Ghost Heart (Ebook--Kindle and epub)

USA Today bestselling authors Lisa Harris and Lynne Gentry deliver a riveting series of unforgettable and chilling medical thrillers.

“Move over, Robin Cook!”

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ABOUT THIS EBOOK: Ghost Heart

USA Today bestselling authors Lisa Harris and Lynne Gentry deliver an unforgettable and chilling medical thriller about a mother willing to risk everything for her child, and a surgeon desperate to cover his crimes. 

A brutal murder convinces Dr. Mia Kendall there's more than she imagined to the mysterious spike in heart transplant rejections. Determined to find answers before she loses another patient, Mia gets sucked into a dangerous international medical web. With time running out for her youngest transplant recipient, Mia is forced to partner with a disillusioned ex-military pilot who flies brokered organs across East Africa. But searching for the truth will prove costly, because there are some lines that should never be crossed.

A haunting story that will take you from the suburbs of Cincinnati to the jungles of Africa.

“The best fiction book I’ve read in a long time.”

“Spellbinding!”

“It’s like Outbreak and Captain Phillips combined into one.”

“The writing duo of Lisa Harris and Lynne Gentry presents seamless, action-packed writing that will keep you turning the pages until the very end.”

“A romantic, medical Indiana Jones murder mystery!”

“With its intricate plot, well-drawn characters, and powerful themes, it is a book that will keep readers on the edge of their seats until the very end. Highly recommended.”

“Never a dull minute.”

“Compelling, realistic, page turning thriller!!”

“The final book is beyond words!!”

“A ‘you’ve got to be kidding’ twist at the end! Never saw it coming.”

“Edge of your seat good!”

“I really hope these authors write more books as I don’t think I can go back to my ordinary books.”

 

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 HOW DOES IT WORK?

1. Purchase AUTHOR-DIRECT and $ave!
2. Follow the download link on the order confirmation (links also sent by email)
3. ENJOY!

 ENJOY A SAMPLE FROM THE PROLOGUE OF GHOST HEART:

 Makuru, Tanzania

According to legend, their kind could never die. When they grew old, they simply vanished from this world, like smoke from the cooking fire that snakes above the spindly baobab trees and slithers away.

But not all legends are true.

Or so Jeme prayed.

Squinting through the shimmering rays of the grueling African sun, Jeme balanced the bowl of dried beans on her head and pressed through the crowded marketplace. A maze of narrow paths twisted around her, each lined with dozens of sellers who sat in cramped wooden shops displaying wares on rickety tables.

The smell of curried meat roasting on the grills mingled with the pungent odor of dried fish baking in the late afternoon heat. Jeme’s empty stomach roiled as she hurried past piles of tomatoes, peppers, oranges, and colorful bags of spices. If only she could escape the whispers competing with the buzz of the buyers and sellers. Whispers that spoke of the magical powers of albino blood spilled across the brown earth, and of potions that could bring untold wealth.

She stepped into a puddle left over from the late afternoon rains, barely noticing the mud oozing between her toes. In Makuru, fish and vegetables weren’t the only things for sale.

There was a price for human flesh, promising the strongest magic.

A flash of red caught her eye then vanished behind one of the tin-roofed stalls. Jeme jerked around, her breath tangled in the fear that had long ago taken root. Her fingers pressed against the rough wood of the kiosk as her eyes searched for the hunters. If they trailed her to the home she shared with Mbui, Numa, and Zaina, they would uncover her secret.

Jeme willed her heart to stop its frantic pounding and slipped through the back entrance of the market. Without the cover of the pulsing throng, she would be easier to track. Nerves on high alert, she hurried down the dirt path that led to her compound.

Something snapped behind her.

A fleeting look revealed nothing more than a boy watching his herd of goats in the grassy field beyond the market. She fingered the charm around her neck. She couldn’t be too careful.

She longed for Mbui’s presence and his cunning way of making their path difficult to follow. Not so many months ago, her husband had walked her home from the market each evening to ensure her safety from those who believed in the legend. Then fever attacked him, and Mbui’s strength left.

Doctors from the hospital in Dar es Salaam promised her husband a new heart and a new life, but two days ago the fever returned, hotter than ever. He was dying because of the curse. Today she’d called his doctor, begging her to come before she had to bury Mbui beneath the baobab tree.

A quick glance at the setting sun only added to her concern. There was still no sign of Dr. Kendall’s plane.

Fifteen minutes passed before Jeme reached the end of the winding path. Uncertain whether or not she’d been followed, she crouched in the shadows edging the compound. She studied the home she’d grown to love. Mbui’s once strong hands had built the three huts, with their thick thatched roofs and solid mud walls.

Everything looked the same as when she’d left before the sun had risen from its bed in the sky. Tattered pieces of laundry fluttered in the breeze. Chickens pecked the twig-swept yard. And their goat remained tethered to a sturdy papaya tree. There was no sign of her sister, but Numa rarely ventured into the sunlight.

Glancing over her shoulder, Jeme slipped from the dense foliage. Shooing chickens from her path, she quickly crossed the yard. She passed the hut she and Mbui shared and went straight to her sister’s door. She stopped and stared at the crude wooden slab hanging slightly ajar.

She knocked. “Numa?”

Nothing.

Jeme knocked again, panic rising at her failure to rouse her sister’s cheery response. She pressed on the door. It creaked open. A beam of light spilled onto the floor. She stepped across the threshold, letting her eyes adjust to the silent darkness.

“Numa?”

Jeme froze.

A skinned body lay in a pool of blood.

“Numa!” Jeme fell to the packed-dirt floor. “No!” Her legs refused to stand, so she crawled the short distance to her sister. Body trembling, she sought Numa’s hands, but they were gone. Every limb was gone.

“No!” Her screams rose through the thatched roof.

Jeme pounded the earth, cursing the ancestors who had forsaken her sister. Tears streamed down her cheeks as the sobs shook her chest.

Zaina!

Terror sliced through Jeme with the force of Mbui’s sugarcane machete. Where was her daughter?

Jeme jumped up, screaming for the child she’d left in the care of her sister. She tripped over a pile of cooking pots, barely managing to keep her balance as she frantically searched the dark shadows of the room for signs of her baby. 

“Zaina!”

Chest heaving, Jeme stopped in the center of the hut. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t live without her child.

A soft cry broke through the stillness.

She turned to her sister’s tiny bed, threw off the thin blanket, and shoved the mattress onto the floor. On top of the wooden bed slats, Zaina lay wrapped tightly in Numa’s kanga.

Jeme pulled the crying infant toward her pounding chest and quickly quieted her with the offer of her swollen breast. Rocking back and forth, she glanced from the lifeless body of Numa to the door. What should she do? Because it wasn’t her own dark skin the albino hunters were after.

Jeme caressed the soft, pale skin of her daughter’s pinkish feet. Eventually, the blazing African sun would bake her child’s delicate skin until it was thick and leathery. Blemishes would rise and mark Zaina’s beautiful face like inky splotches on white paper—like Numa.

Jeme tucked her towheaded daughter deep into the faded cloth and tied her securely onto her back. She would not allow her own flesh and blood to become the hunted.

But if she stayed here, it was only a matter of time before human poachers found this cursed child.