DIE HARD meets TALK RADIO in this heart-pounding, relentlessly fast-paced thriller from the New York Times bestselling author of The Fourth Monkey—master of suspense, J.D. Barker.
"I'm going to offer you a choice."
Controversial satellite radio talk show host, Jordan Briggs, has clawed her way to the top of the broadcast world. She doesn’t hold back, doesn’t spare feelings, and has no trouble sharing what's on her mind. Her rigorous pursuit of success has come at a price, though. Her marriage is in ruins, she hasn’t spoken to her mother in years, and she's distanced herself from all those close to her. If not for her young daughter, Charlotte, her personal life would be in complete shambles.
When a subdued man calls into the show and asks to play a game, she sees it as nothing more than a way to kick-start the morning, breathe life into the beginnings of drive-time for her listeners. Against her producer's advice, she agrees, and unwittingly opens a door to the past.
Live on the air with an audience of millions, what starts out as a game quickly turns deadly—events long thought buried resurface and Jordan Briggs is forced to reconcile with one simple fact—All decisions have consequences.
Genre: FICTION / SuspenseA NY Times bestseller, JD Barker writes with James Patterson and regularly hits bestseller lists worldwide.
Jordan
“Oh, hell no!” Jordan Briggs brought her palm down hard on the horn and held her middle finger up through the open sunroof of her Audi R8. She’d been forced to stomp the brakes, and when she shifted her foot back to the gas, her heel snapped. “These are my favorite Louboutins, you piece of shit!”
A beefy arm reached out the window of the garbage truck and gave her the finger back with a little wave.
“Who are you yelling at, Jordie?”
She made a mental note of the phone number under the How’s My Driving? sticker on the back of the truck.
“Goddamn garbage man! Just lumbered out on 49th from Madison without stopping. Didn’t even slow down. Damn near took out the front of the Audi.”
She took off her shoe, examined the busted heel, and tossed it in the passenger seat footwell.
“You’re driving? Why are you driving? Oh, shit, wait—you’re way back at Madison? We’re on the air in six minutes!”
“I’m heading out to the Hamptons when we wrap today, and it seemed stupid to take the car service in from home, then have to go all the way back out to Connecticut to get my own car in a few hours.”
“Frank gets you here on time.”
“Screw Frank.”
Traffic lurched forward several feet, then stopped again. The garbage man completed his invasion of her personal driving space, nearly sideswiping a Lincoln SUV in the next lane over. Probably texting. Everybody was texting. No reason to pay attention to what you’re doing in New York traffic. Cars practically drive themselves.
Asshole.
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