Page 1 of Deceive Me
Prologue
Two Years Earlier
Location: Namibia, Africa
Global First Security Team: Foxtrot
Mission Objectives:
- Rescue Senator Jeremy Ewing, wife, and twin daughters.
- Detain Andre Diako for questioning.
- Release human cargo.
- Incapacitate Diako’s ship.
Entry: 2100 hours local time
* * *
The dock in the middle of nowhere, Liberia, smelled of rotting fish, fetid water, and the open sewers lining the streets nearby. Deacon Walsh ignored the stench and cursed as he directed his NVGs at the deck of the freighter moored at the end of the dock. The ship wasn’t large, not as cargo ships went; that was how Martin “Mansa” Diako kept his operations under the radar. Every inch of space below deck would be crammed with illegal goods and human slaves, though.
Their target was a little higher end. Too bad Mansa wasn’t on board with the hostages instead of shipping the senator and his family with his son. Mansa believed in earning what you got, not having it handed to you. Andre Diako had moved up in his father’s organization if he had the privilege of “escorting” such high-profile prisoners.
The soldiers pacing the deck confirmed the senator’s location—regular cargo wouldn’t require that amount of guards, not in this out-of-the-way port. In the dim lights thrown by the few unbroken lights peppering the nearby dock, Deacon counted easily twice as many fatigue-clad figures as their informant had claimed would be there. If not for the fact that the fucker was already dead, Deacon would snap his fucking neck. His team needed to get in and out with as little fuss as possible, and that wasn’t happening with thirty well-trained pirates between them and Senator Jeremy Ewing’s family.
“What’s the story, Deac?”
Lowering his goggles, he turned to his second in command, Fionn “Irish” McCullough. His best friend’s eyes shone especially white in his blackened face. If not for those eyes, even Deacon wouldn’t have been able to locate him—Irish’s specialty was infiltration.
As much as the command left a bitter taste in his mouth, Deacon knew what they had to do. “Abort.”
Trapper caught the command through their mics. His curse echoed in all their ears. They all agreed with the sentiment too, but Deacon wouldn’t risk his six-man team against that many soldiers with no backup. They’d call in Team Lima. Now they just had to pray Diako kept his father’s “cargo” presentable for the next twenty-four hours.
Except as Deacon swept the boat one last time, the light blinked on in the bridge. Andre Diako walked through the hatch, a sick grin of anticipation on his lips. Deacon saw why when the senator’s twin eighteen-year-old daughters stumbled in behind him, thick metal chains looped around their throats. Tears tracked down the girls’ dirty faces.
They were naked.
Shit.
Deacon allowed himself no more than a brief closing of his eyes, but deep inside, rage billowed. He knew what happened to women the Diakos—Senior or Junior—got their hands on, but watching it and not doing anything? Interference without the assurance of completing their objectives contradicted every minute of training he’d been given since he joined the military right out of high school. It risked himself and his team and everything they could accomplish.
Another glimpse through the binoculars had bile rising in the back of his throat.
Fuck objectives. Just fuck ’em.
“Scratch that,” he barked into the mic. “Diako, wheelhouse, twin hostages.”
Muttered curses from his team echoed through his earpiece, but not one objection. They were going in, risk be damned. Besides, no one had said they had to bring Diako in easy. Deacon would make sure they didn’t.
“Trapper, Inez, take point,” Deacon murmured. He lowered the binoculars, needing to focus. The two team members moved seamlessly along the wharf, keeping to the shadows, their bodies in sync with the ease of long practice. Their team had only been together four years, but Trapper and Inez had gone through Hell Week together, served their two terms as special forces together. They read each other’s minds, it seemed, just as Deacon and Irish did. Maybe their expertise would get them through tonight without getting dead, but if not, it was worth it to give those two girls a chance.
Li and Farley followed the pair into the dark. Irish trailed Farley toward midship, Deacon covering their six.
The slap of waves against the hull covered the whisper of cloth against cloth as the six men closed in on their destination. Despite nightfall, the heat had melded Deacon’s body armor to his skin with sweat. The air was thick with salt, scraping against any unprotected skin. Instant facial. He didn’t think it would go over well back home, though. He’d rather be in the jungle than on the coast, even with the heat, but he went where the prey was. That’s why he’d left the military, after all—why most of his team had left the military. The freedom to hunt bastards like Diako and his warlord father. And the freedom to make sure those same bastards never surfaced again.
Two guards stood at the gangway, their focus more on their cigarettes than their guns and possible intruders. Trapper and Inez had the two down before they ever knew a threat existed. Farley and Li dragged the bodies down to the dock and stuffed them out of sight while Deacon and Irish kept watch. Trapper and Inez were halfway to the lower deck passage before the rest of them hit the deck. At least the bastard informant had coughed up a map of the ship before he earned his broken neck.
