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  SHARP FILE

  THE RIDER FILES BOOK 7

  CB SAMET

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  The Rider Files Series

  Dear Reader

  SAMPLE SELECTION: Connor File

  © Avant Star Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

  Cover Art: Circe Corp

  Chakana Artwork: Mashiara Graphics

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ebook ISBN: 978-1-950942-29-9

  print ISBN: 978-1-950942-30-5

  Created with Vellum

  1

  Ava Sharp stared at the heavy piece of stone in her hands. She traced a finger along the textured, gold-inlaid symbols carved into the surface. When she compared the piece in her hand to the design drawn on the page of the four-hundred-year-old leather-bound journal on the floor beside her, she could tell the piece she held was only part of the complete artifact.

  Sitting cross-legged and completely spellbound, she watched as light streamed through the attic window, capturing dust over the floor, on various aged pieces of furniture, and hanging thick in the air. She couldn’t believe her discovery. The journal itself was an architectural find, but the ancient piece of talisman in her hand was something even more thrilling.

  Her phone rang, startling her out of her trance. “Hey, Hugh,” she answered, turning the piece over again, still marveling at the discovery.

  “Ava, I’m drowning in suspense over here. Is it a find?”

  Hugh Crabtree had been the one who’d taken the call from a colleague asking him to investigate an old Spanish chest found in this attic when the house had changed owners. Ava suspected the chest had been passed down through generations before being forgotten altogether.

  “It’s a find, Hugh. It’s a big find. I’ve already wired funds to the new owners, and I’ll get the chest moved later today.”

  Their friendship was only a few years old but had blossomed quickly into a mutually beneficial business relationship. Hugh was known internationally for dealing in rare ancient artifacts, and people from all over the world contacted him with discoveries. But he didn’t like to dirty his hands. He sent others, like Ava, to verify the authenticity of the discoveries and do the actual retrieval of them.

  “Is it really Incan?” he asked. “I have a showing in Peru next January. I’d love to add in something fresh to it. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

  She lifted a cup made of stone from the chest. “Yes, some things are Incan.” She began packing the pieces of treasure carefully back inside the chest. Yes, there were items for Hugh’s artifact display, but not the piece she was most excited about. She would keep possession of that one for now.

  She wanted to assemble all the broken, scattered parts before relinquishing the final masterpiece. She suspected the clues to their location could be found in the journal she’d also discovered in the chest because she was staring at a drawing of the complete, unbroken talisman on one of the journal’s pages. She would need to scour the frail notebook carefully, and because she was neither fluent in written Spanish nor particularly knowledgeable about ancient Incan history, the task would be time-consuming.

  And she would have to do it alone. Life had taught her not to trust easily, and this particular secret guarded a priceless treasure.

  Nine Months Later

  * * *

  Santino Alonso walked down the aisle of the dormant church in Atlanta, past the dark pews and tall, peripheral columns bearing tapestries of holiday greens and reds.

  He genuflected before sitting in the second row. In front of him stood a gargantuan holy table containing the thick, hardback gospel lectionary. Behind the podium glowed a backdrop of a six-foot alabaster church with steep roofs and numerous pinnacles. Above the miniature church was a round, stained-glass window, but no light shone through at this late hour. A table with rows of lit candles twinkled off on one side.

  As Santino settled into the warmth of the serene church, he slid out of his wool coat and scarf. He was deep in his reflections when footsteps sounded on the floor behind him. Out of habit of watching his back, he turned to look at who was stalking down the quiet sanctuary.

  Not patrons paying their respects.

  Two Latino men, one in a dark leather jacket and both in jeans and T-shirts, walked down the aisle, gazes firmly fixed on Santino. Judging by their intent stares and flexing fists, they hadn’t come to the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception to worship.

  The one in the black jacket had a face as leathery looking as his outerwear—weather-beaten and with scars indicating he’d seen his share of violence. The other man was younger, with twitchy shoulders and fingers, suggesting he was a newly hired thug, perhaps still in his training phase, and hadn’t learned to control the preconflict adrenaline surge.

  Santino wondered who’d hired them, and if the other members of the security team he worked for were also targets or if this was personal. He’d traveled to many South American countries, making both friends and enemies, so their being Latino didn’t narrow down the list of potential employers.

  The rest of the Rider team were on various assignments spread out across the globe, including his brother, but Santino had been relegated to mandatory leave after being near enough to a car-bomb explosion to rattle his senses. As far as he could tell, he didn’t have any lasting hearing damage. In any case, he would send out a warning message to his team… if he lived through this.

  “Dom sends his regards—while delivering you to hell,” the leather-faced man spat.

  On Santino’s most recent assignment with the Rider private security team, he and his colleagues had enraged the Fernandez brothers, Dom and Lautaro, leaders of an Argentinian-based cartel. So, yeah, the Fernandez brothers were apparently taking their revenge tonight.

  “We’re going to do this here?” Santino asked, gesturing to their surroundings as he eased out of the pew and backed up toward the altar. “Is nothing sacred?”

  Leather Man smirked. “Look at it this way. You die in the house of your Maker. What better place for your soul?”

  “Y tu alma?” And your soul? Santino didn’t particularly care about this man’s soul, but he needed to stall as he considered his options.

  Leather Man unleashed a dark chuckle. “I have no soul.” He pulled out a gun, which had been tucked in the back of his blue jeans, and took aim.

  Santino dove behind the large holy table as the deafening sound of gunfire echoed off the church walls. From the sound, only one man was firing a
handgun. Santino was grateful for the thick, boxlike hickory table between him and the projectiles—probably 380s from a Glock and fortunately not something larger which would have penetrated the wood. The combination of fear coursing through his veins and the rapid fire of bullets made keeping count of the rounds impossible, which meant he wouldn’t be as quick on his counterattack as he hoped.

  Because he hadn’t considered carrying a concealed weapon while visiting a church to pay his respects to his mother—Dios guarde su alma—he was unarmed.

  Metallic clicking signaled the shooter was out of bullets. The magazine clattered to the floor, discarded, followed by the footsteps of the approaching gunman and the sound of the weapon being reloaded. Now was Santino’s chance for an offensive attack.

  The priest poked his head out from the door at the apse and shrieked, “This is a house of God!” before disappearing once more.

  Santino used the lull and distraction to his advantage. Springing to his feet, he grabbed the two-inch-thick lectionary with both hands and swung at the man closest to him. The hardback book connected with Leather Man’s outstretched hands, striking them with enough force to knock the gun from his grip. As the weapon skittered across the floor, the man rounded with his fist. A massive sledgehammer of knuckles came toward Santino’s face.

  Wielding the book like a shield, Santino shoved it toward the punch. A loud crack of bone on hardback rang in the silence, followed immediately by the man cursing in pain.

  The other attacker wasted no time rushing up and trying to grab Santino from behind, but he’d anticipated the move and stepped forward. The man missed, only able to rake a hand down Santino’s back, grabbing a wad of shirt.

  Santino spun and ducked as the man yanked at his clothing. The fabric slid over his head and down to his hands. The man lost his footing at the unexpected lack of resistance.

  When the man clutched the shirt tighter for purchase to keep upright, Santino pulled it toward himself while simultaneously jutting the book out, long edge leading. The hard spine crashed into the man’s larynx. He stumbled back, mouth gaping open and closed like a fish out of water. This time Santino let him have the shirt, and the book with it. Flailing, the assailant tumbled and fell into the table of candles.

  Sensing the first attacker approaching from behind him, Santino lashed out a leg backward. The solid yet soft landing signified he’d struck the man in the abdomen. Leather Man grunted but stayed upright.

  Santino yanked the drape from the holy table, twisting it with a quick rotation of his wrist. When Leather Man swung again, Santino caught his wrist in the fabric and cinched it tight. Using the table, he stepped up and launched from it, bringing the man’s hand with him and over as he wrapped the cloth around Leather Man’s neck and squeezed from behind.

  Leather Man clawed at Santino with his free hand as he thrashed. He rammed them both backward into a wall in the struggle, but Santino held firm despite the dizzying pain as his head connected solidly. His eyes watered and he blinked to clear them, glimpsing the other man, who was still clutching his throat with one hand as he patted frantically at smoldering patches of his shirt and jeans with the other.

  At last, the bucking bull beneath Santino sank to the floor and passed out from lack of oxygen. Santino rolled away clumsily, working to catch his own breath. Sliding on his hands and knees, he retrieved the man’s gun from near the miniature church.

  When he turned back around, the younger attacker was approaching, straight blade drawn.

  Santino waved the gun. “You want to rethink your next move?”

  The man hesitated, bloodshot eyes focusing on the gun. He spun on his heel and ran.

  Santino exhaled with relief. He’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to fire a gun in church, much less mortally wound someone with a bullet.

  He stood, walked to the man on the floor, knelt, and felt his pulse. Strong and steady. “May you dream of repentance.”

  On his way out, Santino picked up his shirt and slipped it back on. He shrugged on his wool coat and looped on the scarf as the chill of Atlanta in December awaited him.

  Turning toward the altar one last time, he crossed himself, thanking his mother’s soul and the Almighty for their protection just now. Well, their protection along with the years of self-defense training he’d completed.

  After pocketing the gun, he took out his phone. He had to let the Rider team know the Fernandez brothers were launching their retaliation.

  2

  One Month Later

  * * *

  Santino stretched his legs, taking long strides through the airport terminal in Lima, Peru. A surreal feeling, part hope and part dread, filled him at being back on his home continent after five long years.

  Was it home?

  He didn’t know the answer. He was born in Miami, so he was a US citizen, but his childhood had been split between the United States and various South American countries. His mother had been from Rio de Janeiro, his father from Texas. Perhaps the somewhat weightless sensation he felt was partially due to never having had a home. Then again, he could just be experiencing jet lag.

  His twin brother, Rafe, had flown down ahead of him to get a visual on Ava Sharp. Weapons manufacturer Bill Sharp, a Rider Security and Investigation client, had called Mica Rider for help when he’d been unable to reach his daughter for several days. Rafe had succeeded in locating her and been watching her since.

  Santino wondered how his brother was faring after coming back to South America, and how well they would perform as a team. This would be their first mission together. They had joined Rider SI at the same time but hadn’t yet worked in tandem. They’d first had to complete a training period followed by a probation period, cumulatively lasting six months. Since then, they’d been on separate assignments.

  Santino slipped in his earpiece and phoned his boss as he made his way to the baggage claim area. “Mica, I’m in Peru.”

  “Good, but there’s a slight change of plans. Ava called her father.”

  “So, are we still needed?” he asked.

  Mica had added Santino to this mission once Bill requested she continue Rider’s discreet surveillance.

  Santino had been eagerly anticipating the task to occupy his mind with a mission, so he braced himself to hear Mica’s change of plans. He didn’t want to think he’d flown all the way out to the South American Pacific Coast and gone through two hours of customs only to be pulled to another mission in another country. Not to mention he’d done a time-consuming deep dive into Ava Sharp’s background to prepare for joining his brother in surveillance.

  “Bill is still worried about his daughter,” Mica said. “She was out of contact because she was upset about something, but she’s not opening up to him. We need to protect her until everyone’s mind is at ease.”

  Santino frowned as he rolled his shoulders. “I thought she didn’t want protection.”

  Surveillance was one thing; protection was another. He couldn’t fathom what a headache it might be to play bodyguard to a billionaire’s daughter with daddy issues who wanted nothing to do with a security team. Chasing her around like paparazzi and spying from a distance sounded unappealing, not to mention ineffective. Besides, the woman was thirty—not a child in need of babysitting. What if the distressed mood her father sensed was nothing more than boyfriend dilemmas?

  Santino shook off his negativity. If forcing protection on a client’s daughter was the job, it was the job. And working for the Rider team was a damn good job. Keeping busy was better than being benched and wondering when the Fernandez brothers would strike again. They had targeted no one else on the team since the church incident, and he hoped the situation would remain stable. Except stability wasn’t the life any of them had chosen.

  “What do you need me to do exactly?” Santino asked, weaving his way through the pedestrian traffic in the terminal and avoiding suitcases on rollers as they zipped past him.

  “For now, until I can get a few more details fr
om her father about what has him spooked, just try to befriend her. We need to show her the Rider team is amicable and unobtrusive. See what’s bothering her and if whatever is going on is something her father needs to worry about. And try to tease out if there’s any reason to put more protection on her.”

  “Is there anything in particular that has her father worried?” Santino asked.

  “The man gets his share of death threats, but nothing concrete. At least, nothing he’s shared with me.”

  Santino stepped outside and into the bustle of people waiting for rides to take them away from the airport. The pleasant summer air of Peru in January was arid, with a faint scent of Pacific salt under the city smells of automobile exhaust.

  Mica said, “You read the file Claire sent?”

  “Yes.”

  Twice.

  Claire Maltisse, the Rider SI information specialist and profiler, had sent him all their files on both Bill Sharp and his daughter, Ava. Santino now knew details about their businesses, finances, educations, travels, shopping habits, cars, eye colors, and favorite ice creams.

  The files didn’t contain personality traits, but Mica spoke highly of Bill Sharp, and her opinion carried weight with the entire team. No one in Rider SI knew Ava Sharp personally, but the media filled in some gaps. By all appearances she had been a social butterfly in her twenties who changed dates as often as wardrobes until a few years ago, when she became more of a recluse.