Face Of Deception

“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?”

Ann shook her head. “No. Nothing. He never mentioned he was in danger.”

“Think carefully, Miss Hamilton. Tell us exactly what transpired yesterday morning. Don’t spare the minutest detail.” His tone had lost its loftiness, and his clear gray eyes were bathed in kindness.

Ann allowed her mind to drift back to the dreadful morning. “Clayton telephoned me early and said the situation was urgent. I had never heard him sound so grave. He told me to pack an overnight bag and come over at once.”

Ann closed her eyes, recalling the desperation in Clayton’s voice. “When I arrived at his home, he shoved Brandon into his car and told me to drive to his villa in the north. He would join us there later.” She lifted her hands in despair. “That’s all I know.”

“He said nothing more to you?”

“Oh, there was one other thing.” Both men leaned forward attentively. “He said, ‘I know you’ll take good care of Brandon.’”

“He offered no explanation? And you didn’t ask for one?” Waterman asked skeptically.