From New York Times bestselling author Ted Bell, a thriller “that moves at breakneck speed” ( Richmond Times-Dispatch ) as it follows counterterrorist agent Alexander Hawke racing to save the United States from destruction. When a mysterious explosion destroys his research vessel in the middle of the Amazon, Alex Hawke is captured by Indigenous cannibals. Before he manages to escape, he learns that a fearsome foe is preparing for war—but against whom? When he regains contact with his American and British intelligence counterparts, Alex’s worst fears are confirmed. In the jungle are highly trained Hezbollah warriors who are planning an unspeakably violent jihad against America. While the United States focuses its efforts on the escalating border disputes with Mexico, Alex vows to put a stop to the deadly plot—no matter the cost. "Ted Bell can really, really write." -- James Patterson "This time, however, Bell ups the ante, and involves Hawke in what might be termed terrorism's perfect storm." -- Palm Beach Post "Think Tom Clancy and Robert Ludlum meet Stephen King... Spy is THE BOOK of the summer!" -- Glenn Beck, CNN Headline Prime Ted Bell was the former vice-chairman of the board and creative director of Young & Rubicam, one of the world’s largest advertising agencies. He was the New York Times bestselling author of the Alex Hawke series. Ted Bell passed away in 2023. Spy 1 He had never expected to survive the sinking of his boat. The river had been a quiet mirror that morning, meandering through the endless jungle. Just before the explosion, the leafy green walls on either side of the river had fallen silent. Then a lone bird cried a shrill warning and the peace was suddenly shattered. A sea mine blew the bow off of his beautiful black-hulled wooden yawl. The powerful explosion rocked the jungle; the sky above the river suddenly went dark with birds taking wing. He knew his lovely Pura Vida was finished before he drew a second breath. Pura Vida, the pretty yawl he’d fitted with a retractable keel, had shuddered to a stop, down by the head. She instantly began taking water. She had sunk with nearly all hands in minutes. Small-arms fire erupted from the forest. The river was alive with death. Unseen forces began spitting bullets from both banks. A chorus of fear rose from those choking and dying in the water. The machine gun attack killed everyone clinging to overturned life rafts or desperately scrambling up the muddy banks. He himself had been fishing off the stern, his legs dangling over the gunwale. When he heard the explosion for’ard, and felt the yawl stagger and founder, he dove for a semi-automatic rifle kept loaded and stowed in the cockpit. Water rising round his legs, he emptied the thirty-round banana clip into the forest. When it was empty, he slammed in another mag and repeated firing off the port side. He threw life rings, cushions, whatever he could grab. It was useless. He saw his colleagues in the water, many already dead or dying in a rain of lead. The ship was engulfed in flames and listing violently to port. Staying aboard another second was suicide. He dove off the sharply angled stern and swam hard downriver, until his lungs, too, were afire. He surfaced and heard that the firing had stopped. Many riddled bodies were floating downstream toward him. That was when he heard the drums for the first time. He saw painted faces atop long brown legs sprinting madly through the tangled undergrowth along the banks. He submerged once more and grabbed someone whose arm he’d seen flailing weakly minutes earlier. He pulled her to him and saw that she was dead. He held on to the corpse for a very long time. He was entering a patch of white water and he had no choice but to let his friend go if he was to swim safely to shore. Her name was Dana Gibbon. He grabbed an overhanging branch and watched the beautiful woman’s body drift away with the river. Her head was submerged but one arm was still draped around a piece of debris from Pura Vida. Dana had been a brilliant young marine biologist from the University of Miami. She’d been doing her thesis on the Rio Negro. At night on deck, they had sipped mojitos and played gin rummy. He never won a hand. And he’d kissed her only once. Dana’s body was lost in a tumult of white water and then she disappeared. Shortly after Dana’s loss, a chance river encounter with a water boa, an anaconda nearly thirty feet long, had left him with a crippling wound to his right hip. The untreated injury became infected. He was no longer able to run. Couldn’t run, and he couldn’t hide. It was this circumstance that finally led to his first capture. For some reason, the Indians who originally caught him had not killed him on the spot. He was a healthy specimen if you discounted his wound. He stood over six feet and was very fit. He supposed that was his salvation. He looked fit for work. He was blindfolded and dragged through the ju