New Agent 10: 30 DAYS WITH DR. DEATH, YA Thriller

Title: 30 Days With Dr. Death
Word count: 74,000
Genre: YA Thriller

This entry has just received an offer, but the author is giving all the agents a chance to read. 

Query:

Seventeen-year-old Hannah lures wayward teen celebrities into POW-style rehab—it's the not-so-legal, Alaska family business. Her mission: return them sober or in a body bag.

After capturing her latest mark—eighteen-year-old Pierce, the alluring yet annoyingly arrogant son of a prominent politician—Hannah discovers his only “addiction” is his integrity, which encourages him to expose his family’s skeletons.

When her orders change from "straighten him out" to "take him out," Hannah begins to doubt her psychiatrist father’s infallibility. Pierce is charming for sure, but there’s no way he’s the psychopathic woman-hater her dad’s diagnosed. As Pierce’s day of “Survival Training” nears, Hannah knows he’ll be left to die, and if she’s not careful, she could be abandoned in the unforgiving Alaskan wilderness with him. Her choice is clear: betray her family and risk her own life to save his, or stand by and watch another innocent teen die.

But Pierce is not just another teen. Despite his incessant mansplaining, he’s Mr. Darcy’d his way into Hannah’s heart.

During the escape, both kids are shot, and Hannah wakes to anti-psychotic treatments. While her father insists the extreme rehab camp exists only in Hannah’s mind, she embarks upon a secret mission to prove it’s real, even if that means tracking down Pierce’s body in the bush and bringing a piece of it home to Anchorage…even if it means crossing her murderous father, losing her mind for real, or worse—her life.

First 250 words:

It was not the best way to end the day, sandwiched in the front seat of my car between two thugs with garlic-laced B.O.

And it wasn’t like I needed their help. Yeah, the guy in the trunk was heavy, but nothing I couldn’t handle.

Dad didn’t care.

For whatever reason, he didn’t want me driving at night, regardless of the midnight sun. And he wasn’t about to send me out with one goon—that’d be too much like a date. So both these idiots had to come. And they’d probably insist on heaving our latest client into the pit themselves; not because they were gentlemen.

No.

“The toss” was that one last slap in the face—one final opportunity to strip this guy of whatever dignity he had left. No doubt they’d shout something inane as they did it too. Lately, “How do you like me now?” was their favorite sendoff, and though they did force a fairly believable southern drawl, they didn’t sound close to country. More like pro-wrestlers who’d smoked a little too much weed—big, dumb, and ugly.

I hated the drive to the dump, but at least if I did it alone, I could take a moment to reflect. Maybe even say a prayer, God forbid, for the sorry soul whose own family didn’t care enough about him to pick up his remains. With these two oafs though, I’d have to remain impassive, lest one of them actually registered a thought and reported to Dad I was going soft.