Perfect Stranger (3 page)

"Rocket out!" Gunner braced himself as he
fired, stalling to watch as his target exploded and the jeep
flipped end over end.

"They're down!" Butler shouted with a
whoop.

A faint relief raced down Jericho's spine.
This night wasn't over yet—they had only just begun.

"We'll grab gear and head back out," he said
to the remainder of his five-man team as they sped from the dense
jungle. The only other thing he had to do was transmit the location
of the compound back to Central and request reinforcement. "We have
a man down and one taken by hostiles. They won't be left
behind."

The other men gave a loud, heart-felt
“hooah” in unison.

Exactly thirty minutes later they rolled
into the small shed they used as a garage to the side of the safe
house. Jericho killed the engine as they all hopped out to shut the
shed doors so the truck wouldn't be seen.

Not one of them wasn’t looking over his
shoulder as they started across the small yard. However, as they
all noticed the two birds in an empty adjacent lot to the side, a
deeper concern flickered through the group. The black sides of the
identical helicopters were glossed to perfection, and a pair of
pilots remained behind, though they pretended to ignore Jericho and
his two men.

As Gunner and Butler
bemoaned what, or rather who, might be awaiting them inside,
Jericho felt pretty certain he knew exactly who waited on
them—and
his
timing couldn’t be worse. He shook his head in annoyance, and
with a heavy stride, he stalked up onto the small porch.

Gunner sighed hard, coming up the steps
behind Jericho. "There's trouble."

"Well, shit," Butler said under his
breath.

Jericho threw open the door, and froze.

Their small house had been, in a word,
ransacked—though by clean-cut bureaucrats, steadily filing nearly
everything except magazines, rounds, and MREs into one box or
another. He gaped at them a moment, on the edge of rage.

Jericho scowled, stepping
further into the safe house, followed by his team members. His gaze
landed on a familiar profile across the room. "What the hell
are
you
doing
here?" he asked.

Agent Conyers didn't belong in this area,
and the handler for the Southwest Asia Theater wasn't at all whom
he had expected. Where was Weston? He'd expected to be brought to
heel by the CIA director for this blotch in their mission. But
Conyers? The only reason he knew the man from Adam was from when
they were briefed for the mission back at Bragg. Conyers had been
brought in to enlighten them on possible Al-Qaida groups
responsible. At the time, the man had been less than helpful.

So, what was he doing here now?

Jericho narrowed his gaze on the swarming
room.

His other men were behind him still, and
they panted shallowly from their exertions in the field, but moved
efficiently to gather more gear and magazines, all the while
muttering curses. Jericho glanced over his shoulder a few minutes
later as he heard a hiss. Gunner poked gauze over Butler's
wound.

Gunner ticked his head toward Jericho.
"Bullet went in and out clean, just a scratch." Gunner, their
medic, slapped Butler on the shoulder, causing the other man to
grit his teeth.

Jericho nodded, and as he turned his
attention back to the room, he balled his fists as he studied the
handler's back from under a mask of dark camouflaged face paint.
Slanting his gaze, he swept the room once more. He didn't like
being ignored.

His jaw ticked. "I
said
, what are you doing
here, Agent Conyers?" Jericho raised his voice, interrupting
Conyers and the other agent he spoke with quietly.

Conyers cut his eyes at Jericho over his
shoulder, clearly annoyed, breaking away from his discussion. "I'm
cleaning up your mess, it would seem." Agent John Conyers removed
his hands from his suit pockets to turn on Jericho, stalking across
the room with a swaggering gait belying his apparent thirty-seven
or so years.

When he stopped a few feet from them, he
crossed his arms and glared hard on Jericho and his team. Conyers's
jaw worked slowly on gum. "Weston sent me. Now, where's the rest of
them?" he asked, perturbed, coolly flicking a finger amongst
Jericho and the others in search of the two missing soldiers.

Jericho's back stiffened. "What is that
supposed to mean? What the hell is going on?" he all but
shouted.

"You have a leak, Sergeant." Conyers took
another step closer. A look of animosity flashed in his stare.
"Weston assigned me to take care of the problem. One of your own
has been transmitting vital information on your mission and
locations to the hostiles."

"Like hell," Jericho said.

The agent's eyes narrowed. "I can make this
hell if you don’t cooperate."

Jericho's face contorted
in a snarl, but he held himself in check. He wasn’t sure just what
part of his job this asshole thought
wasn’t
hell already. "This is
bullshit! We lost men out there while finding that damn compound,
which by the way, we
did
find. And we come back to
this
?" He threw his arms wide. He
was livid at Conyers's suggestion.

The agent squinted at Jericho. "Bad timing?
Or are you trying to cover for something?" he asked, chewing his
gum a little harder.

Jericho slowly shook his head. "I have
nothing to cover, nor do any of my men. You should know that."

Conyers gave a short bark of laughter.
"You're just another government employee, son, even if a soldier.
We all have something to cover at one point or another."

Anger suffused Jericho. "I demand an
explanation, sir."

"I don’t have to give you any damn thing. I
have a job to do here, Master Sergeant," Conyers shouted.

"And I have men out there," Jericho yelled
back, thrusting a finger behind him toward the door. "One KIA, one
MIA, taken by hostiles."

"And, I would assume you
can thank the one
captured
for the demise of the other,
and
for almost costing the rest of
you your lives. I'll guarantee he's the leak."

Red flashed behind
Jericho's eyes. "That's a rather impulsive assumption." Jericho
planted his fists on his hips before one contacted with Conyers's
face. "You're making a mistake. I need reinforcements on the ground
before this becomes an even bigger disaster for the U.S. Our man
needs our help, and I
will not
leave here without him if you think you're
removing me from my post."

"Sir," a female agent called, stepping
around Jericho to address Conyers. She handed the agent a slip of
paper. "We have something," she said tightly.

"That’s impossible," Jericho said
vehemently.

"MacKall was the one captured, hmm?" Conyers
asked, wagging the paper in the air. He looked Jericho in the eye,
daring him to deny the truth.

Jericho's spine stiffened, and his breath
caught.

What in the hell is going
on
? The question flashed through his mind
again.

Conyers handed the paper back to the female,
who quickly reached over and shredded the note in a portable
machine.

"Son, you have a new assignment—"

Jericho tore his focus from the woman back
to Conyers. "No, this isn’t—"

"—get back out there and
bring in MacKall." The agent raised his voice. "And then you
are
done
here,"
he said with venom.

Conyers raked Jericho with a scathing gaze,
but somewhere in the man's near-impenetrable eyes, there was a hint
of humor dancing. As Jericho caught this brief insight into
Conyers, his interest perked.

Just how much of a snake
is this handler?
he wondered.

Jericho's face twitched in a snarl. Conyers
had been against his mission from the start, and now he dared tread
too far by accusing MacKall of treason. Jericho wanted to beat the
agent to a pulp.

"I have to transmit the location of the
compound before I go," Jericho said, taking a step around
Conyers.

The agent moved to him. "I'll take care of
that, don’t you worry." Conyers coolly chewed his damn gum, that
smug humor turning into contempt. "You'll be debriefed when you get
back to Bragg. Take the extra bird and pilot for your use as far as
getting to the compound, but you get your man and then get the hell
out of that area. The bird will drop you, but you’re gonna have to
hump it back here." He pointed to the floor. "I'll be waiting for
you. We've already got men on the way to take over as far as any
remaining hostiles are concerned." He picked up a loaded magazine
from the table and tossed the mag in Jericho's direction. "Think
you can handle that, Sergeant?"

Jericho snatched the mag out of the air.
"Roger," he said through his teeth, eyes narrowed.

Just as quickly, Conyers dismissed them all,
turning to follow the female agent into another room, talking
quietly with her.

"I hate that man," Butler said, leaning over
Jericho's shoulder.

"Likewise." His jaw ticked as he turned to
face the two men, readied with assault packs in hand. Damn, they
were seriously undermanned for any mission, especially for what
they were taking on. But what choice did they have? He looked to
the others. "We ready?"

"
Hooah!
" they chorused.

Gunner tossed him a readied pack. "Then what
the hell are we waiting for?" Jericho asked as he caught it. He
slipped the magazine Conyers had tossed into a tactical pocket on
his pants and shrugged the pack over his shoulder.

****

0300 hours, 11 hours earlier, Thursday

Outside Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

Jericho Eden hung over the side of the bird,
fast-rope in hand. Nestled deep in the thick jungle, the roof of
the building came into plain sight through his NODS. No chance his
team wouldn’t see an attack coming this time.

At this point, he didn’t doubt one bit that
he and his team, minus the other two, were being used as a
scapegoat by the CIA, just in case unnecessary attention were
provoked or U.S. presence became known. His orders had clearly
conveyed the importance of their discretion on this recon mission.
Tonight, they had been forced to disregard those instructions in
order to survive.

They were in Brazil for reconnaissance work
on a suspected terrorist ring that had been leaking their ilk in
and out of the U.S. after taking on Brazilian identities. Only
after his team had begun making progress did the Southwest Asia
Theater handler Conyers really take interest. In fact, the man had
opposed the mission, calling any interest in a Brazilian Terrorist
compound farfetched and a waste of manpower and taxpayer money.
Repeatedly the agent had gone to Weston requesting the team be
removed.

Now this?

Why had Weston suddenly given in?

Jericho hadn’t seen
anything suspicious from any team member, nor had Conyers offered
any supporting evidence on his claim. That wasn’t anything new
though, but
if
MacKall was the traitor he had been made out to be, then
Jericho needed to hear it from the man himself. And if he were not
… Jericho wasn’t sure what to do then.

With all they had seen, how could any one of
them turn on their country? He refused to believe the
accusation.

Tonight might be their only possible chance
for redemption, and given the circumstances, he would rather be the
one to bring his brother back. No matter the charges held against
him, Connar MacKall was his brother-in-arms.

As the bird steadied over the rooftop of the
compound, his team waited behind him, ready to fast-rope onto the
roof. Jericho still wasn’t sure why Conyers had allowed them to go
back out. If he had such evidence, they should have been
quarantined for interrogation, not sent on a mission to capture the
suspected traitor. He supposed, with the lack of force in place,
they were Conyers’s only chance to bring in his man, one the CIA
handler would surely reap rewards for the capture of. Rewards that
would gain him a boost of prestige.

That tore at Jericho's gut more than
anything. They were being used to capture one of their own so
Conyers could advance himself. However, if they failed to bring
MacKall in, Weston would be forced to brand them as traitors to the
United States, too, if not for outright treason, then for direct
insubordination.

If anything, MacKall deserved to defend
himself as they all did.

Regardless of the charges against him or the
flawed mission, Jericho wouldn't leave his brother in the hands of
hostiles.

He
wouldn't
leave Brazil without him,
nor without Maloney.

"Ready for this?" he shouted into his mic,
looking back over his shoulder. He received a nod from each man as
a go sign. "In and out quick," he said. Jericho took one last look
out the opened door and pushed the rope out. It hit the roof, and
he quickly motioned to his team, each slipping down and blending
into the darkened night. Jericho followed.

As soon as his feet hit the rooftop, the
ropes were cut from above and dropped behind him as the bird faded
away. He went for cover and lifted his SCAR to fire if
necessary.

Then the worst thing happened.

The butt of a weapon cracked down on
Jericho's skull.

Everything went black.

Chapter Three

1400 hours, present time, Friday

Outside Rio de Janeiro, Brazil