writing. This one would not have been possible without three people in my village. Allison Baker, thanks for always being my plot whisperer. I love that you dream about my books. Or was it a nightmare? Melanie Lanham and Anna Doll, huge thanks for volunteering to proofread the final version days before Christmas. I love you ladies!
The Men of the Secret Service Series
Book 1: Recipe for Disaster
Buy now!
Book 2: Shot in the Dark
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Book 3: Between Love and Honor
View the series here!
More fantastic reads by Tracy Solheim
Smolder
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Holiday at Magnolia Bay
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Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from
Recipe for Disaster
Tracy Solheim
Book 1 in the Men of the Secret Service series
Keep reading below or buy now!
The springtime sun was slipping past the horizon as a line of government vans and black SUVs quietly snaked their way through the New Jersey industrial park. Most of the one-story buildings were deserted for the night, but light from a few of the offices bathed areas of the parking lot with a soft glow. Civilian casualties weren’t something Secret Service Agent Griffin Keller wanted to contemplate right now. Not when he was so close to capturing the man who had eluded him for nearly two years. A man, known only as The Artist, who was responsible for flooding the world’s monetary system with nearly fifty million dollars in counterfeit one hundred dollar bills.
Griffin fidgeted in the front seat of the Chevy Tahoe, an SRG rifle on his lap and a lump in his throat. Any one of those occupied offices could be housing a lookout who might alert their prey to the incoming visitors. They needed to get the strike team in place before that happened. The intel he’d received earlier in the day indicated the group was preparing to relocate. Possibly overseas. Griffin would be damned if he let the counterfeit ring slip away from his grasp. He hadn’t played nice with the FBI for all these months just to lose the biggest collar of his career.
“Subject on the move.” The voice of one of the agents staking out the warehouse whispered through his earpiece.
“Damn it! Let’s move in,” Griffin shouted into his radio transmitter. “I don’t want that son of a bitch getting away!”
Agents from the Secret Service and the FBI quickly slipped out of the vans, their bodies forming a wide circle around a darkened office/warehouse unit at the end of one of the buildings. Their dark battle dress uniforms and sleek black helmets equipped with night vision goggles made them look like a bunch of cockroaches fanning out in a kitchen after dark.
“Hey, Agent Keller, let’s not forget who’s in charge here,” Leslie Morgan’s husky voice floated through his earpiece. “No one enters that building until I give the go order.”
Louis Silva, the driver of the SUV, chuckled next to Griffin. “Damn. That woman loves her position of power,” Silva said. “I’ll bet she’s like that in bed.”
At Silva’s comments, Griffin felt himself go hard. Leslie was like that in bed; constantly trying to dominate her partner. Sex with the FBI Special Agent always turned into a sweaty wrestling match. One Griffin never let her win. He frequently wondered if Leslie’s need to best him was what kept her coming back for more. Not that he minded. Their relationship—if it could be called that—was about blowing off steam. Nothing more.
Griffin didn’t bother sharing this information with Silva, though. “Get your mind out of the locker room and back into the op, Silva,” he commanded before jumping out of the car.
Leslie had her team of agents in place just outside the bay doors leading into the warehouse. Griffin’s team positioned themselves along the perimeter of the building, blocking all the possible escape routes. Based on the intel they’d gathered from the agents manning the stakeout, there was only one person inside. Presumably, he was packing up the printing presses, ink, and specialty paper to move to their next site.
“Okay, team, let’s see who’s at home.”
Leslie had no sooner gotten the words out when one of the garage doors opened. A rental box truck, its engine running, filled the warehouse bay. Sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck, a young man, wearing a Yankees baseball cap, stared wide-eyed at the twenty assault rifles trained on him.
“Federal agents,” Leslie called out to him. “Come out of the truck slowly with your hands where we can see them.”
Griffin watched the driver’s mouth turn up in a sneer as he reached for the gear shift.
“I’m going to