Mockingbird's Cry

By Winter Austin

Five years ago, Josephine "Mockingbird" Caruso belonged to an all-female black-ops military group named Hera Force—a team tasked with bringing down terrorists like the enigma dubbed the Chessmaster. But the faceless criminal mastermind had other plans and single-handily destroyed the operation, ruining the women’s military careers and their lives.

Ex-Delta Force operative Detective Lincoln Sullivan reports to the scene of a mass-murder, learning all too quickly he knows the victims. The killer has left behind a deadly missive just for him: Find the Mockingbird or more will die.

Lincoln flies to New Orleans where Jo lives with her twin brother. Lincoln and Jo had once been co-operatives and lovers, however the fallout from Hera Force's destruction left what little relationship they had in tatters. Jo has no desire to work with Lincoln again, but the threat to her life and the remaining two operatives, Nadia “Phoenix” Roth and Jade “Dragon” Delacour, force her hand. The four former teammates are thrust together once more. There are unknown forces moving in the background and an old enemy is about to return with a vengeance.

Tensions between the ex-lovers come to a head when Lincoln learns his partner is an Army agent working under Hera Force’s top general, a man who's not all that he seems. With each step Lincoln and Jo take, they are met with death and destruction. Buried lies and half-truths begin to unravel Jo’s shaky trust in Lincoln until all is brought to light.

When the killer strikes, Jo is faced with a hard choice, be the leader she was born to be, or lose Lincoln forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tirgearr Publishing
• Release date: Aug 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005196479

Winter Austin

Winter Austin was once asked by her husband if he could meet some of the people who took residence in her head. She warned they weren’t all characters he wanted to meet, as killers walked among them. Needless to say, that conversation ended abruptly.A lifelong Mid-West gal, Winter swears she should have been born in the South, Texas or Louisiana preferably. But then she’d miss the snowy winters.Dividing her day between her four children and their various activities, a growing pet population, and her Beta-with-Alpha-tendencies Hero, Winter manages to find time to write chilling suspense and action-packed novels between loads of laundry.Don’t worry. You won’t find any of her mouthwatering culinary dishes poisoned. Unless you’re one of her fictional creations.

Book preview

Chapter One

Four bodies. Two men, two women. Shot in the back of the head. Executed while restrained and vulnerable. On the floor, written in blood:

Find the Mockingbird. Bring her to me. Or more die.

Lincoln Sullivan swallowed the acidic words bubbling on his tongue. For five years he had made every blessed attempt to move past the events of that day. Trying to carve out a new life, a better one. No one deserved it more than he did.

Are you ready for us, sir?

Startled out of his stupor, Lincoln looked at the lead crime tech. Uh, yeah. He backed out of the forensics’ way.

Escape. He had to escape. Turning on a worn-down heel, he headed for the open door of the abandoned crack house. Head bowed, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his overcoat; that night of screams and gunfire biting at his ankles as the memories chased him out of the building.

The killer knew Lincoln would investigate these murders. Had staged everything perfectly to remind Lincoln of what he lost. And was forcing his hand.

Because there was no way Mockingbird would ever come out of her nest.

A bitter blast of cold December air smacked Lincoln as he breached the doorway. He paused on the weather-beaten porch and drew in a bracing breath. Damn, smoking a cigarette would feel good right about now. The need for the relaxing lull of tobacco had him salivating. Shit, he’d given up the things two years ago, after a doctor warned the two pack a day habit was about to kill him. Despite the hell that had been his life up to this point, Lincoln guessed he preferred living too much to die like a sick, old man.

Rummaging through his pocket, he found a stick of wintergreen gum and dragged it out. He ripped the wrapper off and flicked it away before shoving the piece into his mouth. He moved to take the first step toward freedom.

Not so fast.

The hand on his arm was unwelcome and by no means necessary. Lincoln jerked free of the grip, turning a murderous scowl on the man behind him. I’ve told you before, don’t touch me.

Holding up his hands, David Beckhorn stepped off. Surrendering didn’t sit well with Lincoln, it always smacked of retreat, and Lincoln had been trained never to retreat.

Hey, all I want to know is where you’re headed, Beckhorn said.

I’m getting out of the way. Happy?

Beckhorn’s deep blue eyes sparked like live wires. He was a fifteen-year veteran of the force. As young as he looked, it was hard to swallow that Beckhorn was a superior officer. But the prick knew this job inside and out, had put away more murderers than the whole of the investigative squad because of his meticulous attention to detail. Lincoln was the new guy on the job. One year paired together and somehow Beckhorn hadn’t found a way to shovel Lincoln off onto someone else.

Beckhorn’s features tightened. There’s getting out of the way for the techs, and then there’s getting the hell out of Dodge. Which is it, Sullivan?

Have you talked with the witness?

Done. The kid is cooling his heels with an officer.

Then you won’t mind if I just hang right here trying to get the smell of death out of my nose.

Staring at each other seemed to be standard operational procedure (SOP) for them. It was an ongoing war of wills that hadn’t determined a winner. Lincoln didn’t plan on losing.

You know something I don’t, Sullivan?

Now, why would you ever think I would know more than you, Beckhorn?

Grunting, Beckhorn quit the conversation and re-entered the crack house.

The tension in Lincoln’s shoulders eased. Prick.

Wandering to the far-left side of the battered porch, Lincoln looked out over the area. Nothing but rickety, broken-down homes for blocks. Most were abandoned, some still occupied by those too stubborn or too stupid to leave. Gangs and drugs took over a long time ago, but even now those were sparse. This was the perfect place for an execution.

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

The executioner got his audience where he wanted it. Two men and two women. Four people who had done nothing but their jobs.

Lincoln peered over his shoulder at the gaping doorway. Their faces, laughing and teasing, then serious and focused, played through his memories. Those four had been eyes in the sky and the lifeblood of information for the team. They kept the unit informed and alive. No longer. Four more lives taken for what reason? Closing his eyes, he turned from the door.

I’m sorry, he whispered.

Find Mockingbird.

She wasn’t going to like this. Who would after the hell they’d all been through? But Lincoln was about to bring her past crashing down on her head. He just hoped she wouldn’t kill him on the spot.

* * *

Noël in New Orleans was a happy time, a joyous occasion with family and friends. All of it preceding the ultimate party, Mardi Gras. But for disgraced army lieutenant Josephine Caruso it was none of this. Christmas was only a reminder she had nothing to be joyful for.

Sunlight poured through the floor to ceiling windows in her bedroom. Outside on Esplanade Avenue, the birds joined the serenade of passing traffic. Everyone and everything was in too perky of a mood. Sighing, Jo vacated the antique four-poster bed, putting her back to the windows as she slipped into form-fitting workout clothing. After pulling her long black hair into a messy ponytail, she padded out of her bedroom. The door to the master bedroom was closed, a good sign her twin was still here. She descended the stairs to the townhouse’s first floor. The mellow, nutty aroma of coffee called her into the kitchen.

In a show of brotherly love, Eric had made her breakfast. Was he sucking up after their last verbal brawl? A plate of fried eggs, a bagel and four strips of bacon sat on a warmer along with a full bowl of buttery grits. After moving to New Orleans twenty years ago, Eric had completely disregarded their rigid upbringing and acclimated to the local and Southern lifestyle with flourish, right down to the cuisine. Unlike Jo, who loved her Italian heritage and their traditional—and in her opinion—healthier food.

When she moved in with him four years ago, he’d dragged her, kicking and screaming, into his new diet. One would think after fourteen years eating what the army constituted as ‘gourmet’ she would be fine with his changes.

Jo poured a glass of mineral water and an enormous mug of coffee—the one vice she welcomed after joining the army—then hauled her load to the table placed by the French doors opening into the courtyard. As she nibbled, she watched the birds and squirrels dance and play around the closed pool.

Thunk, thunk, thunk. Sigh. That sounded heavy and plastic. He was going to be gone longer this time.

Jo tossed her fork down on the napkin she forgot to place in her lap and kissed her meal good riddance. Rounding the corner as her six-foot-two twin hit the floor with a rolling suitcase in hand, Jo came to a halt midway between the kitchen and the foyer. Eric was dressed for comfort, in navy blue slacks and a pressed white button-up shirt. His black hair gleamed in the morning light pouring from the fanned glass above the entry doors. Eric favored their mother in his Mediterranean looks, but had gained their father’s height.

Good, you’re up, he said.

Thanks for breakfast.

Eric set his case beside the beveled glass French doors. I’m glad you’re eating. After last night’s events I wondered if you would toss it.

Jo stiffened. Last night’s events were coming back in frequency. She wasn’t the only one paying the price. I recognize a peace offering when it’s presented. Jo crossed her arms and gripped her biceps. I still think you shouldn’t take this trip right now.

Eric stared at the door. The tension drawn between them was palpable enough that if Jo reached up, she could pluck the invisible string. His shoulders heaving from what was most likely exasperation, he turned.

Jo flinched at the darkened circle on his right cheek. Last night’s flashback had been disturbingly real this time around. She had woken screaming and in fight mode. Eric made the mistake of trying to talk her down from the PTS episode. Jo hadn’t pulled her punches in her terror-seized mind.

Shaking his head, Eric stepped off the foyer landing and crossed the gleaming hardwood floor. It’s not that bad, Jo.

Why did you let me land a blow this time?

He grimaced. I wasn’t ready. He settled his hands on her bare shoulders. Just promise me you’ll eat while I’m gone.

Oh, she would eat. Real food.

I know you hate this time of the year, but I don’t want to come back and find you wasted away.

I’ll be fine. Her smile was forced, barely containing her canines. You focus on landing that next big contract.

While Jo went off to fight for the army, Eric had gone into the private sector, negotiating deals with the Pentagon for his company to make the very weapons Jo eventually had the pleasure of using during her tenure. Right up until the day the army tossed her out like a bag of trash. The damn sons of bitches.

Despite the way the brass shitheads and politicos had treated his twin sister, Eric still did business with them. And therein lay the constant sibling battles—she believing he needed to sever ties with the very people who had ruined her, and he balking because the contracts were lucrative. And so on the war continued, much like it had when they were kids still under their mother’s iron rule.

Eric squeezed her non-scarred shoulder. Stop thinking about the past.

It’s not as easy as you think.

One day it will be. He gave her a somewhat stilted kiss to the top of her forehead. Eric was only a few minutes older than her, and four inches taller, but he took his big brother status seriously. In some cases to an extreme that irritated Jo to no end.

A double-tap honk from the street announced the arrival of his taxi. He headed for the front doors. Grabbing up his suitcase, he looked back at her. I’ll be back in about a week. If it takes longer, I’ll let you know.

You haven’t done it before, don’t start now. Stop worrying. I was raised by Empress Nero.

Eric chuckled. Don’t ever call Mother that to her face. He gave her a parting nod, then exited the townhouse.

Once the electronic locks activated—a necessity with the sensitive work that Eric did—Jo returned to her now cool breakfast. No longer hungry, she tossed the rest of the food down the disposal and set her mug of coffee in the microwave to heat up later. With Eric gone, she’d make a special run this afternoon to the store and stock up on the essentials. A huge salad filled with fresh greens was on the menu tonight.

Back upstairs, she went to the spare bedroom Eric turned into a home gym. Moving through a series of warm-up stretches, she eased into her morning ritual. A sweat-dripping mix of Taekwondo, Muay Thai, and kickboxing, followed up with a vigorous set of barre exercises. The whole of her childhood was lived out in one ballet studio after another, pushing until she reached the pinnacle, appeasing Mother’s demands that Jo be the best. Until the day she shattered her mother’s ambitions by enlisting in the army, following in her father’s military footsteps. Her Navy-faring Pops had been tickled, despite his wife’s disdain.

Breathing hard, Jo sank to the mat, and with large beads of sweat rolling down her arms and chest, she stretched. Thoughts of her critical mother were never good. Eric’s constant reminder to stop thinking about the past echoed through Jo’s head. The pain tended to reach unbearable heights the more she dwelt there. Damn him for always being right.

Her cool down finished, Jo rose from the mat. She went to her bathroom, stripped from her sopping clothes and stepped into the glass-walled shower. Hot water washed the tension from her muscles, cleared her mind and eased her soul. Finished, she toweled dry, wrapped her body inside a silk robe and padded to her bedroom, where she dressed for the day in a pair of black wide-leg slacks and a maroon free-flowing blouse that hung off one shoulder, baring her non-scarred skin.

Back downstairs, she hastily wrote a grocery list while sipping her warmed coffee. Satisfied with the planned items, Jo tucked the list into her purse. She snagged a Snickers from her hidden stash and ripped into the wrapper with her teeth. This little addiction she picked up from a certain man she’d been infatuated with at the worst time in her life. While she’d been able to give him up, she hadn’t lost her desire for the chocolate-laden candy bar.

Jo slid open a pair of pocket doors leading into what was once the townhouse’s living area but was now her personal office. This was her private room, one that Eric respectfully stayed out of and dared not ask her questions about. Heavy, light-blocking drapes covered all of the windows, keeping prying eyes off her work. Reports, clippings and maps plastered the whole of the west wall. Jo couldn’t and wouldn’t let go of her extensive training in military intelligence. That was the army’s first mistake. Their second was believing she’d cow to their threats.

She turned on the TV, which accessed three different national news stations at once. As the talking heads droned on in the background, Jo finished her candy bar, then picked up in her reading where she had left off last night when the flashback gripped her. She would clear her name and all those involved with that horrific last mission. Even if it killed her. Literally.

It had taken five years for Jo to pull herself together. Five years to find ways to bury the pain, forget the devastation of shattered friendships and loss of lives, and to erase the memory of a man who had failed her on too many levels. Once she’d moved in with Eric, Jo gradually returned to life. Her rebirth fostered a drive that brought her to this point. But it didn’t always hold the pain and guilt at bay.

Through a lot of back channels, military and private—some of them connected with her brother—she located a few members of Hera’s support teams that still remained. Multiple bribes and cajoling garnered the lone support of one of those former members. And it was through this person’s skills that Jo was able, over time, to gather the intel from the failed Jupiter mission.

A week ago, Jo was handed what she felt certain was the smoking gun that could tumble the allegations against her and the other Hera Force members. The document was heavily redacted, forcing Jo to meticulously work through the whole thing to piecemeal the blackened sentences and paragraphs. For the last three nights she’d gone to bed with a pounding headache, and now add a flashback to that, but she was closing in on the identity of someone who had gotten close to the Chessmaster’s terrorist organization. Hera might have failed, but Jo herself would not.

Immersed in her work, she nearly missed the news report. Jo grabbed the remote, enlarged the particular station, and turned up the volume.

Reports are still sketchy at this point, two days after the bodies were discovered. Authorities aren’t saying much. The mayor had this to say about the murders ...

The doorbell echoed through the townhouse. Jo glanced at the clock. Noon. With Eric gone, and she having no connections in the city, there was no reason for a visitor. She frowned, turning the volume down on the TV, and waited. The bell rang out again. Insistent. Sighing, she set the remote down and abandoned her work. Upon exiting the office, she turned and partially closed the pocket doors.

A large, dark, solitary figure shifted on the other side of the beveled glass.

Her ballet flats were silent as she crossed the floor. Pressing an electronic button released the security locks for the front door. She grasped the handle and pulled the antique door open. Yes?

The man turned. Jo’s gaze landed on his scruffy face and her heart hammered in her chest. You!

Jo, wait!

She swung the door hard, but he’d gotten his hand up, stopping it from shutting and reengaging the lock. Struggling to keep him out of her home, Jo snarled, You have some nerve coming here.

I need to talk to you. Let me in.

Go to hell, Lincoln.

He managed to overpower her—the years hadn’t weakened him any—and he pushed the door open wide enough for him to slip inside. Jo struck with an open palm, but he caught her wrist an inch from his nose.

Jo, please.

His nose might have been spared from harm, but he couldn’t protect everything. Jo kicked him in the balls. Lincoln doubled over with a grunt, releasing his hold on her. She spun and raced to her office. The electronic lock on the front doors buzzed as it engaged. Ignoring it, she flew to her desk, jerked open the top drawer and drew her Beretta. Turning, she aimed as Lincoln staggered into the room, one hand cupping his battered jewels, the other hand up.

Now hold on. Just let me explain.

You have thirty seconds to haul your carcass to the door and leave. She slid her finger off the guard and settled it against the trigger.

Maybe if I show you?

Twenty seconds.

For God’s sake, Jo! I’m trying to save your ass.

Like you did in Pakistan? I believe your exact words were; ‘I’m saving your ass from losing your job, stop worrying.’ She glared at him. I think I’d rather take my chances on my own. Ten seconds.

Shit! Have it your way. He ripped a handful of photos from his jacket pocket and chucked them across the floor.

The pictures scattered, one landing at the toe of her flat. Call her carelessly stupid. Or just plain curious. Maybe it stemmed from her shared history with Lincoln, but she risked looking down. She wobbled as if in a drunken arabesque. The warmth drained from her face as the image registered in her war-torn mind.

Reynolds? Sikes? She focused on Lincoln. What in God’s name happened?

They were executed, Jo.

The strength faded from her arms, and she let them fall to her sides, her weapon pointed at another photo to the right of her foot. Her muscles coiled for any low-blow attack from Lincoln, Jo crouched down and picked up the picture. Tightness, as if someone squeezed her throat, made it difficult to breathe.

Jiang and Arreola, too? She crumpled the photo in her fist. Had someone figured out what she was up to? Who did this?

I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.

How do you even know about this?

Lincoln flushed and sank to the floor. With his left knee bent and his left elbow resting on it, he leaned back against the wall. I’m an investigator with the Carnac police department, it’s a suburb of Chicago.

For him, it made sense. Lincoln was from the area. But a cop? We were dishonorably discharged from the army. We had the black mark of death put on our heads. How did you ever get that job?

His flush deepened as he averted his gaze. I still had one friend in a high place.

Who did he screw to curry that kind of favor? But then Lincoln always seemed to have some kind of insider knowledge. Jo bit her tongue before spewing into a litany of curses. She scooped the photos into her hand, stood, and carried them to her desk. Her sidearm within inches of her reach, she sorted the pictures, flipping over the ones that had fallen face down, until she came to one. Her knees buckled. She gripped the edge of the desk, willing strength back into her body.

Mockingbird. She grabbed up the glossy image and shook it at Lincoln. This is why you’re here?

The killer left me with no choice.

How would the killer even know my call sign?

How the fuck should I know? Maybe he tortured it out of one of them.

Jo slammed the side of her fist against the wood top. Lincoln jolted at the crack.

No one outside of the core squad knew about it. We purposely kept it that way to protect us from those in the command room from ever revealing our true IDs. Damn it, you know that.

"I reiterate, how the fuck should I know? I came here to warn you. He grimaced as he massaged his sore balls. Guess I should be thankful you only kicked me in the nads instead of actually shooting me."

Believe me, I’m almost there. She leaned over the pictures. The last thing I need right now is a homicide on my turf. Too many unanswered questions.

Jo, if there had been any other way, I would have taken it. But I had to find you.

Which begs the next question; how did you find me?

I never lost you.

Chapter Two

Lincoln swore Jo’s brown eyes turned molten red. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out how Jo ended up with Mockingbird as her call sign, when she clearly should have been Phoenix, which had gone to their linguistic/undercover specialist.

Clambering to his feet before Jo decided she would shoot him, Lincoln did what he always loathed doing, especially with her—he held up his hands in surrender. Whatever you’re thinking, rethink it.

Our dossiers were sealed, so how did you even manage to pull that one off?

God, she had no clue. Not a one. In the few short years they had been thrust together, she never figured it out. And if he let it slip now… yeah, best to keep that tidbit of info to himself until his dying day.

I’m not the kind of guy to just bang someone and walk away.

Biggest regret of my life, she spat.

Yeah, well, not so with him. But let her stew in her anger, it’s what kept her sharp.

Look, Jo, can we just set this all aside and focus on the bigger issue? Someone is tracking down anyone involved with Hera and killing them.

Well, genius, did you think this one through? If the killer found you and purposely executed our people in your backyard, he was waiting for you to lead him right to me.

She made a valid point. But that was Jo relying on what little she knew about him. It had irked him to keep her in the dark as to who the real Lincoln Sullivan was in regards to their experimental black operations team, Hera. Jo was too smart for the army, had intellectually run circles around most of the brass in military intelligence, and for that, had her dossier flagged as ‘need to know’. She was supposed to be the leader, except she wasn’t; that had been his job.

I doubt that was his plan.

How can you know, Lincoln? Her features twisted into a perplexed scowl. You finding me and keeping it secret wouldn’t have been because of the one friend left in high places, now, would it?

Okay, he could go with that. Best to let her think the wrong thing. Worked in the past. Maybe.

He dared to move closer, but kept his senses on alert. Lincoln was no fool when it came to Josephine Caruso. She was a trained soldier, her skills honed by experts and friends alike. If he let his guard down for a second, she’d have him KO’d on the ground, lights out.

Jo, I’m sorry. I don’t know how many times you want me to say sorry, but I’ll keep saying it. His fingers itched for a phantom cigarette. Or to run them through her hair. Man, she’d let her hair grow long. While she’d been in the army, and in Hera, Jo had kept a bobbed cut. The longer style looked good on her. If I could go back and undo all the damage done in that one night, I’d do it.

Her shoulders relaxed. Slowly, she faced him. What is your real reason for coming here? One hand jerked up with a single finger held out. And don’t you dare tell me it was a warning. You could have left me in the dark and gone on to stop this killer. Just like the good soldier you were always meant to be.

Those words stung. He had been a good soldier. A professional one. Climbed the ranks, right into Delta Force, and then eventually Hera. And now he was nothing more than a washed-up vet with a ‘criminal’ record. He’d damn near kill for a nic-fix, right now.

My real reason? Carefully, he eased his hand into his coat and withdrew the final photo he hadn’t shown her and laid it on the desk on top of the others. This is why.

She looked down at the picture. It was the one with the warning written below the executed members of their support crew.

He threatened to kill more, Jo. I couldn’t have that on my conscience.

Jade? Her gaze jerked back to him. Nadia?

I don’t know. Do you know how to find them?

She snatched up the photo. Lincoln, how many had already died before you were brought into this?

Unknown. Doing the unthinkable, he reached out and touched her arm. She tensed, but didn’t reject him. Help me stop this guy before he kills again.

She crumpled the photo in her fist. We have to bring Jade and Nadia into this. I won’t let them swing in the wind.

If you know how to get to them, I’m all for it.

We do this my way. She shrugged free of his touch and pressed the wadded photo into his chest. The last time I let a man convince me otherwise, I lost everything.

The point drove home. That wasn’t some random man she mentioned. No, it was his ass.

He was the reason why the living members of Hera Force lost everything.

* * *

Jo changed into clothing more suited for confrontation, because encounters with Jade Delacour always ended in some kind of scuffle. The Cajun woman had a chip on her shoulder, and Jo’s indirect involvement with Jade being discharged from the army had added weight to that chip. Her parting words the last day of the trial—the trial that had branded them as outcasts—were ugly.

I hate your fucking guts! You cost me my life and my dog! Rot in hell.

Jo shivered. The echo of that venom-laced tirade left a mark on her. Her own career ended, and her friends taken from her, Jo sank into her debilitating depression like a junkie receiving their next high.

Hera Force was under operation for two years, the first year being a ‘let’s see how this pans out’ deal. In the first months of their formation, Jo and Jade became friends. Nadia, the CIA black operative brought into their fold, soon joined their ranks of friendship. The trio had drunk together,