Most Wanted

By Linda Palmer

Kate Lawless, nineteen, is all alone in the world and struggling at the moment to make ends meet. Although answering a World Security League all-call for psychics is dangerous in these phobic times, she is tempted by the promise of reimbursement for just showing up. Screenings take place in a hotel conference room. When hers goes very well—a shocker—she is checked in so that she can undergo further testing. Staying at the ritzy hotel is quite a treat for Kate. The Christmas decorations are beyond beautiful. The festive background music reminds her of past holidays, most of them celebrated with a foster family or with other kids living in the youth ranch or orphanages that have been her life since the age of two. Her holiday plans this year? Enjoy this surprise vacay to the max, take the money, and pay her past-due rent.

Nikolai Nycov, a Russian member of the WSL team, is assigned to her. While he claims that he's only interested on a professional level, he won't stop meddling in her personal life. He comes off as deliberately distant one minute; helpful, the next. Although annoying, this actually intrigues Kate, as does the fact that her clairvoyance gets a psychic boost whenever Nikolai is physically close.

Distracted by her growing feelings for him, she finds it harder and harder to lock onto Mbali Tinibu, the ruthless Sierra Leone civil war criminal she is helping the WSL locate. Kate finally asks to work alone and is given permission in spite of Nikolai's objections. Only then does she realize how unpredictable and dangerous her psychic gifts can be. And having an annoying Russian around? Well, sometimes that's not a bad idea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Uncial Press
• Release date: Nov 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781601742223

Linda Palmer

Linda Palmer admits it all started when she fell in love with Roy Rogers in the fifties. The family TV was boxy; the picture was black and white. That didn't matter. Roy's cowboy courage won the day and inspired her to  create elaborate scenarios when playing with her sisters and friends outside. Indoors, she read romances in every genre from Sci Fi to Gothic. Linda began writing for pleasure in the third grade, mostly poetry, and has letters from her grade school teachers predicting she'd be an author. Her poems eventually became short stories; her short stories became books. And even though a writing career was never actually a dream, it was something she pursued with intent after winning some writing contests and joining local and national writers' groups. Silhouette Books published Linda's first romance novel in l989 and the next twenty over a ten-year period (writing as Linda Varner, her maiden name). In 1999 she took a ten-year break to take care of her family, but learned that she couldn't not write. She began again in  2009, changing her genre to young adult/new adult paranormal romance. She has now written over a hundred novels and novellas ranging from traditional romance to erotica. Linda was a Romance Writers of America Rita finalist twice and won the 2011 and 2012 EPIC eBook awards in the Young Adult category. She was also a finalist in that category in 2013 and in 2014. Linda has been married to her junior high school sweetheart over fifty years and lives in Arkansas, USA with her family. Ever a hopeless romantic, she still falls for unattainable Hollywood heroes that inspire her to write romances about alpha males and the women who stand up to them. Linda hints that her current crush's name starts with Tom and ends with Hardy. Her website is www.lindavpalmer.com. You can also find her on Facebook: Linda Varner Palmer.

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Prologue

Chapter One

In 2016, a world famous psychic went publicly cuckoo and predicted horrible events, some of which actually happened. A year later, the media and a TV evangelist announced they had proof the guy was Satan, himself. They next proceeded to call all psychics demons and blame them for everything that had ever gone wrong. Things quickly escalated from ridiculous to disastrous around the globe. After much public persecution, anyone with so much as an inkling of psychic ability went into hiding. Now 2020, it was pretty much impossible to find one.

The fact that the WSL was advertising for them was nothing but suspicious. Was their pitiful all-call a ruse intended to flush out closeted traitors? Or were they simply trying to give all the haters in the world solid targets?

In spite of my questions, I rode the bus to the Riverview Hotel on the eighteenth of December to throw my hat into the psychic ring. A lot of people stood clustered at the front double doors. At first I thought the interview line might be that long. I quickly realized they were protestors, no doubt there to heckle the big, bad psychics as they went inside. A man with a long gray ponytail and shaggy beard stepped forward and tried to block my way.

His eyes bore into mine. Are you in league with the devil, sister?

Yep, and he told me he's got a spot saved just for you. I tried to push past him, with no luck. So I glared at the doorman. A little help here?

He actually laughed. Luckily, an elderly couple showed up just then. Surprisingly the crowd parted for them. I entered the hotel on their coattails. In the vast lobby, a sign on an easel directed me to head upstairs, which I did. I was soon sitting in an improvised waiting room with a few other people, filling out papers that a nice lady named BJ had given me. How long had these folks been waiting? I intercepted stares that probably had more to do with boredom than my fabulous good looks, shiny Christmas shirt, or ripped jeans.

Every few minutes, someone opened the door and called out a name. I'd been there almost an hour before I heard mine. Mary Kathleen Lawless?

I grabbed my stuff and jumped up.

The woman who'd called me smiled. Thanks for coming today. Do you go by both names?

Neither. I go by 'Kate.'

She noted that on a piece of paper on her clipboard. Follow me. I did. I'm Dr. Cynthia Seasons. Please call me Cynthia. This screening will take, at a minimum, twenty minutes, but could go longer.

I'm surprised there aren't more people here, especially since there's money involved. That's definitely why I'd given the WSL the benefit of the doubt. The reimbursed for your time printed at the bottom of the posters and ads had caught my eye. Currently on unpaid suspension from my waitressing job, I desperately needed rent money.

As she led me down a short hall, I scoped out her clothing—nice jeans and a sweater. Both were sporty and stylish, but they didn't look natural on her, which made me think she was more of a business suit-matching shoes type. We walked past several closed doors before entering a room with a long conference table and some chairs in it. The door clicked shut behind us, an oddly disconcerting sound. Three solemn men sat on one side of the table, which had been draped in red, white, and blue bunting. They all had their eyes on me.

My judges?

Have a seat. She pointed to a metal chair facing them. While I draped my jacket over the back of it and sat, she joined the men and quickly introduced each of them: Doctor this, Sergeant that, Colonel somebody else. All three of them wore casual clothing, too, as did the other people in the room, two women and four men, sitting to the side of us, three in a row. Although they appeared to be disinterested, I thought that might be deceptive, since I glimpsed a holstered gun.

Were they the jury?

Or my firing squad?

With a toss of her shoulder-length platinum hair Cynthia got right to the point. We're filming this. I hope you don't mind. She pointed to a camera mounted on the ceiling, but gave me no time to protest. Now you've indicated that in the past you've had premonitions that panned out. Is that correct?

I suddenly felt very uneasy. Either I was about to die or these folks sincerely needed help. If it was the latter, the hunches of an outspoken, temporarily unemployed waitress were not going to be enough. Y-yes?

Is that a question? The colonel had a distinct bark and none of Cynthia's manners.

No.

He leaned forward a little. And your answer?

Yes.

Yes what?

Yes, I've had hunches that panned out. Like…who hadn't?

Cynthia shot the guy a quelling look before zooming in on me, her expression firmly set to friendly. Excellent. Now we're going to conduct a small test. I use the term loosely. There's really no failing or passing, and what happens in this room stays in this room. So don't feel embarrassed or stressed. We're all friends, here.

I nodded and waited for her to hand me some paper and a pen. Instead, she reached below the table and got a navy blue sweatshirt that she slid over to me. The moment I touched the fabric, my gaze clashed with that of a man staring right back. Sitting with the squad, he was worth a glance even though my brain hadn't ordered one.

He sat up straight. The ambiance of the room subtly shifted. I noted quickly exchanged glances.

The colonel's bark sounded even bigger. Do you know Nikolai?

Who?

We've never met. The guy in question had a sexy deep voice with a killer accent.

Then why did you look at him? The colonel again.

I don't know. I just did. Are there rules or something? Nobody gave me a copy. Defensive much, Kate? I bit my tongue to keep from saying more. There was, after all, money at stake. Sorry. Forget that…and we should probably just forget this test. I'm so not what you need. I scooped up my bag from the carpet. Um, where do I go to get paid?

Wait! Cynthia.

Please don't leave. The doc.

We haven't finished yet. A trio of protests from the remaining judges or whatever the heck they were. I noted that the colonel didn't sound quite as high and mighty.

Cynthia's smile entreated me. Just a little longer. You're here, so why not see it through?

Her sensible words and my raging curiosity made me drop into my seat again and hook the strap of my purse over my draped jacket.

Thank you. She took the blue sweatshirt away and pushed a closed pocket knife toward me.

I carefully looked it over before laying it back on the table.

What does the knife bring to mind? she asked.

Billy Prince. I noted the puzzled frowns. "A boy I once knew. He always had