Satisfied his appearance was squared away, he pushed open the door.
The comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee enveloped him in a soothing air-conditioned cloud. A half-dozen people were scattered throughout the colorful airy space. Four females, one toddler and three males. Soft perimeter. No credible threats. These days, no place was entirely safe. Not even Omaha, Nebraska.
A woman with white-blond hair sat with her back to the door. A soft breeze ruffled the wavy chin-length strands, revealing vivid blue streaks hidden throughout the layers.
Lucy Sutton.
He stared, mesmerized for a moment, before returning to his senses. Trained in masking his emotions, Jordan worked for the National Security Agency. He was a modern-day spy in a digital world. He was good at his job, but there were times when he felt as though his life was comprised of nothing more than smoke and mirrors.
Lucy turned, and he lifted his hand in greeting. They’d texted. He’d seen her picture plenty of times, and he assumed she’d looked him up on social media. Recognition softened her blue-gray eyes, and she waved him over.
She wore a dark floral-print dress with an enveloping black sweater. By the time he maneuvered through the jumble of mismatched tables and chairs, she’d stood, the top of her head not quite clearing his shoulder. Her expressive storm-colored eyes took up most of the real estate on her pixie face.
“Jordan Harris?” she asked, her voice slightly husky.
“Lucy Sutton, right?” he replied, though he’d have recognized her anywhere.
They
