Book 1 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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Special Agent Sam Jameson is having a bad week. People are trying to kill her.
That would be business as usual in the counterespionage world, except that it’s the good guys who have her in the crosshairs.
Why are the DC Metro police trying to kidnap her? Do her bosses at Homeland want her in a body bag, too?
And why does everyone she talks to seem to end up in the morgue?
Will a ruthless mercenary, a hapless American traitor, and a dead man’s cryptic clue hold the key to Sam’s survival? As the noose tightens around her neck, Sam must uncover a brutal and deadly conspiracy before she becomes its next victim.
INFERNO RISING is the explosive beginning to 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 an absolute masterpiece."
"Love love LOVE this series!"
"It's 5 a.m. and I just stayed up all night reading!"
"Lars is my new favorite author!"
"Sam Jameson is a great character. Better than (Patterson's) Alex Cross!"
"I stayed up till 3 a.m. reading. Couldn't put it down!"
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Enjoy a sample from INFERNO RISING
Special Agent Samantha Jameson’s question was barely audible above beeping hospital equipment. Her fire-red hair framed her pinup-model face, and her brilliant green eyes blazed despite the grogginess.
“Very much. Twice, they said.” Air Force Colonel Brock James shook his head. “So inconsiderate. Did you even think about how I might feel about that? Who would pay our mortgage?”
She smiled weakly. “It blew. No angels or out-of-body experiences. I want my money back.”
Brock’s reply was interrupted by the doctor’s arrival, with nurses and orderlies in tow.
“Visiting hours are over, I’m afraid.” The gray-haired doctor was borderline obese and reeked of cigarette smoke, but was friendly enough. “Sadly, there’s more poking and prodding in your immediate future, young lady.”
“I’m a big fan of being poked, but I prefer this strapping fellow,” Sam said, reaching a bandaged arm up to Brock’s face.
The old doctor blushed.
Brock smiled. “I don’t mind an audience.” The doctor blushed more.
An orderly unlocked the wheels on Sam’s bed. “I’m happy to watch, but we have a date with the fMRI first. Cognition over reproduction, I’m afraid. Given that you’ve been a little bit dead, we thought we’d check for brain damage.”
“I’ll tag along, given the circumstances.” Brock helped wheel Sam out into the hallway, turning right toward radiology.
She gazed up at his unshaven face, swollen eye, and split lip. “Nice shiner. Looks good on you, though,” she said. He chuckled.
Suddenly Brock’s smile died, and all the color drained from his face. “Oh, no. The guard is gone.”
Sam understood instantly what that meant. “Run!”
She felt Brock accelerate to a lopsided sprint, her bed jerking in time with each clump of the cast on his broken foot.
“Sir! You can’t run with her! No sudden mo–” The orderly’s chest erupted in crimson as a silenced slug tore into his back, through his heart, and out between two ribs. Gore splattered Sam’s bed sheets.
A second shot punctured her intravenous bag, and saline solution spilled everywhere.
Brock rammed Sam’s bed through the heavy hallway doors, not slowing to look behind them at the shooter. He knew without looking who it had to be. Though he didn’t know the man’s name, the visage of pure evil was forever etched in his memory.
Sam’s exploding IV bag slicked the floor, and Brock slipped and fell as Sam’s bed sailed through the doors. She heard the snap of another bullet flying through the space Brock had occupied fractions of a second before. The bullet shattered a picture on the wall in front of her bed, calling to her attention the fact that the hallway made an abrupt right-hand turn five feet ahead of her.
Her bed crashed hard into the wall.
Sam felt her body rocket forward, twist in mid-air, and slam against the shattered glass of the picture. The wall knocked all the wind out of her, which was just as well. She would have screamed otherwise, as dozens of glass shards embedded themselves in her back.
Dazed, bleeding, and unable to inhale, she came to rest with her left leg trapped between the side rail and mattress of her bed. Her torso dangled from the side of her bed, hospital gown up around her ears. Her bare ass pointed toward the ceiling. Blood rushed to her throbbing head, which had cracked against the floor.
Before she could even draw a breath, she felt a pair of strong arms clamp around her torso and hoist her up. Two long, hard, painful tugs pulled her leg free of the bed. Brock threw her over his shoulder and began to run.
“Hold that elevator!” Brock’s shout was clear and strong above the screaming in the hallway behind her.
Sam's breath returned in gasps, but each jerk of Brock’s awkward steps made a full breath impossible.
As the long hallway disappeared around the corner, Sam saw the doorway burst open again.
A silenced pistol rose to point at her, but Brock clump-sprinted around the corner and into the waiting elevator too quickly to permit another shot from the attacker.
An eternity later, as if to mock Brock’s frantic mashing of the “close” button, the doors began to meander together. Through the narrowing gap, the shooter’s snarling face came into view. Sam felt ice cold fear pound through her veins.
The man lunged, his arm extended to catch the elevator doors. Two of the shooter’s fingers curled around the outer door.
But it wasn’t enough. The doors closed. Muzak filled her ears.
And Brock’s panting. And the sobs of the frightened nurse who had held the elevator for them.
The elevator descended two floors before Brock pulled the emergency stop lever.
“Whatever you do,” Sam gasped over the clanging emergency bell, “don’t call the damned cops.”