Also by Laura Griffin
Snapped
Unforgivable
Unspeakable
Untraceable
Whisper of Warning
Thread of Fear
One Wrong Step
One Last Breath
Pocket Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Laura Griffin
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First Pocket Books ebook edition February 2012
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
‘Twisted’ Excerpt
One
KANDAHAR, AFGHANISTAN
0200 hours
Sometimes they went in with a flash and crash, but Lieutenant Gage Brewer always preferred stealth. And tonight, because the team’s mission was to outsmart a band of Taliban insurgents, stealth was the operative word.
The night smelled like smoldering garbage and rot as Gage crept through the darkened alley in an industrial neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. They were in a hot zone, a place where anyone they encountered would like nothing better than to use them for target practice.
As the SEAL team’s point man, Gage moved silently, every sense attuned to the shadows around him. Particularly alert at this moment was Gage’s sixth sense—that vague, indefinable thing his teammates liked to call his frog vision. Gage didn’t know what to call it; he only knew it had saved his ass a time or two.
In the distance, the muted drone of an electric generator in this city still prone to blackouts. And, closer still, footsteps. The slow clomp of boots on gravel, moving steadily nearer, then pausing, pivoting, and fading away.
Wait, Gage signaled his team. Lieutenant Junior Grade Derek Vaughn melted into the shadows, followed a heartbeat later by Petty Officers Mike Dietz and Adam Mays. Gage approached the corner of the building, an unimposing brick structure that was supposedly a textile factory. Crouching down, he slipped a tiny mirror from the pocket of his tactical vest and held it at an angle in order to see around the corner.
A solitary shadow ambled north toward the front of the building, an AK-47 slung casually across his body. The shadow told Gage three things: the intel they’d been given was good, this building was under armed guard, and what was going down tonight at this factory had nothing to do with textiles.
Gage eased back into the alley.
“Sixty seconds,” Vaughn whispered.
Gage had known Vaughn since BUD/S training. Besides being a demolitions expert, the Texan had the best sense of time and direction of any man in Alpha squad, and tonight he was in charge of keeping everyone on schedule.
Soundlessly, they waited.
Then, like clockwork, a distant rat-tat-tat as the rest of Alpha squad exchanged carefully staged, nonlethal gunfire in an alley much like this one.
Beside Gage, the building came alive. Footsteps thundered in a stairwell. Excited voices carried through the walls. A door banged open and more shouts filled the night as men poured from the building. A truck engine roared to life. Gage and his teammates watched from the shadows as a pickup loaded with heavily armed insurgents peeled off, no doubt to help wipe out the American commandos gullible enough to walk into a trap.
Twenty more seconds and Vaughn gave the signal. Gage peered around the corner. The guard now stood in a pool of light spilling down from a second-story window. The sour expression on his bearded face told Gage he wasn’t too happy about being stuck guarding hostages while his comrades got to slaughter American soldiers. His lips moved, and Gage guessed he was cursing his prisoners—two Afghani teachers whose heinous crime had been taking a job at a newly opened school for girls.
Their boss, the school’s principal, had been beheaded on live Webcam two days ago.
Watching the footage had made Gage’s blood boil. But his anger was tempered now, a tightly controlled force he would use to carry out his mission.
In addition to rescuing the Afghanis, the SEALs were tasked with finding and retrieving forty-two-year-old Elizabeth Bauer, an American reporter who had been working on a story for the Associated Press when the Taliban stormed the school. She was thought to be next in line for execution, if she wasn’t dead already.
Gage chose to believe she was still alive—at least, pictures of her beheading weren’t yet bouncing around cyberspace. The picture Gage had seen—the one provided during the briefing—reminded him of his aunt back in Chicago. The minute he’d seen it, Gage had felt an emotional connection that went beyond his usual hundred-and-ten-percent commitment to an op.
The guard turned the corner. Vaughn and Dietz fell back, circling around to the building’s other side.
Follow me, Gage signaled Mays. The kid was young, green. He’d grown up in Tennessee and spoke with the thickest accent Gage had ever heard. But he could shoot like nobody’s business.
A quiet thud as they rounded the corner told Gage that Vaughn and Dietz had neutralized the guard about ten seconds ahead of schedule. Gage stepped over the lifeless body and entered the building with his finger on the trigger of his M4. He glanced around. The space was dim and cavernous, empty except for a few junked-out trucks and some tires piled in corners. A band of light shone onto the dirt floor from some sort of upstairs office. Given the satellite dish they’d seen mounted outside, Gage figured it was used as a media room. According to their intel, the hostages were being kept in the basement.
Vaughn went up to take out any hostiles who might have stayed behind. Gage scanned the room’s perimeter and quickly located an open doorway leading down to a lower level.
The earthen steps were steep and Gage took them silently. Clearing out the bulk of the tangos with a diversion had been a good plan, but one that relied on a fair amount of luck. Gage was a gambling man, and the first rule of gambling was that luck eventually ran out. He expected an armed guard at the foot of the stairs and that’s exactly what he found.
Gage delivered a well-placed blow with the butt of his rifle, rendering the man unconscious before his weapon even clattered to the floor. A collective gasp went up from across the room as Gage knelt down to collect the Kalashnikov. He slung it over his shoulder while Mays zip-cuffed the guard. Their orders were to keep at least one of them alive, if possible, in case they n
eeded him for information.
The hostages stumbled to their feet and Gage turned his flashlight on them. The beam illuminated two slightly built Afghani men and a fortyish woman.
“Lieutenant Gage Brewer, U.S. Navy.” He zeroed in on the woman. “Ma’am, are you—”
“Betsy Bauer.” She reached out and touched his arm, as if to make sure he was real. “And I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life.”
Vaughn tromped down the steps to join them. “All clear up there.” He held up a piece of black cloth. It was a flag with a skull and a sword painted on it, and Gage recognized it from the video footage.
He’d found the beheading room.
“Anyone injured?” This from Dietz, the team corpsman. “Anything that might prevent you from—”
“We’re fine.” Betsy Bauer cast a worried look at the door. “Let’s just get out of here.”
Gage’s thoughts exactly. He led everyone up the stairs. Mays and Dietz guarded their flanks and Vaughn watched their six.
“Five minutes,” Vaughn said from the back.
They were ahead of schedule. Another stroke of luck. More than four minutes until their helo would drop down in a nearby field. The other half of their squad would already be on it, after having spent a few minutes pretending to be ambushed by Taliban fighters before vanishing into the night.
Gage started to get anxious as he neared the door. That damned sixth sense again . . .
His gaze landed on something long and black sticking out from the back of one of the trucks. He jogged over to investigate.
“Holy shit.”
“What is it?” Mays asked.
Gage blinked down at the truck bed. “I’m looking at a shit-ton of weapons. RPGs, AKs, a couple of Carl Gs.” He glanced up at Vaughn and a flash of understanding passed between them.
“Let’s hit the extraction point,” Gage said, jogging back to the group. He checked the surrounding area before hustling the hostages to a nearby clearing. Gage watched the reporter, relieved that she seemed to be moving okay. No telling what hell she’d endured these past forty-eight hours.
A familiar whump whump grew louder as their helo approached. Gage scanned the area, ready to eliminate anything that might try to botch their extraction. Dust and trash kicked up as the Seahawk dropped down onto the landing zone. Gage loaded in the hostages, then counted the heads inside. Every man in Alpha squad accounted for. They were good to go.
Another glance at Vaughn. He was a demo man, as was Gage, and they were thinking the same thing.
“Two minutes,” Gage yelled at his commanding officer.
Dirt tornadoed around them as Gage squinted into the Seahawk. It was too loud—and time was too short—for him to explain what he wanted to do. It was a critical moment. Did his CO trust him or not? The officer gave a brief nod.
Gage and Vaughn took off at a dead run. In under ninety seconds they had the two truck beds rigged with enough C-4 to blow up a tank. No way were they going to leave a fuckload of ordnance around for the enemy to use against U.S. troops.
“Ten seconds,” Vaughn said.
Gage’s heart pounded as he added more C-4, just to be sure. Then they got the hell out.
Less than a minute later, an earsplitting blast ripped the night. Gage’s face hit the dirt. The earth shook beneath him as the building fireballed and then fireballed again. Debris rained down around him—concrete, mud, chunks of brick.
Burning embers pelted him as he tried to move, but his body seemed cemented to the ground. Vaughn grabbed his flak vest and hauled him to his feet just as a truck careened around a corner and barreled straight for them.
“Go, go, go!”
They leaped for the helo as a dozen arms reached out to pull them aboard. And then Gage was inside, his heart hammering, his face pressed flat against the metal floor as the Seahawk lifted into the air. Machine-gun fire sputtered below, and Gage sat up, shocked. He gazed down at the inferno. He glanced at Vaughn.
A little too much boom, his friend’s look seemed to say, and Gage smiled. He couldn’t believe they’d made it out of there unscathed.
A bullet whizzed past his cheek. Gage whirled around.
He wouldn’t smile again for a very long time.
LOWER PECOS RIVER VALLEY, TEXAS
Three months later
Kelsey Quinn crouched at the bottom of the damp grave, her heart pounding against her sternum.
It couldn’t be. She’d shot this sector with the radar herself. And yet as she dragged the trowel ever so gently across the earth, she felt it again—that barely perceptible resistance.
“Kelsey?”
Reaching for the sable-hair brush tucked into the back pocket of her shorts, she bent closer to the patch of dirt. She dusted away a layer of silt, blew, then dusted again. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. She held her breath as the smooth slope of a cranium began to emerge.
“Kelsey?”
Her brush moved swiftly now, in time with her pulse. Cranial sutures not yet fused. It was a child.
“Dr. Quinn?”
Everything went dark. Kelsey’s gaze snapped to the person who’d stepped in front of the lamp. She recognized her field assistant’s gangly silhouette instantly.
“Yes, Aaron?”
“There’s a message for you. From your mother.”
She stared at him, taking a moment to comprehend the words.
A message from her mother? Besides a few e-mails, she hadn’t heard from her mom in weeks. For her to call in the middle of a field school must mean something important.
Aaron stepped out of the light and Kelsey squinted at the glare. She glanced down again at her discovery, then sat back on her haunches.
“We have another one.” She couldn’t suppress the excitement in her voice. “Tell Dr. Robles I’ve got a cranium.”
Kelsey got to her feet and pulled off her baseball cap. Another burial. And in their last week, too. She didn’t know why, but for some reason the best finds always came at the end of a dig.
Kelsey mopped the sweat from her brow and hiked up the four rough-hewn stairs to the top of the pit. Situated at the mouth of the cave, this particular sector had been worked first and was declared finished weeks ago. Kelsey had spent her first three weeks in this pit, sifting through dirt and lifting ancient bones from the soil. Her last week on the dig, and she’d returned here why? Nostalgia, maybe? Instinct? The nagging hunch that there was something more to find?
Kelsey stepped from the dimness of the cave into the blinding sunlight. The sky was a rich, cerulean blue. This morning’s mist had been vaporized hours ago, and several wilted anthropology and archaeology students were standing beneath a tarp, trying to catch some shade as they swilled Evian water.
You can take the kids out of the city. . . .
She put her cap on again, pulling her ponytail through the hole in the back. She glanced down at the smudged slip of paper Aaron had handed her. Call your uncle Joe. Love, Mom, followed by a phone number. The area code was San Diego, where her uncle lived and where Kelsey had spent a huge chunk of her hugely chunky childhood.
Her mother had tracked her down in the west Texas desert because Joe needed to talk to her? Kelsey sensed a trap, but she didn’t have the first clue as to what it could be.
She scoured the cluttered campsite until she found the satellite phone beneath a table crammed with plastic containers. It took ten minutes and three attempts before she reached her uncle at the naval base. He was stateside for a change, not off fighting bad guys with his team of SEALs.
“Quinn here.”
Despite the heat and the mystery and her annoyance at being pulled away from an important find, Kelsey smiled. “You needed to talk to me?”
“Kelsey. How’s it going?” His voice was brisk, but she heard the fondness in it, and her smile widened. Whatever this was, it wasn’t some horrible emergency.
“Pretty good,” she said, “considering it’s a hundred and ten degrees out a
nd I haven’t had a shower in two days. How’s it going with you?”
“Listen, your mom called last night. She’s worried about you.”
“Oh my God, she didn’t. Is this about that girl from Del Rio?”
Pause. Kelsey’s anger bubbled up as she put it all together.
“She tells me you’re alone out there digging up bones—”
“Amazing. This is amazing.” She fisted her hand on her hip in frustration. “I told her when she e-mailed me that article that she’s way overreacting.”
“You’re telling me some woman didn’t get dragged from her car and shot, not twenty miles from where you are?”
“People get shot all the time! You live in San Diego, for Christ’s sake. It happens every day!”
Another pause, and she could picture her father’s brother frowning down at the phone. She was being disrespectful, and if there was one thing Lieutenant Commander Joseph Quinn had harped on her entire life it was respect.
“Joe, really. I’m fine. And I’m definitely not alone. I’m out here with dozens of people—”
“Camping by yourself at night, though, right? Just you and that seventy-two-year-old professor?”
“We’re in campers,” she said, hoping he picked up on the plural. Did he really think she was shacked up with Dr. Robles? Eew.
Kelsey glanced around impatiently. A trio of students stood at one of the tables, their heads bowed over various labeling tasks while they pretended not to eavesdrop. Kelsey needed to wrap this up. At twenty-eight, she was considered a mere toddler in academic circles, and she already had enough trouble getting students to take her seriously. Her kick-ass job at a world-renowned forensics lab, which set her apart from the rest of the university faculty, was her saving grace. But even her job at the Delphi Center couldn’t salvage her reputation if word got out that her mommy had been calling her at a dig to fret over safety.
“Listen, Joe, I appreciate the call. I really do—”
“I’m sending someone out there,” he bowled right over her. “He should be there today, about sixteen hundred.”
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