Stone Barrington and his new love rack up the frequent-flier miles with a stalker on their trail in this thrilling adventure in the #1 New York Times bestselling series. It’s not often that Stone Barrington finds a woman as accustomed to the jet-set lifestyle as he, so he’s pleasantly surprised when he meets a gorgeous pilot. Their travels together lead them from Wichita to Europe, but trailing them is some unwanted baggage: his new lady love’s unstable, criminal ex-boyfriend. And while Stone is fending off his newest adversary, trouble is brewing on the international stage. Several enemy operatives are at large, and only a coordinated intelligence effort will have any chance of stopping their deadly plot. But the clock is ticking...and time has nearly run out. Praise for Hot Pursuit “Fans will enjoy the vicarious luxury ride.”— 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 STONE BARRINGTON STOOD on a wide expanse of tarmac, leaning into thirty knots of icy wind, holding his hat on his head, his trench coat inadequate to the task of keeping his body temperature in the normal range. It was January in Wichita. He watched as a thing of beauty made a turn and rolled toward him. It bore his tail number, but not on the tail—on the engine nacelles. Its white fuselage bore stripes of blue and red, sweeping back to a night-blue tail, emblazoned with stars. It was his brand-new Citation M2, for which he had waited two years. The form of the delivery pilot, a man named Pat Frank, could be seen in the pilot’s seat, having flown the twenty-minute flight from the factory, in Independence, Kansas. A lineman ran forward and chocked the nosewheel, and the pilot cut the engines, their dying whine leaving the howl of the wind as the only noise on the ramp. Stone had spent the past sixteen days in the classroom and the simulator; the content of his life had shrunk to sweating out instruction all day, then ordering room service at night and falling asleep in front of the TV. He wanted the real airplane and he wanted New York. Now. The door of the airplane swung open and a figure kicked the folding steps down, and Stone got his first surprise of the day. The ferry pilot descended onto the tarmac, and her blond hair streamed with the wind. “Hi,” she said, holding out a hand. “I’m Pat Frank. Can we get out of this wind?” “Follow me,” Stone said, running for the airplane and climbing the steps. He glanced into the cockpit, which was completely familiar to him, since the three fourteen-inch screens of the Garmin 3000 avionics and the accompanying switches and throttles were identical to those in the simulator. He sank into one of the four comfortable passenger seats and waved Ms. Pat Frank to a seat facing him. “So you’re the hand-holder my insurance company sent to make my first flight with me,” he said. “I am that,” she replied. “At the very least. You may recall that you paid me to do the acceptance flights and inspections for you, too.” “And I thought I was signing checks to some grizzled veteran of the airlines, corporate flying, and, maybe, FedEx.” “I’m all that, except the grizzled part,” she said, smiling, revealing perfect teeth set off by her red lipstick. The soft, goatskin leather jacket, zipped up against the weather, could not conceal her ample breasts. “All we need is fuel and a flight plan filed.” “I’ve taken care of both.” “I hope to God you don’t want to do the walk-around inspection in this wind,” she said. “I’ve already done it this morning in a nice warm hangar, and if you want to get me off this airplane you’re going to have to drag me.” A lineman stuck his head into the cabin. “Fuel’s on the way,” he said. “You want me to stow your bags, Mr. Barrington?” Pat Frank handed him a key. “Up front, please, and kindly remove the ten bags of lead shot first.” “Lead shot?” Stone asked, baffled. “Weight and balance,” she said. “My hundred and twenty pounds weren’t enough to get us into the envelope. With you aboard, no problem, unless you have plans to have some slip of