Hidden Deceit

By Ernie Wenk

An unusual investigation into a woman's mysterious death turns into a nightmare for FBI Agents Jim Gabriel and Clare (Mac) McDonald, and find their lives entangled in a lethal web of deceit. With the CIA hunting them down, Jim and Mac press forward when they uncover a shocking truth, unaware their discovery will lead to high ranking politicians with deadly secrets of their own and will stop at nothing to keep this woman's death and life buried forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ernie Wenk
• Release date: Jul 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301083855

Ernie Wenk

Ernie Wenk has been writing most of his career that has spanned over thirty years, creating and designing business processes and procedures, employee manuals and orientation booklets. Yet, at the end of 2004 he took a different road in writing and began to write fiction. He's the author of "Darkness Above" and of the newly released novel "Hidden Deceit". He's also released in April 2013 a new non-fiction series for those who have just been promoted. It will provide insight into the opportunities they will encounter after their promotion. Please check out his website at http://www.erniewenk.com/ and sign up to receive posts about the writing life where he will fill you in on the progress of his current works. He also includes information and tips from many experts in the field of writing that will provide insight and encouragement to writers.

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to my lovely wife Barbara who unselfishly allowed me to spend hours, days, months and years to do what I truly love doing—writing. It's her support and encouragement that I've been able to write and publish my novels. Thanks sweetheart, I love you.

Prologue

Four men loaded up in the armored SUV, each carrying an AK-47. A fifth man had entered first, now sitting in between two massive body guards. He didn't carry any weapons, confident no one would ever dare harm him. Before the doors slammed closed, the driver pressed the accelerator, sending them racing down the highway. Their destination but ten minutes away, the four bodyguards knew they could all end up dead before they reached the building in the middle of town.

The day's sweltering heat ascended above an all time record, the day time temperatures hovered over 118 degrees, with no rainfall expected the entire month. The air conditioning in the jet black SUV attempted to temper the incalescence, but even then, the men ignored it. Living in this environment their entire lives, they never gave it a second thought; it was just another day in Kandahar, Afghanistan.

The fifth man looked straight ahead; his dull cobalt eyes gave no indication of his mood. Today's meeting required his presence despite protests from those who dared cross him. Too much was on the line. The man responsible for scheduling this meeting demanded his presence.

His brother in previous times would handle these types of business meetings, when the fifth man made it clear at the last minute he'd go instead. The brother then took steps to ensure the man's protection, but the fifth man with vehemence squashed those plans once he caught wind of them. His brother nonetheless stood his ground and declared he must travel with a security detail. The fifth man seceded only on the condition he'd need just the four men who now accompanied him, rather than the twenty his brother planned to send as an escort. The four guardians, all in business suits, were the best at what they did, and loyal to the man in their protective care.

The driver slowed, still five minutes away, and whispered to the passenger.

If you must speak, do not do it as if I'm not present, the fifth man barked. Why are you slowing?

My apologies, the driver said. There is much traffic up ahead and I needed help....

Are there others? The fifth man asked.

Yes, when I protested we did not need them, your brother, was not happy. I had no choice.

I will speak to my brother later about this. Do what you must, but I will not be late. The fifth man bowed his head, trying to control the raging temper that fought to explode.

The passenger made a call on his cell phone and told the others who were following to pass and make a clear path around the blocked street up ahead. Two of the same color and type of SUV's raced past, horns blaring, sending pedestrians scrambling for cover, cars, trucks and motor bikes inching to find an empty space off the congested road. Even though there were over half a million in population in Kandahar, most knew when the fifth man was on the move in the city, and how imperative for them to take whatever means necessary to get out of the way. Failure to do so would cost them more than a warning from the Afghan National Police.

The driver with the fifth man saw the opening and increased his speed, the city landscape blurred. The driver veered right and took the corner at a high rate of speed, all four wheels remained on the heated pavement. One block down, he turned left and drove down behind an older building, several stories high, the windows on the lower floors boarded up. Half way down the alley, the driver slowed and pulled to the left, stopping in front of a closed non-descript metal door.

The fifth man started to get out, but the men he sat between didn't move.

Get out, the fifth man ordered.

We must wait, the man to his left, said.

The fifth man knew this was his brother's doing who never stopped for a moment thinking there was someone, every moment in their lives, looking to kill them. It was something their father ingrained in both of them, but the fifth man learned to control, as the Americans would call it, paranoid thoughts.

He watched as the driver and passenger exited their vehicles, their AK-47's raised upward as they scanned the roof tops and surrounding buildings. Seconds later, he heard another vehicle behind theirs come to a skidding stop. He didn't even need to look. They were others his brother sent. Instead, he glanced at the digital clock on the dash. He had two minutes before he was late. Plenty of time to get to the third floor, meet the man who called him two days ago for this emergency meeting.

Five more men joined the driver and passenger, all of them scanning the area for potential threats. Moments later, the rear left door swung open, the man to his left got out, his AK ahead of him. Scooting out, the fifth man stood, straightened his garment, shrugged off the driver of his vehicle who attempted to hurry the man inside the building.

He turned and looked up at the man who towered above the small statured fifth man. You ever do that again, your family will die by nightfall.

He turned, leaving the man visibly shaken.

Something to his left caught his attention. He turned to see what it was when the right side of his skull exploded, sending shards of bone, blood and flesh on the men behind him; his body, thrown two feet back, and taking down with him two of the guards who failed in protecting their leader would not see tomorrows sunrise.

****

It took less than three minutes for the shooter to exit the corner of a prominent building housing several businesses, leaving the Dragunov sniper rifle on the roof. The Russian weapon intended to divert an investigation that would ensue. The back stairs to the side street, reserved in the event of a fire, or other emergency, made it a convenient and optimum escape path away from the kill zone.

The shooter reached the bottom floor, but before leaving removed the dark clothing, cramming it into the backpack left there the night before by someone the shooter never met. From the bag, the shooter removed a Burqa, put it on, and proceeded outside. A few cars passed, but none was from the caravan of the man just killed. Tossing the bag inside a trash receptacle, removed later by the person who delivered the backpack, the shooter walked down the street away from the dead man. Ten minutes later, a vehicle picked up the shooter, driving to a home outside the city limits where transportation out of the country would leave within the hour.

The shooter entered the home, went to the back room and found another set of clothes laid out on a wooden table, with several chilled bottles of water.

Changing out of the Burqa, the shooter began to feel their body temperature cool, if that was possible in a place that was as close to hell as any other place on the face of the earth. A broken mirror hung on the wall. Stepping closer the shooter pulled her hair up into a pony tail.

She was ready to go home. It'd been a long week in Kandahar.

****

One Day Later

What in god's name happened, the caller screamed into his phone. It was a simple job, and your agent killed the wrong person.

I don't have a clue what went wrong. We had confirmation before the convoy left that Qadir was in the vehicle, Alan Rycliff said.

Do you realize the heat I'm taking on this one? I don't know how long before someone starts digging into this mess. If that happens, I will not be the one going down.

Is that a threat?

We can dick around on who's going down all day, but what are you doing to clean up this mess. Someone needs to pay.

Don't worry. I'll handle it.

You better hope to God I can still salvage this situation. If it goes south on us, I don't have to tell you how this will reflect on both our futures.

Alan never had a chance to speak his mind. The caller had already ended the call.

****

A black SUV parked in a suburb neighborhood of the northern county of Hillsdale. The sun setting, the skies displayed a beautiful golden hour, the rays shedding their illumination through the trees lining both sides of the street. It promised to be another beautiful summer night.

Neither of the two men in the SUV spoke as they waited for darkness to fall before they proceeded to take care of business. What could they say? Orders were orders. The SUV's tinted windows prevented anyone who walked or drove past to make out the linebacker-sized men, wearing dark suits. Each had a holstered Glock hidden under their jackets. Behind their seats were two additional locked cases that contained an assortment of weapons used for close quarter engagements. If confronted by any law enforcement agency, their identification badges would guarantee they'd have no further scrutiny.

They were parked six houses away from the target's home, their attention directed at a ranch style home set back from the street, its beige stucco and red clay roof were new. The landscape well tended; most of it manicured grass, surrounded by a mixture of palm trees and shrubs. Two hours after their arrival, the driver of the SUV, Adrian, sat up straight observing as the garage door rose up at their target's home. His partner Michael must have seen it as he looked down and scanned several sheets in a folder.

Adrian grabbed his powerful night vision monocular and focused on the driver. Several seconds passed. It's our target.

Are we going to follow, or wait for their return? Michael said.

We'll follow. This may prove a better option than here at the home. Either way, this will be done tonight. Adrian smiled.

A blue Chevy backed out of the driveway, and drove off in the opposite direction from Adrian and Michael's location. Adrian counted to ten in his head, before he started up the SUV, did a quick U turn and followed the Chevy.

They reached the street light at the main street and watched, as the Chevy turned right. Adrian stayed back at least a quarter of a mile, when the Chevy took the onramp to the interstate. The early evening traffic was light, and forced him to stay further back to avoid detection from the Chevy's driver. They were travelling north when the Chevy merged onto another highway, causing Adrian to pull around a slow moving truck, almost missing the cutoff. When he spotted the Chevy, he noticed it had sped up, the taillights obscured from the dirt that swirled behind it.

Several miles later, the vehicle exited and drove through another well-maintained suburb, when the driver pulled up to a driveway, stopped, and after the garage opened, drove in, and the door closed afterward.

Adrian drove past the two-story stucco home, turned around at the end of the street and pulled to the curb four houses down. Several kids were out riding their bikes, while a couple of high school aged boys shot hoops in the driveway at the house across the street where their target just arrived.

What's going on? Michael said.

I don't know. Adrian said, and then laughed. Maybe it's a little rendezvous with a lover.

Michael chuckled.

Adrian turned serious. Look up who owns this house. This could be a problem.

Michael tapped in the address he memorized as they drove by. It's owned by a company called National Equity, some financial firm. It looks like the company uses it for executive housing. It could take longer to find out who's living there now.

Go ahead and check. Adrian looked at his large Rolex watch and settled back in the leather seat.

As usual for these two partners, words between them were minimal. Two hours later, the kids riding their bikes and the teenage kids shooting hoops had already retreated home when the garage door to the home rose again. The Chevy backed out and took off down the street. Adrian had already started the SUV, and followed their quarry.

Back on the highway, heading east the driver sped off as if in a race. Adrian sensed they lost their element of surprise. Traffic became sporadic as they moved away from the burbs, the speed of the vehicles travelling faster than the posted speed limit. Taking advantage of the now isolated countryside, he pushed down on the accelerator. Adrian wasn't familiar with this portion of road and didn't realize the highway would soon change to a curvy two-lane road until Michael told him what to expect after looking at the GPS on his iPad. When they reached the first of the many turns in the road, the Chevy sped up again, their SUV falling behind.

After several minutes negotiating the twists and turns of the empty road, the SUV leaned hard into a curve, sending the rear of the vehicle in a slide, but Adrian kept it from going out of control. The road straightened, giving him the opportunity to gain on the Chevy, getting within thirty feet of their target when Michael yelled a warning there was another sharp bend coming up. They needed to finish this. Adrian moved into the other lane in order to move next to it and force it off the road, but he never had the chance as the Chevy pulled in front of the SUV. Adrian pulled back over into his lane, the Chevy mimicking his moves. They did this a couple of more times, their speed exceeding ninety miles per hour.

Adrian decided he had enough of this dance. He punched the accelerator, reached within thirty feet of the rear of the Chevy, angling to move his vehicle just to the right of the Chevy's left rear quarter panel. The prod from the nose of his SUV would force the Chevy to spin out of control, when a large explosion occurred, the concussion rocking their vehicle, shards of rubber slapping the bottom of the SUV. Adrian let off the gas, hit the brakes and watched as the Chevy swerved out of control, the rear tire's rubber littering the road.

Several seconds later, the Chevy veered to the right and flew off the road striking a telephone pole, bursting into flames. Adrian stopped fifty feet from the destroyed Chevy as an orange ball of flame and black smoke swelled over the accident scene.

Adrian moved the SUV forward and pulled up close enough to get out and check for a body. He didn't think there would be much of one left, but he had to report what he saw, as he knew it would be the first question from his handler. Several other motorists began to stop along the road, but didn't get out. The heat and smoke were making it difficult to attempt any kind of rescue. All they could do was watch.

Adrian rounded the driver's side. The closest he could get was still twenty feet from the melted inferno. The dense black smoke made it impossible to see inside the vehicle, but the wind suddenly shifted and blew the smoke towards the passenger side. Adrian caught sight of an unidentifiable burnt corpse in the driver's seat, the skin melting from the skeleton. Adrian backed away as the wind shifted back; the smoke once again smothered the vehicle. He looked around and noticed another car stopped past the accident scene. He started to worry there'd be more gawkers arriving and the accident scene overcrowded with witnesses.

Michael was already sitting in the SUV when Adrian jumped back in.

I saw the body. Let's get out of here, Adrian said.

Siren's whined off in the distance. Adrian took off, but slowed as he passed the destroyed Chevy.

Both men took one last look, knowing the outcome of their assignment was complete and their target dead. That's all that mattered. Not the way they had planned, yet the deed was done.

The next day Adrian purchased a local newspaper from a Safeway and saw a photo of the destroyed car on the front page, the lead story. He scanned the article and smiled when he read the name of the deceased driver.

Beth Winters.

Chapter 1

Jim Gabriel walked in the kitchen and knew before he entered he was in deep trouble. The aroma of the evening meal, he missed, still lingered in the air. Several dishes were in the sink; a pan crusted with a casserole sat atop the stove. He could almost feel the daggers pierce through him from his ex wife who glared at him as she sat five feet away, seated in one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Her silence was vociferous as he stopped in front of the sink. It took him a few minutes to rinse and place the plates and utensils in the dishwasher. He didn't know why he felt compelled to do the dishes since he didn't create the mess, but he hoped the gesture would temper the impending argument. After he filled the soap dispenser, closed the door, and pressed the start button, he turned to say something, yet knowing it would be a big mistake to try to explain his tardiness.

Jim, we were supposed to talk tonight.

Her words, laced with anger, tore at his heart. He missed his opportunity to speak first.

I'm sorry, but I'm really tired. It's been a really long day. Maybe we should do this tomorrow night. Not the right thing to ask, but he didn’t want to even attempt to discuss their problem without his head in the game, and hoped the delay would allay her infuriated mood.

Do you know how long I've sat here waiting?

Three hours.

It’s been three hours. You don’t call to let me know, and I plan on you being here. And all you can say is you’re sorry.

Jim couldn’t stop the wave of guilt that flooded over him. He turned around, sat across from her and avoided her gaze. The next few minutes would be crucial to keeping the peace, and he considered his words before he spoke.

I know you’re angry and I don’t blame you.

You shouldn't blame me for anything.

Her response was not expected. He looked at her and saw the tears. Her crossed arms spoke the words she never said.

I didn’t mean to hurt you. He paused. I know this won’t fix the past few weeks, but tonight we wrapped up the case that’s kept me so busy. All that’s left is the final report I’ll finish up tomorrow morning.

Anna wiped her bloodshot eyes. Your excuses are getting old. That’s what you've always said. Then, when you are home, you're too tired to do anything and go to bed. And if that’s not bad enough, the phone calls in the middle of the night that end up with you going back to work.

Jim took a deep breath and brushed his fingers through his full head of dark hair. He couldn’t deny her accusation. Guilty as charged. His caseload as an FBI agent had increased over the years, the investigations taking more out of his personal time than ever before. Yet, whenever he was home, he made every effort to devote all that time to her. Except, tonight rehashed the same old rhetoric he heard before. It was getting old and their arguing needed to stop, but he needed to tread carefully. He wanted to fix things in spite of how she still fought him on every front. She was important to him, but so was his career. The next few moments could change the current state of their attempt to reconcile, or it will die tonight.

Honey, everything you’ve said is right. That’s going to change after I go into work tomorrow for a few hours, finish up a few things, then I’ll come over and we can go somewhere, just the two of us. What do you think?

He smiled.

She didn’t.

His then faded. As the silence hung in the room, except for the hum of the dishwasher, he realized he blew it. Before he could speak, Anna got up from her chair, stopped next to him. He looked up and saw fresh tears stream down her cheek.

I don’t need to go anywhere. What I want is to stop waiting for you to get home while you spend more time with her at work than you do with me.

Ouch. That's not fair.

Anna turned on him, her teeth clenched. Don't lecture me about what's fair. That's the reason we're divorced. I'm trying my best to work this out, but you still don't seem to get it.

She spun on her heels and stormed upstairs.

He noticed his heart racing. Her words stung, and if he wasn't so tired, he would have followed her, but it wouldn't help ending in another argument that he wouldn't win. That's not what they were trying to do with their so far failed attempts to reconcile their marriage. Yet, he wondered why he was even trying. He loved her, but she was the one who left him. When she first called him several weeks ago, he didn't know at first what to think or do. He decided what the heck; try it and see where it goes. Except, he was right in the middle of the biggest case he ever handled, and it was taking all of his effort and time. After he apologized and tried to explain his circumstances, he made the offer to meet with her after the case closed. At first, she was reluctant but after a few moments of convincing, she agreed.

Getting up from the table, he left; locking the front door, heading to his two bedroom apartment located ten minutes from the home she now lived in and the one he gave up in the divorce. When he walked into his kitchen to find a bottle of water, he glanced at the clock on the stove and it showed one am. In a few hours, he’d head back to work, finish up, and hoped she'd meet with him in the afternoon.

He crawled into bed and tried not to think about Anna and him getting back together, but it just didn't seem possible they'd ever work things out. Their beginning tonight didn’t start well. He lay down, rubbed his eyes, and fell asleep from pure exhaustion.

A few minutes later, the phone next to his side of the bed rang. He groaned and pulled the covers over his head. Exhaustion had ever been an issue. At the age of thirty two, he worked hard to keep his six foot frame in great shape, keeping a daily workout regimen, that included free weights, machines, and running five miles three times a week. Yet, there were rare occasions like tonight, he felt like he could sleep for a week. Sometimes the mental part of his life drained him as if he worked a job with more of a physical demand. For once, he would let the answering machine take the call. The ringing continued.

Frustrated, he reached over and grabbed the phone.

What?

Is this Agent Gabriel? The female voice whispered.

Yes.

Beth Winters’s death wasn’t an accident.

Jim bolted upright. Who is this?

Who I am isn't important as finding out what really happened to her.

Then tell me how you know this?

You’ll just have to believe me.

The woman sounded nervous, or was she afraid? Jim glanced over at the clock. He'd been asleep for three hours. His mind now at full alert, he needed more information from the caller. I can’t help if you don’t tell me more.

I’m sorry, but I have to go now.

Wait, don’t hang up.

I’ll try and call again. She paused. Agent Gabriel, please be careful.

She ended the call.

In all his years as an FBI agent, he became accustomed to bizarre phone calls. However, this one was beyond peculiar. Who was this lady? Her words started to sink in. He still felt the pain from a close friend dying in a tragic accident, but he was puzzled at the mystery of a complete stranger calling him in the middle of the night to tell him it wasn't an accident. Jim didn't move for the longest time, his mind trying to figure out what just happened, when he looked down at the cordless phone still in his hand. He punched in the two numbers for last caller redial and after several seconds, he heard a beeping sound. He disconnected, tried it again and heard the same beeping. Setting the phone back in its cradle, he'd have to elicit help in the morning to trace the call.

Any possibility of going back to sleep evaporated, so he got up and headed to the spare bedroom he converted into an office. For some reason walking in to his office, it reminded him how much he enjoyed his job, although that enjoyment had taken its toll—the long hours, nights and weekends away from home, and the late night phone calls, and his marriage. He'd never forget the day his life crumbled when her lawyer sent the divorce papers to him at work. It was at that moment he realized the balance between his marriage and his job turned into a complete disaster.

His office was the larger of the two rooms in his apartment, his reasoning that he didn't need a big room to sleep in. With his last case, he’d spent more time here than in any other room in his apartment. Jim entered his office and turned on the light. He shut the door, walked past the twenty-seven inch HD TV inset between a bookshelf filled with his collection of baseball books and souvenirs. He settled into his leather chair, switched on his laptop and picked up a baseball tossing it up and down with one hand as he waited for his laptop to boot up. He tried to push the stress of the argument he had with Anna earlier to the back of his mind and instead mulled over the call he just received. What puzzled him most was the timing of the call. It hadn’t been two days since Beth Winters funeral service.

He snatched up a notepad and jotted down some notes from the call. As he was writing, he wondered about the possibility it was all a prank. Still, what did this lady know, and why did she even call?

His laptop finished booting up. He logged on and accessed the files of the local Sheriff’s Department. He entered Beth’s name and waited when a message appeared on the screen, ‘File Cannot Be Found'. He re-entered her name and double-checked the spelling. The same message returned.

He sat back and thought for a moment, then leaned forward and checked the files of the State Police. A search brought up another dead end message. ‘No File Available’. He frowned and looked at the calendar hung on his file cabinet. Two weeks had passed since her accident.

He decided to check one other site. His keystrokes were