The Prime Objective

by Ginna Gray

Overview

Feisty Kate Mahaffey doesn't need anyone looking out for her--until the night she receives a hysterical phone call from her sister Colleen. Something about two men, a murder and a plea to run, hide and above all, don't contact the police.

Terrified and alone, Kate reaches out to the one man who can help her--one with every reason to refuse. Her ex-husband, Jackson Prime, is a CIA operative whose shadowy life eclipsed their marriage. Jack may have signed divorce papers, but his heart still belongs to Kate. He'll do anything to keep her safe...and win her back.

Dodging hit men and bullets, the former lovers must track down Colleen before their mission changes from run-and-hide to turn-and-fight--for their love and their lives.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781460304624
Publisher:	Harlequin
Publication date:	08/16/2023
Sold by:	HARLEQUIN
Format:	eBook
Pages:	368
File size:	841 KB

About the Author

As part of a large Irish/American family, in which spinning colorful yarns was commonplace, becoming a writer was a natural career choice for Ginna. "I grew up hearing so many fascinating tales, I was 11 or 12 before I realized that not everyone made up stories," Ginna says.

Throughout her school years, whenever Ginna turned in essay papers her teachers would say, "Ginna, you should be a writer," and she would always reply, "that's what I'm going to be."

However, Ginna explains, life has a way of getting in the way.

She married young, had a daughter, and divorced. As a single mom and the sole breadwinner, raising a child alone became her top priority. Ginna also managed to attend college part-time in the evenings, which left precious little time to pursue her dream of becoming a writer. However, during those years she continued to keep a journal and occasionally wrote short stories for her own gratification.

Then, after seven years of being single, Ginna met her soul mate. Following a lovely yearlong courtship, she and Brad married. They had planned to start a family immediately, but things don't always work out as you plan. Almost nine years later, long after they had given up any hope of having more children, Ginna gave birth to another daughter.

"Whenever people express surprise over the 17-year age gap between our daughters, my husband always tells them that we planned it that way," Ginna explains with a chuckle. "He then adds that the only way you can afford to educate kids these days is to spread them out."

With the birth of her second child, Ginna quit working and stayed home to beafull-time Mom, a luxury (and joy) that she did not have when her older daughter was an infant. For the next five years, Ginna continued to write for her own pleasure, but she did not submit anything. "I just didn't have the nerve," she says. "I thought you had to be a Hemingway or a Fitzgerald or someone of that ilk, otherwise editors would laugh at you."

Finally, however, after putting her youngest child on the bus for her first day of kindergarten, for the first time in her life she had no job to rush off to, no classes to take, and the house all to herself. "I realized it was now or never."

"I marched home from that school bus stop and plopped myself down in front of my 15-year-old typewriter and started my first novel. (At that point, I hadn't even heard of a personal computer. Since then I've gone through five of them.)"

There followed three years of rejections. "And rightly so, " Ginna says. "The first novel I wrote was awful. The next one was better, and the one after that, better still, but not quite good enough. I knew that because the rejection letters were getting more encouraging and much more personal."

"I still have those first three efforts in a drawer, and every now and then I take them out and skim a few pages and laugh. Still, I consider those first attempts a valuable learning experience."

Ginna sold her first novel in 1983, after winning the Golden Heart Award, given by Romance Writers of America for the best unpublished novel in a category. She has been working as a full-time writer ever since. When she finishes her current contracts, Ginna will have written 33 books. She has also given many lectures and writing workshops, and judged in writing contests.

A native Texan, Ginna lived in Houston all her life—until 1993, when she and her husband Brad built their "dream home" and moved to the mountains of Colorado. Ginna also enjoys other creative activities such as oil painting, sewing, sketching, knitting, and needlepoint. "But my first love will always be writing. It is simply part of who I am."

Read an Excerpt

He blended into the night like smoke.

His movements were nothing more than subtle ripples in the darkness. The only sound was the soft hiss of his breathing through the black ski mask.

After testing the strength of the utility pole bolted to the flat roof, Jackson Prime pulled a rope from the canvas bag slung across his chest and secured it to the metal upright. He gave the rigging a hard tug, then another. Satisfied, he moved to the roof's edge and settled down to wait.

Through the slits in the ski mask, Jack's piercing blue eyes fixed on the entrance to the shabby apartment building, four floors below where he knelt.

The open-air markets and shops were closed, and the bustle of the day had faded with the coming of night. Only a few groups of men, some dressed in robes, others in Western garb, strolled along the narrow streets. Few vehicles moved.

It was early yet—only a little after seven. The fierce cold of winter had set in, but the building on which he stood and the others all around still held a vestige of heat from the sun. He could feel the warmth wafting up around him, along with the sharp smells of cooling stucco, tar and dust from the surface of the roof.

A block or so away a dog barked. As customers came and went male voices spilled from the cafés and coffeehouse and floated to him on the night air. Against the dark sky he could make out the faint silhouettes of three mosques rising above the low skyline of the town.

Time drifted by slowly, yet except for his gaze constantly sweeping the street below, Jack remained still. If matters were running true to form, the four men would be leaving for dinner soon.

Beneath the ski mask Jack's mouth twitched. People were such creatures of habit. Even those who thought they were exercising extreme caution.

After almost a half hour his patience paid off. Four men exited the building and cut across the street, talking among themselves, their heads swiveling the whole time, checking out the street around them. Not once did one of them look up.

The quartet disappeared around the nearest corner. Jack waited, just in case one of them forgot something and decided to double back for it. After five minutes he grabbed the rope and went over the side.

It took him only seconds to rappel down to the third-floor balcony. Soundlessly, he slipped over the railing, secured his line, then knelt and went to work on the lock with a narrow pick. A sharp click, and he was inside the apartment.

He didn't have much time. He'd watched the subjects for weeks and learned that they were never gone longer than a half hour. Moving through the darkened apartment on cat feet, he worked with quick efficiency. Even so, it took him a little over twenty minutes to conceal the listening devices throughout the three rooms. He was installing the last bug when he heard footsteps on the stairs and murmured conversation.

Jack's nerves jumped, but he continued to work at a calm, steady pace. The instant he completed the job, he stood, hefted his canvas bag and slung it over his head and shoulder across his body. On his way to the door he made a visual sweep of the room to be sure he hadn't left any signs of his visit—nothing out of place, nothing left behind that shouldn't be.

A key clicked in the lock. Jack slipped out onto the balcony, grabbed his rope and swung over the iron railing as a light came on inside the apartment. With his feet braced against the side of the building he pulled himself up, hand-over-hand.

The instant Jack gained the roof and untied his rap-pelling line, he coiled the rope around his bent elbow and hand, stuffed it into his bag and took off across the rooftops.

As fast as possible, he put distance between himself and the apartment building. Nearly a block away, he stepped off the roof of a one-story structure onto a lean-to shed at the back and jumped down into the alley.

The instant his feet touched the ground he whipped off his ski mask and stuffed it into the canvas bag. Running his fingers through his flattened hair he made his way to the alley entrance and peered around the corner.

A half a block down the street three robed men walked in the general direction of his hotel. Jack stepped out onto the sidewalk and fell in step behind them, careful to keep his pace casual and maintain the distance between himself and the men.

One of the trio glanced back over his shoulder and spotted him. He nudged the man nearest him and murmured something. The other two looked back, as well.

Jack pulled out his cell phone and pretended to become immersed in a conversation as he strolled along.

The men's murmuring began again, this time punctuated by hand gestures.

After a few blocks they turned a corner onto a street that headed into a residential area. Jack pretended unconcern, but in his business it paid to expect the worst. Just in case the three were waiting to waylay him, as he approached the corner he slipped his hand inside his bag and wrapped his fingers around the Walther PPK pistol that lay in the bottom.

Luck was with him. He reached the side street and found that the men were halfway down the block, still talking among themselves.

When he was certain that he wasn't being followed, Jack thumbed a number on his cell phone. The call was answered on the first ring.

"Yeah?"

"Are we working?"

"Like a charm."

"Good. I'll report in. Then I'm going to get some shut-eye. I'll relieve one of you guys in the morning."

Jack disconnected, looked around again, then punched in another number. This time there was a series of clicks and buzzes as the secure call made a convoluted route around the globe and was scrambled. Finally the connection was completed, and again, the person on the other end picked up on the first ring.

"Yes?" a throaty feminine voice queried.

Ah, hell, Jack thought, a weary half smile twitching his mouth. Annie Smith had the sexiest damned telephone voice. Whenever he heard those husky tones, thanks to his starved libido, his mind immediately conjured up visions of cool sheets and hot, sweaty sex.

Annie had been his contact on other assignments in the past, and on this job he'd been reporting through her for the last five weeks. He'd never met Annie personally, but he'd heard that she was in her late fifties, gray-haired, on the chunky side and had penchants for crocheting and soap operas.

"It's Jack. Clearance number 78C19344LZ622. Operation Rabbit Hole," he rattled off. "We're in."

"Any problems?"

"None. Smooth as glass."

"Great. I'll pass the word along."

"Be sure and advise that activity has increased. Something is definitely brewing. We should know soon. I'll keep you informed."

Jack could see the lights of his hotel ahead—the only thing close to a western-style establishment of its kind in town. Reporters from all over the globe stayed there, and since his cover was that of a photojournalist he did, as well. He picked up his pace.

He longed for a hot shower, but he'd have to settle for a soak in the ancient tub down the hall from his tiny room. No matter. Already, just thinking about sinking into a deep tub of hot bathwater, he could feel his strained muscles beginning to ease.

"Anything else?" Annie asked.

"Naw. Now we wait." And listen, he added, but only in his mind. Not even on a scrambled line would he or any other agent say anything that might remotely tip off the other side as to what they were doing.

"You got anything for me?" he tacked on almost as an afterthought.

Annie's pause lasted only a second, but little got past Jack, not even as weary as he was at that moment. Fatigue dropped away like a stone, and his attention sharpened. "What is it?"

"Um… nothing earth-shattering. I'm sure it can wait until you're not so busy."

"Tell me," he demanded.

"It's just a personal message for you that was passed on earlier this morning."

"Personal?" Jack repeated, puzzled. Since he no longer had any close family and none of his friends knew how to get in touch when he was on assignment he couldn't imagine who would be leaving him a message. "From whom?"

Annie paused again. He could almost see her biting her lower lip. "Kate Mahaffey."

Jack stopped in his tracks less than twenty feet from the entrance to the hotel. "My ex-wife left a message for me and you didn't think it was important enough to pass on?" he said in a dangerously quiet voice. "Why the hell didn't you contact me the moment it came in?"

"The operative word is ex, Jack. I have to use my judgment in these matters. You're in the middle of a critical mission. I figured hearing from the woman who dumped you could only upset you and interfere with your concentration."

"You let me worry about my concentration. Now give me the message."

"Jack—"

"Now."

Annie sighed. "Oh, all right. It says—'I need your help. If you can return in the next day or two, I'll be at Tralee.' There, you see? That doesn't sound so urgent."

Maybe not to Annie, Jack thought. But that was only because she didn't know Kate. For his independent, self-assured ex-wife to ask for help at all—especially his help—meant something was terribly wrong.

"I want you to get me on the next government plane out of here," he instructed without hesitation.

"What! Absolutely not. You can't leave in the middle of an assignment!"

"The hell I can't. I've got months of personal time built up. I'm taking an extended, indefinite leave, starting now."

"C'mon, Jack, be reasonable. She probably just wants you to help her move or something like that. Or maybe to sign some more legal papers."

The last comment was a not-so-subtle reminder that Kate had served him with divorce papers while he'd been in the middle of the most crucial assignment of his career.

Almost two years ago she'd sent him the documents through channels. Only a handful of people knew that Jack was CIA, and of those, only three had known that he was married. Annie was one of them, and she was still smarting on his behalf.

Along with the papers Kate had sent a letter informing him that she was determined to end their eight-year marriage, with or without his cooperation.

Receiving that package had marked the darkest day of Jack's life. At the time he'd wanted nothing more than to fly home immediately and fight for his marriage, but his mission had been vital to national security.

The delicate operation had taken a lot of time, effort and careful planning to set up and had put Jack and several others in grave danger. The people with whom he'd been dealing were dangerous and brutal, and they'd known him by sight and had believed him to be one of them, which made it impossible for another agent to take over for him.

As much as Jack had longed to return home, he'd been unable to abandon the assignment. He'd had to choose between his personal life and his country. Though it had broken his heart, at the time he'd felt that he had no choice but to sign the divorce papers and let Kate go.

However, that wasn't the case with this assignment.

The grim smile that tugged at Jack's mouth did nothing to soften his tough face. For the past twenty-one months he'd abided by Kate's wishes and stayed out of her life. But now that she'd contacted him, all deals were off.

"Just get me on a damned flight, Annie," he growled.

"But, Jack, you're on assignment."

"So? You can have another agent here to take over for me within a matter of hours."

"The brass isn't going to like it."

"Screw 'um. I've done my share. Either you replace me and get me on a plane or I'll quit, but one way or another, I'm coming in."

Through the lace curtains covering the parlor window Kate watched the headlights of a car as it turned off the highway, about a quarter of a mile away. The vehicle cruised down the dirt road toward the farmhouse with unnerving slowness.

Her heart began to pound. This was the only house for miles around, and the land on both sides of the entire length of the road was part of the farm.

Granted, occasionally someone did take a wrong turn, mistaking the narrow country lane for a shortcut to the Broom City highway. It was also true that in the past, friends and neighbors had dropped in now and then to visit with her aunt and uncle. But those days were long gone. Uncle Quincy had passed away the previous year and Aunt Rose had followed two months ago.