 CORRUPTS
ABSOLUTELY
by Alexa Hunt
March 2007
Mass-market paperback
ISBN
9780765350091
May 2005
St. Martin's Press
ISBN
9780765311498
Order from:
Amazon.com
Barnes & Noble
An action-packed thriller about the NEXT war on terror...
First came "the Slaughter": the Colombian drug cartel launched a
massive attack on American soil, assassinating thousands of federal
judges and law enforcement officers in an attempt to stop the
crackdown on drugs. Then came public outrage: Congress created a new
supersecret agency, the Bureau of Illegal Substance Control. BISC
operatives short-circuit due process, acting as judge, jury, and
executioner for drug traffickers. When she loses her kid brother to
a drug OD, Leah Berglund is recruited by BISC. She becomes one of
their finest agents and a skillful assassin. She has a perfect kill
record for every guilty verdict. Then she is assigned to a special
case...
Elliott Delgado was a hot shot FBI agent until a burst of
machine-gun fire retired him on a disability pension. Now all Del
wants is to spend time with his son and enjoy his new career as a
Pulitzer Prize--winning reporter. Until he receives a phone call
from his old mentor at the FBI....
Posing as a research assistant to Del, Leah investigates secret drug
charges against him while he uncovers a conspiracy between BISC and
the Pentagon. He learns that the war on drugs is about to go
nuclear. The Western Hemisphere will be flash-fried if the
conspirators are not stopped. As she digs deeper into Del's case,
Leah realizes she has been set up to kill an innocent man.
Now she and Del are running targets as BISC agents chase them from
Mexico to Maine. America's worst nightmare is set to begin if they
can't run fast enough.
"The drug scenario is an intriguing premise..." --
Publisher's Weekly
"In building her fictional society, the author (veteran
romance writer Shirl Henke, writing under a pseudonym) takes the
current war on drugs to a frighteningly plausible extreme: the U.S.
Congress has enacted the Martial Law Act and empowered a new agency,
the Bureau of Illegal Substance Control (BISC), to seek out drug
dealers and to act as judge, jury, and executioner. Problem is,
absolute power does that thing that it does, and, as Leah and Del
learn the hard way, the BISC may have lost track of its mandate.
Exciting if rather depressingly plausible reading." -- David
Pitt, Booklist
"Hunt's well-researched novel is intricately woven with
intrigue and drama. Tensions run high in action-packed
sequences. Fans of spy novels will not want to miss this
first-rate book."--Romantic Times Bookclub "A suspense novel of the highest order and
grandest scale. Sharp and scary, the book moves at a
heart pounding pace that is utterly addictive. Alexa
Hunt knows how to thrill, and she does
so--absolutely."--Nelson DeMille, New York
Times bestselling author on Corrupts
Absolutely
"A thought-provoking look at the War on
Drugs. Corrupts Absolutely may
turn out to be more prophecy than fiction."--Stephen
Coonts, New York Times bestselling author
“Corrupts Absolutely is nonstop action
and thrills. Alexa Hunt knows how to keep up a
pace that never lets up.”--Tess Gerritsen,
New York Times bestselling author of The
Sinner
"A new kind of thriller, absorbing,
brilliantly plotted. It’s all
here--international intrigue, fascinating
characters, and high suspense."--Clive
Cussler, New York Times bestselling
author on Corrupts Absolutely
"Hang on for a thrill-a-minute ride. Hunt
really delivers the goods."--Tami Hoag,
New York Times bestselling author of Kill
the Messenger on Corrupts Absolutely
"Corrupts Absolutely is absolutely
entertaining. Alexa Hunt is a fresh new talent
in the thriller arena."--Sandra Brown,
New York Times bestselling author of
Hello Darkness "Alexa Hunt writes the way
Frederick Forsyth used to and Daniel Silva does
now. Corrupts Absolutely is one of those
rare thrillers that doesn't just stay ahead of
the curve, it practically redraws it. Like your
thrillers served sizzling hot with a touch of
terror on the side? This is the one."--Jon Land,
bestselling author of The Last Prophecy
"Alexa Hunt is a name to watch. Corrupts
Absolutely offers a terrifying premise,
compelling characters, and turbo-charged action
that never stops."--Eileen Dreyer, author of
Head Games
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Chapter One
11:49 P.M., EDT, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER
20
WASHINGTON, DC.
The ‘07 civic sun cruised slowly through
the deserted parking deck, staying
carefully within the chem-glow drive
lines. Silently it rounded the corner
and rolled down the ramp to the lowest
level, then stopped in front of a new
Corvette Electro-T, which was parked
facing the wall. The Sun’s tinted windows concealed its
occupants until the passenger side
opened. A brief flash from the dome
light revealed two figures, a man behind
the wheel and a tall, slender woman, who
slipped out and quickly closed the door.
Without a word to her companion, she
walked around the Corvette, checking the
interior, then the license plates. Satisfied, she signaled him to drive on.
Over the barely perceptible hum of the
electric engine, her footsteps echoed on
the concrete as the small rental car
moved toward the opposite end of the
deck and parked. In a brisk, athletic
stride, she approached the elevator a
dozen yards distant and melded into the
shadows to the left of the doors. She
checked her watch and prepared to wait. Minutes passed. She did not move. Her
vigil was rewarded by the low growl of
elevator cables. She shifted position
ever so slightly onto the balls of her
feet. The doors whooshed open, revealing
a thickset man carrying an attach‚ case.
He glanced left and right, then stepped
hurriedly from the elevator. She raised her weapon and took aim. He
caught the motion from the corner of his
eye and whirled, reaching inside his
jacket. The only sound breaking the
silence was a soft pop from her small
automatic. A tiny hole no bigger than
the tip of her little finger appeared in
the middle of the man’s forehead. His
temples and eyeballs bulged grotesquely.
Then, every bone in his body seemed to
dissolve as he crumpled. Glancing around the dimly lit deck, the
woman walked over to her victim and
knelt beside his body. When she rolled
the corpse onto its back, a thin trickle
of blood oozed from its ear, pooling on
the concrete. Eyes stared blankly into
space. Ignoring the slack face of death,
she pulled the attach‚ case from beneath
the body. The Sun approached noiselessly
as she stood up. She tossed the case
inside and slid into the passenger seat. “You moved too soon. He caught you in
peripheral,” her companion said as he
drove up the ramp. “I know,” she replied in a tight voice. Glancing at her profile he grunted. “You
okay?” She sucked in a deep breath. “No.” The
car circled up the ramp three more
levels. As he slowed to make the final
turn, she swung her door open and was
violently sick on the concrete floor.
Raising her head immediately, she
slammed the door and said, “Go!” He anticipated the command, relieved to
see a faint bit of color returning to
her face. “The first one is always bad,”
he said. Fishing a texture wipe from her pocket,
she scrubbed at her mouth, then replied,
“Yes.” “It’ll get easier after a few more.” She forced aside the image of that
perfectly centered red dot just above
those dead eyes. “God, I hope not.”
THREE YEARS LATER
2:12 A.M., EDT, TUESDAY, JUNE 16
ALEXANDRIA, VA. He was running flat out, his chest on
fire as if someone were tightening a
piano wire around it. Sharp, stinging
pain lanced through his lungs as he
gulped enough air to yell, “Stop! FBI!”
Without breaking stride, he closed the
distance between himself and the two men
he was chasing down the narrow street. In the darkness, patches of light
flashed between the buildings,
black-and-white distortions, like images
from an old twentieth-century cinema
reel. The suspects’ flight stopped
abruptly when the car waiting for them
at the curb peeled away before they
reached it. As they turned, he tried to
stop and level his weapon but was not
quick enough. They caught him limned in a sliver of
dirty yellow light. The first slug spun
him around, cutting a shallow furrow
across his ribs as it slammed him
against a rough brick wall. He gritted
his teeth and raised his SIG-Sauer,
squeezing off a shot, but the report was
drowned out by the thunder of the second
man’s MAC-10. He felt the solid thunk of
metal ripping into his flesh. Chest.
Thigh. Knee. The hits registered in his
brain as he slid slowly down the wall.
Someone screamed his name. Sirens wailed in the distance.
Everything faded to black but his knee
still hurt like a bitch. If only the
damn sirens would stop ringing. Ringing.
He bolted upright into a sitting
position. Drenched in sweat, he
frantically ran his hands over his
chest, down his left leg to staunch the
bleeding. But there was no blood, only
hot, sweaty flesh and the knotted lumps
of healed scar tissue. His knee still throbbed evilly as he
swung his legs over the side of the bed
and fumbled for the phone jangling on
the nightstand. Running his fingers
through his hair, he squinted at the
clock. Two twenty-seven a.m. Taking a
deep breath, he growled into the
receiver, “Delgado. This better be
good.” Elliott Delgado exited the 495 Beltway
and turned west onto Braddock, glancing
into his rearview vid screen at the
nearly deserted highway behind him. If I
was still with the Bureau, I’d have a
tail scanner tracking any car making
three successive turns with me. He
consoled himself with the thought that
he had been allowed to keep the Buick
Electra-TE. The combination
turbine-electrical engine had a
specially designed third mode---a
turboelectric flash drive allowing the
Buick to go a 190 kilometers per hour,
small enough compensation for the
titanium pins in his knee. He rubbed the old injury as he pulled
into the left-turn lane. Affluent
suburban developments sprawled between
dense stands of sugar pines. A few
lights winked from distant windows, but
at 3:15 a.m. the densely populated area
adjacent to Accotink Park slumbered. The
residents rested in the assurance that
they were a safe thirty klics away from
the urban war zone of central D.C. Rival gangs of Elevator operators fought
over the city. These El-Ops sold the
street drug of choice, Elevator, a
highly unstable combination of cocaine
and the old nonspecific impotence drug
sildenafil citraze, commonly known as
Viagra, which sent the coke-laden blood
surging up the carotid arteries to the
brain with the speed of an elevator. Del turned onto Danbury Forest and
followed the winding road. What would he
learn at this bizarre rendezvous? Cal
Putnam had told him to take the back way
into King’s Park. His ex-boss knew he
and Diana had lived in this old
northern-Virginia development before
their divorce. Putnam had been the mentor who’d trained
him, handpicked him for the most
challenging assignments, and gone to the
wall for him every time he’d been called
on the carpet by punctilious politicians
inside the Bureau. Diana had accused him
of caring more for “that crotchety,
foulmouthed old Okie” than he did for
his own wife. She was probably right.
God knew he’d spent more time with Cal
than with her. By the time he was
finished with hospitals, Putnam had been
promoted to deputy director and Delgado
had climbed into a bottle. Whiskey under the bridge as Cal would
say, he thought with a laugh, recalling
this stretch of road and the jogger’s
path across the bridge to the marina. A good choice for cover. It would be
nearly impossible for anyone to follow
them here. A tail would stand out like a
Vegas stripper in the National
Cathedral. He pulled off the road and
made a U-turn, then parked the Buick in
the sheltering shadows of a big dogwood.
After remaining in the car for several
moments, watching for anyone who might
follow him, he slipped out and climbed
over the metal guardrail. The descent
down the steep hillside was made more
difficult by dense foliage and darkness,
but he found the wide dirt pathway. Tidewater in July was hot and fecund,
infested with insects. Cicadas sang and
mosquitoes hummed counterpoint between
bites on his neck and arms. He’d
remembered his .50-caliber Smith &
Wesson but forgot to take a Buggone
pill. A full moon silvered the treetops
high overhead as he stopped to get his
bearings. The gravel path was rutted,
filled with joggers and cyclists during
daylight hours, but now deserted. It
twisted deep inside the park. Mentally
he marked off the distance to the
bridge. Too damn far. The slight limp grew more
pronounced with every kilometer. He
remembered when he had run this course
with ease every morning. But that was
over seven years ago. Getting out of shape, old man. The sound of bubbling water grew louder
as he neared the bridge over Accotink
Creek. Then he saw a figure materialize
out of the darkness on the other side of
the rusty iron structure. He paused
warily in the darkness until a familiar
voice spoke. “No need to play hide-’n’-seek. I been
here for over half an hour. If I wasn’t
followed, you weren’t.” Cal Putnam’s nasal Oklahoma twang was
unmistakable. Thinning gray hair and the
leathery seams in his round face
betrayed every one of his sixty-three
years. He had shrewd blue eyes, a
stubborn, pointed chin, and one hell of
an attitude. Del had always liked
working for a man who cut through the
bureaucratic bullshit. Delgado stood half a head taller than
Putnam, whose slouched shoulders and
paunch were the badge of a Washington
bureaucrat chained to a desk. The old
man was career FBI, working his way up
to SAC in Oklahoma City before his
thirtieth birthday. Now he was their
number two man in Washington, deputy
director. “What the hell’s going on, Cal? I don’t
hear squat from you for five years, then
this middle-of-the-night intrigue.” Putnam kicked a rock, then looked up at
Delgado. “Don’t piss in my hip pocket,
Del. I...
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