Silent Truth

The Wentworth dynasty ranked among the top ten wealthiest families in the world.

Nothing in the document indicated who was behind the bombing or specifics on the target-the politically embattled prime minister or Peter Wentworth, who supported the prime minister’s unpopular economic views.

Eliot returned all documents to the safe but did not relock the safe or reset the security alarms he’d bypassed since the FBI would be alerted within two minutes of their exit.

Of course, the way Hunter’s luck was ru

Hunter mentally catalogued the guest’s robust physical build, straight black hair to his collar, clean-shaven face… and a scar ru

Nothing distinctive about the clothing or his ma

No time for more surveillance. Hunter continued inching his way across the walkway bridge to the exit steps with Eliot on his heels. At the other side, he raced silently down the stairs to the cabana entrance, checked the outside guard, then made it to the corner of the building without incident.

The guard he’d put down hadn’t moved an inch. Still out.

“Jocko!” the guard at the rear of the house shouted.

Hunter froze and stuck his neck past Eliot’s imitation of a statue to check the rear guard, who had stopped and faced away from the cabana. There was something familiar in the guard’s posture. He cupped his earpiece, listening for a reply that wouldn’t come if Jocko was the unconscious man behind Eliot.

Hunter signaled Eliot to keep moving forward slowly, but he stopped again quickly. A third guard appeared between them and the corner of the deck.

The guard blocked their exit point to where the climbing gear waited. He and Eliot would lose a firefight of two 9mms against an arsenal of HK rifles. Lights flooded the pool area and decking. Hunter sucked back deep in the shadows.

The guard near the house shouted, “Where’s Jocko, Smitty?”

“Looking for him myself.” Smitty stood near the edge of the cliff. His flashlight beamed on. He started sweeping the area, walking toward Hunter and Eliot.

Hunter recognized the voice of the guard at the rear of the house as belonging to Filet Bailey. Filet Bailey and Smitty were mercenaries out of the UK who took short-term work for high pay. They specialized in leaving no evidence.

Where were Brugma

These mercs killed for relaxation.

“See anything on the lower level?” Filet Bailey called out.

Smitty swung his flashlight in a circle, washing the last bit of shadow away from where Hunter and Eliot hid.

Son of a bitch. Hunter signaled his intent to Eliot, then raced ahead and shot out of the darkness toward the guard’s left side. He silently sandwiched the guy’s head between his hands, wrenching hard as he brought him to the ground.

Smitty’s neck snapped with a dull crunch.

“Smitty?” Filet Bailey called out, paused, listened, then yelled into his transmitter, ordering men to the rear.

Hunter waved Eliot ahead of him under the deck, then hunched down, working his way back to where they’d tied off the rope to the steel crossbeams. Eliot hooked up his climbing gear and dropped over the edge.

Hard voices shouted overhead. Boots hammered the decking.

Hunter calmly lashed his climbing gear into place, then hit a series of clicks on his radio to alert Retter he could authorize the FBI to raid the compound.

Like right fucking now would be a good time.

Filet Bailey shouted orders. Lights flashed between the wood slats overhead, glancing off Hunter.

Hunter gave Eliot a fifteen-second lead. The original plan had been for Eliot to quickly rappel down the face, followed by Hunter using the same rope.

That plan hadn’t involved additional security or shooting.

Now they couldn’t risk someone cutting the rope before they both made it down, which meant Eliot dropping a hundred feet to find a new anchor point for their rope.

Bullets burst from the side of the deck where Hunter had dropped Smitty. The guards had found their exit path.

Unclipping a smoke bomb from his belt, he pulled the pin, counted several beats, then lobbed it into a trough in the ground that fed the rolling grenade to the corner of the deck.

“Go.” Eliot’s sharp whisper came through Hunter’s earpiece.

Hunter dropped past the edge. Smoke boiled over the cliff. Eliot had fed enough slack for Hunter to rappel below where Eliot hung anchored from an SLCD-spring-loaded camming device.

Bullets pinged wildly, but the guards hadn’t figured out how to flood the cliff with light yet. Hunter ripped off a round, silencing the shots above for a moment. He stowed the weapon, freeing his hands for ten seconds. Snagging the rope that trailed from Eliot, Hunter hooked the free rope into his second locking karabiner so they could leapfrog going down.

Hunter dropped two hundred feet like a lead weight into the black abyss waiting to swallow him.

The eerie silence above disturbed him more than rounds of live fire. Eliot hugged the wall, waiting for the signal to drop just past Hunter and hook to his trailing rope.

What was going on at the Brugma

Too quiet, and Eliot was stuck exposed.

Hunter stopped just above the section of rock wall that slanted in. He had to get Eliot out of firing range. Ru

He ordered, “Go,” into his transmitter.

Once Eliot reached Hunter they’d use a series of anchors Eliot had placed on the way up to now climb below the inclined face of the wall, which would protect them both from enemy fire.

Eliot started dropping fast.

Lights in the compound blazed high above him, but still no sounds filtered down. And no one looked over the edge.

A red laser light bounced on the wall above Eliot… on the SLCD anchor where the rope was tied off. One bullet sang out, then a second one hit the anchor… snapping the rope.

Hunter lunged for the wall to brace himself for the sudden yank of Eliot’s weight.

If Eliot had locked his karabiner or had a knot to stop the rope from sliding out.

Rope whistled past Hunter’s ear. Eliot bounced against the cliff face next to him with a sickening thud.

Bone cracked. Eliot screamed.

Bile ran up Hunter’s throat.

The rope jerked taut with Eliot’s dead weight. Hunter gritted against the pain wrenching his muscles. He gasped for air.

Another bullet ripped loose, the report echoing in the silence.

The rope wrenched and Eliot howled in agony. “I’m hit.”

Hunter’s blood turned into ice.

He twisted to look down.

Eliot’s life depended on Hunter keeping his head and holding tight to this anchor. Even shot, Eliot was stronger than most men in their best condition.

Hunter would get him off this rock.

Men shouted above. Maybe the FBI, but no one could help him and Eliot hanging off this rock face.

“Swing. Your… self,” Hunter shouted. If Eliot could swing a couple times and find an anchor, something to grab…

Doubt bombarded him. He’d reco