Dire Distraction

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

M
ichael Brecht twisted the browning rose bloom, snapping it off the plant. He’d been thwarted by A-Tac, again. It was as if Avery Solomon was always there, looking over his shoulder, waiting to swoop in at the last minute in his goddamned white hat.

It had taken months to coordinate the events leading up to the assassination attempt on Bilaal Hamden, and only seconds for A-Tac to ruin everything. All that hard work—and nothing to show for it. Michael grabbed another stem, popping the dead flowers off the rose bush with a zeal that went beyond deadheading. He’d made his plans so carefully. Every detail checked and rechecked. Even when things had gotten out of hand, he’d managed to maintain control, only to lose everything when it had mattered most.

A thorn dug into his thumb, and he swore, sucking away the blood as someone behind him cleared his throat.

Gregor.

Michael stifled a sigh and turned around, surprised to see that his number two was not alone. Anthony Delafranco was supposed to be in Nice. The Consortium had business there. Delafranco, one of the Consortium’s founding members, was supposed to have been on point.

“Is there a problem?” Michael asked, his senses on high alert. A second man—armed—stood behind Delafranco. Michael recognized him as Delafranco’s bodyguard. Nothing unusual in that, but something felt off somehow.

“Nothing that we can’t handle,” Delafranco replied, his expression guarded as he studied Michael. “There’s nothing new on Isaacs, I’m assuming?”

“No. But I’ve got some of our best men looking. The Americans are still asserting that it was his body found in the aftermath of the blast.” Michael shifted so that he could meet Gregor’s gaze, but the big man was staring off at the horizon, apparently not feeling the same degree of trepidation. “But Joseph is too good at what he does to have let himself be blown up with his own bomb, and he’s definitely not the type to martyr himself by committing suicide.”

“Agreed,” Delafranco said. “But then how do you explain the body?”

“If I had to call it, I’d say it was Stoltz’s. After all, he was tasked with taking Isaacs out. And we haven’t heard from him since. I’m guessing Isaacs left some kind of trace—something to throw A-Tac off. Something to make them believe it was him in the fire instead. They’d have no way of knowing about Stoltz and so no reason to dig beyond the surface evidence.”

“Yes, but A-Tac seems to make a practice of doing exactly what we think they won’t.”

The words were galling, but true. And Michael had learned a long time ago that the only way to fight fire was with fire. It was time for a showdown. To end things once and for all. “Even if they do figure it out, Stoltz will only be another dead end.”

“Maybe,” Delafranco said, not sounding convinced, “but if you’re right, then Isaacs is still out there somewhere. Which begs the question as to why he hasn’t contacted us.”

“He’s not a fool. Joseph has always been the type to duck for cover at the first sign of trouble.” Michael lifted one shoulder in an exaggerated shrug. “I should have anticipated that he’d make a run for it.”

“You should have anticipated a lot of things.” Delafranco’s gaze was hooded, but Michael could still see a flicker of distrust. Maybe Isaacs wasn’t the only one he’d underestimated.

“We’ll find Isaacs. And when we do, I promise you, he’ll cease to be a problem as well.”

“And A-Tac?” Delafranco asked. “Thanks to your actions, they’re more interested than ever in destroying everything we’ve worked so hard to build.”

Anger flared, and Michael closed his fists, striving to maintain calm. “You leave A-Tac to me.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not going to be possible, Michael.” Delafranco shrugged, the Walther in his hand glinting in the sunlight. “I’m afraid, my friend, that your time with the Consortium has come to an end.” Michael Brecht stared down the muzzle of Anthony Delafranco’s gun, anger mixing with surprise. He wouldn’t have believed his friend capable of such betrayal.

But he recognized the determination in Delafranco’s eyes, even as he saw the slight movement of his hand tightening on the trigger. Michael dove for the ground as the quiet garden exploded with gunfire. Pea gravel scraped across the skin on his forearms as he fell, Delafranco’s first shot going wild. Behind him, Michael could see his associate Gregor struggling with Delafranco’s bodyguard. And as Delafranco tried to readjust the trajectory, Michael scrambled for cover, wishing to hell he had his weapon. This wasn’t the way he’d planned for it to end.

More shots rang out, and Michael flinched, then blinked as Delafranco’s gun fell from lifeless fingers, his body crumpling forward, blood staining the gravel walkway. Gregor stepped from behind a rose bush, still holding his gun, the bodyguard stretched out beside him.

“You okay, boss?” Gregor asked, kicking away the bodyguard’s weapon and bending to check for a pulse. There was no need to check on Delafranco. His blood and brain matter had been sprayed across the roses like macabre graffiti.

“Is the bodyguard dead?” Michael asked, brushing the gravel from his pants, his gaze still on Delafranco.

“Yes.” Gregor stood up, holstering his weapon. “We’ll need to get the bodies out of here as soon as possible. We don’t want any unnecessary questions.”

“Agreed. You can call Stephan. He’s discreet. And he’ll make sure there’s nothing for anyone to find.”

“Still, you’ll have to explain Delafranco’s death to the Council.”

Michael reached out to pluck a wilted rose from its stem, thinking about the group of men he’d hand-picked to help lead the Consortium. “Eventually. But for now, we’ll just let them believe he’s disappeared.”

“There will be questions.”

“That’s to be expected. And I trust that you and Stephan will leave a trail of answers. Delafranco would never have dared to try this if he were on his own,” Michael admitted, the taste of the words bitter in his mouth. “I need to know who was acting with him. And then we can weed out the rest of the traitors. Once that’s done, I’ll make sure the others know the real truth. That I created the Consortium. And that I’m the one in charge. And should anyone else try to interfere, he’ll meet the same fate as Delafranco.”

“As you wish,” Gregor said, nodding his agreement. “But what about A-Tac? Delafranco was right. They are going to continue to be a problem.”

“Not to worry. I’ve got plans for them too. All that remains is to activate the file I embedded in the hard drive I had Kamaal Sahar leave behind at the camp in Afghanistan. And when Avery Solomon and his merry band find it, the wheels will be set in motion. He’ll come running, and vengeance will be mine.”

A
ll right, chow is served,” Avery Solomon said, setting a platter of burgers on the game table in his living room. “First pitch is in five. So fill up your plate and grab a seat.”

“Angels are going to kill,” Drake Flynn said, sliding two burgers onto his plate along with a healthy serving of potato salad. “Just so you guys are prepared.” He settled on the sofa and reached for his beer.

“In your dreams, surfer boy,” Nash Brennon laughed, dropping into an armchair as strains of “The Star-Spangled Banner” resounded from the surround-sound system. “Yankees rule.”

“Most of the time. But this year your pitching sucks, and we’ve got Pojuls.”

“And not much else,” Avery said, settling into a chair. It was good to have some downtime. Of late, it seemed like A-Tac had been spending a hell of a lot of time chasing after ghosts. Most of them sent by their nemesis, a secretive arms cartel known as the Consortium. And despite the fact that they’d managed to win most of the battles, the cost had been high.

Too high, if he had to call it.

But it was what it was, and there was nothing he could do to change the past. Best to focus on the future. And in the moment, the things that made it all worthwhile. Baseball, beer, burgers, and good friends.

“Where’s Harrison?” Nash asked, taking a sip from a bottle of Shiner Bock. The beer, a Texas import, was a favorite. And Harrison Blake, recently back from a job consulting with drug enforcement agents about an operation on the Mexican border, had brought Avery a case. “I thought he was supposed to be here.”

“He is.” Drake nodded. “But he also just got back from almost a month away. And if Hannah is anything like Madeline, let’s just say absence really does make the heart…” he trailed off, waggling his eyebrows for effect.

“Jesus, Drake.” Nash blew out a disgusted breath. “Do you ever think of anything besides sex?”

“Yeah. Baseball and beer.” Drake grinned, lifting his bottle. “The trifecta, of course, being all three at once.”

“Good luck with that,” Nash snorted, shaking his head.

Avery watched his friends, suddenly feeling too damned old. This business had a way of sucking the life right out of you, particularly when they were dealing with the Consortium. He’d been with American Tactical Intelligence command for more than ten years now.

A black ops division of the CIA, his team was the best of the best. Using Sunderland College as their cover, everyone did double duty as both operatives and professors. And all of them were more than capable of carrying the load.

Nash, a noted historical scholar, was also his second in command. Drake, a renowned archeologist, handled extractions and logistics. Harrison headed the IT department and managed to work magic with computer forensics for the team. Hannah Marshall taught political science and sorted through intel, pulling nuggets of crucial information seemingly from thin air. Tyler Hansen rounded out the team, mixing a love of literature with an uncanny ability to both create and dismantle ordnance. All in all, an extraordinary group of people he was proud to call family.

Avery took another sip of his beer, turning his attention to the TV. The first Angels batter was up with C. C. Sabathia on the mound for the Yankees.

Behind them, the doorbell rang.

“Harrison,” Nash said, shooting a sideways glance at Drake as he bit into a burger. “Told you he’d be here.”

“It’s open,” Avery called. C.C. threw a curve ball for strike three.

“Sorry I’m late,” Harrison said, something in his expression sending alarm bells jangling. “I sort of got sidetracked.” He held up a mangled-looking black box, his eyes telegraphing regret.

“Dude, you’re not supposed to be working,” Drake protested. “The Angels are playing the Yankees. Where I’m from that’s almost sacrosanct.”

“Big word, Drake,” Nash said, turning to look at Harrison, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the black box in Harrison’s hand.

Apparently Avery wasn’t the only one to sense that something was up.

Never late for the party, Drake swiveled around, looked first at Harrison, then at Avery, and then back at Harrison again, the game forgotten. “You’ve pulled something off the drive.”

The mangled hard drive had been recovered in an abandoned terrorist encampment in Afghanistan. A-Tac had received intel about the possibility of a Consortium-funded operation, but when they’d arrived, the camp had been abandoned, everything of consequence removed or destroyed.

Except for a notebook that had helped them stop an assassination attempt. And the remains of the hard drive. Avery hadn’t doubted for a minute that if there was recoverable information, Harrison would find it. But he’d also been fairly certain that there wouldn’t be anything left to find.

Clearly, he’d been wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Harrison said. “I know the timing sucks.” As if to underscore the sentiment, the solid
swack
of bat meeting ball echoed through the room, but nobody turned to look. Not even Drake. “But you’re going to want to see this.”

Harrison’s gaze locked with Avery’s, and suddenly he wasn’t all that certain he wanted to know. But there was nothing to be gained in putting off the inevitable. Whatever the Consortium had in store for them next, he was ready.

“Okay then,” Avery said, switching the TV off with the remote, then pushing the burgers out of the way as they all gathered around the table, “what have you got?”

“It’s a little startling.” Harrison paused, clearly searching for the right words. “And kind of personal.” His gaze met Avery’s. “You might want to hear this on your own.”

Avery shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’re all family here. So tell us what you’ve found.”

Harrison hooked the box up to his laptop and hit a key. A woman’s face filled the screen. Her dark hair curled around her face, brown eyes glittering with some unshared emotion, her generous mouth giving nothing away.

Avery’s heart stopped. His breath stuck in his throat. And he felt as if someone had just kicked him in the gut.

She was dressed in fatigues, standing next to a bearded man leaning against a table, his hand resting intimately on her knee. “Sweet Jesus,” Avery said, the words strangled. “This was on the back-up drive we found in Afghanistan?”

“Yeah.” Harrison nodded, his face filled with worry. “I was just as surprised as you are.”

“Is that?” Drake said, turning to Nash, who was staring open-mouthed at the photograph.

“Yeah.” Nash nodded. “Martin Shrum. Avery’s old partner. From before A-Tac days. And Evangeline, Avery’s wife. But I thought she was—”

“Dead,” Avery finished, emotion cutting through him as he caressed the ring he wore on his little finger. “She is. For almost fourteen years now.”

“Yeah, well, Avery, there’s more.” Harrison clicked the picture so that it zoomed in and then moved it so that they could better see the table behind the two people. “Look at the wall.” He enlarged the picture again.

“It’s a calendar,” Drake said, stating the obvious.

Avery’s blood ran cold, his eyes reading the date, his mind trying to process the seemingly impossible.

“Holy shit,” Drake continued, his incredulity only adding to the surrealistic horror of the moment. “It’s dated December of last year.”

Mekong River, Southeast Asia

“Where’s your husband?” Sydney Price asked, laying down her wrench as she scanned the deck of the boat for the missing man.

“He promised he’d be right back.” Mary Wilston’s voice held a note of apology. “He said there was supposed to be a temple just beyond those trees.” She pointed at the thick undergrowth of the Myanmar jungle. “He just wanted to see it.”

“And I told you both specifically not to stray beyond the beach.” Syd blew out a long breath. She should have known that the idea of seeing the ruins would prove too much for Brian Wilston.

The man had talked about the temples almost nonstop since he’d boarded the boat. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with her own issues, she would have noticed the oil leak before leaving Xieng Kok and they’d be halfway to Tong Phueng by now. But instead, she’d only given the boat a cursory check before setting out with the journalist and his wife. And now, she was clearly being punished for her carelessness.

This particular stretch of the Mekong River was part of Southeast Asia’s Golden Triangle. The area where Thailand, Myanmar, and Laos came together. Long known for its opium trade, in recent years, commerce had widened to include other drugs, principally methamphetamine and crystal meth. And like most places known for drug trafficking, there was inherent danger. Both from the drug runners themselves and from those people trying to stop them.

Add to that the fact that the Shan State of Myanmar was still a frontier, its people isolated and impoverished, and seemingly rich tourists made perfect targets. Which was why Syd only ferried people downriver from Xieng Kok to Tong Phueng or carried them upriver to the relative safety of China, always sticking closely to the Laos coastline. There were drug lords in Laos as well, but they were less militant and not as inclined to take hostages.

Unfortunately, when the boat’s engine had died, the Laotian side had offered nowhere to pull in, and so she’d been forced to choose a stretch of muddy beach on the Myanmar side instead. She’d instructed both the Wilstons to stay put, but she should have known better.

Tourists. What a pain in the ass.

But these days, they made up the majority of her passengers. People trying to get a feel for the real Southeast Asia, traveling the Mekong from China to Vietnam, usually with stops in Laos, Thailand, and Myanmar along the way.

The Wilstons, arriving in Xieng Kok by bus, had been dismayed to find that the settlement had little to offer in the way of western amenities. Actually if Syd had to call it, she’d say it was Mary who was disappointed. The woman wasn’t the roughing-it-in-the-wilderness type. Hell, she didn’t belong in this part of the world at all. And her husband was only a little better equipped. Certainly not enough to fend for himself if he ran into hostile locals.

With a sigh, Syd reached for the gun she kept on board. And after checking for ammo, slid it into the waistband of her cotton pants.

“Stay here,” she said to Mary, shaking her head when the woman started to argue. “No way are you coming with me. I want you here. Where I know you’re safe.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “You really think there’s something to be afraid of?”

“I think it’s best not to tempt fate. This is rough country. And it’s no place for a foreigner to be wandering around on his own. I’m sure your husband is fine. But I’ll feel better when I’ve got him safely back on the boat.”

“But surely you’re exaggerating,” Mary said.

“I wish I were.” Syd shrugged, and motioned Mary into the boat’s cabin. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can.” She jumped over the side of the boat, wading through the shallow water to the muddy beach. Brian’s footprints were still visible, and she followed them into the jungle, pushing aside tree limbs and thorny ferns as she moved carefully forward.

As the jungle closed in around her, the heat descended, thick and heavy, almost smothering. It was the beginning of the rainy season, and water dripped from pretty much everything, adding to the blanketing effect of the oversaturated air. Overhead, high in the canopy, birds chirped as they swooped through the arcing branches, their colors bright against the mottled greens and browns of the trees.

Normally, she loved walking in the jungle. The smell of the damp earth combined with the pungency of the myriad vegetation to form a heady mix that spoke of primordial life. But today her thoughts were limited to her missing passenger. And the potential for trouble. Her fingers grazed the butt of her gun, giving her at least a little reassurance. She wasn’t a newcomer to this kind of party, but when a civilian was involved, the game became inherently more dangerous.

The temple, or what was left of it, lay just ahead, and Syd slowed her pace, making sure that she moved silently through the undergrowth. If luck was on her side, she’d simply find Brian taking pictures of the ruins. If not, then she’d best be ready.

As if to underscore the thought, the sound of voices drifted through the undergrowth and Syd drew her weapon, releasing a slow breath as she felt adrenaline flooding through her. It had always been like this—the excitement of confrontation outweighing any fear. Edging forward, she peered between the fronds of a large fern.

The clearing was small. The ruined temple almost completely engulfed by vegetation. Tree roots curled around the base as vines wound their way up what was left of the stone structure. Brian Wilston was standing with his back to her, gesturing wildly as he tried to explain himself in broken Burmese. The man standing in front of him wore a grim expression and carried a semiautomatic machine gun.

Definitely not a local farmer. He waved the gun toward the jungle behind the fallen temple and then motioned Wilston forward. Although he probably knew Burmese and most likely a smattering of English, the man was speaking Shan, a local dialect that Wilston clearly did not understand.

Syd considered her options. Shooting the man wasn’t viable because Wilston was standing directly in the way. And with the man clearly trying to shepherd Wilston into the jungle and possibly back to some sort of encampment, she didn’t have time to shift into a better position. If she was going to act, it had to be now. And surprise was her best weapon.

She slid the gun into her front pocket, the loose cotton of her shirt covering its bulk. Better to go in acting the part of boat captain with miscreant passenger. In point of fact, at the moment, that’s exactly what she was. Holding her hands out so that the man could see, she walked into the clearing.

“Kin khao yao ha,”
she said, issuing the standard Shan greeting which translated roughly to “have you eaten.” The man lifted his gun a little higher, but his eyes sparked with appreciation.

“I have.”

“And was it to your liking?” Syd asked, playing the familiar social game.