All Jacked Up

By Penny McCall

An action-packed debut that pits a scholarly beauty against a cocky and sexier-than-sin FBI agent.
When brains meets brawn, the bad guys don’t stand a chance
FBI agent Jack Mitchell’s arrogance and take-charge attitude usually garner him the best assignments in the field—and the most compliant assets.
But Aubrey Sullivan, a brilliant librarian with a photographic memory, is no ordinary asset…without realizing it, she’s managed to piss off the biggest mobster in North America. And somewhere in her picture-perfect memory is a secret that many would kill to keep quiet…
But since Jack barged into her life, librarian Aubrey Sullivan has been abducted at gunpoint, taken on a death-defying car chase, and kissed to within an inch of madness—and she’s starting to think it may be smarter to ditch Mr. Sexy FBI.
Jack has never met a more infuriating (or alluring) asset in the field. If she would just do what he says, they may have a chance of getting out of this mess alive.
“McCall knows how to deliver!” – New York Times bestselling author Suzanne Enoch
“Snappy dialogue, nonstop action, and sexy writing. A terrific new voice in romantic suspense!” –New York Times bestselling author Lori Foster

• Language: English
• Publisher: NYLA
• Release date: Apr 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781943772186

Penny McCall

Penny McCall was born and raised in southeastern Michigan, the seventh of nine children, whose claim to fame was reading five books a week in grade school. Needless to say, her obsession with the written word only grew from there ' despite a short, and misguided, foray into the world of computer science (the "sensible" job path). With the help and support of one of her sisters, she began to write 'and write and write and write' and finally sold her first novel in 1997 (as Penny McCusker.) Four more followed, until that line closed down in 2001, and after a little hiatus ' and yet another change of direction ' she began to write humor, if only to satisfy her inner smart aleck. Berkley bought her first story about a sarcastic FBI agent and a librarian with a photographic memory (All Jacked Up), and she's been happily writing for them ever since.

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http://www.nyliterary.com

CHAPTER ONE

Aubrey Sullivan closed her eyes, parting her lips on a breathy sigh of pure, decadent pleasure. Her fingers traced the whorls of the leather, smooth here, rough there, supple and warm where it curved over the spine. She slipped her fingers beneath and slowly lifted, a slight smile curving her mouth as she drank deep of the scent that always beguiled her, the spice of dusty leather mixed with the almost sweet scent of old paper.

God, she loved books.

Audrey Sullivan?

Her eyes snapped open, her face heating. Aubrey. With a B, she said without turning around. No need putting a face to the voice to know it was one of the never-ending procession of law clerks, interns and government staffers who came into the Library Of Congress with a list of wants a mile long, the patience of a gnat, and the kind of libido that made dogs hump table legs.

Her last boyfriend had been a congressional aide, fairly normal when it came to sex, if she didn’t count those sounds he made when he was just about to–

Okay, no need to go there. She’d remained friends with Tom Cavendish, just not the kind of friend who had to fight off the urge to warble E-I-E-I-O in the bedroom.

She wasn’t about to get involved with another of the same breed, especially not when she could feel him staring at her butt. If you’re waiting for something, go to your table and I’ll have it there as soon as I can.

You and the books want to be alone?

She stiffened, her embarrassment turning to a more hostile kind of heat. She whipped around, her scathing comeback morphing into a trickling little wheeze as her eyes crossed on the barrel of a gun. Pointed at her. Her gaze flicked up to the face of the man holding it. Narrowed eyes, tight jaw, generally menacing. As if the gun hadn’t made that abundantly clear.

Who are you? She edged slowly to her left so that the table where the books were stacked was between them. What do you want?

You.

That brought her gaze off the gun and onto his face. Me? What for?

His mouth twisted into the sort of smile that conveyed humor without reassuring her in the least. Let’s go.

Aubrey stood her ground. Her tonsils were playing ping-pong with her heart, but strangely enough the filter of fear seemed to make everything snap into almost painfully sharp focus. Every bit of advice she’d read in every self-defense article she’d ever come across seemed to cram into her brain all at once, Point One being, Get him talking.

All the really precious articles owned by the Library are safely locked away, mostly in the Jefferson building, she said, and even if they weren’t I’ve worked here less than five years. I don’t have access to them anyway.

I’m not here for the books.

No, she thought. He didn’t even like them; that much was clear just from the tone of his voice. My purse is in my locker, and I doubt you’re interested in me… personally.

She didn’t need to see his eyes to know they traveled over her. Traveled and dismissed. No surprise there. She was hardly the kind of woman to inspire a complete stranger to abduct her from a crowded building filled with security personnel.

Speaking of which, how had he gotten in there at all? With all the anti-terrorist security measures put in place in the last few years, there was no way a random person could walk into the Library of Congress with a gun—

You’re thinking, he said gruffly. He stepped forward a couple of paces, the business end of the gun dropping to point to her left breast—or where her left breast would be if she’d had any breasts to speak of. She hefted a huge old atlas from the table and held it in front of her meagerly padded ribcage.

He closed the rest of the distance, the barrel of the gun ending up about an inch from the book. That won’t do you any good.

Of course not. She’d picked it up to hide her lack of female attributes from the crazed killer. What kind of woman worried about that sort of thing when there was a gun aimed at her?

You’re thinking again.

I do that from time to time, she shot back, reaching out to push the gun aside with one finger.

He swiveled it back to point at her.

She looked him straight in the eyes, one brow lifting in a show of bravado she didn’t come close to feeling. If you were going to shoot me in cold blood, you’d have done it by now. And we’ve ruled out any rational motive you have for threatening me, unless you’re irrational—and you don’t look irrational. Irritated, harassed, disgusted, not to mention attractive in a dangerous sort of way, but not irrational. So you must be from security.

If I was from security, why would I be pointing a gun at you?

Maybe this is a test—a terrorist drill, you know, like a fire drill. You don’t look like a terrorist, but that’s the kind of gun the Feds use. Glock, forty caliber, maybe forty-five. She caught the flicker of surprised acknowledgement on his face. With a slight smile, she answered the question he hadn’t asked. You look like a forty-five man. Bigger gun, bigger kick, more bullets in the magazine. Her eyes drifted down to his crotch. Compensating? she asked sweetly.

His face took on a dull red flush, his knuckles going white on the gun. Keep it up, bookworm.

What are you going to do with all those witnesses out there?

You won’t care after you’ve taken a bullet between the eyes. He stepped aside, careful to keep the gun pointed at her while he slipped it beneath his jacket. Move.

She didn’t, but she was beginning to think this was real, and if it was…Point Two. I’m not going anywhere with you. All the self-defense experts say not to let yourself get taken to a remote location.

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling.

If you’re appealing to a higher authority… she looked down at the floor.

I ought to let them have you, he grumbled. You’d probably talk them to death.

Let who have me?

No more questions. He jerked his head toward the open doorway behind him.

She stood her ground.

His shoulders slumped, he did a quick survey of the room behind her, found everything looking peaceful, then turned back to her. You’re in danger.

She eyed the gun peeking out from behind the edge of his jacket. No kidding.

Not from me.

If you aren’t a threat, what would prompt me to go with you?

There was a muffled thump and something thwacked into the atlas she still clutched to her chest. As if that wasn’t enough to knock her off her feet, the man dove over the table, flattening her to the floor.

How about that? he grunted as more bullets whizzed overhead, thunked into various flat surfaces or pinged off slanted ones.

Screams came from the reading room, glass shattered, and chairs were overturned. Legs and feet—which was all Aubrey could see below the table edge—scurried around like demented finger puppets as their owners scrambled for cover.

Hot breath bathed the side of her face. She turned back and found a pair of steel-gray eyes studying her face. They lifted to meet hers and her stomach gave a strange lurch. Not fear strange, something she didn’t have time to figure out before his sneer shoved her back into familiar emotional territory.

Get off me. Aubrey pushed at the roughly two-hundred pounds of man pinning her slightly more than one hundred pounds to the floor.

I’m protecting you.

You’re smothering me.

Jesus, he muttered as he shifted his bulk half off of her. Someone’s shooting at you and you’re still arguing.

How do I know it’s not one of your friends?

I don’t have any friends.

Don’t expect me to be your first.

Aw, that just breaks my heart. He slapped a meaty paw around her wrist, hauled her to her feet and right out into the line of fire—except the actual firing seemed to be over.

Security personnel were streaming in from every stairwell, people were crawling out from under tables, some of them sobbing and huddled in one another’s arms. Aubrey opened her mouth to scream for help just as the man of mystery holstered his Glock and swept her off the floor, banding one of his arms around her ribcage tight enough to cut off her air.

She’s hurt, he said, hurrying up to the nearest security guard. I think she was trampled. Probably a couple of broken ribs, he added, squeezing hard enough to make Aubrey gasp out what little breath she had left.

She tried to get her predicament across with her eyes, but only ended up rolling them when he added in a convincing man-holding-back-unmanly-tears way, I don’t know what I’ll do if she isn’t okay.

Ambulances are on their way, the security guard said, clasping her abductor on the shoulder in unspoken male comfort. Take her outside and one of the paramedics will have a look at her.

He fast-stepped her to the stairwell leading up to the ground floor of the Madison Building, the iron band around her ribs easing off just enough for her to grind out, Put me down.

He sent her a warning glare and dumped her on her feet. His fingers closed around her wrist again as he towed her up the stairs and out to the sidewalk, shoving her into a car that was roughly the size of a boat. The engine roared to life just as the rear windshield shattered, raining safety glass into the back seat.

They shot out into traffic with a squeal of rubber followed by the inevitable blare of horns. Aubrey struggled upright and took in the scene. Cars were swerving out of their way and slamming to a stop, ending up at odd angles behind them—all but a shiny black car with a chrome grille the size of a bus front.

Her abductor drove with one hand while he took blind potshots over his shoulder with the gun he’d pointed at her. The black car waffled from side to side, but it stuck. They screamed up Independence Avenue at the breakneck speed of about forty miles an hour, which was pretty good in the normal tangle of cars and SUV’s around Capitol Hill. It felt faster, Aubrey thought as they swerved in and out of traffic, tires squealing or galumphing against the curb.

An occasional bullet pinged off the car, sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, metal crunched as vehicles crashed in their wake, and the wind was blowing so hard it felt like a typhoon inside the car. She looked over her shoulder and there was the black car whipping in and out of traffic behind them, gaining steadily as it followed the path they’d already forged through traffic.

A bullet whizzed by her and plowed into the dashboard. She had no idea what was going on, but she intended to live to find out. Turn here, Aubrey yelled out, grabbing onto the door handle as the car slewed around the corner almost before she got the words out. The man had reflexes, guts on the other hand…

This is a one way street!

We’re only going one way. She grinned foolishly as oncoming cars swerved wildly out of their way, horns blaring, just like in the movies.

Great, he shouted, biting off the words, I’m stuck with a crazy woman. He jerked the steering wheel to the right. The car lurched up onto the median and spun out on the grass. Muscles bunched as he fought for control and managed to bring it around, shooting back into the road, going the same way as traffic this time.

What are you doing? she demanded as they slalomed through a red light and the black sedan—which had opted not to play chicken with half of Washington, D.C.—picked up the chase right where it had left off, guns bristling out of the side windows. Aubrey ducked as a fresh barrage of lead came at them. If you’d kept going, we’d have lost them.

Not to mention our lives.

In case you haven’t noticed, they’re shooting at us again.

I’ll take a nice clean bullet to the brain over a messy head-on collision any day.

I can arrange that, Aubrey retorted, if they don’t accommodate you first.

Shut up, he said, and keep your head down. He punctuated that order by cupping the back of her head—which might have worked better without the gun he was still holding—and shoving it down into her lap.

That hurt. She lashed out sideways, slamming her fist into something with the approximate density of a brick wall. The shock of it radiated all the way up her arm and made her skull vibrate.

He grunted slightly and gave her a look as he squeezed off a couple of shots. She took it as a sign of his self-control that they went out the back window. There was a sudden blast of sound behind them, screeching tires, busting glass, crunching metal.

Tall-Grim-and-Scruffy peered into the rearview mirror, then looked over his shoulder again. That did it.

He slowed the car then made a bunch of right and left turns that were so quick even she was confused. Whoever he was, the guy knew something about D.C., Aubrey thought as he worked his way steadily away from the proliferation of government buildings around Capitol Hill and into a corner of Rock Creek Park she’d never seen before.

He pulled behind a screen of trees, turned the car off and just sat there, head down, hands on the steering wheel. You okay? he said after a long, tense moment.

Aubrey took stock: palpitating heart, rapid breathing, a nearly uncontrollable urge to pump her fist into the air that she was still in one piece. I’m great, she said. Wonderful, incredible. How about you?

He turned slowly, took one look at her face and said, oh, hell.

CHAPTER TWO

Aubrey Sullivan was a lunatic. She’d just been abducted at gunpoint and taken on a head-banging ride through bumper-to-bumper traffic in a rusted-out hulk of a car while being shot at. For all she knew he’d driven her to this remote bit of parkland to put a bullet in her brain and dump her body where it would never be found.

So where were the tears and hysteria? Why wasn’t she begging him not to hurt her? Not that he wanted hysteria and begging, and just about anything was preferable to a woman in tears. Except a woman too crazy to cry.

That was it, Jack decided. She was a whack job, and wasn’t that just the way his luck was running?

It wasn’t bad enough that The Bureau thought he was a mole. Instead of working within the system, he’d decided to go Rambo in the hope he could get to the only person who might help him clear his name before whoever was framing him put the truth six feet under. And it wasn’t bad enough that the person whose help he needed was a woman, she had to be the kind of woman who made him wonder if he wouldn’t be better off just eating his gun. And on top of everything else, she was a librarian.

Not that books didn’t have their place; hell, he’d gone to college like everyone else. The problem was, eggheads and computer geeks were taking over the world, including The Bureau. Jack always worked best when he went with his gut. His gut had never let him down, which was why he steered clear of the opposite sex. Sure, there were the occasional digressions; a man had his needs after all. But he never let a woman so much as leave her panties in his apartment. That’s how it started. They left something behind and had to come back for it, and before you knew it, you were watching Oprah and trying to get in touch with your emotions.

Jack liked his emotions right where they were, which was buried so deep it took them days to claw their way to the surface and by then he’d forgotten exactly what they were for. As far as he was concerned the heart was just a lump of muscle that pumped blood; the only thing love did was mess with a man's head—and screw up his gut.

Now here he was, saddled with a woman who was not only too dumb to cooperate when someone shoved a gun in her face, she got off on car chases and people shooting at her. Her eyes were shining and she was smiling. At him.

Jack gave her the kind of look that had stopped hardened criminals in their tracks. She made a little startled chirp, as if she'd just remembered where she was and why, and dove for the door handle.

He did the same, wrenching the door shut and keeping his arm pinned across her chest while he reached for his cuffs with the other hand. Don’t, he growled when she opened her mouth. He had no idea what might have come out, but he wasn’t in the mood for any type of noise from her. Cross your legs.

She gave him a look that said he was a nutcase, but she did as he asked.

Not like that. Indian style.

I’m wearing a dress.

I’m holding a gun.

She snorted in disgust, but she folded her legs, careful to arrange her skirt for maximum modesty.

Jack could have told her not to bother. He didn’t even notice how shapely her legs were, or how pretty her skin looked with the sun shining on it through the screen of trees. He just handcuffed her right wrist to her slim, soft, warm—to her bony left ankle and never thought twice about it.

It helped that when he pulled his arm back he found something else to concentrate on, namely the pain burning across his right shoulder. Damn, he muttered, flexing his shoulders and twisting slowly.

You swear a lot.

No shit.

She gave him a look that could have had real potential without that prim librarian purse to her lips. It’s the sign of an ignorant mind.

It’s the sign of a man who’s been shot.

Really?

He might have known she’d perk up at that. He shook his head, reaching under the seat and pulling out a battered black duffel. He flipped the safety on the gun and dropped it in, took out the first aid kit and tossed it into her lap.

She looked at the beat-up white box with its traditional red cross, then at him, huffing out a little breath. You expect me to play nursemaid after you kidnapped me?

"I figured it might not be too much to ask after I saved your life." He grabbed the kit and peeled out of his jacket and tee-shirt. It stung like hell, but he swore more to irritate her than to get through the pain.

The Atlas saved my life, Aubrey reminded him. And how do I know they were shooting at me anyway? Maybe they were shooting at you and you just wanted a hostage.

If all you were was a hostage, you’re a damn poor one, since they kept shooting. Hell, if all you were was a hostage, I’d have shot you by now, just to shut you up. He cranked the rearview mirror down and twisted around until he could look at the wound. Just a graze, but it still burned like somebody had lit him on fire. He poured some antiseptic on a wad of gauze and swiped at his shoulder, hissing in a breath as the burning notched up to something that made his eyes cross and his toes curl. It took a minute, a lot of breathing through his mouth and some swearing that had nothing to do with Aubrey Sullivan for a change, but eventually the pain subsided.

Oh, for pete’s sake, you only made it worse. She took the first aid kit and the wad of gauze and shoved him none too gently forward.

It’s not in the most convenient place, he pointed out.

I’d be shocked if it was. So far you haven’t done anything convenient for either of us. Then she surprised him by dabbing so gently at his wound that it barely hurt.

He relaxed enough to rest his forehead against the cool leather covering the steering wheel. He might have known she’d ruin that moment of peace by shooting her mouth off.

There’s a furrow about three inches long in the upper left quadrant of your right trapezius. The scapula is not involved and the tendons appear uninjured. The muscle has suffered some damage, but you appear to have enough bulk so that you should heal with no loss of mobility.

You sound like a damn medical textbook, he grumbled. What does all that mean?

You’ll live, she said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. You could use some stitches, although as scars go this will be a nice addition to your collection. Soft, cool fingers gently touched the two other scars on his back, but if she thought he would be prompted to explain, it didn’t take her long to give up. You were lucky—me, too for that matter. An inch higher and to the left and you’d have a nice hole in your carotid artery and we’d be wrapped around a pole somewhere.

She pressed the gauze pad against the oozing trough in his meaty shoulder and applied pressure. You know, this would be easier if you unlocked these handcuffs.

The chain rattled and he looked over, and felt an immediate and unwelcome shift in his blood pressure. She’d turned sideways, with the result that her skirt had twisted around her slim hips and ridden up her thighs to the point where his fantasies kicked in and his brain cells checked out. It didn’t help when she dragged at the hem of her skirt with her handcuffed hand, bumping her hips up in an attempt to ease it back down. She only succeeded in making the lightweight material float and flutter without revealing anything of interest, but keeping his attention glued there on the off chance it would.

That pissed him off. He had no business wanting to see anything but the back of Aubrey Sullivan as she walked out of his life—after he got his life back, of course. She did have nice skin, all soft and golden. But if he was interested in skin, he knew where to find the kind smoothed over really mouthwatering curves, and if he was interested in more than looking, he’d never had a problem finding a willing, no-strings-attached partner.

She gave up, finally, slamming her thighs closed and folding her feet under her, with the result that her right hand ended up behind her back. I hate to spoil your fun, she snapped, but I can’t bandage you with one hand.

His gaze climbed to her face, slowly since the filter of testosterone had him finding new points of interest between her skirt and eyes. You’ll bolt.

Clearly she was considering the possibility. She looked out the windows at the thick forest all around them, then at her very un-librarian-like heels and came to the conclusion he’d already reached.

You’ll only chase me down.

True, but frankly I’m not in the mood for a footrace right about now.

I promise I’ll be a good girl and bandage your wound. She took the antiseptic out of his hand and dropped it into the first aid kit. When he didn’t respond, she looked up, giving an impatient sigh. Well?

She was planning something; he could all but see the wheels spinning behind those wide eyes and innocent expression. She did a little shimmy in her seat and tipped her head, smiling hopefully at him.

What if we make a deal, she said. I’ll take care of you and you can answer some questions for me.

He really had no choice, but he wasn’t about to trust her. He dug the key out of his jeans pocket and unlocked the cuff around her ankle, leaving the other one dangling from her wrist. To his surprise, she didn’t push him to unlock it, just nudged him forward until he was leaning on the steering wheel again. He was vaguely aware of her setting the first aid kit on his back, but she leaned over him right about then. Some soft, warm part of her pressed against his upper arm and he forgot that he couldn’t sit back, just lost himself in her subtle scent and the feel of her cool, gentle hands moving over his skin.

This is quite the extensive first aid kit, she said. Not the first time you’ve been in this situation, huh?

This was definitely a first, he thought, although he grunted his assent for her benefit. Here he was, sitting in a stolen car while a woman he’d kidnapped treated a bullet wound and he tried not to appreciate it. And her. It made no sense when he could come up with any number of things about her that annoyed the hell out of him. Like she talked too much. And she was bossy, and crazy, and an egghead. And she wasn’t even beautiful, which would have made up for some of her shortcomings.

Her mouth just naturally turned up at the corners, which made her look cheerful. He hated cheerful. Other than that she was kind of mousy-looking. Pleasant, nondescript features, soft brown hair, eye color that fell somewhere between hazel and brown, also known as mud. She was kind of scrawny, too, medium height and very slim, although there were some surprising curves on that skinny frame. Nicely rounded hips, not too much breast to speak of but what was there was firm and well shaped—okay, so he’d copped a feel when he had the chance. He’d been saving her life at the time; she owed him.

So, what’s your name?

Jack Mitchell, he said after a slight hesitation. Since he wasn’t letting her out of his sight any time soon there was no harm in her knowing his name, although he figured she’d have had no trouble coming up with things to call him. She probably wouldn’t even have to think very hard.

Why me?

Why you what?

You said I’m not a hostage, which makes sense now that I think about it. Hostages are usually people who get snatched up at random. You know, wrong place, wrong time. She stopped touching him, and he could all but see her ticking points off on her fingers. You knew my name, where I work, what I look like and God knows what else about me. I’m just a librarian. What could you possibly want with me?

He shrugged, regretting it when pain ripped through his shoulder again. You know something, he said.

I know a lot of things.

Not modest, are you?

So far you’ve called me stupid and egotistical, and those are just the things you’ve said out loud. Considering that I could cause you a lot of needless pain, you might want to say something nice right about now.

You’re not fat.

Stop, you’re making my knees weak.

He twisted around far enough to see her face, nearly grinning at the deadpan look she shot him before she went back to building a bandage out of gauze and tape. Okay, maybe she wasn’t all bad. She might look like a strong breeze would blow her over, but there was a good, stiff backbone in there somewhere, and at least she wasn’t boring.

Earth to Jack.

He started, realizing he’d completely let his guard down. Again. He scowled to make up for it.

So what do I know that people are willing to kill me over?

Something that doesn’t come out of books.

Not fond of books, are you?

He could hear the disapproval in her voice. Or maybe it was his own experience coloring her words. Either way it irritated the hell out of him. I’ve got nothing against them; they just don’t stack up against practical experience.

Really? Well, I’d stack my book learning up against your practical experience any day.

If I’m taken out before we figure out what you know, it might come to that.

A little line appeared between her brows. He’d noticed she got that look from time to time, usually right before she did something he didn’t like. He braced himself, but she only pressed the bandage onto his back, closed the first aid kit and set it on the seat behind her. Maybe if you tell me who was shooting at us, I can tell you what I know and then I can go home and you can go…wherever it is men like you go to unwind after abducting perfectly innocent women.

Like straight to hell, her tone said.

All Jack said was, maybe, because he didn’t want to tell her who was after her. She’d held up so far, but the reality of what they were facing still gave him a cold chill.

If you have to stall for time while you think about your answer, that means I can’t necessarily believe what you tell me. Of course, you did abduct me at gunpoint.

Don’t remind me.

You still haven’t answered my question.

Fine. They work for Pablo Corona.

Pablo Corona, she repeated.

Yep.

The guy who controls the cocaine trade for half of South America?

That’s the guy.

The guy who supposedly wiped out a whole village in Colombia, men, women and children, because a goat peed on the wheel of his Hummer?

Corona the Butcher, Jack said with a terse nod. "He kills for amusement and reportedly eats the testicles of his male victims because he believes it will give him eternal life and the virility of a stallion. At last count he had a harem of at least twenty women but he has fathered no children, which means the best thing you can say about him is that at least he can’t procreate. He’s mean, evil, vindictive and probably crazy, but he’s also a genius. No government, including ours, has found a way to stop him, and since there’s a ten million dollar bounty on his head, some of the nastiest mercenaries in the world have taken their best shot at bringing him down. They’ve all failed.

"If even half of what is said about him is true, you’d better pray one of his hit men gets to you first, because if he

Reviews for All Jacked Up

[mrslabraden · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

All Jacked Up starts out with FBI agent, Jack, working his way into the Library of Congress where Aubrey is working. Telling her that her life is in danger; he kidnaps her just as people begin to shoot at them both. The action and humor just keep coming in this fast paced book. Jack can't stand Aubrey's continual talking but begins to admire her spunk as they travel from Washington DC to Miami, Florida. The mystery had lots of layers meant to keep the reader guessing right to the end. It's too bad this wasn't part of a series with Jack and Aubrey as main characters since they were so good together.