Face of Deception Read online

  Man, she was hot!

  He ran his finger absently across her wide, generous mouth. What in hell had been with this Burroughs? The guy had to have known the risks. Only a damn fool would bring a woman along on an assignment.

  On second thought, he’d cut the guy some slack. Maybe the poor fool didn’t know. Baker had said that Burroughs wasn’t actually an agent. That Waterman had asked Burroughs for his help.

  Why had Queen Mother asked this Burroughs for help? Espionage was no job for amateurs. So now the poor bastard’s dead for his effort.

  Mike felt a tightening in his chest. And by this time, the woman and kid are probably dead, too.

  When Cassidy began to rouse the men, Mike refolded the paper and returned it to his pocket. He was proud of this team. Known as the Dwarf Squad in the Agency, he, Cassidy, Bolen and Fraser were former Navy SEALs; Williams and Bledsoe had been with the British SAS. Each man was a specialist in a particular field. They had served together as a team for the past three years, and he trusted all of them. Would stake his life on the performance of any one of them. Mike smiled wryly—he’d often had to.

  Therthing to distinguish one of them from the other. They wore no identification. Dressed alike. On this mission, each of them carried an Israeli-made Uzi submachine gun. In addition they all carried a Silver Trident knife, a garrote, grenades and six extra clips of ammo strapped to their waists.

  The team never carried survival rations. They survived on whatever the land offered.

  The craft touched shore, and they slipped into the water and beached the boat. At the sound of a crackling leaf all six weapons swung toward the man who stepped out of the brush. He identified himself as the contact they were expecting.

  “Burroughs’s house three kilomètre,” the man explained, holding up three fingers as he struggled with English. He pointed to a spot on the map that Bishop had extracted from a waterproof packet. “I see nine, maybe ten go into house.”

  “Did they all have weapons?”

  “Oui.”

  “Automatic weapons?” Mike pursued.

  “I not know, monsieur.”

  “What about servants?”

  “Only Guillaume Sellier and his wife.”

  “Are they friendly?”

  “I think yes.”

  Seeing there was no more information to be gleaned, Mike nodded abruptly. “Williams, Bledsoe, you two have Boy Blue. Bolen and Fraser, the servants. Cassidy and I will take Snow White. Conceal the boat and we’ll move out.”

  Armed with only a machete, their guide slipped silently into the jungle. “Williams, Bledsoe, take the point.” The two men followed the man into the forest.

  Cassidy came over to him. “Well, we made it this far. Wonder if we’ve been spotted.”

  “We’ll soon find out,” Mike said. He shifted his gaze to the dense foliage surrounding them. Not a leaf stirred. “It’s damn quiet.”

  Cassidy’s smile flashed whitely against the greasepaint on his face. “We’ll get them out, Mike. I’ve got good vibes about this mission.”

  Mike’s face slashed into a grim line. “You said that about Beirut, too.”

  Mike’s heart pounded like a jackhammer. The closer they got to the house, the faster it beat. His hand holding the rifle was clammy and sweaty. He knew he had to get a hold on himself, but he could only think of what they might find when they entered the house. What if the prisoners were dead? He couldn’t forget those violet eyes staring at him from that photograph. The time had come to get out of the business; he was losing his objectivity.

  Suddenly they were there, no more time for what-ifs. The men halted, awaiting orders. He sent the guide back to his village to protect the man’s identity in the event the mission fell apart.

  Stay focused, Bishop. Don’t lose your objectivity or you’ll endanger the squad as well as the woman and kid. He mustn’t let his emotions muddy the water. So why in hell was he fighting the urge to run up to the house and burst through the front door?

  Mike shook his head to clear his muddled mind and concentrated on the mission. A brick wall surrounded the house. A damn brick wall! Bad enough he was battling mental obstacles, now he was confronted by a physical one—a damn brick wall! They could be picked off like sitting ducks as they tried to scale it.

  The squad remained concealed as Williams and Bledsoe checked an SUV parked on the outside of the gate. Before moving on, Bledsoe shook his head and indicated with a hand signal that the keys weren’t in the ignition.

  As Mike passed the car, he glanced inside. A white flowered scarf shimmered like a silky pool on the front seat. He picked it up and brought the material to his nose. The sensuous fragrance hit like a punch to his gut. The damn scarf smells like Violet Eyes looked in the picture—sensuous and sexy.

  Round blotches began to dot the flimsy material. Mike glanced up to discover that it was raining. That was a good sign. Rain would muffle the sound of footsteps. Maybe they were getting a little bit of outside help. He stuffed the scarf under his sweater. The piece of silk adhered seductively to his heated skin.

  Bledsoe and Williams returned to report that only one man guarded the front door. In addition, the first stumbling block had been eliminated—the gate had been left ajar; they wouldn’t have to scale a wall. One by one the men slipped through the gate until all six members of the squad were inside.

  A light glowed from a front window of the house. As the squad huddled in the shrubbery, the front door opened and two men stepped outside carrying automatic weapons. One relieved the guard on duty while the other crossed the patio, passing right by the concealed team. Mike motioned to Bolen and Fraser, and the two men followed the gunman.

  He gave Cassidy a signal to take out the guard at the front door and his second in command moved away. Bledsoe and Williams worked their way toward the back of the house to check for any other sentries.

  Overcoming the guards proved a simple task, and with the perimeter secured, their objective now was to find the prisoners.

  Each of the men moved to a window at the rear or sides of the house. Mike selected the one where Williams had discovered a sentry. Raising the window carefully, he peered into the darkened room and could see a figure in the bed. The light was too faint to distinguish whether it was male or female.

  Moving cautiously, he climbed into the room, drew the Trident and crossed the room to the bed. He froze in his tracks when he was close enough to identify the sleeping figure.

  He’d found Snow White. Boy Blue was asleep beside her.

  Bishop slipped the knife back into his boot and leaned over the woman. The sensuous combination of French perfume and woman drifted up in a seductive titillation. He was tempted to clamp his mouth—instead of his hand—over that wide, generous mouth of hers. Objectivity, hell! He’d been in the jungle too long!

  Her eyes popped open in alarm and she struggled to rise, but he forced her back down.

  “Quiet. We’re here to he

  Incredulity replaced Ann’s initial shock and panic. He sounded American! She peered up at the frightening apparition. The room was too dark to see anything except the faint figure of a man dressed in black. But there was nothing faint about the firm hand clamped over her mouth.

  “I’m removing my hand. Don’t make a sound. Do you understand?” he whispered.

  No doubt remained; that voice was American. She nodded, and couldn’t have cried out if she wanted to. She was too numb with shock.

  He removed his hand and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Don’t be frightened,” he whispered. “We’ll get you out of here. How many men are there?”

  Ann wanted to break out in a chorus of “God Bless America.” When she finally found her voice, her heart hammered so loudly in her ears, she couldn’t hear what she was saying. “I saw eight of them, but I think there were others.”

  “Is there anyone else in the house besides you and the kid?”

  She nodded. “Two servants. The last time I saw them they were
tied up in the rear bedroom.” Now that the shock had worn off, once again she could feel hysteria mounting within her.

  He must have sensed her rising agitation and tried to relax her. “You’re doing fine. Now tell me, were all the men armed?”

  “I think so. At least all of the ones I saw. Who are these men? Are they the same ones who murdered Clayton?”

  “I’ll explain everything later. Just remember, they’re dangerous, and won’t hesitate to kill you or the kid. Do exactly what I say. Did any of them speak English?”

  “Poorly.”

  “Could you understand anything said?”

  The man’s clipped questions and reticence were beginning to make her feel as if she were on a witness stand. “I think they’re waiting for someone—or some instructions. They said something about moving us to a different location.”

  “Did they say where? Mention any names?”

  At the negative shake of her head, his jaw hardened into a grim line. “Did any of them harm you?”

  “No.”

  A trace of a smile tagged at the corners of his mouth. The glimmer was gone before she realized that it might have been an attempt at smiling.

  “Will the kid cry when you wake him?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But this has been a harrowing experience for him.”

  Bishop stood up. “Get dressed.”

  “What about Brandon?”

  “Let him sleep for the moment.”

  By now her vision had adjusted to the darkness, and she saw that the man was tall, at least four inches over six feet. He dwarfed her five feet eight inches. Most men she meidn’t.

  After collecting her clothing, she cast a prim glance in his direction.

  “What?”

  “I’d like some privacy, please,” she said.

  “Lady, this is no time to worry about privacy. Just put the damn clothes on.”

  “Then turn around, Mr.—”

  “Bishop.” Disgusted, Bishop pivoted. Ann slipped on a pair of lace panties, pulled the nightgown over her head and replaced it with a bra. Jeans and a shirt followed quickly, and as she buttoned the shirt, she slipped her feet into a pair of sneakers.

  “You can turn around now.”

  His look was one of pure annoyance. “Wake the kid, but don’t dress him. Just put shoes on him, and for God’s sake, keep him quiet.”

  She leaned over the bed and shook Brandon gently. “Wake up, honey. We have to go.”

  Brandon was too drowsy to offer an argument. “Where are we going?”

  “These are friends, Brandon. They’ve come to help us. You must do everything they tell you to do. Do you understand?” She slipped his feet into shoes and tied the laces.

  Suddenly a face filled the window. “You all set?”

  “Yeah,” Bishop said. He moved to the window. “Everyone out?”

  The man never stopped scanning the courtyard as he spoke. “All except Williams and Bledsoe, they can’t find the boy.”

  “He’s here. Let’s move out before bullets start flying.”

  “Bishop!” Ann whispered, pointing to the door that had just begun to open.

  Bishop shoved her and Brandon to the floor behind the bed, and then crouched down on a knee with his weapon pointed at the door. A dark figure slipped cautiously into the room.

  Bishop relaxed and rose to his feet. “What in hell are you doing? I almost shot you,” he hissed. “Get in here and shut that door.”

  Another man followed behind and gently eased the door shut.

  “All these bloody blokes are sleeping like babies. We’ve searched this whole house and there’s no sign of—”

  “He’s here,” Bishop said. He nodded in the direction of the bed. As if to confirm his words, Brandon peered over the top of the bed, his eyes rounded with excitement.

  “Let’s move,” Bishop ordered.

  One of the men lifted Brandon into his arms. “Hey, sonny, how’d you like to go for a walk?”

  “Is Ann coming?”

  “I sure am, honey,” she assured him.

  “Let’s go, lady,” Bishop said, and grabbed her hand.

  Once outside, Brandon, Marie and Guillaume were lifted onto the backs of three of them, and they started in a run down the jungle path. A fourth man knelt down on a knee.

  “Climb on,” Bishop said.

  “That won’t be necessary. I jog every day,” Ann said.

  She bore another one of his black glares. “Okay, but if you slow us up, I’ll have to carry you.”

  A hard run through a jungle in a rain was a far different cry from her usual jogging. Ann’s lungs felt near to bursting when they stopped and uncovered a concealed boat.

  Bishop and one of the men crouched down to guard the rear as Ann lingered, saying goodbye to the two servants who were returning to their village.

  “When those gunmen leave, we return to house,” Guillaume assured her.

  “I’ll contact you as soon as I can,” Ann said.

  “Let’s get out of here before someone gets killed,” Bishop ordered, his eyes trained on the jungle.

  “God be with you,” Ann said. Guillaume took his wife’s hand, and they disappeared into the jungle.

  An hour later, off the coast of French Guiana, Ann smiled up gratefully at the freckle-faced airman, who looked as American as a parade on the Fourth of July, as he reached out a helping hand and assisted her into an unmarked helicopter.

  Chapter 3

  A single light glowed dimly in the cabin of the helicopter. The squad lay sprawled asleep wherever the men could find room.

  Ann felt as if they’d been flying for hours, yet the sun had not risen, so she knew she was mistaken. She raised her arm to check the time and realized she wasn’t wearing a watch. She had fled Kourou so hurriedly that morning she’d forgotten to put it on.

  The whole series of events remained a mystery to Ann. Clayton’s death. The men who tried to abduct her. These men. Where were they taking Brandon and her? They all seemed friendly enough except for their uptight leader. At least she knew their names now, but nothing more.

  Dazed, she leaned back against the cabin wall and closed her eyes. How did she lose control of her life in such a short span of time? She was fleeing South America with only the clothes on her back. No money. Not even a damn watch on her wrist!

  Relax, Ann. Try to sleep. But sleep was an impossibility. The chopper’s rotors were noisy, the vibration jerked the craft, the floor was hard and her legs were cramped.

  Lord, how I hate helicopters! What am I doing in this crate flying over the Atlantic…that is, if we are over the Atlantic.

  She hugged Brandon tighter against her, readjusting his sleeping head in her lap. His nearness was a warm and gratifying reassurance that she had not lost her sanity.

  She suddenly felt a prickly sensation and knew she was being watched. Glancing up, she discovered Bishop staring at her under hooded lids. For a brief moment their gazes cked. His expression remained unchanged, and she blushed before shifting her eyes downward.

  She wondered what such a man thought about in quiet moments like this. The next mission? A woman? Fearing his enigmatic eyes could read her mind, Ann closed her eyes.

  She continued to feel his intense stare.

  Ann awoke to discover the chopper was landing. All the men were awake and alert. From her position on the floor, she couldn’t see anything until the freckle-faced crewman opened the door as they touched down. Then the glare of bright sunlight hit her in the eyes.

  Two of the men jumped out with pointed rifles, then Bishop got out and swung her to the ground. The other two followed with Brandon.

  Bishop took her by the arm while Cassidy moved to her side and put a hand on her elbow, as well. They whisked her toward an unmarked plane standing nearby on the runway. She felt like a prisoner being hustled away to jail.

  Curious, she glanced around but all that she saw was a deserted airstrip. No hangars. No tower. Nothing. She c
ouldn’t venture a guess as to their location.

  Was it possible these men, in fact, were the ones responsible for Clayton’s death? Maybe the men at the villa merely intended to abduct Brandon and her for ransom.

  Ann felt certain about one thing: the long-on-silence, short-on-explanation Bishop was not about to volunteer any information.

  Brandon’s boyish laughter penetrated her rumination. Ann turned her head to look back and saw that the one named Bledsoe was carrying the youngster on his shoulders. Thank God there’s a spark of humanity in at least one of these men.

  Immediately she regretted her callous attitude. She was foolish and ungrateful, allowing her imagination to run rampant. These men had risked their lives to save her and Brandon.

  Under a blush of guilt, she stole a glance at the sculpted profile of Bishop, who was walking beside her. Now that he had wiped off the greasepaint, the man appeared to be in his mid-thirties. His nose had clearly been broken at least once, and tiny lines crept from the corners of his eyes; but these features tended to add character to his face, she reflected with the objective eye of a photographer. A thick mustache nestled above a firm mouth with a sensual lower lip. Seasoned by sun and wind, this was not a handsome face by Hollywood standards—no Brad Pitt or Antonio Banderas for sure. No, indeed. But she was willing to stake her professional reputation that women who had gazed into those melancholy, deep-hazel eyes of his had found the face sensuously irresistible.

  Daring to intrude on the thoughts of her taciturn guard, Ann said boldly, “I’d like to know where we’re going, Bishop.”

  “You’ll find out when the time comes.” That earlier, welcome-sounding American voice now had a decided growl of irritation. But its huskiness, coupled with those bedroom eyes of his, could still play havoc with a girl’s libido.

  For heaven’s sake, Ann, there hasn’t been time enough for you to have developed Stockholm Syndrome!

  She had had enough of the whole scene and stopped abruptly, shrugged off their hands and with flashing eyes squared against the two men.