Detective Kristen Conner made her literary debut in Cuts Like a Knife. She is back in Every Breath You Take.

1. PRAISE FOR CUTS LIKE A KNIFE
Readers can’t help enjoying this new voice.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
An intense, eerie, funny, and suspenseful thriller with a very subtle
faith thread that enriches rather than suffocates the story. Gilroy’s
debut is a surefire winner.
USA TODAY HEA Blog
I loved this book! Mark Gilroy is an author to watch. Highly
recommended.
C. J. Darlington, GOOD READS
The first Conner mystery is an engaging tale. Readers will enjoy kick-
butt Kristen as she tries to balance her loving family life with her
deadly occupation.
THE MYSTERY GAZETTE
Gilroy’s writing feels effortless. I enjoyed every minute of this intense
roller-coaster ride.
POPCORN READS
In this debut, Gilroy introduces a witty, endearing cast of characters.
The suspense is taut and moves forward at a steady pace to keep the
reader firmly involved in the ultimate outcome of the story.
ROMANCE TIMES BOOK REVIEWS
A unique and engaging read, surprisingly humorous for a fast-paced
thriller that includes a brash female detective and a vicious serial
killer. Mark’s dry wit is fabulous, easing the tension.
RELZ REVIEWZ

2. PART ONE
Betrayal can only happen if you love.
John LeCarre

3. !
!"#$%&'()*#+,#-.#/)0
1231)+4-4
564) 567) 89-) :6,) $##;:<) =>&,) 89-) $##;:<4) 89?#) :#?#/) $##:) $6) -"@>)
.A66%4)!>;$)@&:9,).#)>;-4
B>&,) &-) 8) %6;:<) >#/#C) 8,) =&$) $6) $,"+;%) ,6) @6-#) 6?#/4) 8) D"$,)
=&:,#%),6)A#,)>;-)E:6=)>6=)>#)-&%#)-#)F##A4)G#)=&$)&=F"A),6)-#4)
G#)=&$)&=F"A),6)#?#/'6:#4)H)"$#/)&:%)&."$#/4
!6),>;:E)8),>6"<>,),>#/#)-;<>,).#)$6-#,>;:<)/#&A).#,=##:)"$4)G#)
=&$),66)%&-&<#%)#-6,;6:&AA'),6)>&?#)&:',>;:<)/#&A)=;,>)&:'.6%'4
B>#:)8)%;%:9,)>&,#)>;-)8),>6"<>,)8)-;<>,)A6?#)>;-4
I",),>;$)=&$):#?#/)$"++6$#%),6)>&++#:4)8)D"$,)=&:,#%)>;-),6).#)
$@&/#%4
J&'.#) ,>;$) >&$) :6,>;:<) ,6) %6) =;,>) -#4) H:%) 8) %6:9,) ,>;:E) >#)
=6"A%)>&?#)E;AA#%)>;-4)K"$,)$@&/#)>;-4)!>&,9$)&AA4)J&'.#)$6-#6:#)
#A$#)%;%4)!>#/#)=#/#)+A#:,')=>6)=&:,#%)>;-)%#&%4
8):##%),6)@&AA),>#)+6A;@#4)I",)>6=)@&:)8)#L+A&;:)=>')8)=&$)>#/#C)
H:%)>6=)8)<6,);:C)B;AA),>#'),>;:E)8)%;%),>;$C)!>#')=6"A%)>&?#),64)
B>') &-) 8) #?#:) &$E;:<C) MF) @6"/$#) ,>#'9AA) ,>;:E) 8) %;%) ;,4) 56,>;:<)
A66E$)/;<>,)&.6",)-#).#;:<)>#/#4)!>#/#);$):6)#L+A&;:;:<);,4
I",)8)@&:9,)D"$,)A#&?#4)B>&,);F)>#9$):6,)%#&%C)
89-)$"/#)>#);$N;,)A66E$)A;E#)>;$)>#&%);$)@&?#%);:4)I",)=>&,);F)>#)
;$:9,C
56=)-')-;:%);$)+A&';:<),/;@E$)6:)-#4)G#);$)%#&%4
!>#/#9$).A66%)6:)-#4)!>#'9/#)<6;:<),6),>;:E)8)%;%);,4
8)@&:9,)D"$,)A#&?#)@&:)8C
!

4. Unable to take in the wound, shattered bone, and blood, she bent over
and vomited. She then backed away, closed his bedroom door behind
her, and left his apartment quickly. Bypassing the bank of elevators,
she took the stairs, all twenty-five flights, two steps at a time, and
exited the back service entrance. She half stumbled, half jogged two
blocks to a public parking garage. Tears streamed down her face as she
drove from the area.

5. "
!
The Marines have a saying that seems quite apt right now: Hurry up
and wait. Patience is not my strong suit.
It was ninety-eight degrees in the shade all day here in DC. The sun
has set, so the temperature has dropped. Can’t be more than ninety-
five now. I feel like I’m cooking in the ultra-high molecular-weight
polyethylene jacket I’m wearing. It’s state-of-the-art bullet-resistant
material—ten times stronger than steel. But that word resistant is still
bugging me. Why can’t the gear be bullet proof?
Drops of sweat bead and then fall in rivulets down my forehead
over and around my goggles, some seeping through the rubber ring
that fits snugly to my face. When special agent Austin Reynolds of the
FBI invited me to participate in an FBI training program designed to
help local law enforcement respond to terrorist activities, this wasn’t
the type of assignment I expected. Sure, I’m way ahead of my rehab
schedule from a knee injury I suffered on a murder case I helped bust
this past summer. I had a torn ACL and MCL repaired just six weeks
ago. The three weeks I’ve spent running the rolling hills of the FBI
training grounds in Quantico, Virginia, every morning have been
nothing but wonderful for my recovery—along with daily therapy
including electric muscle stimulation, ultrasound treatments, and
aggressive stretching and joint manipulation. And glorious massages.
Still, I hope I’m ready for this.
We’ve been poised for the strike for forty-five minutes now. A ter-
rorist cell has been operating within thirty minutes of our nation’s
capital. The FBI, in its infinite wisdom, has progressed cautiously
"

6. !"#$"#%&'()*
on this one, letting the group move freely for more than a year in the
hopes that members of Allah’s Fatwa would make a mistake in the
confidence they had not been detected. It wasn’t cell chatter inter-
cepted by the supercomputers at NEA that made FBI Deputy Direc-
tor Willingham issue the order for immediate and terminal action. It
was the lack of chatter. Change might be good for personal growth
and corporate survival, but when it’s a homicidal cadre of mad dogs,
change should always make you nervous.
Don’t use the phrase mad dogs, Kristen, unless you want to get chewed
out again.
Another bit of data came in from Virgil (real name Operation
Vigilance), a computer program developed for Homeland Security
that gathers and collates information from federal, state, and local
law enforcement agencies. Word from Virgil strongly suggested some
bad guys—possibly and probably radical Islamists—had gotten some
weapons-grade uranium into the US through the Port of Charleston.
Maybe one and one doesn’t equal two in this case, but who wants to
risk that? Not Willingham. He’s a smart guy.
I listen to the transmitter and it sounds like things are a little
behind schedule. Four agents have worked themselves to within a few
yards of the five-foot chain-link fence in front of the two-thousand-
square-foot house with all the blinds pulled and overgrown shrubs
nearly enveloping the entire exterior. They popped a manhole cover
above the sewer pipe they traversed from a couple streets away. Four
more agents are within a few feet of the fence at the rear of the house,
having come through the neighbor’s backyard. They are the holdup.
It’s assumed there are tripwires around the perimeter to sound the
alarm of an imminent attack.
#

7. !"!#$%&#!'()
“Move it,” I hear Reynolds say, firm, calm, confident like always.
Unlike me, these FBI people are smooth.
Willingham and Reynolds are running the show from a mobile
command center a mile away. Although “mobile command center”
sounds too sophisticated—no matter how proud Reynolds is of it.
Looks like a Winnebago to me. And it’s parked at Wal-Mart, not
Nordstrom.
But I’ll bet they have air-conditioning. We are cooking in here.
My patience is nearly shot. I feel claustrophobic. My outfit itches
like crazy. I’m sitting with three other agents in what looks like a
converted UPS van about a block away from the house. UPS may
have fast service, but their trucks don’t have a thousand-horse-power
engine and a front bumper with a six-foot-wide cast-iron wedge that
can open the side of a house as easily as a body builder hammering a
screw driver through the side of a soup can. As far as I can tell, no one
else is sweating and fidgeting like me.
Patience, Kristen.
My cell phone vibrates in four seemingly endless burrs for a fifth
straight time. I can’t remember all the specifics of our pre-event
instructions (it’s the FBI that calls these little assaults “events,” not
me), but I’m pretty sure we were supposed to leave our Nokias at
home. I must have tucked mine in one of the pockets of the Batman-
like utility belt that is the final accessory of my chic black-on-black
ensemble. I can’t actually see anyone else’s eyes, but I think my team-
mates are giving me dirty looks.
I feel a new stream of sweat trace down my back. The inside of my
goggles are fogging up. I’m not regular FBI so I didn’t get the custom-
made outfit and gear the others did. My eyes are watering and I’m
$

8. !"#$"#%&'()*
desperate to wipe the beads of sweat on my eyebrows. A maddening
itch is growing in intensity.
My phone starts a sixth round of low rumbling. I absolutely know
better but I can’t take it anymore. I snap open the belt pocket and
bring the phone to my ear, pushing my goggles and hood back, all in
one movement.
“Mom,” I hiss in a low whisper that probably isn’t nearly as quiet
as I want it to be. Hope they didn’t hear that a block away. “When I
don’t pick up, it means I’m busy. Stop hitting Redial over and over.”
“Kristen, there’s no reason for you to talk to me that way,” my
mother says with her hurt tone, a regular part of her communica-
tion repertoire with me. “I just wanted to make sure your flight plans
hadn’t changed so we can pick you up at Midway on time.”
“Mom, same as I told you last night, I’ll be there Thursday night
at eight—and I’ve told you ten times I’m flying into O’Hare, not
Midway.”
“See, it’s good I called.”
“Mom, I absolutely can’t talk right now. This is a bad time.”
“Honey, it never seems to be a good time for you to talk to your
mom!”
I look at the three sets of buglike eyes that are now staring my
direction. Oh, the stories Don Squires, my partner in the Chicago
Police Department, could tell them right now. I wonder if it matters
whether they write me up, since the CPD has only loaned me to the
FBI.
“Mom, I’ll call tomorrow. I’ve got to go. Now.”
“You are going to church every Sunday while you’re there, aren’t
you?”
I’m exasperated. “Mom, I already told you—”
%

9. !"!#$%&#!'()
A voice barks, “Now! Up position!” as the engine fires into a roar
and we are thrown sideways on the uncomfortable benches we’ve
been perched on for what seems like hours. As the turbo-charged van
powers from zero to at least fifty in about five seconds, I drop my
phone and nearly fall completely backward. I hear it bounce against
the metal door at the back of the van. I think I can actually hear my
mom calling my name above the roar of the engine.
All of us are now standing and have belted ourselves into secure
side straps that loop over one shoulder and halfway around the chest
so we can enter the theater of conflict from a standing position and
without a broken ankle. I can still barely keep my balance as we
carom forward, drift to the right, and then veer hard to the left. The
driver—seems apt that he looks a little like Jeff Gordon—pushes the
van up on two wheels in the final turn to storm the fortress while I
frantically try to get my goggles situated on my face. The right win-
dow is covering my left eye. I can’t twist them into position, so I yank
my hood off and get the strap over and behind my ponytail. I barely
have the goggles centered over my eyes and the hood up when I feel
the first shudder of our assault vehicle slicing through the metal chain
that serves as a gate. We go through like a hot knife through warm
butter.
I’m ready, my Sig Sauer SP 2022 automatic in hand, when the big-
ger impact occurs and we cave in the garage door. Jeff Gordon slams
on the brakes. There must have been a vehicle parked in there to help
him stop, because all four of us swing forward in the vertical straps,
our legs reaching nearly waist level with the final impact. My head is
filled with the sound of twisting metal. We were told to expect this
and we got it. It’s still disorienting.
Our squad leader is first out and unleashes a violent sidekick to the
&

10. !"#$"#%&'()*
entry door. I wince to myself when the door doesn’t budge. That had
to have hurt. Probably reinforced metal. He’s unfazed and quickly
reaches into a belt pocket to pull out three MCBs—Micro Concus-
sion Bombs—that he slaps on the door surrounding the handle. All
four of us are out of the truck, crouched with faces to the wall and
hands over ears as he wheels from the doorway and positions himself
next to me. I think all three MCBs explode at once as I hear front and
back doors blown inward at the same time our side door implodes. I
race after my team through the jagged, smoking entrance, my head
on a swivel, weapon up and ready to fire.
The architectural drawing of the house indicated a split-level
home, with the main level including an enclosed kitchen featuring
a shuttered picture window looking into a small dining room and
swinging doors leading into the living room. All three attack teams
will be entering on this floor. Three tiny bedrooms and one bathroom
are up a half staircase on the opposite side of the house. A den or rec
room, probably the laundry room, and another full or half bath are
underneath the bedrooms a half flight below our entry point. The
team coming through the front door is responsible for the upstairs.
The team coming through the back door is responsible for the half
basement. We are responsible for kitchen, dining room, and liv-
ing room. My job is to slam through the swinging doors, do a half
tumble, and come up firing at anything that doesn’t have its hands
straight up in the air with a white flag waving. I am then to wait for
audio instructions so that I don’t get shot by or shoot a team member.
As I emerge through the smoke, ready to turn left and into the liv-
ing room, I half trip as my foot hits the heel of my team leader, whom
I’m following closely. I hear special agent Ted Cane shout an obscen-
ity as he falls against the service island in the kitchen. I hit the side
'(

11. !"!#$%&#!'()
of a cabinet fairly hard with my right shoulder and feel a mild shot of
pain course upward, but I instantly regain my balance. I pause and
think about checking on Cane, but remember protocol—he’s not my
problem—and smash through the swinging doors.
I almost feel the sound in every fiber of my body as a thunderous
roar explodes from behind me. Someone was waiting. I don’t know
how he missed me; he had me at point-blank range.
I improvise on the fly, extending my tumble into a full dive and
front roll. As I somersault upward to a crouch, I push myself to the
side into a half roll to bring my Sig back into firing position. Even as
I execute a beautiful sequence of moves, I hear a voice screaming in
my brain. A terrified voice. My voice. Even if I can’t articulate it in
real time, my peripheral vision has already seen I have just one target
to put down. My target, however, is in an upright firing position and
has a large-bore double-barrel shotgun pressed to his shoulder, one eye
gleaming down the length of metal. One barrel spent—but one fully
loaded. Even as the voice continues to scream for me to move faster,
I know my target isn’t going to miss with his second shot, no matter
what I do.
As I torque into a crouch, my head cranes as far to the side as it
will go as I pray for one shot. Just one shot. My target looks relaxed and
in charge. Our eyes lock. My arm is swinging forward in the slowest
slow motion I have ever experienced in my life. In that nanosecond I
feel like I have time to recite Marc Antony’s complete speech to the
plebeians at Caesar’s funeral and maybe a clever limerick about a post-
man named Chuck that I wrote my first year in middle school. I see
my target’s eyes narrow and then a streak of blue flame blaze from the
end of the barrel, and almost simultaneously I am knocked backward
with a violent jolt.
''

12. !"#$"#%&'()*
I look upward, knowing that even with the best polyethylene fab-
ric money can buy—it really is bullet resistant, not bullet proof—I
am going to bleed to death.
I should have told Mom I love her.
')