Page 71 of Deceive Me
If Mansa had a home base, it would be somewhere near his most important target: Deacon. Elliot took the interstate toward Deacon’s property but exited at the first rest stop, pulled the SUV between two 18-wheelers, then raided the chest in the back. The laptop inside powered up quickly, and Elliot accessed the USB even quicker. Sheppard had been smart, hacking a back door into what Elliot figured was probably that prick Kivuli’s cell phone to access location services. Mansa wasn’t used to hiding his whereabouts too hard—everyone knew where he lived. Elliot blessed the girl’s ingenuity as she powered down the laptop as fast as possible. She was on the move mere minutes after stopping.
The darkest part of the night had hit by the time she reached Mansa’s current location, a lodge deep in the hills about half an hour north of Deacon’s house. She took the SUV off-road, through the woods and down into a valley between two hills. After unscrewing the dome light, she climbed into the back and suited up. Essentials only: gun in her equipment belt, extra clip, phone. She left the cell powered up, ringer off—GFS needed a way to pinpoint her exact location if Mansa moved them. The vehicle had its own tracker, but there was no guarantee Elliot would be on the property by the time Deacon’s team found it.
What else? Two knives, one in her boot, one strapped to the inside of her thigh. The equipment on her belt would be taken immediately, so they were mostly for show, but the knives…those she might just get a chance to use.
The dim moon helped hide her as she made her way toward the lodge, the details of her plan running through her head. Well, really only one detail: get caught. The men working for Mansa, with the exception of Kivuli, were of no importance and would likely scatter when their master got his head bashed in. If she could take one or two out, it might help Deacon when he arrived, but the real objective was to get in the room with her father and Kivuli. That was the part of the battle that mattered, the part she would reserve her strength for.
The building sat atop the tallest hill in the area, strategically placed to give Mansa and his men the advantage. More than likely they would be looking for obvious targets. Elliot approached low and slow, angling toward a back corner of the house. Two guards paced the back balcony, two the front, and she counted at least six more walking the perimeter. None of the men were Kivuli. When Elliot reached the tree line, she crouched amid a thick patch of bare elderberry bushes and waited, breath easy, eyes vigilant.
The first guard passed within two minutes. She counted down the time, another three minutes before guard number two walked by, smoking a cigarette. She marked the scent and restarted her count. Three-minute intervals brought each guard back around. The casualness of their movements, the lack of glances out into the woods, told her they’d reached the part of the night where boredom made them lazy. When one decided his bladder needed emptying just as he came even with her, she smothered a grin and shifted silently into a position that allowed for easier movement.
The guard walked a few feet into the woods to face an old, thick oak. A zipper whizzed down. Rustling cloth. A steady stream began, accompanied by a sigh of relief. Elliot approached from the back.
Tall bastard. She didn’t want to kill him—these men weren’t from Africa, probably hired mercenaries, but she had no idea of their pasts. Still, she needed to take them out. Since she couldn’t reach the guy’s neck, she waited till he was in midstream, then hit the back of both knees with a solid roundhouse.
The man stumbled, balance lost. His head hit the tree. Not enough to knock him out—Elliot did that with a choke hold. After he was unconscious, she tied his wrists with zip ties and left him lying in his own urine.
Her second chance came with the cigarette-smoking guard. As he rounded the corner, she saw a faint orange light arc from his hand toward the grass. He ground the butt out with his toe, already retrieving his half-empty pack from a back pocket. She was in front of him before his lighter flared, killing his night vision. Her kick to the groin bent him over, evoking a rough gagging sound that cut off when her fist connected with the point just behind his ear.
Two down.
Unfortunately the bastard was too heavy to move quietly to the woods, so she zip tied him, then rolled him against the side of the house, buying herself a few minutes, hopefully. She started the countdown as she searched him, looking for keys. Front right pocket. She was approaching the shadows of the back patio when the next guard appeared.
“Hey!”
Game up.
She sprinted for the woods, just to make it look good. Thick arms yanked her off the ground before she took four steps. This one was fast. And strong, if the protesting in her ribs was anything to go by. Elliot fought him, but he carried her easily to the patio. Bastard wasn’t even breathing hard when his partner arrived.
“Where’s Peters and Cragen?” the new arrival asked.
Her guard dropped her on the concrete. Before she could scoot away, his booted foot landed on her back, forcing her prone. She let a few choice words loose.
More arrivals, more discussion. Elliot rolled her eyes and rested, waiting, knowing the moment would come. And then it did: Kivuli walked from the house to the patio, white teeth and eyes gleaming against his midnight skin. Tall and lean, there was still no doubt that the man was lethal.
Every guard around her went rigid.
Kivuli ignored them, coming to stand directly in her view. “So, you’ve arrived.”
“Surprise!”
A spark of amusement actually lit in the enforcer’s scary eyes. “No, but you are welcome. We’ve been waiting.” He nodded to the guard whose boot still rested on her back. “Bring her.”
28
The hard fingers biting into his shoulder shook him wake. On instinct he gripped the palm, twisting it backward, using the leverage to jerk the attacker onto the bed beside him and scramble to drop a knee on their chest. Only then did he come awake enough to realize it wasn’t an attacker beneath him, but Fionn.
“Be gettin’ your hairy-ass balls outta my face, would ya?” Fionn growled.
Deacon released him in favor of finding his underwear. “What’s going on?” Sydney’s door was still closed, locked, but otherwise the room was empty. “Where’s Elliot?”
“That’s the problem.”
He paused halfway to the floor, reaching for his fatigues. “What?”
Fionn scrubbed a hand across his forehead. “Come in the living room.”
Fuck. What now?
