Face Of Deception

He gave Cassidy a signal to take out the guard at the front door and his second in command moved away. Bledsoe and Williams worked their way toward the back of the house to check for any other sentries.

Overcoming the guards proved a simple task, and with the perimeter secured, their objective now was to find the prisoners.

Each of the men moved to a window at the rear or sides of the house. Mike selected the one where Williams had discovered a sentry. Raising the window carefully, he peered into the darkened room and could see a figure in the bed. The light was too faint to distinguish whether it was male or female.

Moving cautiously, he climbed into the room, drew the Trident and crossed the room to the bed. He froze in his tracks when he was close enough to identify the sleeping figure.

He’d found Snow White. Boy Blue was asleep beside her.

Bishop slipped the knife back into his boot and leaned over the woman. The sensuous combination of French perfume and woman drifted up in a seductive titillation. He was tempted to clamp his mouth—instead of his hand—over that wide, generous mouth of hers. Objectivity, hell! He’d been in the jungle too long!

Her eyes popped open in alarm and she struggled to rise, but he forced her back down.

“Quiet. We’re here to help you.”

Incredulity replaced Ann’s initial shock and panic. He sounded American! She peered up at the frightening apparition. The room was too dark to see anything except the faint figure of a man dressed in black. But there was nothing faint about the firm hand clamped over her mouth.

“I’m removing my hand. Don’t make a sound. Do you understand?” he whispered.

No doubt remained; that voice was American. She nodded, and couldn’t have cried out if she wanted to. She was too numb with shock.

He removed his hand and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Don’t be frightened,” he whispered. “We’ll get you out of here. How many men are there?”

Ann wanted to break out in a chorus of “God Bless America.” When she finally found her voice, her heart hammered so loudly in her ears, she couldn’t hear what she was saying. “I saw eight of them, but I think there were others.”

“Is there anyone else in the house besides you and the kid?”

She nodded. “Two servants. The last time I saw them they were tied up in the rear bedroom.” Now that the shock had worn off, once again she could feel hysteria mounting within her.

He must have sensed her rising agitation and tried to relax her. “You’re doing fine. Now tell me, were all the men armed?”

“I think so. At least all of the ones I saw. Who are these men? Are they the same ones who murdered Clayton?”

“I’ll explain everything later. Just remember, they’re dangerous, and won’t hesitate to kill you or the kid. Do exactly what I say. Did any of them speak English?”

“Poorly.”

“Could you understand anything said?”

The man’s clipped questions and reticence were beginning to make her feel as if she were on a witness stand. “I think they’re waiting for someone—or some instructions. They said something about moving us to a different location.”

“Did they say where? Mention any names?”

At the negative shake of her head, his jaw hardened into a grim line. “Did any of them harm you?”

“No.”

A trace of a smile tagged at the corners of his mouth. The glimmer was gone before she realized that it might have been an attempt at smiling.

“Will the kid cry when you wake him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But this has been a harrowing experience for him.”

Bishop stood up. “Get dressed.”

“What about Brandon?”

“Let him sleep for the moment.”

By now her vision had adjusted to the darkness, and she saw that the man was tall, at least four inches over six feet. He dwarfed her five feet eight inches. Most men she met didn’t.

After collecting her clothing, she cast a prim glance in his direction.

“What?”

“I’d like some privacy, please,” she said.

“Lady, this is no time to worry about privacy. Just put the damn clothes on.”

“Then turn around, Mr.—”

“Bishop.” Disgusted, Bishop pivoted. Ann slipped on a pair of lace panties, pulled the nightgown over her head and replaced it with a bra. Jeans and a shirt followed quickly, and as she buttoned the shirt, she slipped her feet into a pair of sneakers.

“You can turn around now.”

His look was one of pure annoyance. “Wake the kid, but don’t dress him. Just put shoes on him, and for God’s sake, keep him quiet.”

She leaned over the bed and shook Brandon gently. “Wake up, honey. We have to go.”

Brandon was too drowsy to offer an argument. “Where are we going?”

“These are friends, Brandon. They’ve come to help us. You must do everything they tell you to do. Do you understand?” She slipped his feet into shoes and tied the laces.

Suddenly a face filled the window. “You all set?”

“Yeah,” Bishop said. He moved to the window. “Everyone out?”

The man never stopped scanning the courtyard as he spoke. “All except Williams and Bledsoe, they can’t find the boy.”

“He’s here. Let’s move out before bullets start flying.”

“Bishop!” Ann whispered, pointing to the door that had just begun to open.

Bishop shoved her and Brandon to the floor behind the bed, and then crouched down on a knee with his weapon pointed at the door. A dark figure slipped cautiously into the room.

Bishop relaxed and rose to his feet. “What in hell are you doing? I almost shot you,” he hissed. “Get in here and shut that door.”

Another man followed behind and gently eased the door shut.

“All these bloody blokes are sleeping like babies. We’ve searched this whole house and there’s no sign of—”

“He’s here,” Bishop said. He nodded in the direction of the bed. As if to confirm his words, Brandon peered over the top of the bed, his eyes rounded with excitement.

“Let’s move,” Bishop ordered.

One of the men lifted Brandon into his arms. “Hey, sonny, how’d you like to go for a walk?”

“Is Ann coming?”

“I sure am, honey,” she assured him.

“Let’s go, lady,” Bishop said, and grabbed her hand.

Once outside, Brandon, Marie and Guillaume were lifted onto the backs of three of them, and they started in a run down the jungle path. A fourth man knelt down on a knee.

“Climb on,” Bishop said.

“That won’t be necessary. I jog every day,” Ann said.

She bore another one of his black glares. “Okay, but if you slow us up, I’ll have to carry you.”

A hard run through a jungle in a rain was a far different cry from her usual jogging. Ann’s lungs felt near to bursting when they stopped and uncovered a concealed boat.

Bishop and one of the men crouched down to guard the rear as Ann lingered, saying goodbye to the two servants who were returning to their village.

“When those gunmen leave, we return to house,” Guillaume assured her.

“I’ll contact you as soon as I can,” Ann said.

“Let’s get out of here before someone gets killed,” Bishop ordered, his eyes trained on the jungle.

“God be with you,” Ann said. Guillaume took his wife’s hand, and they disappeared into the jungle.

An hour later, off the coast of French Guiana, Ann smiled up gratefully at the freckle-faced airman, who looked as American as a parade on the Fourth of July, as he reached out a helping hand and assisted her into an unmarked helicopter.

Chapter 3

A single light glowed dimly in the cabin of the helicopter. The squad lay sprawled asleep wherever the men could find room.

Ann felt as if they’d been flying for hours, yet the sun had not risen, so she knew she was mistaken. She raised her arm to check the time and realized she wasn’t wearing a watch. She had fled Kourou so hurriedly that morning she’d forgotten to put it on.

The whole series of events remained a mystery to Ann. Clayton’s death. The men who tried to abduct her. These men. Where were they taking Brandon and her? They all seemed friendly enough except for their uptight leader. At least she knew their names now, but nothing more.

Dazed, she leaned back against the cabin wall and closed her eyes. How did she lose control of her life in such a short span of time? She was fleeing South America with only the clothes on her back. No money. Not even a damn watch on her wrist!

Relax, Ann. Try to sleep. But sleep was an impossibility. The chopper’s rotors were noisy, the vibration jerked the craft, the floor was hard and her legs were cramped.

Lord, how I hate helicopters! What am I doing in this crate flying over the Atlantic…that is, if we are over the Atlantic.

She hugged Brandon tighter against her, readjusting his sleeping head in her lap. His nearness was a warm and gratifying reassurance that she had not lost her sanity.

She suddenly felt a prickly sensation and knew she was being watched. Glancing up, she discovered Bishop staring at her under hooded lids. For a brief moment their gazes locked. His expression remained unchanged, and she blushed before shifting her eyes downward.

She wondered what such a man thought about in quiet moments like this. The next mission? A woman? Fearing his enigmatic eyes could read her mind, Ann closed her eyes.

She continued to feel his intense stare.

Ann awoke to discover the chopper was landing. All the men were awake and alert. From her position on the floor, she couldn’t see anything until the freckle-faced crewman opened the door as they touched down. Then the glare of bright sunlight hit her in the eyes.

Two of the men jumped out with pointed rifles, then Bishop got out and swung her to the ground. The other two followed with Brandon.

Bishop took her by the arm while Cassidy moved to her side and put a hand on her elbow, as well. They whisked her toward an unmarked plane standing nearby on the runway. She felt like a prisoner being hustled away to jail.

Curious, she glanced around but all that she saw was a deserted airstrip. No hangars. No tower. Nothing. She couldn’t venture a guess as to their location.

Was it possible these men, in fact, were the ones responsible for Clayton’s death? Maybe the men at the villa merely intended to abduct Brandon and her for ransom.

Ann felt certain about one thing: the long-on-silence, short-on-explanation Bishop was not about to volunteer any information.

Brandon’s boyish laughter penetrated her rumination. Ann turned her head to look back and saw that the one named Bledsoe was carrying the youngster on his shoulders. Thank God there’s a spark of humanity in at least one of these men.

Immediately she regretted her callous attitude. She was foolish and ungrateful, allowing her imagination to run rampant. These men had risked their lives to save her and Brandon.

Under a blush of guilt, she stole a glance at the sculpted profile of Bishop, who was walking beside her. Now that he had wiped off the greasepaint, the man appeared to be in his mid-thirties. His nose had clearly been broken at least once, and tiny lines crept from the corners of his eyes; but these features tended to add character to his face, she reflected with the objective eye of a photographer. A thick mustache nestled above a firm mouth with a sensual lower lip. Seasoned by sun and wind, this was not a handsome face by Hollywood standards—no Brad Pitt or Antonio Banderas for sure. No, indeed. But she was willing to stake her professional reputation that women who had gazed into those melancholy, deep-hazel eyes of his had found the face sensuously irresistible.

Daring to intrude on the thoughts of her taciturn guard, Ann said boldly, “I’d like to know where we’re going, Bishop.”

“You’ll find out when the time comes.” That earlier, welcome-sounding American voice now had a decided growl of irritation. But its huskiness, coupled with those bedroom eyes of his, could still play havoc with a girl’s libido.

For heaven’s sake, Ann, there hasn’t been time enough for you to have developed Stockholm Syndrome!

She had had enough of the whole scene and stopped abruptly, shrugged off their hands and with flashing eyes squared off against the two men.

“I don’t want to appear ungrateful for what you’ve done for Brandon and me, but I’ve tolerated all the pushing and shoving I intend to. Until I start getting some answers from you wardens…watchdogs…or whatever, I’m not going to budge another step.” She folded her arms across her chest to reinforce the declaration.

The party following halted, shuffling impatiently as they looked to their leader. Without saying a word, Bishop swept her up in his arms, carried her onto the plane and then dumped her into what appeared to be a seat.

“Be sure and fasten your seat belt, lady.”

The smug gleam in his hazel eyes taunted her to go for his jugular. However, her dignity prevailed. Instead she bestowed a scathing glower upon him. “Do you have an aversion to heights, Bishop?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You seem to prefer airplanes without windows. Or haven’t you noticed there are no windows in this plane, either?”

“We’ve been told that after this trip we’ll have earned enough frequent-flyer points to rate one that does.”

His sarcasm was exasperating. “What kind of plane is this, Bishop?”

“You writing a book?”

“An exposé. I’ll be sure to spell your name correctly.”

He didn’t even blink. “It’s a C-17.”

“C as in cargo?”

“You’ve got that right.”

“Is it privately owned, or does it belong to the United States? There are no markings on it.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said.

He was a very exasperating man. To her further chagrin he sat down beside her.

Determined to ignore him, Ann turned away. An awkward silence developed as they marked time while the others got situated. Brandon was put in a jump seat directly across the aisle from hers. She watched Bledsoe tighten the boy’s seat belt, then pretend to tickle him.

The sound of Brandon’s irrepressible laughter brought a tender smile to Ann’s lips. “Your friend seems to like children.”

He glanced at Bledsoe and shrugged negligently in reply. Ann decided to remain civilized, no matter how much this man irritated her.

“Do you like children, Bishop? Ah, do you have a first name or is Bishop a clerical title?” She thought it was a clever remark. His expression never changed.

“Bishop will do,” he said.

“Do you like children, Bishop?”

A brow quirked. “Never thought about it one way or another.”

Their conversation ceased when the plane started to roll down the runway, and she waited until they were airborne to pose her next remark.

“I think Brandon and I should be sitting together.”

He fixed a condescending gaze on her. “We have a reason for everything we do, Hamilton.”

“Who is ‘we,’ Bishop?”

“You’ll get your answers when we land.”

This time he grinned. Ann figured if she hadn’t been sitting, the devastating shock would have knocked her off her feet.

“Why don’t you try to rest?” His crooked smile was engaging. She quickly turned her head away from the appealing sight. The Stockholm Syndrome wasn’t going to work on her.

Shifting to her side, she leaned her head against the windowless cabin wall of the C-17 and closed her eyes.

Mike watched her as she slept. For damn sure she was a knockout beauty. Looking at her and breathing in that perfume she wore conjured up an image of tropical nights, soft music, the smell of jasmine drifting in from outside—and the two of them in bed making out all night long.

She sure had more going for her than just a pretty face. He’d seen the spark in her violet eyes when she had challenged him, and he liked that. It was a sign she was a survivor. The woman had taken a couple of knockout punches in the last twenty-four hours and appeared to be climbing back up on her feet. Yeah, there was more to Ann Hamilton than just the damnedest pair of eyes he’d ever seen.

Ann woke up in darkness. They were landing but she had no idea how long she’d been asleep or where they were. She felt the touchdown, and then the plane taxied for several minutes before coming to a halt. When the door opened, the light was almost blinding. She shaded her eyes to avoid the glare, and by the time her eyesight adjusted, Bishop and his crew had transferred them into another helicopter. The copter’s rotors were already revolving and within seconds they had lifted off.

This one was larger than the previous one, and had actual seats. She was grateful for that, because her aching body was feeling the effects from the two previous uncomfortable means of transportation.

But where were they, and where were they going now? She reached to shove aside a curtain that shrouded the windows. Immediately a firm hand clamped over her wrist.

“Give it a couple more minutes, Hamilton.”

Ann turned around in disgust. He was leaning across her, their faces inches apart. She sucked in a gasp, and the hazel eyes shifted to her parted lips. For a breathless moment she waited, speechless, then he released her wrist and settled back in his seat

“As much as I hate helicopters, I have to say this one is more comfortable than any I’ve ever been in before. What kind is it?”

“What in hell difference does it make to you?”

“Chapter Two. Have you forgotten?”

Annoyed, he shook his head. “It’s a H-53 Sea Stallion. So now you know. Does that clear it all up for you?”

“No, but I’m impressed. It has windows! Can I peek now?”

He leaned over her again, and she breathed in the husky male scent of him as he shoved aside the curtain to reveal a huge window that offered a panoramic view. The lights below appeared as plentiful as the stars above, but it was too dark and they were traveling too swiftly to distinguish any landmarks below.

Suddenly her heart seemed to leap to her throat as she gasped with joy. Ablaze with light, the alabaster beauty of the Washington Monument pierced the darkness like a shining beacon.

They were in Washington, D.C., United States of America.

Ann turned to Bishop and smiled through the tears of joy that streaked her cheeks.

She couldn’t believe it when the helicopter landed on the top of a building. But before she could even comment on it, they were rushed into an elevator and then hurried outside to three parked limos. Cassidy hustled Ann into the back seat of the middle car and then sat down next to the driver. Bolen and Fraser moved to the lead vehicle. Ann looked out the back window in time to see Williams and Bledsoe thrust Brandon into the last car. Before she could protest this latest separation from Brandon, Bishop climbed in beside her and slammed the door.

“We’re rolling,” he mouthed into the radio clutched in his left hand. The limo shot forward with the smooth glide of an Olympic skater.

“What now, Bishop?” Ann’s feeling of complacency at being back in the States was becoming eclipsed quickly by the continued security measures.

“Debriefing.”

“Debriefing? Is that where you strap on the electrodes or shoot me full of sodium pentothal?”

She perceived the barest glimmer of a smile—or was it a smirk? Bishop turned his head and stared out the window.

The conversation had ended, but her awareness of the man beside her increased as the male essence of him continued to tantalize her senses as much as his autocracy provoked them.

Chapter 4

Purring like a contented black cat on a velvet cushion, the limo continued to move swiftly on the beltway. After a short ride, they passed through a gate with an armed guard and pulled up at the rear of a building.

Ann and Brandon were whisked up several floors in an elevator and led to an office. Bishop rapped lightly, opened the door and peered inside. Satisfied, he stepped aside for Ann and Brandon to enter and then followed them into the room. As irritating as the man could be, she felt relieved to have his commanding presence beside her.

The two men awaiting their arrival rose to their feet, and one stepped forward to greet her.

“Miss Hamilton, I’m Avery Waterman. I can’t tell you how relieved we are to see you’ve arrived safely.”

His clipped accent was clearly British. He appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties. Everything about Waterman mirrored refined elegance, from a well-groomed mustache to the European cut of the charcoal-colored cashmere jacket tailored to fit his slim figure.

Waterman shook Ann’s hand, then leaned over and patted Brandon on the head. “And this chap must be our young Mr. Burroughs.”

The move was too aggressive for the confused six-year-old. He slipped his hand into Ann’s. She grasped it securely.

Waterman did not miss the gesture. He straightened up, and his gray eyes focused on Ann. “Please be seated, Miss Hamilton. May I introduce my associate, Jeffrey Baker?”

Baker nodded his head of salt-and-pepper hair closely cropped in a buzz cut. “Miss Hamilton.” The deep guttural greeting seemed to be dredged from the abyss of his barrel chest.

She observed that Baker appeared to be the antithesis of his colleague. Shorter than Waterman by several inches, Baker resembled a retired Marine gunny sergeant. Missing were the familiar string of hash marks running up his sleeve, or rows of combat ribbons lining his chest, but she was convinced the inscription Semper Fi was probably tattooed somewhere on the solid brawn concealed beneath his wrinkled, gray flannel suit.

Ann sat down on a nearby couch. When Brandon curled against her side, Waterman addressed the youngster. “Brandon, would you like something to eat?”

Brandon looked to Ann for approval. He grinned broadly when she nodded. Bishop led the boy to the door, and for several moments carried on a whispered conversation with the men in the hallway. Two of them departed with Brandon in tow.

“I hope I’m finally going to get some answers,” Ann declared after Bishop returned, crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

Avery Waterman sat down opposite Ann and settled back with a condescending smile. “Ask away, Miss Hamilton. We’re at your service.”

Yeah, right! She resented the cat-and-mouse game still being played. Within the past thirty some hours Clayton had been murdered, she and Brandon terrorized and virtually spirited out of South America. Now this man had the audacity to patronize her.

“Mr. Waterman, just who are you and whom do you represent?”

She didn’t fail to catch the hasty glance that Waterman exchanged with his associate. “I assure you, Miss Hamilton, you are in good hands.”

“That’s not what I asked, Mr. Waterman.”

“We are an antiterrorist rescue division, Miss Hamilton.”

“Of what? British Intelligence or the CIA?”

His mouth curled in a slight smile. “CIA, Miss Hamilton.”

“Do you know who killed Clayton Burroughs?”

“Not as yet. We were hoping you could tell us.”

Startled by the unexpected voice at her side, as much as by the astonishing remark, Ann turned her head to discover Jeffrey Baker had crossed the room and was now standing next to the couch. She had been unaware he had moved closer, for despite his bull-like physique, the man had moved quickly and quietly.

“Me? How would I know?” she asked, flabbergasted.

Waterman leaned forward. “Miss Hamilton, we are aware of your close association with Mr. Burroughs.”

“Close association? What do you… Clayton and I were close friends…nothing more…” Ann floundered helplessly. She took a deep breath. Why was she allowing these men to put her on the defensive? To intimidate her? Their implications smeared a beautiful friendship.

“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, Miss Hamilton,” Waterman added hastily. “But we also know you were seen with Burroughs the morning he was killed. Did he say anything that would offer a clue as to the identity of his assailants?”