Devolution (Autographed Paperback)
Autographed Paperback Edition.
Book 3 in the Sam Jameson series. Over 1,000,000 fans in 17 countries.
The runaway #1 Bestseller from USA Today Bestselling Author Lars Emmerich.
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“Sharp, extremely well written, and scary as hell!”
“The best writing in decades.”
What would it take to put our way of life at risk?
Is it possible for a handful of ultra-deep players to cripple the global economy?
A secret organization with immense wealth and limitless influence squares off against The Establishment in this #1 Bestselling conspiracy thriller from mystery master Lars Emmerich.
As the clandestine conflict reaches an explosive flashpoint, Special Agent Sam Jameson, a brash, ballsy, and beautiful spy catcher, is cast headlong into the crossfire. The love of her life is missing, the victim of a brutal and terrifying kidnapping.
Will she unravel the ruthless conspiracy in time to save his life?
Can she save her own?
The characters are vivid, the facts are exquisitely researched, and the plot is gripping and frightening… because the threat is more real than we’d like to imagine. Book Three in the worldwide bestselling Sam Jameson Series will leave you wondering how safe we really are.
DEVOLUTION is the third 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.
"The plot is totally wild... but totally believable!"
"I don't know how he weaves all those thing together, but it all comes together beautifully in the end."
"I love the way the different story lines kept me guessing. So much fun!"
"Right up there with Baldacci, Forsyth, DeMille, and Patterson."
"You're going to be hearing a lot more about Lars Emmerich."
This product is a PAPERBACK NOVEL.
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Enjoy a sample from DEVOLUTION
Department of Homeland Security Headquarters, Washington, DC. Friday, 10:03 a.m. ET.
Sam Jameson’s androgynous name and no-nonsense communiqués frequently led to shocked silence when people met her in person for the first time. Most people expected her to be a man.
Sam—short for Samantha—was decidedly and distractingly not androgynous, and certainly not male.
She stood five-ten in flats. Her impeccable professional attire couldn’t hide her more-than-impeccable physical condition. She was stunning, brilliant, magazine gorgeous, and efficient. She had red-blonde hair and piercing green eyes that seemed to leave burn marks.
Through no concerted effort of her own, she had come to be treated with deference, even reverence, by most of her fellow counterintelligence officers at the Department of Homeland Security. It was a tough crowd, but her natural gravitas was impossible for her colleagues to miss. Over the past five years, Special Agent Jameson had assembled the beginnings of what promised to be a stellar career in the counterintelligence service.
She sat down at the head of the small conference table. “Guys, thanks for coming on such short notice. I know this isn’t normal in a murder investigation, but we have reason to believe this guy may have been more than your average priest. We’ve been asked to—”
“Rub our noses in it.” The voice was gruff and unfriendly, and attached to a large man in a bad suit with a look of contempt on his ruddy face. Sam saw his Washington DC police department badge through an opening in his too-small jacket. The badge was fastened to his shirt, but it rested atop a fold of belly fat that had migrated north, well out of its jurisdiction.
Hank Thierrot, Perfect Bastard, Sam thought.
“Actually, Hank, your amateur crime scene control doesn’t bother me in the least,” Sam said sweetly. “We don’t give a shit about convictions here in the intelligence world, and I don’t care if you ever find the Monsignor’s wallet. May we continue, or would you like to make some more small talk?”
Thierrot sulked in silence.
Sam rarely failed to make an impression. Her dad had frequently chastised her for her sailor’s mouth, and he had a point. Vulgarity was a bit incongruous coming from a mouth as gorgeous as hers. But it tended to have the desired effect.
“Detective Thierrot’s sensitivities notwithstanding," Sam continued, "I didn’t ask you here to interfere with your investigation, or even comment on it. As I started to say, we think the good Monsignor was slightly less than good, from a national security perspective. We think he worked for some nasty folks, who gave him the code name Curmudgeon. I’d like to ask you to let us peek over your shoulder at the evidence.” Everyone at the table knew it wasn’t really a request.
Bruised, Thierrot was first to reply. “Absolutely. Just as soon as the court order comes through.” In theory, the intelligence apparatus could only gain access to information and evidence in cases involving US citizens, or incidents occurring on US soil, if a special magistrate ruled in a closed, secret session that there was indeed a compelling national security interest at stake.
There were 30,000 National Security Agency employees who might argue that things worked a little differently in practice. A closely guarded secret until a string of sensational leaks, it was now common knowledge that the intelligence behemoth had made a copy of nearly every US citizen’s private phone and e-mail conversations over the past decade.
Sam knew that every usable lead in the Monsignor Worthington case would go stone cold during the eons it would take to jump through the bureaucratic and legal hoops involved in obtaining such a court order, but Thierrot’s parry didn’t faze or anger her. She wasn’t afraid to bend the rules.
She smiled and nodded, then picked up the phone in the conference room. She pushed the appropriate auto-dial button as the rest of the room watched her, and after a brief pause, they overheard a male voice on the other end.
“Larry, dearest," Sam said, "I seem to have misplaced a phone number. Would you be a sweetheart and look for it in that disaster of an office of yours? Bill Nichols is the name.”
“The-fuck-you-will!” Thierrot was instantly red-faced and wild-eyed, and he nearly leapt out of his chair. Sam put on a look of mock surprise, which morphed into an amused smile.
Bill Nichols wrote for the Washington Times, and had personally named Thierrot in a police brutality incident several years earlier. Thierrot had paid him an uninvited midnight visit, but Nichols had refused to be intimidated. An old- school journalist, Nichols valued his integrity over his kneecaps. He had filed a civil suit against Thierrot, which had settled out of court.
Sam thought that Nichols might enjoy printing an expose’ on lax crime scene discipline and sub-par police investigative work, particularly once the journalist learned the identity of the lead investigator responsible for the beleaguered department’s most recent debacle.
She bet that Thierrot couldn’t stand the heat of another onslaught from the press. His apoplectics told Sam that her shot had found its mark.
She stared at him wordlessly. A silence lasting ages ensued.
A profane surrender from Thierrot eventually ended the standoff. Then he got up and stormed out.
Sam spoke sweetly into the phone. “Thanks anyway, Larry. Looks like we figured it out on our own.” It wasn’t often that she enjoyed public eviscerations as thoroughly as she enjoyed this one. The fat cop was a jerk.
She worked out the details of the information exchange with Thierrot’s minions, who agreed to keep her apprised of all new developments in the Monsignor Worthington murder investigation. Thierrot wasn’t a likeable guy, and his understudies had enjoyed watching their cranky boss get his ass kicked by a thirty-something pinup model.