Stone Barrington is hired to protect a former intelligence agent with amnesia—and secrets worth killing for—in this heart-stopping thriller in the #1 New York Times bestselling series. Barton Cabot’s intelligence career is even more top secret than that of his brother, CIA boss Lance Cabot. But following a random act of violence, Barton is suffering from amnesia—a dangerous thing in a man whose memory is chock full of state secrets. So Lance hires Stone Barrington to watch his brother’s back. Stone soon discovers that his charge is a spy with a rather unusual hobby: building and restoring furniture. The genteel world of antiques and coin dealers seems a far cry from Stone’s usual underworld. But Barton is a man with a past, and one event in particular is coming back to haunt his present in ways he’d never expected... Praise for Hot Mahogany “Series fans will find all their expectations nicely fulfilled.”— Publishers Weekly More Praise for Stuart Woods “Stuart Woods is a no-nonsense, slam-bang storyteller.”— Chicago Tribune “A world-class mystery writer...I try to put Woods’s books down and I can’t.”— Houston Chronicle  “Mr. Woods, like his characters, has an appealing way of making things nice and clear.”— The New York Times “Woods certainly knows how to keep the pages turning.”— Booklist “Since 1981, readers have not been able to get their fill of Stuart Woods’  New York Times  bestselling novels of suspense.”— Orlando Sentinel “Woods’s Stone Barrington is a guilty pleasure...he’s also an addiction that’s harder to kick than heroin.”— Contra Costa Times  (California) Stuart Woods was the author of more than ninety novels, including the #1 New York Times bestselling Stone Barrington series. A native of Georgia and an avid sailor and pilot, he began his writing career in the advertising industry. Chiefs , his debut in 1981, won the Edgar Award. Woods passed away in 2022. 1 Elaine’s, late. Stone Barrington breezed into the restaurant and found his former NYPD partner, Dino Bacchetti, waiting for him, Scotch in hand. A waiter set a Knob Creek on the rocks before Stone, and he took a large sip. “Where have you been?” Dino asked. “You mean for the past week?” “You’ve been gone a week?” “Dino, remember when I went to Lakeland, Florida, to ground school for the new airplane? For a week?” “That’s where you’ve been?” “No. I’ve been in Vero Beach, Florida, for flight training.” “For a week?” “For three days.” “You have a new airplane?” “Not exactly. I had the engine removed from my Piper Malibu Mirage and replaced with a turbine—that’s a jet engine, turning a propeller. So now it’s called a JetProp, and it’s like a new airplane, and because it’s like a new airplane, my insurance company insisted I have flight training in it from a guy named John Mariani, in Vero Beach.” “Whatever you say.” “Dino, why don’t you remember any of this? How much have you had to drink?” “You think I’m drinking too much?” “You seem to be in a state.” “What sort of state?” “The word stupor leaps to mind.” “Genevieve will be here in a few minutes,” Dino said. Genevieve James was Dino’s girlfriend, a nurse in the ER at a nearby hospital. “Good.” “When she gets here, don’t leave me.” “Why not?” “I’m in some sort of trouble.” “What kind of trouble?” “I don’t know, but if you’re here, she won’t hurt me.” “Well, I’m not getting in the middle of this,” Stone said. “Just sit there in your chair and don’t say anything, and it’ll be all right.” “Okay. I’ll just sit here.” “Stone?” Dino was looking over Stone’s shoulder, toward the door. “Yes?” “Have you seen Lance Cabot lately?” Cabot was the newly appointed deputy director for operations of the CIA. Both Dino and Stone had done consulting work for him. “Not lately.” “Well, he looks like shit,” Dino said. “He’s aged years.” “How do you know this?” “Because I’m looking at him right now.” Stone turned and looked toward the door. Lance Cabot stood there, looking, as Dino had said, years older. He was also a bit disheveled, needed a haircut, and had at least a three-day growth of beard. His face was bruised. “Good God, you’re right,” Stone said. Lance was, ordinarily, the most fastidious of men, always perfectly dressed and groomed. Stone watched as Frank, one of the two headwaiters, greeted him and led him to a table at the rear of the restaurant. “He didn’t even look at us,” Dino said. “Something’s wrong. . . . Uh-oh,” Dino said. “What now?” “Genevieve.” Stone turned to see the beautiful Genevieve enter the restaurant and head for their table. They both stood, while Dino held her chair, a sure sign of fear. “How are you, Genevieve?” Stone said, giving her a kiss. “I’m very well, Stone,” she said, ignoring Dino. “How was your Malibu training?” Stone shot a glance at Dino, who was looking very uncomfortable. “Hard work and great fun. The new airplane is faster, smoother, and quieter, only it’s not a Malibu anymore; it’s called a JetProp.” “I remember,” she said. “I’m going nuts