Fatal Truth: Shadow Force International

by Misty Evans

  The president’s smile turned tolerant, the smooth Southern charm now mixing with the perfect touch of pity. If he’d been a television emcee or talk show host, he would have been her toughest competition. “Parker works for National Intelligence. Who knows where she is or what she’s working on.”

  Perhaps Parker was on assignment, but she was a cognitive scientist who’d found a niche studying the brains and behaviors of terrorists. Her work for NI was more analyst and profiler than anything else. Occasionally, she traveled out of the country, but she always texted or called Savanna beforehand to let her know she’d be quiet for a few days or weeks.

  They were close; normally they talked every day. They made time for weekly lunches, and once a month, they met their parents for Sunday dinner.

  Parker was dedicated and loved her job. While she never shared intelligence or sensitive information, she had been more secretive than usual for the past year and a half.

  And now, she was gone.

  “If you’ve hurt her…” Savanna let the threat hang in the air. Was she really doing this? Threatening the president of the United States? “If you made her disappear, I will find out, and when I do, I will let everyone know exactly who and what you are.”

  A monster.

  Releasing her chin, Linc Norman put his face next to hers, their reflections in the mirror looking like the Greek theatre faces of comedy and tragedy. He thought this was a joke—her fierce love and loyalty to her sister.

  But the president wasn’t one to take a threat sitting down. He ran his hands over Savanna’s arms, his attention dropping to her cleavage. Holding the gaze a moment longer, purposely trying to make her uncomfortable. “You’ve pissed off a lot of high-powered people in your time at the news desk. Ruined a lot of lives and brought whole companies to their knees. Wouldn’t want any of them to retaliate, now, would you, Van?”

  A master at intimidation, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, as if soaking in her scent before he leaned his forehead against her temple. “You and I both have a role to play in leading the American people and making them feel secure. Parker had one job and she blew it. Don’t follow in her footsteps, Van. Do what I tell you and everyone will be happy.”

  Her hand now shook so hard, she had to lay down the pen. It was either that, or she’d stick the pen in his eye socket. “I want my sister back.”

  “We don’t always get what we want.” He chuckled and rose to his full height, checking himself out in her mirror. He straightened his tie, brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “Except me. I am, after all, the leader of the free world.”

  Savanna held his gaze, refusing to kowtow regardless of the fact that he could ruin her career, her very life, with the snap of his fingers. She mentally cursed herself that she didn’t have a way to make the bastard come clean.

  But that was her forte. Digging in and unearthing dirt that could bring anyone, no matter how much power they had, to their knees. She’d known this confrontation was a strong possibility and had already taken measures to start fighting back.

  He didn’t see the fire in her eyes, or, knowing him, took it as compliance rather than defiance. Everyone gave him what he wanted when he turned on the charm.

  “Remember, lay off Westmeyer.” He winked and patted her back. “And enjoy the flowers.”

  Two Secret Service agents closed in around him as he left. At least, she thought they were SS. They could have been his thugs. Parker had once told her Norman used various tunnels under the White House to come and go covertly on a regular basis. Often his own chief of staff had no idea where he was or what he was doing.

  “The White House bad boy,” the press had nicknamed him. Savanna knew his antics hid a much deeper, much more sinister side.

  Trembling, she took the vase of flowers and smashed it against the wall.

  Light reflected off something among the shattered heads of the hydrangeas. Savanna stepped gingerly though the broken glass in the designer heels the audience wouldn’t see behind her news desk. Bending down, she picked up a tiny, flexible, opaque disc.

  Listening device? Camera?

  Throwing it down, she ground her heel into it. Small satisfaction, but she imagined it was Norman’s face.

  Back at her dressing table, she withdrew her cell phone from the top drawer. No calls or texts from Parker, but there was a text from a blocked caller.

  ON16?

  A long time ago, Parker had given Savanna a number to text, a person who went by the moniker ON16. A person—man or a woman, she didn’t know—who could help Savanna if she couldn’t get hold of her sister. Extreme emergencies only, Parker had said.

  Savanna had never needed it before.

  ON16’s text was two lines: a name and a phone number.

  Savanna stared at the name, bells going off in her head. Emit Petit. Where had she heard that name before?

  Lindsey popped in without knocking. “What did the president say? Are you going to interview him? Please say he wants to do an interview at the White House!”

  She was giddy until her attention dropped to the shards of glass and limp flowers on the floor. “Oh, my God. What happened? Are you okay?”

  Savanna stood, dropping the cell phone back into her drawer. She smoothed the front of her jacket and grabbed her notes. “Let’s go,” she said, hustling Lindsey out of the room. “We have a show to do.”

  And then I’m going to find my sister.

  Chapter Two

  _____________________

  ______________________________________________________

  Virginia

  “YOU SURE THIS is the guy?” Cal Reese asked.

  Emit drummed his thumb against the steering wheel. The Escalade purred under him, waiting for instructions. Cal’s misgivings seemed understandable as they sat on the road watching the man staring them down from the top of the hill. “Your wife picked him. Said he was the ideal candidate.”

  Cal glanced down at the file in his lap. “He looks better on paper.”

  “Ever known Beatrice to be wrong?”

  An exasperated sigh parted Cal’s lips. Beatrice was classified as a genius with a photographic memory and had worked for a secret group called Command & Control inside the NSA until they’d sent an assassin after her. Now she worked for Emit, screening potential employees for Rock Star Security and analyzing cases for his secret covert ops group, Shadow Force International. Rock Star Security provided bodyguards and a solid, law-abiding front. Shadow Force International stayed in the background, performing private intelligence, security, and paramilitary missions for those who had nowhere else to turn.

  “Unfortunately, no,” Cal said. “I’ve known her since we were kids and it’s been like living with God. She’s omnipotent.”

  She was definitely all knowing. Emit took his foot off the brake and urged Rihanna, the name he’d given his favorite vehicle, forward. She was kitted out with all the latest security stuff, enabling her to withstand bullets, grenades, and even gas attacks. He and Cal had even given her her own private cache of weapons hidden under the back seat.

  With her black body, tinted windows, and miles and miles of chrome, she probably looked like a demon from hell to Trace Hunter. Could be why the man braced even more as they crawled back up the hill.

  Cal glanced at the display on the dash. “Bet Hunter’s balls are the size of marbles right now. Forty-two degrees and he’s wearing nothing but his ink and his Underroos.”

  Afraid the former SEAL would flee into the woods, Emit kept Rihanna at a slow ten mph pace. “Asshat refused the clothes I bribed the guard to give him. Our introduction and instructions on where to find us were sewn inside.”

  “And you brought me along on this venture because…?”

  “You’re former Teams. I’m not. Thought he might be more cooperative if you made the offer to come work for us.”

  They were fifty yards away now. Hunter stood straight as an arrow, showing off his muscled chest and tree-trunk legs, a
definite snarl on his face as if daring them to take a strike at him.

  Cal yawned, stretching as he continued to read Hunter’s file. As head of Emit’s new Shadow Force team, Cal had been back in the States from a tactical engagement in Costa Rica for less than an hour. “Doesn’t seem like the cooperative type. Says here Hunter was in solitary confinement fifty-one times in sixteen months.” Cal shook his head. “Fifty-one? Jesus. He also sent a handful of guards and over a dozen inmates—highly trained former Special Forces and Spec Ops, just like him—to the west block for medical treatment.”

  Emit shrugged. “I don’t argue with Beatrice. She said the guy is perfect for SFI and we need men, even plain old bodyguards, since our client intake for Rock Star skyrocketed after you went Die Hard on us and saved the president in front of a packed house a few months ago.”

  Cal got busy putting the file away, seemingly uncomfortable about being reminded of his heroics. “I saved the president before I joined your team. Besides, no one knows I work for you now. I’ve become yesterday’s news and that’s the way I want it. You built the security side of the business into a multi-million dollar company all on your own, and it doesn’t hurt that you’re providing bodyguards to all those young, pretentious actors on the West Coast who get their mugs on the front of People magazine every week. You should be happy with the notoriety.”

  Emit was happy. Business wasn’t just good, it was booming. Protection services were the rage for Hollywood starlets, rock ’n’ roll bands, government officials, and the growing population of billionaires. Shit, at this rate, he was going to need his own protection detail.

  But Shadow Force International—that was his dream. Ever since he’d watched The A-Team reruns on TV with his old man, he’d wanted to take guys like Cal and send them to hotspots around the world to help people.

  Cal stared out the windshield. “Do I want to know why the government sent Hunter to Witcher?”

  Men like Cal and the others—all previous Special Forces—had a unique set of job skills and the mental focus for the work, whether they were guarding rich actors or doing secret paramilitary missions in foreign countries.

  If the government got pissy with them, however, the former SEALs ended up silenced and abandoned by their country. “He worked for Command & Control, just like Beatrice.”

  Cal let go a soft whistle. “They turned on him like they did her?”

  Emit shrugged. “Hunter knows something. Something big. They stuffed him in Witcher to keep him quiet. Beatrice has been trying to find out, but her sources won’t say. Or don’t know.”

  “Why not kill him?”

  “Might be why he’s ended up in solitary so many times. He was fighting for his life.”

  A tight silence descended. Beatrice, who’d worked for the top secret Command & Control, had been in the same situation. Luckily for all of them, she and Cal had outwitted the assassin sent to kill her, but Cal still held a grudge. She was pregnant with his kid now and Emit had never seen a man more protective of his wife and future family. He knew the feeling. No one better touch his family either.

  “Do I want to know how you got him out?” Cal said.

  Emit shook his head. “Nope. Let’s just say Beatrice has contacts and talents you and I can only dream of.”

  Cal looked indignant. “I have talents.”

  “We all do. That’s what makes our team strong. You and Hunter should have no trouble bonding.”

  Cal and Trace Hunter had a lot in common—they were both SEALs the government had turned its back on and labeled rogue agents. Emit only had one Shadow Force team of five men; Cal was the leader. Requests for private intelligence and rescue missions were backlogged and some of the people in need were running out of time. Emit needed a second team and fast. As he eased Rihanna closer to the spot where Hunter was making his stand, he hoped he was looking at his next team leader.

  Braking, he slapped Cal on the shoulder and said, “You’re up.”

  Cal blew out a breath and rolled his shoulders. “I have the feeling this is going to get bloody before it’s all over.”

  “We need him, and if he stays out here alone, whoever stuck him in Witcher is going to catch up with him.”

  Reaching behind the seat, Cal grabbed his overnight bag and a white sack filled with fast food. Emit had figured Cal needed some good ol’ American fat and grease on his return from Columbia. Cal hadn’t eaten any of it, complaining he’d picked up a bug down south.

  “What’s your plan?” Emit asked.

  “Food, clothes, the essentials.” Cal opened the door and winked at him. “Just simple kindness, bro.”

  TRACE STIFFENED A fraction more when a man emerged from the Escalade. Two inches over six feet, probably one-ninety under his jacket. Moved like a soldier, his buzz cut military issue.

  One hand was buried in the top of a soft-sided duffel, the other held a white paper sack with a red logo.

  Trace distrusted him on sight.

  There was no obvious weapon, so unless the guy planned to beat him to death with the bags, Trace decided it was safe to satisfy his curiosity. “What do you want?”

  “Name’s Cal Reese. Just got back from an overnight op out of the country and didn’t use my change of clothes.” He tossed the duffel on the ground between them. “Thought you might like some pants and a shirt since it’s forty fucking degrees out here and you’re”—he motioned at Trace’s body—“slightly underdressed.”

  “I didn’t ask who you were, I asked what you wanted.”

  Reese held out the paper sack. “Lunch?”

  A whiff of hamburger and greasy fries wafted from the bag, and damn if Trace’s nose didn’t flare. Fast food from his favorite chain—a place he hadn’t seen in eighteen months. He’d dreamed about that bacon double-cheeseburger, and each time he was about to bite into it, he’d wake up. How did this guy know?

  Had to be a trick. Trace forced his starved senses to shut down so he could get back on track. “Who do you work for?”

  The paper sack landed on top of the guy’s go-bag. “Not who you think.”

  “You don’t know what I think.”

  Reese nodded and he looked off in the distance. “I feel you, man. The government turned on you. You saw or heard something you weren’t supposed to, and now you’ve been branded a traitor and sent to a hellhole in the middle of Nowhere, Virginia.”

  Something pinged in Trace’s brain. Cal Reese. Callan Reese, the SEAL who’d saved the president a few months ago. The story had been all over the news and, even inside Witcher, the inmates had been buzzing about it.

  Now Trace really hated him. Fucking bastard should have let Norman die.

  But heroes, real heroes, always put their life on the line for their commander-in-chief.

  “My boss and a few others pulled some major strings to get you out,” Reese continued. “But listen up, you’ll never truly be free. Someone will be gunning for you, more so now that you’ve slipped through the system. We can help you disappear for good without you actually ending up on a deserted island or dead.”

  The smell of the food teased Trace’s nose again, making it hard to concentrate. He’d been surviving on little more than bread and water in solitary.

  Walk away.

  He knew he should, but he was rooted to the spot.

  One more minute. He really did want to know what this guy was up to. “And in return?”

  “We have a job for you. Best job around, if you ask me.”

  A job. Of course. There was the rub. They thought they knew everything about him, that’s why they were here.

  “I don’t kill people anymore.” He shot Reese and the guy in the Escalade a scalding look. “Unless they get in my personal space.”

  Point taken, Reese held up a hand and took a subtle step backward. “We’re not here to force you into anything, and we don’t expect you to kill people. Not many people anyway, and certainly not innocents. If you work for Shadow Force International, every operatio
n is off the books but we take matters of life and death seriously. We don’t believe in collateral damage.”

  Shadow Force International? Trace had heard rumors inside Witcher, but then he’d heard rumors about mysterious paramilitary groups in there on a daily basis. Everyone wanted to believe that some Hollywood-inspired black ops team was going to crash through the concrete walls and rescue them from their dismal existence, giving them a new life.

  “We’re looking for a team leader for a second Shadow team.” Reese rubbed his hands together, blew on them. “You don’t have to commit to anything right now. My card’s in the bag, along with some money, a couple of burn phones, and an unregistered, untraceable gun. It’s yours, the whole thing, whether you join us or not.”

  Fuck, and all he wanted was that goddamn cheeseburger.

  And maybe the clothes.

  Reese held out a hand. “Good luck, man.”

  Trace stared at the outstretched hand. For some stupid reason, his own hand seemed to have a brain of its own and reached out to shake it.

  Reese walked toward the vehicle, but stopped after a couple of feet and turned back. “I know about Command & Control. They tried to kill my wife. She’s the one who found you and picked you to join our team…and she’s never wrong. About anyone or anything. Give it some thought.”

  At the mention of C&C, Trace’s insides went as cold as his nose and his fingers. Few people in the world knew about the group, and those handpicked for it rarely knew each other.

  But Trace was fairly certain he knew the woman in question. “What did you say your wife’s name is?”

  Reese smiled. “I didn’t.”

  Trace watched as Reese climbed into the Escalade. Watched the vehicle drive away. Snatching up the bag of food, he found the burger and ripped off the foil wrapper. It had cooled but was still the most delicious thing he’d had in his mouth since his last night as a free man.