THE KATE PREACHER THRILLER SERIES: RELENTLESS
Praise for RELENTLESS:
"I was on edge reading this book. I cried reading this book. I can’t get the characters out of my mind." ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
"What a Debut! As one who devours books in this genre, I am thrilled to say this one seems more like a bestseller by one of your favorite authors." ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
"Taut and energetic, Relentless lives up to its name in action and suspense. An engrossing first-rate thriller."
~ DIRK CUSSLER, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author
"Michael Maloof’s RELENTLESS is a heart-pounding thriller that grabs you from the very first page and doesn’t let go until the explosive conclusion."
~ Ryan Steck, The Real Book Spy and author of OUT FOR BLOOD
Read an excerpt from Relentless:
FRIDAY, APRIL 17, THE PRESENT
6:15 AM EDT
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
Nomad flexed his right wrist, and with the palm of his hand, eased the joystick forward. The motor on his wheelchair hummed, and he maneuvered toward the center of the workstation. This environment was his creation. The height set to accommodate his chair with room beneath to manipulate the joystick. With subtle right or left pressure on the stick, he could navigate the full semicircle desk and jump between clients and projects.
There were traditional keyboards and mice, but the layer of fine dust revealed little use. Nomad’s world was one of proprietary speech recognition technology and the pressure-sensitive controls he designed and added to his chair. His forearms, wrists, fingers, head and voice all served as system navigation and command-and-control interfaces.
A matrix of monitors, stacked three high and eight across, spanned the arc of the desk and formed his window on the outside world. As a C6 quadriplegic, what he lost in physical mobility he regained in the virtual world. He chose the name Nomad for the irony, and believed his world offered freedom, control, and safety.
Nomad scanned the monitors. His building’s security cameras, global news feeds, random engineering musings of a few MIT grads on Slack. Another monitor was hammering away on a client’s file with one of his decryption algorithms. No challengers yet on any of his virtual chess boards, and that brought him to the Frenchman, his favorite opponent.
The central monitor was a live, split-screen camera feed from the Frenchman’s Paris apartment. One feed came from the Frenchman’s laptop, and the other from the camera embedded in the smart TV. It was Nomad’s practice to plant malware on the systems of anyone in his inner circle. What began as a safety protocol became something more, and he watched and lived vicariously through his contact’s living rooms and their digital and social media lives.
Nomad glanced at the camera feed’s system clock. Twelve-fifteen. It was almost time. He hoped the apartment would be empty, but saw Francois scurrying about, preparing for the meeting. Nomad knew it was pointless, but he had to try one more time.
Francois’s laptop rang with Nomad’s encrypted call request. He watched the Frenchman approach the laptop and press cancel. Nomad tried again, and this time he watched Francois accept the call.
“I admire your determination,” Francois began, “but there’s nothing left to discuss.”
“Look, I know how it sounds, but I’m begging you to trust me,” Nomad said. “You need to leave.”
“You ask for trust, but hide in the shadows.”
“Who I am is not important. All you need to know is that your life is in danger.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “For one thing, I know who you are, but rest assured, your secret is safe with me. Why you’ve chosen this life, I will never understand, but that is your business and now you must leave me to mine.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No, no, my friend. You misunderstand,” Francois said. “This is just a promise that I will keep you out of the discussion, but Moore Industries needs to know what you found. They believe the device is impenetrable, exceeding even the capabilities of quantum computing, and with millions relying on this technology, I have no choice. There is no room for debate.”
“You’re missing the point,” Nomad said. “Tens of millions of customers is exactly why Moore will do anything to protect the NanoVault’s reputation.”
“Again with the conspiracy theories,” Francois said. “You watch too much American TV. I am a respected academic meeting with a representative of a major corporation, not the KGB.”
“I pray I’m wrong,” Nomad said.
“Au revoir, my friend.”
“Wait,” Nomad said. “Before you hang up, what makes you think you know who I am?”
“I understand some hackers have a signature, patterns of behavior, code or techniques they use, that help identify the author.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“So do chess players.”
Nomad heard the knock at the Frenchman’s door. Francois called out to his visitor, and the call ended.
* * *
FRIDAY, APRIL 17
12:17 PM CEST (Central European Summer Time)
PARIS, FRANCE
Francois LeGrande imagined his meeting with the Moore Industries representative. They’ll want to see my research and review my findings. A lucrative offer for my work would be nice, but it would be an honor to receive one of Moore’s Distinguished Fellowships.
Francois rushed to answer the door. He never saw what the masked man pressed into his side, but the effect was immediate. His body convulsed, knees buckled, and his head struck the floor. Next came the duct tape over his mouth and around his wrists and ankles. He lay on the floor of his apartment, dazed and in pain, only half-aware of the large black boot that passed over his face.
Adrenaline surged. His heart raced. He fought to focus his thoughts. Blinked and squinted to clear his vision. He squirmed and wrestled against the restraints. Tried to call out, to scream. Nothing worked. In the futile struggle to free himself, his breathing was rapid and shallow. His vision blurred, and the room spun. Don’t pass out, he thought. Just breathe. Slow down. Listen.
From the hallway, it was difficult to know what the stranger was doing. Was Nomad right? No. Can’t be. If he was here to kill me, I’d be dead already. Then what? What does he want? His head throbbed as he thought back to the fleeting image of opening the door and looking up at the face. There was no face. Just a blur of gray and white rectangles. The man’s ball cap and hoodie obscured any chance of street cameras catching his approach to the building, and the camouflage mask stretched tight from his forehead to his neck prevented facial recognition.
Francois tried to follow the sound of the stranger’s steps. The attic apartment, converted from an 18th-century mansion, was elegant but small. While it suited the Frenchman, it took only moments to explore. He heard the wheels of the office chair as they rolled across the hardwood floor.
He’s in the bedroom.
The bedroom served as his home office. Stacks of books and papers shared his bed, and most of the floor. He pictured the stranger seated at his laptop and cursed his decision to close the connection with Nomad. If he knew, if he saw, he would call the police.
There was an odd sound. An electronic chirp beeping slowly at first, then faster and louder, then slow again. Finally, a solid tone for a moment, then silence.
Francois heard the tones of a cell phone. Too many digits, he thought. Not a local number.
“I have it,” the man said. “No, it has to be tonight. And count yourself lucky I could make this work on short notice.” There was another brief pause and then the call wrapped up. “Yes. Yes. I’ll keep it safe. Now, send me the drop site.”
American, Francois thought, and at that moment, all hope vanished. The businessman he thought might still arrive, might somehow intervene. The man he was expecting was already here. Despair wrapped him in an ice-cold blanket and he trembled. He stopped fighting back the tears and sobbed.
The American dragged Francois down the hallway and into the living room, and the tears gave way to terror when he surveyed the room. A chair from the small kitchen table was in the center. A rope stretched over the ancient oak beam that framed the ridge-line of the apartment’s ceiling, and a noose hung above the chair.
The duct tape muffled his attempts to cry out, and the masked man had little trouble setting the slight Frenchman on the chair. He slipped the noose over Francois’s head and pulled on the rope. Francois stiffened his back, lifted his chin, and gasped for air. The man kept one hand on the rope and the other drew a knife. With a flick and click, the blade locked into place, and in one sudden move he cut the tape binding Francois’s feet. He pulled the slack from the rope and Francois’s only escape from suffocation was to climb up on the chair.
The American tied the rope to the radiator, then stood directly in front of Francois and stared. The mask was disorienting, and Francois found it difficult to focus. He saw a black leather jacket and a gray hoodie. He saw dark blue jeans, and the boots. Large black boots. He could be anyone on the streets of Paris, even one of my students. What is he waiting for? What does he want?
“Let’s talk.”
The words startled him and Francois wobbled atop the wooden kitchen chair. The noose made it difficult to breathe, much less answer questions. When he raised up on the balls of his feet, he could almost take a full breath, but the old chair flexed and creaked when he moved. He knew at any moment it might collapse and he would hang.
“I’m going to remove the duct tape,” the masked man said. “I suggest you remain still. And quiet,” and he gave the rope a slight tug. “Understand?”
Francois nodded, and the stranger ripped the duct tape off the old man’s face. The Frenchman scrunched his eyes, gritted his teeth, and wrinkled his nose. Tears and snot seeped into his mustache. The American balled up the tape and noticed the collection of gray hair.
“Trust me,” he said. “Faster is better.” And then he reached into his jacket, fished out the shiny black device, and held it out for the Frenchman to see.
“Did you crack it?”
Laying in the palm of his glove was a Moore Industries NanoVault. The polished black onyx device, about the size of a woman’s lipstick, was ringed with seven combination dials that controlled access to the device’s unique properties. For the first time since the masked man crashed through his door, Francois thought he understood what was happening. He thinks I’m after the bounty. He thinks I’ve cracked the encryption.
The offer of a bounty, paid in anonymous, untraceable, and tax-free Bitcoins, intrigued cryptographic researchers and enticed the hacker denizens in every corner of the Darknet. Crack the encryption on a Quantum NanoVault, known affectionately as a portable Swiss Bank account, and you’d learn the location of 1,000 Bitcoins. What started as a clever promotional stunt became a worldwide phenomenon when Bitcoin values rose exponentially, and the bounty, still unclaimed, grew to tens of millions of dollars.
“No. No, Monsieur. I assure you, this device is worthless.”
“My client insisted I retrieve this specific device,” he said. “And paid handsomely to recover it immediately. I’d like to know why. What makes this device so valuable?”
“Please. Just take it and go.”
Francois imagined his ordeal might soon be over. He has what he came for. He can just leave.
The American slipped the device back into his pocket and glanced at his watch.
“What’s the combination?”
“It’s not locked.”
“What’s on it?”
“Nothing. I assure you, it’s completely blank,” and Francois nodded toward the laptop. “Go. See for yourself. You will see. It’s empty.”
The American took the device back to the desk, and the NanoVault connected automatically. He returned moments later.
“You’re right, it’s blank,” he said. “But if you’re not using it, why have one?”
“Research,” and Francois nodded toward the back wall. The American turned to see a lifetime of achievement and accolades. Among the faded degrees hanging on the wall were journal clippings, edges curled and fraying, a small shelf of dusty mathematics awards, and a handful of student group photos. Missing was any semblance of a life outside of academia. No wife. No family.
“Then, tell me Professeur,” he said, exaggerating the Frenchman’s academic position. “What makes this device so special?”
“Oh, but it’s not. It’s like any other. Available at any—”
The slap caught him before he could finish.
***
Excerpt from Relentless by Michael Maloof. Copyright 2023 by Michael Maloof. Reproduced with permission from Michael Maloof. All rights reserved.
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I never set out to rewrite the rules of the thriller hero.
I just wanted a protagonist who felt real.
For years I had watched women in high-stakes leadership,
intelligence, and security roles walk into rooms where everyone assumed they
were support staff. They did not announce themselves. They did not posture.
They listened. Calculated. And when the moment came, they moved with the kind
of precision that leaves the loudest guy in the room blinking.
That quiet leverage—the way being underestimated becomes a
weapon—stuck with me.
So when Kate Preacher stepped onto the page, I knew she was
not going to be a “female Jack Reacher.” She was going to be Kate. Former CIA
analyst turned digital-forensics investigator for a major Richmond law firm.
Chess player. Polyglot when the situation demands. Hacker when the situation
really demands.
Readers expecting the familiar silhouette of the lone,
battle-hardened operator were in for a surprise.
Those stories work. They deliver velocity and clarity, and
that satisfying click when the pieces fall into place. But after a while the
silhouette starts to feel too familiar. The tension begins to feel rehearsed.
I did not want to swap the gender and call it progress.
Kate does not earn her seat at the table because she is
invincible or because she is soft and likable. Neither approach felt true.
Kate had to carry real weight—grief that does not vanish when the shooting
stops, doubt that does not evaporate after the win, the private cost of always
being three moves ahead in a game where the board keeps changing.
That contradiction is where the electricity lives.
She is disciplined and still grieving. Strategic and
uncertain. Ice-cold under fire, yet privately wondering whether the next call
she makes will cost someone she loves.
Those fractures do not weaken her. They make her human. And
they make the reader feel the stakes in their own chest.
Because when a character is underestimated inside the story,
the reader gets a kind of double vision. The antagonists see a woman and think easy
target. We see the mind that has already mapped every exit, every lie,
every weakness in the plan.
That gap is pure suspense.
No endless gunfights required when a single well-timed
whisper—or keystroke—can drop the hammer.
The best characters do not announce their strength. They
reveal it gradually—quietly, relentlessly—until the moment they decide the game
ends now.
They surprise you without theatrics. They act not because
they crave the spotlight, but because the moment demands it.
That is the privilege of this job. I get to give readers a
character who challenges assumptions about power, resilience—about who gets to
save the day.
All I really did was let Kate walk onto the page exactly as
she is—brilliant, haunted, formidable—and watch the old expectations start to
crumble.
Because the stories that stay with us are not the ones that
follow the formula.
They are the ones that quietly dismantle it.
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AUTHOR BIO:
Michael Maloof is the author of the Kate Preacher Thriller Series—Relentless, Unstoppable, and Defiant—known for its global scope, emotional intensity, and hard-won authenticity. His novels draw readers into high-stakes worlds where intelligence, courage, and consequence collide. A lifelong adventurer, Michael has traveled to more than forty countries across six continents, experiences that deeply inform his writing. His real-world pursuits have ranged from gold dredging in Honduras and artifact hunting in Guatemala to acquiring uncut diamonds in Liberia and surviving an elephant charge in Kenya. He has also trained alongside Navy SEALs, Marine Raiders, Army Rangers, Green Berets, and the CIA—firsthand insights that lend his fiction uncommon realism and respect for the craft of service.
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