he was going to let Absalom keep whatever dirty secrets he was hiding.
Love is a word we use often. We love cars and movies, books and food. Of course, we love people, too. Spouses, children, family and friends. They all fall in the category of things we enjoy. But love is so much deeper than that. Love isn’t just the quick happy feeling we get when we share an experience with someone we care about. It is not the attraction we feel when we look into the eyes of our significant others. It isn’t the warmth we feel when we hold our babies for the first time. Love is not warm and fuzzy, sweet and light. It is hard work. It is sacrifice. It is commitment to the betterment of someone else even at the expense of self.
FBI agents Radley Tumberg and Honor Remington know this. They live good lives filled with wonderful people. They enjoy the material things that God has provided, and they aren’t looking for more. But when Honor’s life is threatened and everything she holds dear is in jeopardy, Radley steps in to help, and the love neither of them is looking for finds them.
I hope you enjoy the third book in the FBI Special Crimes Unit. I love hearing from readers. You can find me on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter, and if you have the time, drop me a line at [email protected].
Blessings,
Shirlee McCoy
For all the law is fulfilled in one word, even in this;
Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
—Galatians 5:14
For you, because you picked up this book and opened it to this page and read words written from my heart to yours.
Contents
“Honor?”
A man’s voice carried through the blackness that surrounded Honor Remington, reaching into a darkness so profound she wasn’t sure how she’d drag herself out of it.
I need help. She tried to respond, but the words were trapped in her mind, stuck fast and unspoken.
Someone touched her shoulder, and she flinched, trying to open her eyes and look into the speaker’s face.
Her lids felt glued together, her body sluggish and numb.
“Come on, Honor. You can do better than that,” the man prodded, and something about his voice freed her.
Her eyes flew open, and she was looking into a familiar face. One she knew she should recognize: dark hair, hard-edged jaw and a scar at the corner of his mouth.
“There you go,” he said, a note of relief in his voice.
“Who are you?” she asked, because she couldn’t quite grasp the information. She knew him, and that was all she was certain of.
“You don’t know?”
“Would I have asked if I did?” She tried to push herself into a sitting position, but her hands ached and burned, her body was weak and she collapsed again, falling back onto what felt like a thin pallet lying on an uneven floor.
“I’m Radley Tumberg,” he replied. “We work together. FBI. Special Crimes
