Table of Contents
DECEPTION
Copyright
Quote
October 2011
Prologue
March 2012
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A word from the Author.
About Victoria
DECEPTION
Victoria Saccenti
Deception
Copyright 2020 Victoria Saccenti
ISBN: 978-0-9989504-8-8 Kindle
Editor: Linda Ingmanson
Cover Design: Scott Carpenter
Formatting: Anessa Books
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O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!
~ Sir Walter Scott
October 2011
Afghanistan, North Helmand Province…
NIGHT WAS FALLING fast. Ten feet ahead, the jagged outcropping and dilapidated remains of an ancient stone wall made a weak outline against a darkening indigo sky. Sgt. Joe Reid held up his fist, and all movement behind him stopped. Satisfied with his squad’s immediate response, he secured his M4 between his forearms and crawled forward the rest of the way. He reached the overhang, settled his carbine firmly on the dusty ground, and, peering through the scope, scanned the shallow valley below. The tiny village, the mission’s objective, seemed deserted. There was no movement, no sign of life, least of all Taliban combatants.
Do we have bad intel?
Frustration ran through him. The squad had forced-marched five miles from the landing zone. Had traversed near-impossible terrain. Pre-skirmish adrenaline flooding their systems had pushed them onward. He couldn’t imagine the operation turning out a total bust.
An unseasonably cold wind blew from the mountain pass. Regardless of the chilly temperature, his body hummed with unspent tension. He knew his men felt it too. Going back to the exfil point empty-handed after a wasted mission was never a good feeling.
Patience, he advised himself, looking up from the scope. He’ll come when it’s dark.
As if someone had heard his thoughts, a faint amber point flickered through the window of a hut situated at the edge of the dirt road—the only flat access to the village. More lights appeared here and there. Joe blew out a hushed breath. Patience rewarded. Now that human activity had been confirmed, he slithered back to his squad.
“All right,” he whispered to the serious faces. “They’re slowly coming in. But Zaman isn’t here yet. He usually travels with two or three technical trucks. So we’re gonna sit tight and wait him out.”
Intent and focused, the men nodded.
Well…everyone except his young buddy, Billy Dominsky. The glazed, miles-away look and the jittery behavior Billy had adopted since he’d read the latest letter from home hadn’t waned. In fact, he’d become nearly morose. Jovial, easygoing Billy had disappeared.
Joe pressed his lips together. He didn’t like Billy’s attitude one bit. It wasn’t that he wasn’t sympathetic. Bad news from home could break the most hardened Marine. In camp, he’d reached out to Billy repeatedly, but with each effort, the guy had withdrawn further in. And in this critical moment, Joe didn’t have time to pacify or hold anyone’s hand. He needed his men ready. Combat didn’t tolerate or forgive distractions. Absentmindedness killed Marines.
“Díaz.” Joe extended two fingers. “You and Sanchez take a position at the bend. Signal when you see headlights.”
“Copy that, Sergeant.” Díaz tapped his helmet, then scurried away with Sanchez in tow.
“Stay frosty, guys.” Propped on one knee, his carbine cradled in one arm, Joe glanced from face to face, reinforcing the seriousness of his words. “Zaman is our target, but he’s cagey and spooks easily. That’s why he’s still around.” He paused after a long breath, mentally recounting the high number of casualties at Zaman’s hands.
“We descend to the midpoint as planned and hold. If we remain unseen, we circle the village in stages. Remember the lookouts.” Joe smirked. “Thing is, we’re so far up north, they’re expecting incursions from rival tribes, not us. Nevertheless, these fighters are ruthless and shrewd. So no heroics. Stay with your team. We do this by the numbers. I want Zaman’s men neutralized and their trucks disabled before he realizes he can’t escape. Plus, he’s got information Command wants. If possible, we need to bring him back alive. Is that clear?”
The group nodded in synch.
“Okay, you have your assignments. Spread out. Cooper, Dominsky, a word.”
Billy stiffened, a deep questioning frown carving his forehead. Joe thought he would speak or protest. He didn’t. Good for him.
“Slight deviation. I’m leading your fireteam.” Joe narrowed his eyes, studying Billy’s face.
“Oorah,” Cooper whispered under his breath.
Amused by Cooper’s response, Joe smiled, then turned to Billy. “Are you with us, Dominsky?” Joe frowned. “Is there a problem?”
“Uh, no,” Billy murmured, averting his eyes.
What’s this? A million alarm bells rang in Joe’s ears. “Hey, Billy, look at me. I want a decisive answer.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” he said, closing off his expression. “Present and ready.”
“You’d better be,” Joe whispered, subduing the rising dread. Something was definitely off, and his intuition kept poking him between his shoulder blades. “Because we need you. I need you. The success of this op rests on every man’s shoulders, awake and pulling their load, understand?”
“Jesus. Yes, Sergeant. I understand.”
Billy shook his head, eyes fixed on the gravelly soil below his knees. Two stubborn lines appeared between his eyebrows, marking the end of the conversation. Damn it, the kid had clamped up. He’d been pushed far enough.
&nb
sp; “Okay, follow me,” Joe said, scrambling toward the rocky overhang. He settled at the edge as the two men dropped next to him.
In the moonless night, he could barely see his gloved hand. The valley and mud huts would’ve also disappeared in the inky blackness, except that the smattering of amber pinpoints—which Joe assumed were candles—nullified that effect with the power of runway lights. He smirked at Zaman’s outright arrogance. Not exactly the best precautions to stay hidden. Then again, the drug lord didn’t grasp the Marines’ resolve or imagine that he’d be chased this far north. No one had been before.
Minutes ticked by in silence. Despite the chilly temperature, Joe’s scalp heated under the helmet and nervous sweat ran down the back of his neck. His left forearm started cramping. He slowly rolled his shoulder as he clenched and released his fist, encouraging the flow of circulation. Cooper exhaled a long, muffled sigh. Billy didn’t move or breathe. Joe began evaluating if that was a good thing or not, when white beams followed by the distant roar of engines—approaching from the northwest—got his attention. As he’d suspected, Zaman had waited until after nightfall to return home.
Díaz turned his flashlight on and off. The headlights dipped and rose along the hilly road, growing brighter and bolder in an obvious announcement: let the villagers make ready for Zaman’s arrival. Joe suppressed a snort. Here was a true narcissist. So much for discretion.
Three technicals screeched into the village and veered to the left behind one of the huts. The sounds of engines ceased, and the lights turned off. The occupants must have gone inside through a back door, because no one came around the front. Joe waited another ten minutes, giving this latest group time to settle down, get comfortable in their false security.
He flipped his night vision goggles down. The landscape turned eerily green. Ready to engage, he circled his index finger in the air.
Silently, the squad inched forward.
The teams made it halfway down the slope. As he’d instructed, everyone flattened against the ground, preparing for possible discovery. At this distance, the village dogs— sentries impossible to fool—could easily sniff their scent. Most Taliban drug lords used them without fail. Did Zaman?
He didn’t. Not a single suspicious growl or bark raised the alarm.
Joe signaled again, and the circle of men widened, entering the village from several directions.
In a tactical crouch, Joe passed under a window. Inside, a woman holding a lit candle walked across the floor. She didn’t see him. The large shadows the soft flame cast camouflaged him. Barely breathing, he moved on. He peeked around the edge of her hut. The blurry glint of a cigarette tip moving erratically up and down betrayed a careless sentinel. Knife in hand, Joe slipped behind him. Muffling the guard’s surprised exclamation with his palm, he sliced the man’s throat in one move. Joe steadied the lookout in a tight embrace as his gurgles ceased and his struggling spasms subsided, then placed him silently on the ground and slipped on to the next structure.
Fuck, another pair of gloves ruined.
He shook off the dispassionate thought. He’d been out here too long. He needed to go home. Spend quality time in civilization before he lost the last traces of humanity, before the combat beast took over…
Get your head back in play, he reminded himself as he went past another hut.
And where the hell are Billy and Cooper?
They’d gone their own way while he dealt with the guard. Joe fumed with anger. As soon as the squad was picked up, Billy was gonna get an earful from him. Bad news from home or not, Joe couldn’t tolerate disobedience. No more coddling.
He cleared the narrow gap between homes and ran into Brant and Ronin as the team dispatched another sentinel. Joe could only hope Billy and Cooper—wherever the fuck they were—followed the plan, neutralizing Zaman’s men.
Joe was preparing to cross the main road when a woman’s screech and a deafening barrage of muzzle blasts shattered the silence. Two powerful beams of light turned night into day.
Shit, a fourth technical? Joe bolted.
At the edge of the road, he stopped dead as his stunned brain processed the scene: Cooper lay splayed facedown on the dirt. Arms raised, Billy walked and yelled toward the truck, “Look at me. I’m right here!”
Zaman stood in the technical, handling a PK machine gun. He sneered, aiming at Billy.
“No!” Joe hollered.
For a brief, horrific second, an incongruous span of time, slow-moving and eternal, Zaman glared at Joe, then turned to Billy and opened fire. Riddled with bullets, arms flailing, Billy pirouetted in a grotesque dance and flopped down. Joe and his squad returned fire. Zaman collapsed into his truck. His driver reversed the vehicle with a jerk, clearing the way for Zaman’s screaming fighters.
Ignoring the shots peppering the ground around him and the insane cacophony of automatic fire, Joe sprinted to his friend. “Billy! Billy!” He shook the young man’s shoulder.
Billy couldn’t speak anymore.
Desperate, Joe pulled his buddy’s inert bloodied form, dragged him toward the nearest hut seeking shelter.
“RPG!” Brant screamed.
Joe looked up. On the road, the fighter aimed his launcher. The rocket flew. The hut exploded. A thousand blades slashed Joe’s face and body.
Darkness took him.
March 2012
St. Cloud, Florida…
CHAPTER ONE
JOE DROVE HIS pick mattock hard into the ground, again and again. With each strike, an aching current flew up his tendons, threatening to lock his injured shoulder and immobilize his arm. He’d suffered temporary paralysis several times during his recovery. Although he knew it could happen again, he ignored the possibility. He continued chopping and hacking, pushing past the pain.
He was a man on a mission—determined to erase the lingering eeriness, the foul taste in his mouth last night’s nightmare had left behind. Haunting shapes and shadows: a remote village, a fallen comrade, impotence and anguish, darkness and deadly silence.
“Finally,” he exclaimed when the stubborn mass of rocks and tangled roots weakened and broke apart. He jumped to his feet, exchanged the mattock for his shovel, then, stomping down with the sole of his boot, he buried the blade’s point deep into the loosened soil.
A trickle of sweat slid along his sodden hair and splashed on his chambray shirt. One drop bounced and landed in his only good eye. The red-hot sting was instantaneous.
“Damn it!” He flinched, yanking a balled-up bandana out of his back pocket. The spade fell to the side. “This is what I fucking get…”
“What happened?” Dan’s voice came from several feet to his right.
“My eye. It burns.” Joe wiped his face and forehead. “Can’t see a thing.” Twisting the scarf into a taut band, he tied it around his head.
Under this fierce, scorching sun, the cloth would afford him an additional thirty minutes of work. Was it even worth it?
“Where’s your hat, dude?”
Joe tilted his head toward the sarcastic voice. “Back home,” he snapped. “And if you’re going to ask why I don’t carry an extra hat, just…don’t.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Dan sniggered.
Parched, overheated, and über-irritable Joe shadowed his face with his hand. He glanced up at Dan. “Guys at the Climate Center are insane. They insist this March is one of the coldest on record. But since we jumped an hour forward, it’s been hell working outdoors.”
From his vantage point, standing three feet above Joe at the border of the ditch, Dan shook his head. “What do those fools in Tallahassee know?”
A stubborn drop of sweat tried to wiggle into Joe’s eye. He slapped it away. “So-called experts. This summer’s going to be a scorcher.”
“There’s a dream job, studying thermostats and shit in comfortable air-conditioned rooms.” Dan lugged a large bag of topsoil to the edge of the furrow. “Listen, bud, I know you’ve set a weekend deadline for this project, but we’re
not going to make it. Have you thought about leasing a backhoe?”
“Come on, man. Are you saying two big dudes like us can’t handle this?” Joe scowled. “We’re not digging a pool, only a curved ditch.”
“Mmm-hmm… And the queen palm is coming…when?”
“It’s still in Apopka.” Joe flung the mattock toward the lawn. Dan’s question had a specific reason: no palm meant their day was done.
“Thought so.” Dan huffed as he released another bag of topsoil on top of the first.
“Tomorrow, Friday, for sure, Mitch at the nursery promised. At least the Conways are cool. They understand this business isn’t an exact science.” Joe pulled the useless soaked bandana off. So much for thirty extra minutes of work.
“Great.” Dan beamed. Wiping his sweaty blond hair back from his forehead, he donned his cap on backward. His blue eyes sparkled. “Can we call it quits? ’Cause I hear a cold brewsky calling my name loud and clear.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’re cooked. Tomorrow, we start early. Get a jump-start on the heat. No excuses. I want you here by seven, sober and ready. Easy with the beers tonight.” Using the handle of the spade for leverage, Joe extended his hand to Dan. “Give me a boost, will you?”
Holding on to Dan, Joe climbed onto the lawn. He snatched his water jug, took a full swig, and swallowed some. He swished the rest in his mouth, then spit it out.
“Disgusting.” He winced.
“What d’ya expect? You keep hauling plastic gallons to the jobsites. The water gets nasty warm. Buy a thermos, man,” Dan added, dragging a bag of manure next to the topsoil. “Pigheaded ex-Marine.”
“There’s no such thing.” Joe took another swig, repeating the process. The inside of his mouth felt like sandpaper, and his throat ached. Warm water was better than none.
Dan frowned. “You lost me there.”
Joe eyed his friend dead-on. “Dude, once a Marine…”
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