"There is no question: Jeff Abbott is the new name in suspense" as Luke Dantry needs to decipher a murderous web to save the lives of countless people--including himself (Harlan Coben, New York Times bestselling author of The Boy From the Woods ). Luke Dantry finds the bad guys. . .before they're bad guys. He works for a Washington, D.C. think tank as a minor academic who studies the online venting of would-be extremists, trying to identify those who will move from threatening words to deadly action. Anonymously typing from his computer as he monitors a loose collection of enraged loners, Luke thinks his identity is safe--but he is wrong. Suddenly kidnapped and left for dead in an isolated cabin, Luke soon realizes that the people he's been watching and studying are more organized and dangerous than he ever imagined. And they aren't the only ones who've kept an eye on him. Now with his former targets-and the federal government--tracking every move he makes, Luke must decipher a murderous web of connections that reaches into his own broken past. Only Luke can stop a looming threat that may kill countless people--including himself. "Furiously paced...Abbott has an instinctive feel for how to draw adrenaline from words on a page."― Publishers Weekly "There is no question: Jeff Abbott is the new name in suspense."― Harlan Coben Jeff Abbott is the New York Times bestselling author of fourteen novels. He is the winner of an International Thriller Writers Award (for the Sam Capra thriller The Last Minute) and is a three-time nominee for the Edgar award. He lives in Austin with his family. You can visit his website at www.JeffAbbott.com. Trust Me By Jeff Abbott Grand Central Publishing Copyright © 2013 Jeff Abbott All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4555-5262-7 CHAPTER 1 The old man had spent his entire life surrounded by unimaginable power andwealth—except for today. He was dressed as if he were playing a role inregional theater, the part of a retiree who'd failed to save for the longstretch of old age, in decrepit khakis and a threadbare jacket, mud sliming theheels of his boots. He sat on a park bench in the gray London afternoon, tossingbread crumbs to the pigeons. The crumbs were tiny, the size of diamond chips. The man in the gray suit standing near him pretended to talk on a cell phone anddidn't look at the old man; instead he watched the people strolling in the park,his eye keen for an enemy. A young couple walking hand-in-hand; two teenage boysambling, trying to look cool and tough and failing; a well-dressed motherpushing a stroller, laughing on a cell phone, tucking a blanket around a baby; apair of old ladies, clutching purses close to their coats, one talking inmonologue, the other listening and nodding. No danger here. The man in the gray suit fought the urge to smile at the disguise the old manhad chosen but to laugh would be fatal. One had to indulge people with money.And one did not laugh at a billionaire, no matter how eccentric. "I hardly recognized you, Your Majesty," the man in the gray suit said. He casthis gaze around the park again, the silent phone close to his ear. "Look at them go to war," the old man said in soft Arabic as the pigeons battledover the bread, pecking at each other and the bare ground. "They dance for me.As if I have strings on their wings." He threw another scattering of food to theflock's left, laughed as they scurried for the crumbs. The birds aren't the only ones, the man in the gray suit thought. But he waitedfor the old man to speak again. The old man loved the sound of his own words,like most bullies. "All is prepared?" the old man asked. "Yes," he said. Nearly so would have been a more exact answer but the old manhad never cared for details. Everything would be ready soon enough. Then hecould start to change the world. "Your people are ready for the money?" "Yes. Your banker has been a great help. He's set up accounts, he's covered ourtrails so as to not raise suspicion." It was an effort to control his temper, tonot say, "yes, you old fool, now just give me what I want and get out of theway." The man in the gray suit asked the question he'd come there to ask. "Ineed only to know the amount you're willing to invest." "Fifty million dollars now." The prince dressed as a pauper tossed his lasthandful of stale bread to the ground, watched the pigeons dart and peck for theleftovers. A smile played across his face as the birds battled. "If yourproposed attacks succeed over the next five years, then another fifty millionfor further work." The man in the gray suit felt a heaviness seize his chest, felt the thud ofblood in his ears. A hundred million dollars to flow through his hands. But heshowed no emotion. He kept the cell phone up to his ear. "9/11 didn't even costa million dollars to carry out." "Yes, but it was not a long-term investment. I offer you much more. I give youmany times the resources of 9/11." The old man glanced up at the man in