Too bad he was stuck babysitting.
Gavin Lee crouched beside Eliot, armed only with a machete and his favorite camera. The young photojournalist had been embedded with the Special Forces team for a couple of weeks now, much to Eliot’s annoyance. Sure, Gavin seemed like a stand-up guy, who had endured the rigors of a jungle tour without complaint, but who in their right mind thought sticking a civilian into a military operation was a good idea? Eliot could only imagine what kind of strings had been pulled to get Gavin assigned to their unit in the first place.
“What’s happening?” Gavin whispered. He wore an olive-green safari jacket with plenty of pouches for his film. His alert eyes scanned the camp as though he were already taking pictures with his mind. The moist, tropical heat bathed his face in sweat. “When do the fireworks start?”
Eliot shot him a dirty look. He placed a finger before his lips.
Damn it, he thought, scowling at the photographer’s loose lips. Remind me never to work with civilians again.
To his credit, Gavin got the message and shut up. He hunkered down into the greenery, keeping his head low. Eliot gestured for him to stay down.
That’s more like it, he thought. I’ve got work to do.
A weapons depot rose up on stilts a few yards away. A bored-looking sentry, his rifle slung over his shoulder, stood guard over the tower. The guard munched on a durian, the spiky, foul-smelling fruit that was a staple of the local diet. Eliot could smell the pungent odor from where he was hiding. It made his gorge rise.
The guard finished up his snack and tossed the rind into the bushes, barely missing Eliot. Hefting his gun, he sighed wearily as he resumed his rounds.
Right on schedule, Eliot thought.
He waited until the guard had trudged past him before rising up from the brush like a ghost. Slipping out of the jungle, he crept up on the sentry from behind. He had left his rifle behind with Gavin; this exercise required speed and stealth, not firepower. Noise was the enemy.
The sentry didn’t hear him coming. Eliot grabbed the guard’s gun arm to keep the weapon pointed away from him, then clasped his other hand over the guard’s mouth to stifle any cries. Yanking the man’s head back exposed his throat to a forearm strike that silenced him long enough for Eliot to drag him backward onto the ground, where his head hit the earth with a muffled thud. The impact stunned the guard, allowing Eliot to wrench the AK-47 from his grasp. He slammed the butt of the weapon into the man’s skull. The sentry went limp.
The whole takedown had taken less than a minute.
So much for that, Eliot thought.
Confident that the sentry had been neutralized, Eliot sprinted over to his main objective: the elevated weapons depot. Moving with practiced skill and efficiency, he attached a wad of C4 explosive to the nearest stilt. The timer was set to go off in a matter of minutes, right before his fellow commandos stormed the compound. The result would be one heck of a distraction, not to mention maximum shock and awe.
Least I’m doing something useful, he thought. Besides babysitting.
“Eliot! Behind you!”
He spun around to see that a second guard had arrived unexpectedly, possibly to relieve the first. Rifle in hand, he was creeping up on Eliot. It was unclear if he intended to kill or capture the intruder, but he already had the drop on him. The young soldier found himself looking down the barrel of the man’s AK-47, even as the timer on the C4 counted down behind him.
This was not good.
A flashbulb went off in the jungle, distracting the sentry. Startled, he swung his gun toward the flash, away from Eliot.
Eliot saw his chance. Snatching his combat knife from its sheath, he hurled it at the sentry’s exposed back. The six-inch stainless-steel blade lodged deep between the man’s shoulder blades. He fell forward, his rifle firing wildly into the jungle.
Gavin!
Shouts arose from the command center. Eliot didn’t need to check his watch to know that the C4 was going off any second now. He scrambled away from the elevated platform, diving for cover. The weapons depot exploded with a deafening boom, lighting up the rebel base and the surrounding rain forest with billowing red flames. Smoking debris rained on the grounds. The shock wave buffeted Eliot. His ears were ringing.
“Gavin!” he shouted over the din. “Gavin?”
All hell broke loose. Explosive charges blew away the stilts supporting the command center, which toppled over onto the ground. Special Forces, almost invisible in their camo gear and night-vision goggles, charged the ruins of the center, opening fire on the disoriented survivors, who scrambled from the wreckage only to be met by grenades, smoke bombs, and automatic weapons fire. Caught by surprise, and battered by the crash and explosions, the disorganized guerrillas were no match for the highly trained soldiers. Lifting his head from the ground, Eliot was glad to see that the good guys already had the terrorists on the ropes.
Mission accomplished.
But what about Gavin? Scrambling to his feet, Eliot plunged into the jungle in search of the reckless photog, who had definitely not kept his head down as instructed. Eliot braced himself for the sight of Gavin’s bullet-riddled body.
Some babysitter I am, he thought.
To his relief, he found Gavin alive and well among the bamboo and ferns, frantically snapping photo after photo of the chaos engulfing the terrorist base. Eliot felt like punching him.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he shouted. “I told you to stay put!”
Gavin grinned at him. “You’re welcome.”
“That’s not the point,” Eliot said, even though he knew the other man had probably just saved his life. “You trying to get yourself killed?”
“Not going to happen.”
Gavin lowered his camera and reached beneath his shirt. He drew out a small metallic object, about the size of a Cracker Jack prize, dangling from a chain around his neck. Looking closer, Eliot saw that it was a miniature compass.
“My lucky charm,” Gavin explained. He tucked the compass back beneath his shirt. “Makes sure things always go in the right direction.”
Eliot had to admit it. He liked the guy’s attitude.
And he owed him one.
“Better hang on to it,” he said.
“It’s fine,” Denise assured him. Her slender fingers toyed with the compass on its chain. “Gavin would’ve understood. He knew what your life was like.” She took off her coat and sat down at the table. “He always spoke highly of you.”
“You, too.” Guilt stabbed Eliot in the gut. Gavin and Denise had been together for a couple of years; it wasn’t right that he was only just now meeting her for the first time, and under these circumstances. “I always meant to visit you folks. Lord knows Gavin kept inviting me, but…”
“I know.” Sorrow tinged her voice. “You think you have all the time in the world and then…” She choked back a sob. Her eyes welled with tears. “I’m sorry. It’s just that, it’s still so…”
Eliot instinctively placed his hand over hers. “It sucks what happened—and what’s still happening.”
“Why don’t you tell us about it?” Nate suggested. He handed her a tissue. “Eliot told me something about your situation, but I’d like to hear it in your own words.”
“Yes,” Sophie said. “We all would.”
“All right.” Denise dabbed at her eyes. She took a moment to compose herself. “It’s all about the book. Assassins Never Forget. Have you heard of it?”
“Hard to miss,” Nate said. “It’s a big bestseller, isn’t it?”
“More than we ever imagined.” She reached into her tote bag and took out a thick hardcover with Gavin’s photo on the back. “Months on the New York Times list. Book clubs. Audio deals. Foreign translations. Major studios bidding for the movie rights. It would be a dream come true, if not for…”
Her voice trailed off.
“Gavin’s accident,” Nate prompted. “And his brother.”
“His no-good, estranged b
rother,” she said angrily. “It’s ridiculous. Brad bullied Gavin when they were kids, then ditched him after their parents died. They’d hardly spoken for years. But now Brad has swooped in as next of kin to claim Gavin’s literary estate.”
“Cutting you out of the picture,” Nate said.
She displayed her bare left hand. “No ring, no will, no power of attorney.” She shook her head. “I suppose that must sound incredibly foolish and irresponsible now, but we had no kids, and before Assassins hit it big, not much in the way of assets to worry about. We always meant to get our legal house in order, one of these days, but like I said, we thought we had all the time in the world…”
Nate handed her another tissue.
“So now I’m just the girlfriend,” she added bitterly. “And Brad, of all people, gets to profit from Gavin’s success.”
“Even though you had plenty to do with the book as well,” Nate said.
“You could say that, I guess.”
“Don’t be modest,” Sophie said. “Eliot told us all about it. You were Gavin’s unofficial collaborator, researcher, and editor. You read every draft, offered your input, encouraged him to keep writing…”
Denise nodded. “We slaved over that book, together. It was our whole lives.”
“And now you’re getting screwed by Gavin’s loser of a brother,” Eliot snarled. He had never met Brad Lee, but he’d heard about him from Gavin. Brad was an ex-con and small-time criminal who was nothing but an embarrassment to his more righteous younger brother. “That’s not right. I know how much Gavin loved you. He would have wanted you taken care of.”
“It’s not just about the money,” Denise insisted. “It’s about Gavin’s legacy, and everything we hoped to accomplish. Assassins isn’t just a page-turner; it’s an exposé, a fictionalized account of true events, meant to shine a light on the shadowy world of covert black-ops activities: arms smuggling, money laundering, illegal assassinations, wiretappings, break-ins, renditions, etc.” Her voice grew more heated; she was clearly passionate on the subject. “Gavin and I intended to use the book to raise public awareness of such abuses. We wanted to donate a majority of the proceeds to human rights groups, but knowing Brad, he’s just going to milk the book for all its worth—and maybe even hire some hack to churn out formulaic, action-packed sequels with no real substance or content.”
More tears leaked from her eyes. She placed a loving hand on Gavin’s author photo. “We were going to make a difference, Mr. Ford. Gavin wanted to make a difference. You can’t let Brad take that away.”
“I get it,” Nate said. “I have to wonder about that hit-and-run accident, though. Is it possible Brad was behind it?”
“His own brother?” Denise winced at the idea. “I don’t want to think so, but…”
“We can’t rule out that possibility,” Eliot said, half hoping that Brad was responsible for his brother’s death. Every time Eliot thought about Gavin being run down at some lonely street corner, he felt like hitting something. Hard and more than once.
Brad Lee might do.
“What about Gavin’s agent?” Sophie asked. “Can’t he do something?”
Denise shook her head. “He’s sympathetic, but Gavin’s name is on all the contracts. Legally at least, I’m nobody.”
“Not to Gavin you weren’t,” Eliot said. He might not have seen Gavin in the flesh recently, but they had stayed in touch over the years. He knew how much Denise had meant to his friend. He glared fiercely at his partners. “C’mon, Nate, Sophie. We’ve got to do this. For Gavin.”
“All right,” Nate said, convinced. “Let’s steal back a book.”
Sophie’s heart went out to Denise. As an artist herself, she could only imagine what it must feel like to lose a loved one, then see his artistic legacy squandered and corrupted. She wondered what sort of scam Nate had in mind to set things right. The Gypsy Blanket? The Donkey Roundabout? Maybe even a variation on the Deaf-Mute Duchess?
That could be fun, she thought. I haven’t run that one in years.
Sophie was a grifter, one of the best. “Sophie Devereaux” wasn’t even her real name, but it suited her for now. Sometimes she almost forgot she had ever been anyone else.
Almost.
While Nate and Eliot picked Denise’s brain a bit more, Sophie flipped through the hardcover copy of Assassins Never Forget. Not a bad title, she reflected, and sadly accurate in her experience. She’d survived her share of assassination attempts, both before and after she joined Nate’s crew, and knew only too well how old enemies had a tendency to come sneaking out of the past when you least expected it. A healthy degree of paranoia was essential in their line of work.
In fact, was it just her imagination or did she suddenly feel as though she was being watched?
Tiny hairs prickled at the back of her neck as she lifted her eyes from the book to discreetly scan the familiar bar. At first, all she saw were the usual regulars and a smattering of new customers caught up in their own affairs, but then her eyes made contact with those of a solitary stranger spying on her from a table by the front entrance. The man was thin and gangly, with pale skin sorely in need of a little sun. Horn-rim glasses, with lenses thick enough to serve as magnifying glasses, perched upon his nose. An olive-green hoodie partially concealed his face. A full glass of ale sat neglected before him. He looked away furtively, as though embarrassed at being caught peering at her. He thrust a smartphone into his pocket.
Sophie frowned. Granted, she was hardly unaccustomed to male attention, but was this fellow just another random admirer or something rather more ominous? Not wanting to alarm Denise, she kept her concerns to herself as she fished through her bag for her phone. If she could snap a photo of the peeper, Hardison could always run it through one of his comprehensive facial-recognition programs and see if this was anybody they needed to watch out for.
Better safe than sorry, she thought. Now where the devil is that phone?
“It was nice to meet you, Ms. Devereaux,” Denise said, distracting her. “And thank you all so much for hearing me out.”
“Our pleasure,” Sophie said, taking her hand. She tried to keep one eye on the peeper, but then Eliot got up and helped Denise on with her coat, momentarily blocking Sophie’s view. “And, please, call me Sophie.”
“All right.” Denise looked anxiously at Nate. “Keep me posted, okay?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”
Eliot escorted her toward the door. Sophie scooted out from behind the table to peek around him, but a gust of cold air hinted that she was already too late.
Sure enough, the peeper was gone, leaving a nearly full glass of ale behind.
Nate noticed her staring at the empty table. “Something wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps.”
| | | | | | TWO | | | | | |
BOSTON
“Dead-tree books are history,” Alec Hardison insisted. He held up his plastic ebook reader. “See this? Digital is where it’s at these days. We’re talking the future of fiction, man. Nobody reads old-school paper books anymore.”
Eliot shrugged. “I like real books. I like the way they feel.”
“You’re hopeless, you know that?” Hardison rolled his eyes. He was an energetic young black man dressed casually in a vintage cardigan over a printed black T-shirt. “I do my best to drag you into the twenty-first century, but do you listen to me? Nope, not one bit. If it was up to you, we’d still be lugging around clay tablets!”
A buzzing fly landed on the polished wooden table in front of Eliot. He squashed it with the hardcover Denise had left behind. “Works for me.”
The crew had gathered in Nate’s apartment above the bar. The spacious living area served as the unofficial headquarters and briefing room of Leverage Consulting & Associates. Exposed brick walls enclosed the area, while a spiral staircase led to the bedroom upstairs, which Nate had so far managed to keep more or less to himself. The crew was seat
ed at a long bar-shaped table facing an array of state-of-the-art flat-screen monitors. Printed dossiers were spread out on the table in front of everybody. Nate already had the files memorized.
He wandered over to the attached kitchenette and poured himself an Irish whiskey. Briefings were thirsty work.
“It’s really quite a gripping thriller,” Sophie observed, retrieving the book from the table. She wiped the dead bug off the jacket. “I was reading it last night, and was particularly impressed by the complexity of the heroine. An idealistic young woman, recruited to be an assassin in the War on Terror, who comes to question the morality of her actions. Any actress would love to sink her teeth into the part. I wonder if they’re casting for the movie yet.”
Nate prayed she wouldn’t get her hopes up. Although she hadn’t completely given up on her theatrical ambitions, she was a much better grifter than a thespian. The paradox of Sophie Devereaux was that she truly was a brilliant actress, but only when she was running a con. Onstage, it was a whole different story.
“But it’s just a story, right?” Parker sounded bemused by the notion. The lithe blond cat burglar perched on a stool between Sophie and Hardison, wearing a man’s suit vest over a fitted black tank top. Her gamine face bore a puzzled expression. “I don’t get stories. What’s the point in reading about stuff that never really happened?”
“It’s all about exploring the human condition, Parker,” Sophie tried to explain. She had taken it upon herself to try to broaden the younger woman’s horizons beyond simply crime and cash. “And allowing the free play of imagination and creativity. Transforming the random chaos of real life into works of art so as to illuminate and elevate the spirit.”
“Uh-huh,” Parker said, still not getting it. Her idea of recreational reading was technical specs for safes and security systems. “Whatever.”