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  Praise for John Gilstrap

  DAMAGE CONTROL

  “Powerful and explosive, an unforgettable journey into

  the dark side of the human soul. Gilstrap is a master

  of action and drama. If you like Vince Flynn and Brad

  Thor, you’ll love John Gilstrap.”

  —Gayle Lynds

  “Rousing . . . Readers will anxiously await

  the next installment.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “It’s easy to see why John Gilstrap is the go-to

  guy among thriller writers, when it comes to

  weapons, ammunition, and explosives. His

  expertise is uncontested.”

  —John Ramsey Miller

  “If you haven’t treated yourself to one of John

  Gilstrap’s Jonathan Grave thrillers, you need not

  deprive yourself any longer. Damage Control is

  riveting, with enough explosions, death traps, and

  intrigue to fill three books.”

  —Joe Hartlaub, Book Reporter

  “The best page-turning thriller I’ve grabbed in ages.

  Gilstrap is one of the very few writers who can

  position a set of characters in a situation, ramp up the

  tension, and yes, keep it there, all the way through.

  There is no place you can put this book down.”

  —Beth Kanell, Kingdom Books, Vermont

  “A page-turning, near-perfect thriller, with engaging

  and believable characters . . . unputdownable!

  Warning—if you must be up early the next morning,

  don’t start the book.”

  —Top Mystery Novels

  “Takes you full force right away and doesn’t let go

  until the very last page . . . has enough full-bore

  action to take your breath away, barely giving

  you time to inhale. The action is nonstop. Gilstrap

  knows his technology and weaponry. Damage

  Control will blow you away.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  THREAT WARNING

  “If you are a fan of thriller novels, I hope you’ve been

  reading John Gilstrap’s Jonathan Grave series. Threat

  Warning is a character-driven work where the vehicle

  has four on the floor and horsepower to burn. From

  beginning to end, it is dripping with excitement.”

  —Joe Hartlaub, Book Reporter

  “If you like Vince Flynn–style action, with a

  strong, incorruptible hero, this series deserves to

  be in your reading diet. Threat Warning reconfirms

  Gilstrap as a master of jaw-dropping action and

  heart-squeezing suspense.”

  —Austin Camacho, The Big Thrill

  HOSTAGE ZERO

  “Jonathan Grave, my favorite freelance peacemaker,

  problem-solver, and tough-guy hero, is back—and in

  particularly fine form. Hostage Zero is classic

  Gilstrap: the people are utterly real, the action’s foot

  to the floor, and the writing’s fluid as a well-oiled

  machine gun. A tour de force!”

  —Jeffery Deaver

  “This addictively readable thriller marries a

  breakneck pace to a complex, multilayered plot....

  A roller-coaster ride of adrenaline-inducing plot

  twists leads to a riveting and highly satisfying

  conclusion. Exceptional characterization and an

  intricate, flawlessly crafted storyline make this

  an absolute must-read for thriller fans.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  NO MERCY

  “No Mercy grabs hold of you on page one and

  doesn’t let go. Gilstrap’s new series is terrific. It

  will leave you breathless. I can’t wait to see what

  Jonathan Grave is up to next.”

  —Harlan Coben

  “The release of a new John Gilstrap novel is always

  worth celebrating, because he’s one of the finest

  thriller writers on the planet. No Mercy showcases

  his work at its finest—taut, action-packed, and

  impossible to put down!”

  —Tess Gerritsen

  “A great hero, a pulse-pounding story—and the

  launch of a really exciting series.”

  —Joseph Finder

  “An entertaining, fast-paced tale of

  violence and revenge.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “No other writer is better able to combine in a

  single novel both rocket-paced suspense and heartfelt

  looks at family and the human spirit. And what a

  pleasure to meet Jonathan Grave, a hero for our

  time . . . and for all time.”

  —Jeffery Deaver

  AT ALL COSTS

  “Riveting . . . combines a great plot and realistic,

  likable characters with look-over-your-shoulder

  tension. A page-turner.”

  —The Kansas City Star

  “Gilstrap builds tension . . . until the last page, a

  hallmark of great thriller writers. I almost called the

  paramedics before I finished At All Costs.”

  —Tulsa World

  “Gilstrap has ingeniously twisted his simple premise

  six ways from Sunday.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Not-to-be-missed.”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  NATHAN’S RUN

  “Gilstrap pushes every thriller button . . . a nail-biting

  denouement and strong characters.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Gilstrap has a shot at being the next John

  Grisham . . . one of the best books of the year.”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  “Emotionally charged . . . one of the year’s best.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Brilliantly calculated . . . With the skill of a veteran

  pulp master, Gilstrap weaves a yarn that demands to

  be read in one sitting.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Like a roller coaster, the story races along on

  well-oiled wheels to an undeniably

  pulse-pounding conclusion.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  ALSO BY JOHN GILSTRAP

  Fiction

  High Treason

  Damage Control

  Threat Warning

  Hostage Zero

  No Mercy

  Scott Free

  Even Steven

  At All Costs

  Nathan’s Run

  Nonfiction

  Six Minutes to Freedom (with Kurt Muse)

  Collaborations

  Watchlist: A Serial Thriller

  JOHN GILSTRAP

  END GAME

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise for John Gilstrap

  ALSO BY JOHN GILSTRAP

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AGAINST ALL ENEMIES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright Page

  For Joy

  CHAPTER ONE

  The pounding on the front door meant trouble, a staccato beat delivered by a heavy hand. It bore the urgency of a neighbor with news that the house was on fire. In the living room, just fifteen feet away, the pounding ripped Jolaine’s attention away from her computer search for the best business schools. In one year, her life would look a hell of a lot different than it did now.

  She uncurled her legs from beneath her, placed her laptop on the end table, and edged toward the foyer. It was, after all, her job to answer the door, just as it was her job to deal with the emotional turmoil that defined fourteen-year-old Graham, who was supposed to be steeped in homework by now—homework that she knew he wouldn’t be doing because he was one of those kids whose four-oh average came with zero effort. He ranked among the biggest reasons why next year would look so different.

  Her heart hammered at least as loudly as the fist on the door as her bare feet crossed from carpet to marble. She considered ignoring it. At nearly ten o’clock, was there really an obligation to answer? The fact that she was separated from her nearest weapon by two flights of thirteen stairs didn’t help at all. Why hire a bodyguard and then forbid said bodyguard to be armed in the house?

  The pounding continued. “Bernard!” a voice yelled from beyond the door. “For God’s sake, let me in!”

  Jolaine had nearly reached the door when Mr. Mitchell—Bernard—barked, “No!” He’d appeared on the steps behind her.

  Startled by the sharpness of his tone, she whirled and was even more surprised to see that he’d armed himself with a tiny MAC-10 automatic pistol. Dressed in the kind of pajamas that she’d seen only in old television shows—light blue with dark blue piping—he held the weapon at the ready, but with the muzzle pointed at the ceiling, his finger clear of the trigger guard. His apparent familiarity with the firearm startled her.

  “Step away, Jolaine,” he said as he hurried down the stairs. “I’ll get it.” By the time he reached the foyer, Sarah, his wife, had started down behind him. Her nighttime attire consisted of gray sweats.

  Nothing about this was right. Mrs. Mitchell never appeared downstairs after nine. Jolaine took two giant steps backward, into the living room archway.

  As the pounding grew more desperate, Bernard Mitchell slowed his gait.

  “Bernard!” the visitor yelled. “There’s no time!”

  Bernard cast a glance back at Sarah. From Jolaine’s angle, she couldn’t see his face, but the reaction he got from his wife was at once heartbreaking and terrifying. It was a look of surrender, of inevitability. Jolaine fought the urge to ask because in just a few seconds, she would see for herself.

  The man on the outside was still pounding when Bernard pulled open the door without even a peek through the peephole. With his MAC-10 pressed to his shoulder, he looked ready for war. Jolaine calculated her escape route.

  The instant the door separated from the jamb, a little nothing of a man spilled inside onto the marble floor. Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, he had a mop of gray hair, but all Jolaine saw in the first seconds was the blood. The front of his clothes shimmered in it, and as he collapsed onto the stone, spatters dotted the tiles.

  “Gregory!” Bernard yelled. If Jolaine was any judge, this was not the man that he’d been expecting.

  On the steps, Sarah made a yipping sound and glided to the foyer as Bernard cleared the man’s legs from the threshold and closed the door.

  “God, what happened?”

  “They know,” the man gasped. “I’m so sorry. They know.” Jolaine detected an Eastern European accent, and as he spoke, he passed a bloody slip of paper to Bernard. “Here it is, Bernard. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Mr. Mitchell’s hands trembled as he lifted Gregory’s shirt, presumably to find the source of the bleeding. Jolaine looked away. She’d seen enough bullet wounds to recognize the damage at a glance, and she didn’t care to see any more.

  “Call an ambulance,” Mr. Mitchell commanded.

  Jolaine spun around and hurried toward the phone in the kitchen.

  “No!” Sarah said. “Jolaine, go upstairs and get Graham out of the house.”

  Jolaine froze. She understood the words, but they made no sense. To get him out meant to take him somewhere, and she hadn’t a clue where that might be.

  “Gregory needs a doctor,” Bernard said. His voice broke.

  “He needs an undertaker,” Sarah corrected. She fired a look at Jolaine. “Graham. Now.”

  “Tell me what’s happening,” Jolaine said. She heard the stress in her own voice—the borderline panic—and the sound upset her. This was not the time to lose control.

  “Not your concern,” Sarah snapped. Her face was a mask of something awful. If Jolaine had encountered the same expression in Jalalabad, she would have assumed the presence of a suicide vest. “Do your job, Jolaine. Take my son to safety.”

  Jolaine wanted to ask for more details, but realized that they were irrelevant, at least for now. Everything about this screamed urgency of the highest order. Graham had to be roused and dressed. That was step one, and given his personality, it was a big step. Step two and beyond were for later.

  The man on the floor was doomed; of that, Sarah was correct. His skin looked like gray construction paper with hints of blue around his nose and mouth. As Jolaine passed him on her way to the stairs, she made a point of not stepping on the blood.

  She was living a nightmare. The nightmare. This was what she’d been hired to do, and this was why they ran all their emergency drills, though Bernard had never said why, and Jolaine had always sensed that it was all about an overinflated sense of self-worth. She’d never really bought into any of it.

  Her job was to protect Graham while at the same time never cluing him in to the fact that he needed protection. She had a hard time believing that he’d never caught a glimpse of her weapon as she drove him to and from school, or wondered why he needed an au pair at his age, but he’d never said anything—at least not to her—so she’d assumed him to be as clueless as he pretended to be. He had a hell of a surprise in store. First, she had to haul his skinny, cranky ass out of bed and get him dressed.

  The silver light of the television disappeared from under Graham’s door as Jolaine approached. It was, she knew, anything but a coincidence, and she wasn’t the least bit surprised to see him sprawled on his stomach, feigning sleep. She slapped the wall switch and right away missed the days of the incandescent lightbulbs with their instantaneous illumination.

  “Graham!” she barked. “Get up. Get dressed.”

  He made a grumbling sound, and Jolaine realized that she’d misplayed her hand. If she’d ordered him to go to sleep, he’d have leaped out of bed. She didn’t have time for this. They didn’t have time for this. She grabbed the sheet at the line where it draped beneath his bare shoulders and stripped it down to his ankles. Given his recent adolescent obsessions, she felt relief when she saw the flash of blue boxer shorts.

  “Hey!” He whirled to face her. “What the hell—”

  “We need to leave. Now.”

  “Get out of my room! You can’t just—”

  Jolaine planted her hand on his chest and pushed him down into the mattress. “Listen to me, Graham,” she said. “A man has been shot and is dying downstairs in the foyer. Your parents are terrified. You and I a
re leaving this house in one minute. You can be dressed and cooperative or naked and unconscious. I don’t care which.” She bounced him once to emphasize the point, and then she left for her own room on the third floor.

  Her space in the attic had been converted into the nicest apartment she’d ever lived in. The stairway terminated in the middle of what she thought of as her living room. Two gabled windows provided an impressive view of rural Indiana. Her living room led to a tiny yet fully functional kitchen, beyond which were the bathroom and bedroom. Paranoid of being photographed in her sleep or in the shower—Graham was a budding photojournalist—she kept the doors locked all the time.

  This was a bugout, and as with all such things, clothing didn’t count. Only weapons and ammo counted. She pulled open the nightstand to reveal her daily carry weapon, a reduced-size Glock 27 chambered in .40-caliber Smith & Wesson. In a single motion, she stripped off her Indiana University T-shirt—when in Rome, right?—and stretched her elastic Kangaroo holster around her rib cage. Having done it a thousand times, her hands knew exactly what to do. Five seconds later, when the two straps were secured, she holstered the pistol under her left armpit and shoved two spare ten-round mags into their designated pockets at midline. With the T-shirt back on, no one would know that she was armed.

  She moved to her closet. Ignoring the temptation of the suitcase and clothes, she instead reached to the top shelf, where her Colt M4 lay snug in its case. She pulled it down, swung it to the floor, and worked the zipper. The aroma of gun solvent and oil enveloped her and brought an odd sense of calm. She lifted the carbine by its pistol grip and eased the charging handle back to reveal the ass end of the bullet she already knew was there. That round, combined with the others in the curved magazine, ensured a full load of thirty 5.56 millimeter bullets.