Page 15 of Deceive Me
Deacon had Fionn take point. He’d spent his life leading, and if there was one thing he understood about command, it was that the most important trait of any leader was knowing when to step back. He was, frankly, too damn pissed to be at his best, and his team deserved the best.
What he didn’t understand was why the defiant little spitfire he’d left back at the house got under his collar the way she did.
He knew better than anyone how hard it was to send his team out on a mission without him. Elliot’s role as Dain’s second meant she would normally lead this op, but she’d made sure Sydney wasn’t alone before trying to leave—so why had Deacon felt the need to challenge her? Because he truly wanted her with Sydney, or because arguing with her was slightly less disturbing than wanting her?
And yet, if the heaviness in his gut was any indication, arguing with her had merely heightened his secondary issue. Again.
His gut also told him that Elliot would guard Sydney till her last dying breath, not because she was a woman but because of the way she reacted to his daughter. The fear in her serious blue eyes when Sydney had slid down the bannister. The way she touched his daughter’s hair, knelt to talk to her like Sydney was her equal instead of a nuisance. Elliot might not understand children or childhood—for what reasons, he didn’t know—but she already felt some connection to Sydney; he’d seen it in her eyes. And he knew better than anyone what that connection would drive someone to do. It didn’t matter who he had to kill or sacrifice, he would make his daughter safe. Elliot, warrior that she was, would do the same for anyone she cared about. He wanted her focused on his daughter now more than ever, if only to grow that instinct inside her. For Sydney’s sake.
Right. Not your own.
Of course not.
He grinned at Fionn’s back, his steady footsteps in perfect sync with his friend’s as they traveled at a fast clip through the thick woods outside of the perimeter fence to the south of Deacon’s property. At the road they chose the heaviest cover and crossed, then split up, Fionn and Deacon to the left, King and Saint to the right, spreading out to approach their target from both sides. Based on the position Elliot had indicated, the observer would not have been able to see them leave from the back of the house. Deacon hoped that meant he’d still be there when they arrived.
Only it couldn’t be that easy. He’d learned in the past two years that, when you thought you had an advantage, that’s when the universe tended to punch you right in the kidney. So he wasn’t surprised when their stealthy approach brought them to an empty rock ledge jutting out from the slope.
Fionn’s hissed “Feck it!” was heard more through the earbud Deacon had slid in before leaving the house than aloud. He silently agreed with his second’s sentiment as he took in their surroundings for any clue that would tell them where their prey had scrambled off to. The rock was clear, no more than a couple of scrapes bearing evidence of its recent occupant, but there had to be something…
The sound of a crack and a low, rough curse echoed down from farther up the slope. “Got him,” King commed, his voice heavy with the effort of racing up the hill. Deacon and Fionn ran, their path a parallel line to the other two, not bothering with stealth any more than their prey now was. They could hear the man scrambling through the brush, catch occasional glimpses, but whatever had caused him to break his silence was also slowing him down. The team converged on him before he managed to reach the crest of the hill.
Fionn’s GLOCK was out and pointed at the man’s head before he could turn to look at them. “Hands out!”
The man froze, all except for his hands, which moved slowly out from his sides. A heavy camouflage coat and pants might’ve led a civilian to mistake him for a hunter despite the lack of an orange vest, but the rifle in his hand was no hunting weapon. It was a sniper rifle.
The sight made Deacon’s blood freeze in his veins. His daughter had been in that window. Elliot had been in that window—and were it not for her, they wouldn’t have known a sniper was staring straight at it.
So why hadn’t he taken the shot?
“On your knees,” Fionn barked. When their target complied, Fionn jerked his chin at Saint. The other man approached their target from behind, then summarily stripped him of his weapon, the equipment strapped to his body, and finally the freedom to move. As the zip tie tightened around his wrists, the target gave a low growl of discomfort.
Good. “Get used to it,” Deacon said, stepping around to face the bastard. Fighting the urge to punch him. “Cutting off your circulation is the least you can expect until I get some answers.” Maybe not even then.
“Look”—the man didn’t turn his head, didn’t move except to talk—“I got no quarrel with you. This is just a job, okay? No harm done.”
“Fecking bastard.” Fionn’s gaze burned with the promise of retribution Deacon was sure they all felt. “You had a sniper rifle pointed at a wee one, and you’re telling us there’s ‘no harm done’?”
Deacon saw fear creep into the man’s gaze. “No, no!” the man insisted, shaking his head frantically. “That’s just for protection. I didn’t point it at the girl, I promise. Just the camera. Only the camera, I promise!”
“And why should I believe you?” Deacon asked. From the corner of his eye he saw Saint stalking toward him, a wallet in his hand. He passed Deacon the man’s driver’s license.
Gary Lawrence.
“Well, Gary?” He transferred his gaze to the man on his knees. If Gary’s face was any indication, Deacon’s rising anger was coming through loud and clear despite the low, careful tone he used—or maybe because of it. “Tell me, why should I believe you?”
Gary cursed. “’Cause I ain’t no baby killer.”
“Your boss is,” Fionn said, casually fingering the long knife attached to his belt. “If you’re helping him, that makes you just as guilty.”
“No, I’m not! I don’t even know him. The job was just to get some pictures, that’s all, not hurt anybody.”
At the casual dismissal of a threat to his daughter, Deacon’s temper got the better of him. He lunged, one hand already drawn back, a feral growl tearing from his lips to echo through the quiet woods. The crack of his fist against the man’s hard cheekbone was even louder.
The punch tipped Gary off balance. Without the use of his hands, he fell heavily onto his side, a trickle of blood escaping where his skin had split open. No one moved to pull him upright.
Deacon rubbed his knuckles, pushing the pain into his bones, savoring every pulse as he stared down at the crumpled figure.
“Deacon.”
