Praise for the bestselling novels of Tom ClancyHEART-STOPPING ACTIONentertaining and eminently topicalClancy still reigns.The Washington PostBRILLIANT.NewsweekHIGHLY ENTERTAINING.The Wall Street Journal[CLANCY] EXCITES, ILLUMINATESA REAL PAGE-TURNER.Los Angeles Daily NewsAbout the AuthorTOM CLANCYwas the #1New York Timesbestselling author of more than eighteen books. He died in October 2013.TheNew York Timesbestselling author of the Briggs Tanner series,GRANT BLACKWOODis also the coauthor of the #1New York TimesbestsellerDead or Alive, with Tom Clancy, andThe Kill Switch, with James Rollins. Blackwood is the author of theNew York Timesbestseller,Tom Clancy Under Fire. A U.S. Navy Veteran, Grant spent three years aboard a guided missile frigate as an Operations Specialist and a Pilot Rescue Swimmer.Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.1 Alexandria, VirginiaJack Ryan, Jr., would later wonder what exactly had saved his life that night. One thing was certain: It hadnt been skill. Maybe the heft of the bok choy had bought him a split second, maybe the mud, but not skill. Dumb luck. Survival instinct.The Supermercado was neither in his neighborhood nor near his frequent errand stops, but it did have the best selection of fruits and vegetables in Alexandriaso Ding Chavez had told him eight months ago, but it had been only recently, since his forced leave of absence from The Campus, that hed become a believer. Being unemployed had given him a lot to think about and plenty of time to broaden his horizons. The one frontier hed so far refused to explore despite his sister Sallys exhortations was binge-watching Girls on HBO. That was his Rubicon. No crossing the river for the Roman legions, no chick TV for Jack Ryan. Soon, though, hed have to make a decision about his loose-ends lifestyle. Another couple weeks and his probation would be over. Gerry Hendley would want an answer: Was he coming back to The Campus, or were they parting company permanently?And do what? Jack thought.Hed spent most of his adult life working at The Campus, aka Hendley Associates, first as an analyst and then as an operations officera field spook. The off-the-books counterterror organization had been created by his father, President Jack Ryan, and had since its inception been overseen by former senator Gerry Hendley. So far theyd had a lot of success going after some of the worlds big bads while still managing to make a decent profit not only for their clients, all of whom knew Hendley only as a financial arbitrage company, but also for The Campuss covert operational budget.Seventeen fifty, the cashier told him.Jack handed her a twenty, took his change, then collected his brown-paper sack from the glum teenage bagger and headed for the door. It was just past eight p.m. and the store was almost deserted. Through the broad front windows he could see rain glittering in the glow of the parking lots sodium-vapor lights. Accompanied by a cold front, rain had been falling in Alexandria for three straight days. Creeks were swollen and the DIY stores nearest the Potomac were seeing a jump in sandbag sales. Perfect weather for homemade slow-cooker chili. Hed just put in a solid eight miles on his gyms indoor track, followed by a twenty-minute -circuit of push-ups, pull-ups, and planks, and he hoped to turn his bag full of ground beef, beans, peppers, onions, tomatoes, and bok choyhis moms most recent superfood recommendationinto a reward for all his sweat. The chili wouldnt be ready until tomorrow; tonight, Chinese-takeout leftovers.The automatic door slid open and Jack used his free hand to pull his sweatshirts hood over his head. It was a short walk to his cara black Chrysler 300 and the first sedan hed owned in a long timeand then a fifteen-minute drive back to his condo at the Oronoco. The parking lots surface was new and its fresh coat of asphalt shimmered black under the slick of rain. Moving at a half-jog, feeling the chilled rain running down his chin and into his shirt, Jack covered the thirty yards to his car, which hed parked trunk-first against the guardrail. Old habits, he thought. Be ready to leave quickly; know your closest exits and highways. Months of civilian life and still a lot of the fieldcraft rules John Clark and the rest had taught him hadnt faded. Did this tell Jack something? Was this just a shadow of a habit, or inclination?As he neared his car, he saw a sheet of white paper stuck under his windshield wiper. A flyerfood drive, garage sale, voting reminder... Whatever it was, Jack wasnt in the mood. He leaned sideways and reached for the flyer. Sodden, it tore free in a clump, leaving a narrow strip trapped beneath the wiper blade.Shit, Jack muttered.From behind, a voice: Hey, man, give it up!Even before he turned, the tone of the mans voice combined with the time of night and location had touched off Jacks warning bells. The Supermercado wasnt in the best of neighborhoods, with its fair share of crack-driven homelessness and petty crime.Jack turned on his heel while taking two steps backward, hoping to buy time and room to maneuver. The man was tall, nearly six and a half feet, and gangly, his head covered in a dark hood, and he came from Jacks left at a fast walking pace.Overhead, lightning flashed, casting the mans face in stark shadow.Break his pattern, Jack thought. Having targeted his prey and committed himself to the attack, the mana crackhead or tweaker, Jack guessedwas laser-focused, confident this roll would go like all the others. Jack needed to change that.He took a step toward the man and pointed. Fuck off! Go away!Junkie muggers rarely saw this kind of victim aggression. Wolves prefer weak sheep.But Jacks belligerence had no effect. The mans pace and his locked-on gaze at Jack didnt waver. His right hand, hanging beside his thigh, rose up to his waist, palm away from Jack. Hes got a knife. If his attacker was carrying a gun he would have already brandished it. With a gun you could put the fear of God in someone at a distance; with a knife you needed to get close enough to put the blade against your victims face or neck. And the palm-away knife grip told Jack something else: The man wasnt interested in scaring him into submission. It was easier to strip valuables from a dead body.Jacks heart was pounding now, his breathing going shallow. He swept his right hand to his hip, lifted the hem of his sweatshirt with his thumb, his palm touching... nothing. Goddamn it. He wasnt armed; he had a CCW permit but had stopped carrying his Glock the day he left The Campus. Keys. His car keys were in his pocket, not where they should have beenin his hand, as a backup weapon. Lazy, Jack.His attacker hadnt missed seeing Jacks flash of hesitation. He sprinted forward, right hand sweeping up and out in preparation for a cross-hand neck slash. As though passing a basketball, Jack heaved his grocery bag at the man. It bounced off his chest, the contents scattering across the wet asphalt. This broke both his pattern and his stride, but for only a moment, and did not leave enough time to create an opening for Jacks own attack. Retreat, then. Live to fight another day. There was no point getting in a knife fight if he had a choice.He turned, sprinted for the guardrail, vaulted it, and landed in mush. Below him, a slope with patchy grass and cedar ground cover met a line of concrete Jersey barrier along the highway.Behind him, Jack vaguely registered the mans footsteps picking up speed on the pavement. He started shuffle--sliding down the embankment, using the scrub brush for footholds.His attacker was fast. A hand clutched Jacks hood and wrenched his head backward, exposing his throat. Jack didnt fight it, but rather spun hard to his right, into the man and toward what he guessed would be the descending knife blade. And it was there, arcing toward his face. Jack lifted his left arm and drove his forearm down, diverting the blade and trapping the mans arm in his own armpit.With his right hand Jack reached up, fingers clawing at the mans eyes and pushing his head sideways. Together they fell back, Jack on top. They began sliding down, churning up mud and grinding over cedar stumps as they went.The man was flailing, but with purpose, Jack realized. Trying to free his knife arm from Jacks armpit, the man reached across with his left hand, grabbed Jacks chin, and wrenched his head sideways. Pain flashed in Jacks neck. One of the mans fingers slipped into his mouth, and Jack bit down hard, heard a muffled crunch. The man screamed.Still entwined, they slammed to a stop against one of the Jersey barriers bordering the highway. Jack heard a sick--sounding thud, followed by an umph. Through squinted eyes Jack saw the flash of headlights, heard the hiss of tires on the wet pavement.The man was rolling sideways, crawling on his hands and knees. Lightning flashed again and Jack could make out a bloody divot in the side of his skull; a flap of scalp drooped over his ear.Skull fracture. A bad one.Jack was crawling also, but in the opposite direction toward the embankment. He got to his feet and turned. The man was already up and lumbering toward him. Like a drunk trying to walk a line, the man crossed his feet and staggered, gathering momentum until he plunged face-first into the mud. Swaying, he pushed himself to his knees. He reached up to touch the side of his skull, then stared at his bloody hand.What is... ? the man growled, his speech slurred. Ineed a... need the...He scanned the ground as though hed lost something.Looking for his knife.Jack spotted it a few feet to the mans left front. Too late. The man pushed himself to his feet and shuffled toward it. Jack charged, feet slipping in the mud as he tried to close the distance. The man bent over for the knife, almost tipping forward as he did so. Jack pushed off with his back foot, drove his knee upward. It slammed into the mans face, vaulting him backward into the barricade. Jacks feet slipped out from under him and he toppled backward into the mud. His head bounced against the ground. His vision sparkled.Move... do something, he thought. Hes coming. An image of himself flashed in his mindflat on his back in the mud, throat slashed open, rain peppering his open eyes, the flash of a coroners cameraNo, no way.Jack rolled onto his side.Ten feet away his attacker sat half sprawled against the concrete barricade. His head lolled to one side. The gray concrete behind him was smeared with blood. The man was white, pale, in his mid-thirties, with close-cropped light hair. Jack glimpsed what looked like white skull through his lacerated scalp.Stay there, man! Jack shouted. Dont move.Blinking as though confused, the man focused on Jack for a second, then rolled sideways and began working with his knees like a toddler trying to crawl on a tile floor. He managed to climb to his feet.Tough son of a bitch.Jack spotted the glint of the knife a few feet away, half buried in the muck. He crawled to it, grabbed it. It was a locking folder, almost eight inches long, and hefty.Just stop! Jack shouted, panting. He tasted blood in his mouth. He spit it out. His, or the muggers? he wondered. The cops are coming!He doubted this, but maybe it would be enough to either drive the man off or make him sit back down and accept his fate. And a free trip to the ER. Chances were, in the darkness and the rain, no one knew what was happening, didnt know that Jack Ryan, Jr., Americas First Son and unemployed special operator, was fighting for his life with a crackhead mugger in the mud beside a highway.Christ Almighty.The man was moving now, but not toward Jack. With his left hand braced against the top of the concrete barricade, he shuffled forward, stopped, kept going. A car swept past him, honking, covering him in a sheet of water. The man didnt react.Brain injury, Jack thought. Despite himself, he felt a pang of... what? Of sympathy for a junkie whod just tried to kill him? Come on, Jack. Still, he couldnt let the guywander off, sit down in some doorway, and die of a brain bleed. Ah, hell...Just stop! Jack shouted. Come backThe man reached a gap between the Jersey barriers and his guiding hand dropped into free space. He stopped walking, looked down at his feet.A few feet away a car swept past, horn honking.The man turned left and stumbled forward onto the highway.Hey, dontJack saw the headlights and heard the roar of the diesel engine a second before the eighteen-wheeler emerged from under the overpass. The trucks horn started blaring.Jack sprinted.The truck plowed squarely into the man.Jack stood rooted, staring, only half hearing the trucks air brakes wheeze and sputter.Did that just happen?Do something. Move.He turned and ran back toward the embankment.He stopped.Above, standing at the guardrail, a man was backlit by car headlights.Hey, Jack called. Call nine-one-one!The figure didnt move.Jack cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted again.The figure turned and disappeared. A few moments later the headlights retreated into the darkness.Adrenaline was a hell of a thing, Jack thought. As wasshock. Hed seen a lot of stuff, but something about this... The man hadnt even glanced at the truck bearing down on him.Jack stood in the shower, eyes closed, forehead pressed against the tile wall, as hot water rushed over his head. His hands were still shaking, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.Hed left. With the mans knife. Hed had the presence of mind to make sure he hadnt lost anything traceablephone, keys, wallet, receipt, the larger items from his grocery bagbut ninety seconds after the truck struck the man, Jack was pulling out of the Supermercado parking lot. It wasnt until he was halfway back to the Oronoco that he heard sirens.Was it the shock of it? Maybe, or maybe he just didnt want to deal with the ten thousand questions the cops and media would start asking not just of him but of his father, his mother, his sisters, his brother, and his colleagues at Hendley. Tabloids and A-list media outlets alike would interview his ex-girlfriends and elementary school friends. The headlines would be salacious. Anyone gunning for his father on Capitol Hill would milk the story for all it was worth. All that aside, he was the victim; it was cut-and-dried. There was a witness, or at least a possible witness. Why had the man left?Jack hadnt escaped the assault unscathed. Despite having trapped the mans knife arm, the blade had gotten himthree shallow stabs right below his shoulder blade, none deeper than a half-inch, but enough to leave his shoulder burning and partially numb. Jack wondered, Were the wounds collateral to the struggle, or had his attacker been trying to drive the blade home?His slide down the cedar bushes had scratched and abraded his lower back and belly so badly it looked likesomeone had taken to him with a belt sander. Another worry: Had he swallowed some of the mans blood? If so, he had to start thinking about hep C or something worse.Guy tried to kill me, Jack thought. Why? Because he hadnt gotten his high for a couple hours? For the twenty--two dollars and change Jack had in his pocket? For his car? This wasnt the first time someone had tried to take his life, but this felt different. what is the #1 best selling book on Tom Clancy Duty and Honor (A Jack Ryan Jr. Novel)
52 of 53 people found the following review helpful. THE WEAKEST BOOK IN THE SERIES...BY FAR!By m. harveyThis is a nearly incomprehensible mess!We already know that Grant Blackwood is no Tom Clancy.But this reads as if Blackwood had just farmed it out to a writing class student! Don't waste your time or money....87 of 89 people found the following review helpful. DisappointingBy Theodore SchwederI prefer Mark Greaney over Grant Blackwood for all future Tom Clancy novels. Grant took the main character, made him indecisive, confusing and without direction. In fact the entire novel was confusing without direction and slow.This novel is not up to Tom Clancy's standard, it never got off the ground.52 of 54 people found the following review helpful. Disappointing.By Jim LeonardThe character development was weak. The plot line was also weak, and it seemed mechanical. I think we miss Tom's management and cohesion.