Identity Crisis

  Identity Crisis

  A Blackthorne, Inc. Novel

  Terry Odell

  Copyright © 2017 by Terry Odell

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Identity Crisis (Blackthorne, Inc., #7)

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  A Note From the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  More books by Terry Odell at the iTunes Store

  Sign up for Terry Odell's Mailing List

  Further Reading: What's in a Name?

  To Dad – 1925 - 2017

  1

  Brett Cashman poked at his radio earwig for the third time in under a minute, as if that would trigger the Go signal. Waiting sucked. Especially when the ground was slimy half-frozen mud, and the icy March wind slithered its way down his neck. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering, focusing his binocs on the ramshackle structure he and his team had been sent to breach. Intel said the hostage was inside. Command also said further confirmation was pending. So far, he’d seen nothing. Heard nothing, other than the wind creaking the branches of the pine trees surrounding the rundown wooden cabin.

  What more intel did the team need? Their hostage, female, was inside. They were outside. If their job was to extract her, there seemed to be a major disconnect. He’d seen the imagery. One room, the hostage strapped to a chair, hood over her head. He fought the temptation to break the radio silence order, to see if the rest of the team knew anything more than he did.

  After the helicopter had deposited the team five miles down the mountain from the cabin, he, Adam—their team leader—and Fish had hiked up, then taken their positions surrounding the cabin. Since they couldn’t see each other, the only way to communicate was via radio. Then Adam had put the stupid radio silence rule into effect. What did he think? They were all telepathic?

  Brett shifted, tightened and released his muscles in an attempt to keep warm. Toes, feet, ankles, calves. Quads, butt, shoulders. After two hours of lying on his belly in the cold, he had doubts he’d be able to move when the order came down. He was an endurance athlete. Not moving wasn’t part of his regimen.

  Of course you’ll be able to move. Could be worse. Could be snowing.

  Did he detect motion inside the cabin? He adjusted his binoculars. Nothing different. Curtains shifting as the wind blew through rotting walls and broken windows. Brett itched to crawl closer. Hell, just to move, keep the blood flowing.

  What does Command know? We’re halfway up a bloody mountain somewhere in Mexico, while they’re sitting on their asses at Ops—where the building was heated, damn it—in San Francisco looking at computer terminals.

  The faint whup, whup of the helo circling in stealth mode high above reminded Brett that the team had eyes in the sky, so not all their intel was coming long-distance. But if he could hear the helo, couldn’t the bad guys hear it, too? Or was he just tuned into the sound? Or did aircraft fly above this godforsaken place on a regular basis?

  Too many questions, too few answers, but grinding questions through his brain kept him from going totally bonkers.

  If being an operative for Blackthorne, Inc. meant sitting around while others made the decisions, maybe Brett had chosen the wrong company to work for. At least, this was an actual mission. He’d suffered through his Security training with drills on lock picking, stealth, and surveillance—chores Brett found tedious and boring. He’d even had to take acting and ballroom dancing classes before moving to covert ops. After three months of training simulations, Brett was ready for the real deal. Yet here he was, lying on the ground, bored again.

  A scream, carried by the wind, pierced Brett’s ears. High-pitched. Female. Terror-filled.

  Brett rose to a crouch, scanning the area for cover closer to the cabin. To hell with radio silence. The wind direction might mean he was the only one in position to hear the cry. “Team Leader, this is Scrooge.” Damn, he hated the nickname, but with a name like Cashman and the warped senses of humor of his teammates, it had stuck. It was better than FNG—Fucking New Guy—the handle he’d been saddled with when he’d signed on.

  “Heard a scream. Anyone copy?”

  Nothing. Shit. Had something happened to his team? Or were they following orders and maintaining silence?

  Another scream.

  Fuck it.

  Brett darted for the fallen tree he’d selected as his next stop on his way to the cabin and dropped to a knee. If Adam wasn’t responding, Brett would go up the ladder—all the way to San Francisco. They were supposed to be monitoring the situation, right? He keyed his radio. “Command, this is Scrooge. I’m going in.”

  “Negative, Scrooge. Hold your position.”

  A woman’s voice pierced the air. “Get your hands off me!”

  And let the woman be tortured? Killed? Brett couldn’t accept that. Knew he couldn’t live with himself if his inaction was to blame.

  An explosion shook the ground beneath him. Smoke billowed from a window on the west side of the cabin.

  “Command. Explosives and fire. Shall we engage?”

  “Negative, Scrooge. Hold position. I repeat, hold position.”

  “You’re breaking up, Command,” Brett growled into his mic. “Did not copy. Repeat. Scrooge going in.”

  Maintaining a crouch, Brett hauled ass for the cabin. He wasn’t even going to think about picking the lock. Weapon raised, he kicked at the door, which fell into the cabin with a resounding crash. Smoke filled Brett’s eyes. He blinked, seeking the hostage and her captors.

  Gunfire erupted around him. Pain stabbed his arms, his legs, stung his chest beneath his vest. The room spun. Brett struggled to remain conscious, fought to maintain control of his weapon. A swift kick to his ribs foiled that plan.

  ~~~~~

  Darkness, a musty smell, and a throbbing head registered. Without—he hoped—giving away he was conscious, Brett assessed his situation. Lying on his side. Hard floor beneath him. Cold. He was alive, or he wouldn’t be hurting. One for the plus column. His feet were icicles, but he could wiggle his toes. Another plus. A few seconds of experimentation said his ankles were tied. And his boots were gone. That was it.

  Thankful his captors hadn’t stripped him naked, Brett flexed his muscles as he’d done on surveillance. E
verything worked, but there were new aches and pains. He recalled gunfire. Had he been shot? Nothing hurt the way he imagined a gunshot wound would.

  The smell and the darkness he chalked up to having fabric covering his head. Probably a hood like the hostage had worn.

  Hostage. He was supposed to be rescuing a woman. With his team. They’d have his back.

  Be patient. Things will get sorted out.

  “He is awake,” a rough, deep voice growled. Not an Hispanic accent. They were in Mexico, but that didn’t mean the kidnappers were Mexican.

  Okay, his brain seemed functional again. He ran through all those simulation scenarios. What to do when captured. How to free himself from his bonds, use his body as a weapon.

  Trouble was, whoever had tied him up must’ve read the same manual, because Brett had virtually no mobility. No way to reach his backup weapons. He didn’t think these guys would get close enough for Brett to land a kick—one without the weight of boots behind it. Not to mention that if they’d taken his boots, they’d undoubtedly found his knife.

  Footfalls approached. A rough yank and the hood disappeared. Brett blinked, trying to deal with the sudden brightness.

  More footfalls. Blurry shapes surrounded him. He blinked again. The shapes turned into people. Three of them. All wearing ski masks, all pointing weapons at him. Were there more behind him, out of his sightline? Given the way his day had gone, Brett assumed yes.

  From Brett’s position on the floor, the figures appeared tall, massive. He pondered ways to take them out. Who was he kidding? They could be fifty-pound midgets and they’d still have the advantage.

  Where was the woman? Had his team managed to extract her? After they’d secured her, they’d come for him, right? All he had to do was stay alive until then.

  Brett’s shivering wasn’t all due to the cold. The cabin might be warmer than outdoors, but he’d been chilled to the bone long before breaking in.

  Suck it up.

  Brett concentrated on his five Ironman triathlon medals—including Kona, thank you very much—and his endurance race competitions. This was a walk in the park. He could tolerate a little discomfort.

  Two of his captors unceremoniously yanked and dragged him to a rickety straight-backed wooden chair—the one where Brett assumed the woman had sat. Rather than fight them, he accepted the seating arrangements. At least they hadn’t dislocated his shoulders when they worked his bound arms over the back of the chair.

  From his new vantage point, he determined there were five men in total. Inside the cabin, anyway. Who knew if there were more outside.

  In addition to the uncomfortable chair, there was a small wood-framed sofa with a trunk serving as a coffee table. A metal storage cabinet stood against the far wall.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Brett said.

  “You do not speak without permission. Only to answer questions,” one man said. “You understand?”

  When Brett nodded, the man said, “That was a question. You speak to answer.”

  Brett’s mind whirled, trying to place the voices, the accents. None of the men—he assumed from their builds they were all men—had removed their ski masks, and there wasn’t enough light to make out eye color. All dressed in black, with minor variations in height, they were one step away from clones. He assigned them numbers, left to right, one through five. He strained to memorize the voices, should he ever run into them again. Or have to describe them to the authorities.

  Except this mission was outside the boundaries of police work. If the cops had been able to rescue the hostage, Blackthorne wouldn’t be involved.

  Number One moved closer and smacked Brett’s shoulder. “I asked if you understand.”

  Brett stiffened, refusing to back down from the man’s strike, gave him a defiant glare. “Yes.”

  “Good. Now where is the woman?” Number One said.

  No point in pretending he was hiking in the mountains and got lost. Interrogation rule three, section four. Stick as close to the truth as possible. “I don’t know.”

  “You entered without permission,” man number two said. “Why? I believe people like you are taught it’s proper to knock first.”

  “I heard a woman scream. I thought she needed help,” Brett said through chattering teeth. He stared at the man nearest to him, the apparent ringleader. “You have anything hot to drink? A blanket? It’s freezing in here.”

  “Maybe later,” Three said. “When we finish asking you questions.”

  Brett lifted his chin. “Then ask away. Let’s get this over with.”

  Number One leaned into Brett’s face. “I already asked you. Where is the woman?”

  “And I told you, I don’t know.”

  “You deny you were here to kidnap her?” This from Number Four, a man leaning against the wall across the room.

  “I’m not denying anything,” Brett said. “I suppose, kidnapping depends on what side of the fence you’re on. I was told she’d been kidnapped, so you might say I was un-kidnapping her.”

  “Who sent you?” One lifted his weapon.

  “Her father,” Brett said. Not a total lie, because technically, he’d been told someone in her family had hired Blackthorne. For all Brett knew, it might have been her father. More specific information hadn’t been shared at their briefing.

  “Who else is with you?” Number Two tapped his fingers on his thighs.

  Brett shook his head. “Nobody. I’m flying solo here.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Not my problem,” Brett said, glancing at the number two man. “I’m alone. If I had backup, wouldn’t they have come to my rescue already?”

  Saying the words dumped a feeling of dread through Brett’s gut. Where the hell was his team?

  “I think he knows more than he is saying.” This man, Number Five, had a thick Hispanic accent. Was he the one in charge?

  “Look, we can go back and forth all day,” Brett said. “I don’t know where the woman is. I admit I was sent to find her, but your guess is as good as mine where she went, or how she got out of the cabin.” He stared at Five again. “How do I know you didn’t lose her and you’re trying to pin the blame on me? Afraid to admit you failed? You have a boss to answer to, someone who won’t be happy?”

  Brett was rewarded with a sharp slap to the side of his head. Right. Rule five, section eight. If captured, don’t antagonize the scumwads who have you.

  He tried for a more upbeat tone. “If she’s gone, we could all work together to find her. What do you say?”

  The discussion—if you could call it that—went in circles for a good long while. They asked, he answered. Or, gave non-answers.

  Brett tuned out the stomping of feet on the wood planks of the floor as the men paced. By now, questions tumbled like a line of tipped over dominos, and Brett gave up trying to keep track of who asked what. He ignored the pain of slaps and punches. He kept his breathing even, focused on answering their questions with a repeated I don’t know. Shadows filled the cabin and the temperature dropped. Brett’s hands and feet were numb. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was sticking to his standard response.

  In the middle of another barrage of the same questions, One raised a hand. “That’s enough.” He strode to the metal cabinet, opened it, and pulled out a small battery-operated lantern. After placing it on the trunk and turning it on, he approached Brett, knife extended.

  A second man—Three, Brett thought—did the same.

  Brett swallowed. This could not be good.

  2

  The man Brett thought of as One leaned over him, and Brett braced himself for a stabbing. Three crouched at his feet. Mouth dry, heart pounding, Brett waited. He was not going to beg for his life. If this was the time and place for his stay on this planet to end, so be it. Instead of attacking, One and Three, as if they’d rehearsed, simultaneously slit the bindings at Brett’s wrists and ankles.

  Brett had already decided there was nothing to be gained by tryi
ng to take down five men, so he kept still, waiting for their next move.

  None too gently, strong arms clamped onto his biceps, and he was raised to his feet and shoved onto the sofa, where the men formed a semi-circle around him. When they all reached for their masks and pulled them off in unison, dropping them to the floor, a wave of panic washed over Brett. If they let you see them, it meant they weren’t going to kill you, right? If that were the case, Brett wasn’t going to go down without taking at least one of them with him. All those hours of Blackthorne’s training shouldn’t go to waste.

  The lantern on the table reflected light upward, giving the men’s faces a devilish glow. Again, as one—and what was with this choreography thing, anyway?—they folded their arms across their chests. Now, they seemed to be waiting for Brett to make the first move. He let his gaze travel from one black-clad man to the next.

  Brett froze as the light reflected off the silver hair of captor number one. What the—?

  “Cat got your tongue, Scrooge?”

  Adam? Brett blinked and slid his eyes down the line again. Definitely Adam. And Fish. The so-called team he was supposed to be working with. The other three were familiar as well. All Blackthorne, all senior operatives he’d met during training.

  The light bulb moment hit like a stun gun. “This wasn’t a real mission, was it? Another one of your fucking simulations.”

  He glared at Fish for not cluing him in. Fish shrugged, not a shred of apology in his expression. Right. If this was SOP for the FNG, Fish had gone through a similar mission.

  “So, can we go home now?” Brett asked. “At least someplace where I can grab a hot shower, clean clothes, and some grub?” In contrast to Brett’s filthy clothes and sweat-filmed body, which smelled, Adam seemed ready to pose for a spread in GQ. Not a speck of dirt on his black cargo pants, and although Brett was fairly certain Adam had combed his hair after taking off his ski mask, there was a niggling possibility that not a single hair on Adam’s head ever left its rightful position. Adam’s handle wasn’t Dapper Dan for nothing.

  “Soon enough,” Adam said. He moved to the cabinet and tossed an energy bar in Brett’s direction. “This will have to do for now.”