The Mask (Vanessa Michael Munroe)
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“Munroe is a sensational character and Stevens is a sensational writer.” —Lee Child, New York Times bestselling author of the Jack Reacher series
For fans of Lee Child, Terry Hayes, and Laura Lippman comes a blistering thriller in which Vanessa Michael Munroe faces the fight of her life
Vanessa Michael Munroe, chameleon and information hunter, has a reputation for getting things done: dangerous and not quite legal things that have taken her undercover into some of the world’s deadliest places. Still healing from a Somali hijacking gone wrong and a brutal attack that left her near death, Munroe joins her lover, Miles Bradford, in Japan where he’s working as a security consultant protecting high-value technology from industrial espionage. In the domesticity of their routine she finds long sought-after peace—until Bradford is arrested for murder, and the same interests who targeted him come after her, too.
Searching for answers and fighting to stay alive, Munroe will soon discover how far she’ll go to save Bradford from spending the next twenty years in locked-up isolation; how many laws she’ll break when the truth seems worse than his lies; and who to trust and who she must kill. Because she’s a strategist and hunter with a predator’s instincts, and the man she loves has just stabbed her in the back.
With break-neck pacing, incendiary prose, and an unforgettable cast of characters, The Mask features Vanessa Michael Munroe: a brilliant, lethal heroine who will stop at nothing to find the truth, no matter what it may cost.
“Stevens excels at depicting pulse-pounding danger, and her prose and plotting are spectacular. . . . Only Dan Brown and Lee Child come close.” —Dallas Morning News
“[Munroe is] a protagonist as deadly as she is irresistible.” —Vince Flynn
“If you are a fan of Jack Reacher, Lisbeth Salander, or Nina Zero, you need to check out Vanessa Michael Munroe!” —BookPage
“A winning series character who has the world at her beck and call.” —Los Angeles Times
“Munroe’s brooding personality and her ability to blend into her surroundings bring to mind the provocative Jason Bourne.” —USA Today
From the Hardcover edition.
looked for me,” she said. Slow and sensual, she reached for his hand, brought it to her chest, and rubbed his fingers across a nipple. “You wanted to touch, and now I’ve come to you.” She stepped around and nudged her thigh between his legs, sidled up to his groin, and ran his hand down her belly, ever lower. “You want more?” she said. “You can have it all, just as you imagined.” He hardened against her thigh and his hands came alive on their own, groping with all the experience of a schoolboy.
Head propped up on the cushion, she plugged in the drive and, with the computer balanced on her stomach, began the slow quest of perusing folders: personnel files, financial records—documents that Bradford likely had legitimate access to but didn’t want anyone knowing he was scrutinizing, nothing personal or illegal. Three sets of folders, titled 1one, 2two, and 3three stood out from the rest. Each contained five to twenty subfolders beneath, and each of those bore a name, two of which Munroe
pulls him away and then I couldn’t stay longer, so I don’t know what happens after this, but I overheard the conversation with Jiro the next week that Dai was dead. All of this for a belt,” Alina said. She looked up at Munroe as if Munroe might possibly have the answers. “It makes no sense to me. Why not give it back? Why make so much effort for this small thing? Why did Jiro want it? Was it worth a lot of money?” “It’s not an expensive belt,” Munroe said, “but my friend wore it every day.
all those weeks ago. He stopped just outside her personal space and before he could speak Munroe extended a hand. “Michael Munroe,” she said, “subcontractor on the Capstone contract, here to pick up where my boss, Miles Bradford, left off. Just swinging by to say hello, let you know that I’m around.” Dillman gripped hard. “Makoto Dillman,” he said. “You look familiar. Have we met?” Munroe tugged her hand free. “Not that I know of,” she said, and fought the urge to wipe the sweat off on her
corner. — Late, late in the evening Nonomi Sato climbed the stairs at the edge of the wall, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside. She pulled the book from her purse, left the purse in the genkan, and headed directly up the stairs for the second floor and her bedroom and the laptop tucked in the drawer beneath her sweaters. She sat on the low platform bed and flipped the laptop open, waiting for the boot-up and the password control and then the thumb scan. She slipped the envelope from