The Prime Objective

The Prime Objective
Ginna Gray

Praise for the novels of

GINNA GRAY

“Jealousy, treachery and characters one loves to hate…Gray cleverly weaves unexpected twists and turns into the narrative…. This page-turner from a seasoned romance novelist boils down to deliciously wicked brain candy.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Prodigal Daughter

“[Gray] gifts readers with a well-crafted mix of intriguing suspense and provocative romance.”

—Rendezvous

“Ginna Gray…is the perfect prescription for readers desiring strong-willed characters, emotional depth and fiery ardor.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“It’s a real pleasure to watch how cleverly Gray brings these wonderfully well-drawn characters together in this pleasurable read.”

—Booklist on The Trophy Wife

“Ginna Gray always delivers an emotionally poignant love story that is a keeper.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Ms. Gray is one of the most consistently excellent writers in the genre today.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

GINNA GRAY

The Prime Objective

Many thanks to Patricia Smith, the editor (and friend) who bought my first book all those years ago, launching my writing career. I also want to thank my agent of twenty years, Denise Marcil. She has been my champion, mentor and friend every step of this long journey, and I will forever be grateful for her unfailing encouragement and support.

And of course, as always, I dedicate this book to my husband, Brad—the love of my life, my best friend, my rock.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

One

He blended into the night like smoke.

His movements were nothing more than subtle ripples in the darkness. The only sound was the soft hiss of his breathing through the black ski mask.

After testing the strength of the utility pole bolted to the flat roof, Jackson Prime pulled a rope from the canvas bag slung across his chest and secured it to the metal upright. He gave the rigging a hard tug, then another. Satisfied, he moved to the roof’s edge and settled down to wait.

Through the slits in the ski mask, Jack’s piercing blue eyes fixed on the entrance to the shabby apartment building, four floors below where he knelt.

The open-air markets and shops were closed, and the bustle of the day had faded with the coming of night. Only a few groups of men, some dressed in robes, others in Western garb, strolled along the narrow streets. Few vehicles moved.

It was early yet—only a little after seven. The fierce cold of winter had set in, but the building on which he stood and the others all around still held a vestige of heat from the sun. He could feel the warmth wafting up around him, along with the sharp smells of cooling stucco, tar and dust from the surface of the roof.

A block or so away a dog barked. As customers came and went male voices spilled from the cafés and coffee-house and floated to him on the night air. Against the dark sky he could make out the faint silhouettes of three mosques rising above the low skyline of the town.

Time drifted by slowly, yet except for his gaze constantly sweeping the street below, Jack remained still. If matters were running true to form, the four men would be leaving for dinner soon.

Beneath the ski mask Jack’s mouth twitched. People were such creatures of habit. Even those who thought they were exercising extreme caution.

After almost a half hour his patience paid off. Four men exited the building and cut across the street, talking among themselves, their heads swiveling the whole time, checking out the street around them. Not once did one of them look up.

The quartet disappeared around the nearest corner. Jack waited, just in case one of them forgot something and decided to double back for it. After five minutes he grabbed the rope and went over the side.