Judas Horse: An FBI Special Agent Ana Grey Mystery by April Smith

By April Smith

Maverick FBI Agent Ana gray is again in a suspense-charged new novel, going undercover into the unstable center of a terrorist cell.Emotionally weak after a taking pictures incident, Ana has simply again to the task whilst she learns fellow agent has been murdered through a bunch of hard-core anarchists working in the back of the fa?ade of FAN (Free Animals Now). Dispatched to the FBI’s notorious undercover university to profit the artwork of deceit, Ana takes at the id of a down-on-her-luck animal lover made up our minds to avoid wasting the wild mustangs of the West. Now she’s able to paintings her means into the internal circle of Julius Emerson Phelps, the volatile, charismatic chief of a “family” of outcasts who live to tell the tale an remoted farm in Oregon, and who're getting ready an act of terrorism Phelps has dubbed “the mammoth One.”The stakes raise considerably while Ana learns that Phelps is enjoying his personal online game of risky deception, and that he possesses a stockpile of soiled secrets and techniques in regards to the Bureau adequate to blow it sky-high.With razor-sharp realism, Smith renders the mental vise of a deep-cover agent residing a lie 24/7. Negotiating a minefield of loyalty and betrayal, less than consistent possibility of discovery, Ana is compelled to devote the very crime she’s made up our minds to stop.Judas Horse is a breathlessly interesting mystery.

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He was an experienced hiker. A fall? Hypothermia? We don’t know. He was hiking alone. It’s a remote location. You have big animals, little animals; they’re dragging pieces hither and yon. ” It is like losing Steve all over again. Like those stomach-churning hours thrashing through the soaking undergrowth up in Oregon just days after I’d come back from administrative leave. I get sick just thinking about the empty yelping of those dogs. When Steve had failed to call his wife, Tina, from a solo hiking vacation in the Cascades, his abandoned SUV was discovered at a trailhead.

Like those stomach-churning hours thrashing through the soaking undergrowth up in Oregon just days after I’d come back from administrative leave. I get sick just thinking about the empty yelping of those dogs. When Steve had failed to call his wife, Tina, from a solo hiking vacation in the Cascades, his abandoned SUV was discovered at a trailhead. Four hundred volunteers scoured the national park, casting a net of inquiry from Eugene to Bend. Everyone from the Los Angeles field office went up on their own time to knock on doors.

Cold fog curls up close and puts its lips on the window glass. When lightning forks across the lurid purple sky, again and again, I laugh out loud, for the spirit of J. Edgar Hoover must surely be upon me. The old man has been dead for decades, but down in Quantico it’s still “Get off Hoover’s grass,” as if he owns our souls in perpetuity. All that stuff about him running around in a woman’s red dress and heels, that’s nonsense, although Hoover did make a fetish out of “cleanliness”—of body and mind, supposedly—fashioned after his own psychosexual obsessions.

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