Format: 352 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: December 2, 2025
Publisher: Forge Books
Source: Library
Genre: Thriller, Suspense, Espionage
Publisher: Forge Books
Source: Library
Genre: Thriller, Suspense, Espionage
New York Times bestselling author Eric Van Lustbader pits Evan Ryder against a new and unfathomable threat in this heart-stopping new installment of this blockbuster thriller series!
In this cutting-edge installment of the acclaimed thriller series, New York Times bestselling author Eric Van Lustbader thrusts readers into a world where power is being redefined by a revolutionary communication program that renders modern encryption obsolete, one that will topple global power structures and give rise to technology-driven totalitarian states.
Evan Ryder races against time in a landscape where secrets can no longer hide behind digital walls. Ilona Shokova, the elusive, deadly assassin White Wolf, holds the key to mastering this unhackable method.
Two powerful, deadly women, one quest. Will either one of them survive?
In this pulse-pounding thriller, the future isn't just written in code - it's locked behind it.
Evan Ryder races against time in a landscape where secrets can no longer hide behind digital walls. Ilona Shokova, the elusive, deadly assassin White Wolf, holds the key to mastering this unhackable method.
Two powerful, deadly women, one quest. Will either one of them survive?
In this pulse-pounding thriller, the future isn't just written in code - it's locked behind it.
White Wolf by Eric Van Lustbader is the Fifth installment in the author's Evan Ryder series. This book has way too many narratives for me to list, so I will get right to the story. Evan Ryder, a survivor of profound personal tragedy who has dedicated her life to covert operations, finds herself in a desperate race against time. A revolutionary new communication program threatens to render all modern encryption obsolete, potentially upending global power structures and paving the way for technology-driven totalitarian regimes.
Secrets can no longer hide behind digital walls, and control of this unhackable technology is the ultimate prize. At the center of the chaos is Ilona Shokova, codenamed the White Wolf—an elusive, deadly Russian assassin and operative who holds the key to mastering this groundbreaking method. Described as an almost inhuman killing machine, Ilona carries on a legendary (and originally male-associated) legacy with ruthless efficiency. Evan’s mission becomes deeply personal when a young Russian boy named Timur—whom she regards as a son—is taken hostage and used as leverage.
Blackmailed after a violent attack, Evan must track down the White Wolf, navigate treacherous alliances (including with tech figures and her sometime lover), and retrieve a bizarre item tied to the conspiracy, all while racing to save Timur and prevent catastrophic global fallout. The story pits two formidable, deadly women against each other in a high-stakes quest where survival is far from guaranteed. The story has numerous locations, including Japan and Malaysia.
The premise feels timely and relevant—exploring how unbreakable communication tech could destabilize nations and empower authoritarian control—without getting bogged down in excessive technobabble. The cat-and-mouse dynamic between Evan Ryder and the White Wolf generates strong tension, amplified by the personal stakes involving Timur. Evan remains a compelling protagonist: resilient, skilled, and driven by both duty and deep emotional wounds, while the supporting cast (including recurring figures from prior books, such as her own sister) adds layers of alliances and betrayals.
Ilona Shokova is a formidable antagonist, but her near-mythic portrayal sometimes borders on larger-than-life, which works in the thriller genre yet might feel less nuanced to readers seeking deeper psychological depth. The story serves well as a series capper or a late entry, though starting with The Nemesis Manifesto provides fuller context for character relationships and ongoing arcs.
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1
SUMATRA, NORTHEAST COAST
MARCH
They had spent themselves physically. Their entwining—sometimes violent, sometimes sensual, always desperate—had taken over four hours. Now they lay, still entwined, two lizards stunned into immobility, drenched in sweat, the sour-sweet odor of sex wafting off them like incense.
Wrapped in Marsden Tribe’s strong arms, Evan Ryder allowed his warmth to sink into her. It was an altogether different heat from what she felt beneath the Sumatran sun or from any other sun, for that matter. The warmth exuded privacy and, she supposed, privilege, something in which she had no interest. But she did have interest in Tribe. He was a tech genius, a multibillionaire, the founder and owner of Parachute, the world’s most advanced, privately owned quantum tech company.
He had fascinated Evan so deeply since she had met him nearly two years before, that she not only continued to work for him but now made love to him every month, his private jet always arriving when expected at the airstrip on the landside periphery of the enormous estate he owned. Here in the main villa, built atop a small headland with steps down to the beach, she had lived for a year. And over the course of that year, Tribe had signed long-term deals with the word-salad branches of the DOD, the Pentagon, NSA, a strategic portion of the Fortune 500 companies, as well as every tech company not named Google, Meta, Amazon, or Apple, all of which depended on Parachute’s hyper-speed quantum computer clusters for everything from enhanced AI workflow to end-to-end cybersecurity. Publicly, Evan was just another member of Parachute’s security division. In reality, she was its prime field agent, continuing the clandestine work she had done for Ben Butler’s team under the DOD umbrella.
She began to roll over but Tribe’s arms caught her. He stirred, rose out of sleep, and within moments their naked bodies entwined once more. He was an insatiable lover, perhaps because they were together only the one night each month. Inventive, too. She’d never been with a man who knew his way around the art of sex like Marsden Tribe.
Afterward, sweat-slicked, sated, he closed his eyes, asleep in seconds. She waited for her heart rate to return to normal, then unwound herself from him. Slipping out of bed, she shivered. Tribe insisted on keeping the air-conditioning on while he was in residence, whereas Evan preferred to be lulled to sleep by the night concerto of tree frogs, crickets, cicadas, moths. She crossed to the sliders, unlocked them, stepped out onto the expansive terrace. There were any number of exotic species of birds indigenous to the island but her favorite by far was the regal black-crowned night heron. Lucky for her the stream just yards away from where she stood was home to one. The water, reflecting the moon, wound from the interior, spilling into the sea. She saw the night heron by the light of the moon and the thick river of stars, tall, majestic, moving slowly or not at all, its head directed at the water through which it high-stepped. It saw her as she saw it—she was sure of it; sure, too, that it ducked its head in acknowledgment of being in the same place at the same time.
She leaned against the railing, watching the bird hunt in its singular fashion. She breathed the hot, humid air, heavily laden with night-blooming jasmine, frangipani, Melati. She still felt Tribe’s sweat on her, his musk, and she grew wet between her thighs. As if her body became aware of him an instant before her mind, she felt his arm snake around her waist. She took his hand, ran a finger over the wide silver band circling his right wrist. He never took it off, at least not in her presence.
“Do you want to know how Timur is progressing?” she asked huskily.
For just a moment a cauldron of bats defaced the moon, then were swallowed up by the blackness.
“Are you happy here, Evan?”
“Why should I be happy here?”
“You’ve been here in my villa for over a year.”
“And yet it feels like Lyudmila died yesterday.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t condescend, Marsden. You never cared a fig about her.”
“But I care about you.”
She took a breath, let it out slowly. She was not about to pull on that string. She tilted her head forward. “You see that bird in the stream?”
“The night heron, you mean.”
She nodded, trying not to be surprised that he knew; but then he knew most everything. That was the scariest thing about him; it was also why she was drawn to him.
“The black-crowned night heron, yes. It took months, but we’ve developed a relationship, he and I.”
“Should I be jealous?” He was half mocking.
“Seriously, we have a connection. Time and again, we’re out here together, we recognize each other in the shadows and we communicate.”
“And how do you communicate with a bird?”
“It’s a secret,” she whispered.
She could feel him moving beside her, a restlessness she had come to recognize as one of his trademarks. It was also a tell, if you knew him well enough. Very few did. To them it seemed like he was drifting, when really he was flowing, like mercury.
“Tonight this island, this sea, this night,” he whispered into the shell of her ear, “was made for love.”
She gave no response, stayed quite still as he stepped behind her, spread her legs. Soon enough all thoughts flew away like the night heron, having sated itself. Before dawn they too, were, at last, sated.
* * *
A week after Tribe’s departure, the afternoon idled, glazed with a heavy light, heat and humidity combining to turn skin sweat-slicked, nut-brown. The intense blue, the white sand, green trees at their backs, here and there shadow-shot beneath the clattering canopies of palm trees.
Evan Ryder and Timur Shokov had just finished their daily ten-mile run. They had started months ago, running in the morning, just before sunrise, when the air was still cool, the humidity tolerable. But as Timur’s stamina grew, multiplying swiftly, she had amped up their workout under the blazing tropical sun. Wordlessly, plunging into the surf, they cooled their bodies, then ran back up onto the beach.
Rehydrating with bottles of ice-cold water fetched from an insulated case, they stared at each other, their shared past scrolling through their minds, tremorous chords connecting them.
“Today,” Timur said, “is my mother’s birthday.”
Evan dipped her head. “I’ve been feeling her.”
“I know.”
She looked up. “Really.”
“I do.” He drank more water. “I can always tell.”
Evan frowned. She had thought she kept her sorrow separate from him, just as she kept Tribe’s nighttime visits separate. “How?”
“You get this expression.” He broke off, shook his head. “No, that’s not right. Your eyes … they get, I don’t know, dark, I guess you could say.”
“I apologize. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t,” he said. “Apologize, I mean.”
“Timur, I—”
“There’s no need.” He put the empty bottle neck down back in the ice. “I mean it. Really.”
She smiled, knew it was a sad smile. “She’s so close, sometimes, I swear I can hear her voice.” Her voice telling me to take care of you while she bled out in my arms. Now she looked away so he wouldn’t see the tears glittering, making her eyes huge, glossy.
SUMATRA, NORTHEAST COAST
MARCH
They had spent themselves physically. Their entwining—sometimes violent, sometimes sensual, always desperate—had taken over four hours. Now they lay, still entwined, two lizards stunned into immobility, drenched in sweat, the sour-sweet odor of sex wafting off them like incense.
Wrapped in Marsden Tribe’s strong arms, Evan Ryder allowed his warmth to sink into her. It was an altogether different heat from what she felt beneath the Sumatran sun or from any other sun, for that matter. The warmth exuded privacy and, she supposed, privilege, something in which she had no interest. But she did have interest in Tribe. He was a tech genius, a multibillionaire, the founder and owner of Parachute, the world’s most advanced, privately owned quantum tech company.
He had fascinated Evan so deeply since she had met him nearly two years before, that she not only continued to work for him but now made love to him every month, his private jet always arriving when expected at the airstrip on the landside periphery of the enormous estate he owned. Here in the main villa, built atop a small headland with steps down to the beach, she had lived for a year. And over the course of that year, Tribe had signed long-term deals with the word-salad branches of the DOD, the Pentagon, NSA, a strategic portion of the Fortune 500 companies, as well as every tech company not named Google, Meta, Amazon, or Apple, all of which depended on Parachute’s hyper-speed quantum computer clusters for everything from enhanced AI workflow to end-to-end cybersecurity. Publicly, Evan was just another member of Parachute’s security division. In reality, she was its prime field agent, continuing the clandestine work she had done for Ben Butler’s team under the DOD umbrella.
She began to roll over but Tribe’s arms caught her. He stirred, rose out of sleep, and within moments their naked bodies entwined once more. He was an insatiable lover, perhaps because they were together only the one night each month. Inventive, too. She’d never been with a man who knew his way around the art of sex like Marsden Tribe.
Afterward, sweat-slicked, sated, he closed his eyes, asleep in seconds. She waited for her heart rate to return to normal, then unwound herself from him. Slipping out of bed, she shivered. Tribe insisted on keeping the air-conditioning on while he was in residence, whereas Evan preferred to be lulled to sleep by the night concerto of tree frogs, crickets, cicadas, moths. She crossed to the sliders, unlocked them, stepped out onto the expansive terrace. There were any number of exotic species of birds indigenous to the island but her favorite by far was the regal black-crowned night heron. Lucky for her the stream just yards away from where she stood was home to one. The water, reflecting the moon, wound from the interior, spilling into the sea. She saw the night heron by the light of the moon and the thick river of stars, tall, majestic, moving slowly or not at all, its head directed at the water through which it high-stepped. It saw her as she saw it—she was sure of it; sure, too, that it ducked its head in acknowledgment of being in the same place at the same time.
She leaned against the railing, watching the bird hunt in its singular fashion. She breathed the hot, humid air, heavily laden with night-blooming jasmine, frangipani, Melati. She still felt Tribe’s sweat on her, his musk, and she grew wet between her thighs. As if her body became aware of him an instant before her mind, she felt his arm snake around her waist. She took his hand, ran a finger over the wide silver band circling his right wrist. He never took it off, at least not in her presence.
“Do you want to know how Timur is progressing?” she asked huskily.
For just a moment a cauldron of bats defaced the moon, then were swallowed up by the blackness.
“Are you happy here, Evan?”
“Why should I be happy here?”
“You’ve been here in my villa for over a year.”
“And yet it feels like Lyudmila died yesterday.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t condescend, Marsden. You never cared a fig about her.”
“But I care about you.”
She took a breath, let it out slowly. She was not about to pull on that string. She tilted her head forward. “You see that bird in the stream?”
“The night heron, you mean.”
She nodded, trying not to be surprised that he knew; but then he knew most everything. That was the scariest thing about him; it was also why she was drawn to him.
“The black-crowned night heron, yes. It took months, but we’ve developed a relationship, he and I.”
“Should I be jealous?” He was half mocking.
“Seriously, we have a connection. Time and again, we’re out here together, we recognize each other in the shadows and we communicate.”
“And how do you communicate with a bird?”
“It’s a secret,” she whispered.
She could feel him moving beside her, a restlessness she had come to recognize as one of his trademarks. It was also a tell, if you knew him well enough. Very few did. To them it seemed like he was drifting, when really he was flowing, like mercury.
“Tonight this island, this sea, this night,” he whispered into the shell of her ear, “was made for love.”
She gave no response, stayed quite still as he stepped behind her, spread her legs. Soon enough all thoughts flew away like the night heron, having sated itself. Before dawn they too, were, at last, sated.
* * *
A week after Tribe’s departure, the afternoon idled, glazed with a heavy light, heat and humidity combining to turn skin sweat-slicked, nut-brown. The intense blue, the white sand, green trees at their backs, here and there shadow-shot beneath the clattering canopies of palm trees.
Evan Ryder and Timur Shokov had just finished their daily ten-mile run. They had started months ago, running in the morning, just before sunrise, when the air was still cool, the humidity tolerable. But as Timur’s stamina grew, multiplying swiftly, she had amped up their workout under the blazing tropical sun. Wordlessly, plunging into the surf, they cooled their bodies, then ran back up onto the beach.
Rehydrating with bottles of ice-cold water fetched from an insulated case, they stared at each other, their shared past scrolling through their minds, tremorous chords connecting them.
“Today,” Timur said, “is my mother’s birthday.”
Evan dipped her head. “I’ve been feeling her.”
“I know.”
She looked up. “Really.”
“I do.” He drank more water. “I can always tell.”
Evan frowned. She had thought she kept her sorrow separate from him, just as she kept Tribe’s nighttime visits separate. “How?”
“You get this expression.” He broke off, shook his head. “No, that’s not right. Your eyes … they get, I don’t know, dark, I guess you could say.”
“I apologize. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t,” he said. “Apologize, I mean.”
“Timur, I—”
“There’s no need.” He put the empty bottle neck down back in the ice. “I mean it. Really.”
She smiled, knew it was a sad smile. “She’s so close, sometimes, I swear I can hear her voice.” Her voice telling me to take care of you while she bled out in my arms. Now she looked away so he wouldn’t see the tears glittering, making her eyes huge, glossy.
