Deception

by Ethan Jones

  Also by Ethan Jones

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  The Story

  When friends betray you, turn to your enemies...

  After a brush with death in his recent operation and news of a devastating personal tragedy, spymaster Javin Pierce struggles to keep focus. With no time to recover, he’s sent on his next mission: stop a nuclear scientist helping Iran develop an atomic bomb, without leaving a trace. On top of this, he’s ordered to partner with the same Mossad operative who tried to kill him.

  Twice.

  The closer the odd team gets to the truth, the more they realize their own friends have betrayed them. With nowhere to turn but to his sworn enemies, Javin must forge an alliance that comes at a terrible cost.

  The final blow: His partner is kidnapped; the fight becomes personal.

  Alone, betrayed, and with more than his own life on the line, will Javin be able to save his partner and prevent an all-out war between Iran and the United States?

  DECEPTION

  JAVIN PIERCE SERIES -

  BOOK SIX

  ETHAN JONES

  To God and my family.

  Thank you for your wonderful love.

  Table of Contents

  Front Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Epilogue

  Bonus - The Men of Mossad & Israeli Intervention

  Bonus - Chapter One Counterblow Book 7

  Bonus - Chapter Two

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Outside the Hera Palace Hotel

  Outskirts of Athens, Greece

  Dr. Aliyev nervously wiped the blood spatters off his black square-framed glasses with the front of his shirt. His trembling hands almost dropped them onto the ground of the narrow back alley. The body of his interpreter lay there, lifeless, a pool of blood forming around his head. Back home in Kazakhstan, the doctor had seen violence and death, but it had never been so brutal, close-up, and personal.

  The gunman unscrewed the sound suppressor from the pistol’s muzzle and flicked back some of his long black hair that had fallen over his face. He glanced at the doctor, then said, “Relax, just relax. Nothing will happen to you.” He dragged out his words, spoken in a firm tone in English but with a sharp Greek accent. “You, you’re precious.” He holstered his pistol, then gestured at the dead interpreter. “He was just dead weight.” He grinned at the joke.

  The doctor nodded and continued to smear the blood across the lenses. He gave up and put his glasses back on. His forehead had turned into a sea of sweat. He mopped it with the back of his hand, then removed his glasses and began to clean the bridge of his nose so the glasses would stay in place.

  The gunman looked over his shoulder at his two companions. One of them still held a large automatic rifle, while the other was backing his red BMW sedan into the alley. The gunman returned his gaze to the doctor, then said, “Let’s go.”

  The doctor shook his head and took a few reluctant steps. Then he stopped and tapped his chest, ignoring the bloodstains his fingers were leaving on his light brown shirt. His phone wasn’t in any of his pockets. He rummaged through his pants’ pockets, but he couldn’t find it. So he muttered, “I… I can’t go.”

  “That wasn’t enough for you?” the gunman said. “I can put a bullet in your shoulder. It will not kill you, but it will change your mind…”

  “No, I… I left my phone in my room.”

  “Really? You forgot it?”

  “Uh… yes. We left in a hurry, thinking the police were looking for us. Then…” His voice trailed off.

  “Then you met us.” The gunman completed the doctor’s sentence.

  The police had been searching all over Athens and the surrounding area for two Kazakh nuclear physicists. Three days ago, the scientists had arrived to attend a safe-and-sustainable energy conference in Berlin, Germany. After the close of the conference, they had gone their separate ways. Dr. Aliyev was expecting his Iranian contact to escort him and the interpreter to a new safehouse, as per their pho
ne conversation less than ten minutes ago. But when he had opened the door to his hotel room, the doctor was met by the three-man team. They had almost dragged the doctor and his interpreter through the hotel’s side entrance and into the back alley, claiming the police would arrive at any moment.

  The gunman stepped closer to the doctor. “This isn’t a trick to stall us, right? Your phone is still in the room?”

  “Yes, yes, you can search me.” He put up his arms. “I don’t have my phone, and I need it.”

  The gunman nodded. “But of course. Who can live without their phone nowadays?”

  He swore under his breath and gestured at the second gunman, who was wearing a grayish hooded shirt. “Come with us. No, put the rifle away first; come on.”

  The long-haired gunman turned to the driver, who had stepped out of the BMW. “Put him in the trunk.”

  The driver nodded and pulled the interpreter by the feet. The man’s body was dragged along the potholed alley.

  The doctor shook his head when he saw the man’s bloodied face, and a feeling of revulsion shot up from the pit of his stomach. He folded over and threw up his breakfast.

  “What the…” The long-haired gunman stepped away so that none of the vomit spray would land on his shoes or black jeans. A putrid smell stained the air.

  “Doc, will you be okay?” asked the other gunman.

  The doctor was still bent at the waist. He drew in a deep breath; there was a rancid taste in his mouth. He spat it out and wiped his face. He stood up slowly and glared at the long-haired gunman and waved a finger at him. “You… you killed him… He had a family, a wife and a young daughter—”

  “Yes, and so do you. If you wish to see them again, you’d better do what I say.”

  The doctor puffed up his chest. “You can’t kill me. The Iranians need me.”

  “They do, and as long as you’re alive, I’ll get paid.” He stood within arm’s reach of the doctor. “And the next time you point that finger at me, I’m going to cut it off. You can still help them build a bomb without a finger…”

  The doctor opened his mouth, then shook his head and finished cleaning the spit out of the corners of his lips.

  The long-haired guard grabbed the doctor by the arm. “Let’s go. We’re wasting time here…” He shoved the doctor in front of him.

  They crossed the short distance separating them from the hotel, sneaking in the same way they had come out. There were no security cameras and no receptionist on this side. The low-budget hotel couldn’t afford such luxuries, making it the perfect hiding place.

  The long-haired guard led the doctor toward the room, which was on the first floor and around the corner. The door of the room was shut, so the guard turned to the hooded man, then said, “Andonis, the card…”

  “What? What card?”

  “The room card.”

  “I… I don’t think I have it.”

  “What?”

  “Well, when we left, I thought we didn’t need it anymore—”

  “You ‘thought’? You’ve started to think now?”

  Andonis frowned but didn’t answer.

  “What did you do with it?”

  “Left it in the room.”

  “Really? Well, this is all f—”

  “Nikolas, I’ll go to the front desk and ask for a new one.”

  “They won’t give it to you as you’re not a guest.”

  “But they’ll give it to him.” Andonis pointed at the doctor, who seemed to be slightly amused by the unusual situation.

  These people are amateurs. How did I end up being their hostage? The thought of escape crept into his mind. But if I fail, will I end up like the interpreter? The man’s twisted face flashed in front of his eyes. Then the doctor saw himself lying in the dirty alley with a bullet to the back of his head. Who are these people?

  Nikolas turned to the doctor. “Listen, if you call for help, I will shoot you in the groin. You won’t die, so I’ll still get my money. But you’ll be in so much pain, you’ll beg me to kill you.”

  His razor-sharp voice sent shivers through the doctor’s spine. He tried to control himself and nodded.

  “You understand?” Nikolas asked in a harsh whisper.

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” the doctor said.

  “Good. Hurry.” He shoved him forward. “Stay here,” he said to Andonis.

  When Nikolas and the doctor entered the small empty lobby, the clerk—a young woman who probably was not even twenty years old—gave them a puzzled look. Her eyes flitted between the doctor’s messy glasses and bloodstained shirt. “Are you all right? Do I need to call a doctor?” she said in English.

  “He’s fine, he’s good.” Nikolas butted in, speaking in rapid Greek. “Cut his hand on a piece of glass, but we’ll get it bandaged. He left the card in his room, so we need a new one.”

  “I just have to check.” The woman glanced at her computer screen. “What’s the name?”

  “Here’s my card.” The doctor passed the clerk a fake ID card provided by the Iranian contact.

  The clerk noticed the doctor’s hand was trembling.

  Nikolas noticed it too. “He’s a bit shocked. Can you hurry?”

  The clerk nodded and looked up. She tried to smile at Nikolas, but all she could muster was a grimace. Then she looked over his shoulder, toward the inn’s main entrance, and her mouth dropped open. She stepped back and let out a sharp scream.

  Nikolas’s trained hand went for the Beretta pistol in the waistband holster under his untucked shirt. He jammed the pistol into the doctor’s side and turned his body slightly, using the man as a human shield. Nikolas was expecting a police officer, but he saw two men in civilian clothes who were pointing their pistols at him. The weapons were equipped with sound suppressors; the men were wearing black balaclavas, and only their eyes were visible.

  “Step away from the doctor,” said the masked gunman closest to Nikolas. “Put your gun down, and you’ll live.”

  Nikolas flinched and tried to place the man’s strange accent. It wasn’t Turkish. Albanian, maybe? Italian? But how did they get here? No, Italians don’t mess with Iranians. And Albanians aren’t stupid. Who are these people?

  He shook his head. “No.” He kept his voice as steady as he could, but it wasn’t as strong as he had hoped.

  “Last chance,” the gunman said in a firm voice.

  Nikolas’s mind ran through the options. Can I trust them? What about the money? His fingers gripped the cocked Beretta, and he shrank farther behind the doctor.

  The gunman lowered his pistol’s sight just a hair. It was now pointed at the doctor’s chest.

  Before he could pull the trigger, a gunshot rang out from behind Nikolas.

  Both masked gunmen fired quick bursts.

  Bullets cut through the doctor’s chest, spraying blood and tissue at Nikolas. He tried to return fire, but the doctor’s body was in the way. Nikolas shoved him away and turned the Beretta at the gunmen.

  The Greek was too late.

  The first bullet struck him in the neck. He felt the stab of pain at the same time that he tasted blood gurgling in his throat. His chest tightened at the lack of air.

  The second bullet pierced his forehead. The force of the impact threw his body backward, and he landed on the floor, hard and dead.

  The volley of bullets continued for another few moments, then the masked gunmen ceased fire. They glanced at the body of a second man lying face down near the far end of the lobby. The gunman who had exchanged words with Nikolas gestured for the other gunman to walk along the wall. He nodded, and they both cleared the hall.

  The loud sounds of an engine came from the back alley, followed by squealing tires.

  The first gunman glanced through the window at a red BMW zipping away. Then his eyes went to the dead bodies on the floor. He shook his head and stepped closer to the counter. The clerk was lying crumpled in a corner in the fetal position.

  The gunman put a finger to his lips, ges
turing with his pistol to the clerk. “Cameras?” he said in a harsh voice and gave her a hard look.

  The clerk shook her head and began to sob. “No, no cameras.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying. No cameras here. Don’t… don’t kill me.”

  “We won’t. But you saw nothing. You heard nothing. You were never here.”

  The woman nodded. “I… I was in the back,” she said between sobs.

  “And you stayed in the back until the shooting stopped. You saw nothing, and you heard nothing.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, nothing, nothing.”

  “Good.” He turned around and waved at the other gunman. “Let’s go.”

  They removed their balaclavas when they were close to the door and put their pistols away. “How did things go so wrong?” the second gunman asked as they hit the sidewalk and hurried toward their getaway SUV a few steps away.

  He shrugged. “Stubborn mule. We had to return fire.”

  “Pierce won’t like it. He ordered us to wait.”

  “I don’t care about the Canadian. We’re Mossad. We don’t work for him.”

  “Our boss won’t like it either.”

  “She’ll understand. We had to act.” He opened the SUV’s front door.

  “Yael will have our heads.”

  “She won’t. We’ll find the other doctor. And this time, we’ll take him alive.”

  Chapter Two

  Four Days Later

  Morocco Nights Restaurant

  Doha, Qatar

  “Your guy’s late. An hour late.” Javin Pierce toyed with his phone over the table’s smooth surface. He glanced at his wristwatch, then at the door about twenty steps away. Cars zoomed along the street as the last sunlight rays were losing the fight against the evening’s twilight.

  “He’s not my guy. He works with my agency, and he told us about the delay. Now, put that thing away.” She pointed at his phone. “It’s driving me nuts.”