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Chapter 1
“Iknow you, Lincoln.” Olga Richmond lifted her pencil-thin eyebrows and pursed her lips, a feat that made her appear both surprised and calculating at the same time. “You won’t be able to write the book until you go back.”
He knew that too. His impatience had been ramping up steadily over the past six weeks, like the accelerated movement of a plane on the runway.
“I am going back.” He turned to the rain-speckled window of his agent’s seventeenth-story office. He stared down at the river of Manhattan traffic slushing through the spring thaw.
“Are you? When?” Her fingers clicked on the keyboard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m waiting for Centcom approval.” He’d had to start at the beginning of the official clearance route again, which meant the process was taking much longer than he’d have liked.
“That’s fantastic. Are you considering the same book idea or a variation on the theme? You could incorporate your experience with the IED and getting injured. Of course, you’d have to embellish it a little. Or a lot.”
Unconsciously, Lincoln rubbed his left shoulder. His injury hadn’t been severe enough to warrant more than a passing mention in the news—Pulitzer-prize-winning author Lincoln Atwood is back in the US after sustaining an injury in Afghanistan—but both his editor and his agent had been pushing him to include the incident in his next book.
“I’m thinking about it.” He faced Olga again, dropping his hand away from his shoulder. He’d gone to Afghanistan with the intention of writing a novel about a US soldier’s unfiltered experience in the war, but the inspiration for the book had been blasted out of him somewhere on a road outside of Kandahar.
Though his body had mostly healed from the impact, Lincoln hadn’t been able to get his head back into the writing game.
His last novel had been published two years ago, and he was under contract to Stone & Waterford Publishers for two more. His next deadline was in seven months. Though the book wouldn’t be published until late next year, there was significant advance buzz about Lincoln Atwood’s next novel.
Stone & Waterford was already planning to throw their weight behind a massive marketing campaign and set him up with an international book tour. There would be award nominations, elaborate dinners, lectures, photo shoots, interviews.
He’d done it all before. He’d do it again.
But first, he had to return to Afghanistan. Specifically, to the site where he’d been injured. He needed to find the pieces of the story that were still scattered over the dry, scarred earth.
It had been one of his first thoughts after the drugs wore off. While he was in rehab, he’d started to make the complicated arrangements that would get him back into the conflict zone, though his doctors had been urging him to wait until he’d fully recovered.
Given the slowness of the approval process, he’d be bench-pressing three hundred pounds before Centcom assigned him to a military unit.
“Connecting your fiction to your personal experiences would be an excellent angle at this stage in your career,” Olga remarked. “You’re thirty-five. You publishedTruthwhen you were twenty-five. A decade later, a semi-autobiographical novel would be a fascinating circle back to your debut.”
Lincoln let his gaze rest on the poster-sized cover of his first book that was framed on the opposite wall. He’d writtenTruthwhen he was twenty-four and signed the publishing contract a year later.
Though he’d known it was good, he hadn’t expected the massive outpouring of accolades and awe that came in the wake of its publication. He certainly hadn’t expected to be nominated for a National Book Award or to be hailed as a “literary prodigy.”
The book had catapulted him into fame, and he’d worked hard on all six of his subsequent books to prove he hadn’t been a one-shot wonder and hadn’t ridden on his family’s coattails.
He’d succeeded at that, too. All of his books had been well-received, even acclaimed, on their own merit.
While Lincoln had never stopped being grateful for his success, he sometimes wondered what it would be like to be able to write without any expectations—both from himself and everyone around him.
Maybe that was the reason his brother Sam had spent the last decade writing thrillers under a pen name—though it was more likely because he wanted to cut any final ties with the Atwood name.
“You know, Hollywood producers would come running at the mention of a Lincoln Atwood personal story.” Olga tapped her Mont Blanc pen on the desktop. “I could get you quite a lucrative movie deal. One that’s actually deserving of your talent.”
She wrinkled her nose slightly in distaste to indicate she was still irritated by what she considered hislowballacceptance of his most recent movie option.
Lincoln looked at the cover ofTruthagain. Before he’d gone to Afghanistan, he’d agreed to sell the rights to the book to a former actor—Jake Ryan, who’d found fame and fortune starring in the blockbusterFatal Glorymovie franchise about an ex-Navy SEAL.
After turning down another go round as his iconic Blaze Ripley character in the six-movieFatal Gloryseries, Jake had left Hollywood last year and started his own production company in Bliss Cove, California.
Two months ago, Jake had emailed Lincoln asking about the rights toTruth. He’d also said that he’d gotten Lincoln’s contact info from Sam.
Lincoln had assumed that Jake and Sam were somehow friends or acquaintances, but he hadn’t pushed for details. He’d told Jake to make Olga an offer, and he’d instructed his agent to accept whatever it was.
Though Olga had been appalled and wanted to hold out for more, Lincoln hadn’t allowed it. After taking Jake’s first offer and signing over the rights, he’d gotten on a plane to Afghanistan. He hadn’t thought further about the deal until now.
