FALLOUT: Book Six in the Sam Jameson series. Over 1,000,000 fans in 17 countries.
The runaway #1 Bestseller from USA Today Bestselling Author Lars Emmerich.
New to the Sam Jameson series? Start here
About this book
You've done nothing wrong. So why have they thrown you in prison? No phone call. No lawyer. Just these words: "National Security."
Is it a massive mistake?
Or is it something much, much worse?
FALLOUT is the latest #1 bestseller in the runaway international hit Sam Jameson series from conspiracy master Lars Emmerich.
Sam finds herself at the mercy of a ruthless and relentless conspiracy that strikes at the heart of the American way of life. They have every advantage: Surveillance everywhere. The world's most powerful police force. International reinforcements. Limitless resources.
Can she beat the odds, save herself, and dismantle an existential threat to liberty and freedom?
Lars Emmerich’s writing is "sharp, edgy, a little dystopian, and exquisitely researched." FALLOUT’s gripping, twisting plot is terrifying — precisely because it is so very real.
"This is the best writing in decades."
"Lars Emmerich is right up there with Patterson, Baldacci, Forsyth, and DeMille."
"Some of the best thriller fiction you will ever read."
FALLOUT is the sixth installment in USA Today Bestselling Author Lars Emmerich’s runaway international hit Sam Jameson series, loved by over 1,000,000 fans of espionage, conspiracy, and crime thrillers from masters such as James Patterson, David Baldacci, Nelson DeMille, Vince Flynn, Brad Thor, Catherine Coulter, and Daniel Silva.
"This is everything a thriller should be. I loved it!"
"I love Sam Jameson!"
"SO entertaining and yet I always feel like I learn something important from Lars's books."
"Just buy it. You'll be glad you did."
"Sam Jameson is a great character. Better than (Patterson's) Alex Cross!"
"Everything you know and love from Lars Emmerich. REALLY GOOD!"
Enjoy a sample from FALLOUT
It wasn’t like the old days. You couldn’t just use a hunting rifle to rid the world of problem people.
Perestroika ruined that for everyone. Satanic Soviets against God’s Good Guys used to be a great gig. Simple. Effective. Resonated with everyone’s innate xenophobia. The public would put up with just about any amount of gangsterism, as long as you told them it was a shootout between spies over nuclear secrets. And as long as you told them the good guys had won.
The assassin sighed. Bygone days turned a nostalgic sepia in the mind’s eye. He knew it was so, yet he was still subject to the illusion.
Could he be blamed? It was a ballsy game, back then. Bullets and blades. None of this biological weapon bullshit, he thought wistfully as he patted the vial of biological weapon bullshit in his suit pocket, shaking his head ever so slightly and tightening his semi-permanent grimace.
They’d have never stood for it, back in the day. No room for hacks and poseurs. It was all about high-velocity cars and high-velocity women and high-velocity bullets.
Highballs, high heels, high stakes, and high times.
Then the goddamned wall came down.
It was tough to find work for a while. People momentarily lost the stomach for permanent solutions.
But statecraft recovered in due course, as did spy craft. The two were inextricably linked, the assassin reckoned.
He was glad he persevered. Glad to have survived. Happy to still be in the game.
Such as it was.
Goddamned drones, goddamned germs, goddamned pencil-necked pencil-pushers, MBA college boys playing at a man’s game.
His mark showed up, taking her reserved seat a few tables over from him at the sidewalk cafe on Pennsylvania Avenue, just a block from the White House, saving the assassin from tumbling headlong into another bout of self-righteous self-pity.
He put his gloves on.
Then he felt the vial of biological bullshit again. Hepatitis? AIDS? Bird flu? Mad cow? He had no clue, and he didn’t want to know. Sometimes staying alive meant staying dumb. Society lacked a clear enemy, which made people far more sensitive and far more litigious. Hence an even greater need for plausible deniability.
And all those goddamned video cameras these days. One surveillance camera for every ten Americans, he’d read.
It was yet another of the forces driving his profession into extinction. One wrong step and your face would be all over You-view, or whatever the kids called that internet video thing.
His mark’s meal arrived. He didn’t remember her ordering, but then he remembered that she was a regular, and a wannabe mover/shaker, the kind of person who would put in a standing order at a trendy restaurant, then look too stern and preoccupied and important to enjoy it.
Salad is what they brought her. Twenty-something dollars on the menu, for fifty cents worth of rabbit food.
The assassin humphed. As good a last meal as any, he finally decided after giving it more consideration than it deserved.
He shook his head, annoyed at the wayward thoughts. He was on assignment, after all. No time for fuzzy-headedness.
He was still the best around, as far as he would admit, but he feared he might be hearing the faint thrumming of bat wings up in his belfry. Wasn’t getting any younger. Maybe time to remove the semi from semi-retired.
His B-team showed up. Right on time for a change. An elderly couple. Even more elderly than the assassin. They checked in with the hostess, who nodded, smiled, grabbed menus, and walked toward an open table.
Right toward his mark.
The assassin donned his hat, grabbed his cane, palmed the sealed glass pipette in his pocket, stood up, and made for the exit, dodging tables and diners.
He passed the hostess going the opposite direction, then the elderly B-team woman walking behind her. Next was the elderly man.
On cue, vertigo set in, and the old man stumbled into the old assassin, who stumbled into the mark’s table, upending glasses and clinking silverware against china.
Lost in the commotion was the sound of the sealed glass vial breaking open over the mark’s salad, its clear, odorless contents draining neatly into the overpriced arugula as the assassin’s gloved hand searched for a place to arrest his feigned fall.
“I’m so terribly sorry, ma’am,” he said to his mark, regaining his balance, setting aright the molested flatware, looking straight into her forty-something year-old eyes, which registered officiousness and severity and focus and genetically bitchy overtones behind clumping makeup. The assassin didn’t doubt that somebody would want this particular DC muckety-muck out of the picture. She had that vibe about her, like maybe a few hundred people might like her better dead than alive. But maybe he was projecting.
She allowed a small wave and an unconvincing smile that never made it any further north than her cheeks, and let out a perfunctory “think nothing of it” in a tone that would have been much more at home in the company of a “bugger yourself,” then joined her assassin in restoring order to the contents of her table.
Apologies from the clumsy B-team man for good measure, a polite tip of the hat to the mark, and the assassin was on his way.
And that was that.
He walked out of the cafe, took a right, waited for the light, and walked toward the park and the setting sun, just an old man on a postprandial stroll, taking his air, as they used to say.
Hell of a night for it. Beautiful breeze, beautiful sunset. His mind was already long beyond the killer bug already at work on the Justice Department bureaucrat’s innards.