Prescription for Deception (The Secret Shepherd Conspiracies Book 1)

Book summary

Paul Winston’s peaceful life as a rancher shatters after his parents’ mysterious deaths, thrusting him into the crosshairs of a dangerous drug syndicate. As Paul and his wife Anne uncover deadly secrets across Europe, they realize the true threat may be closer than they expected. PRESCRIPTION FOR DECEPTION is an international crime thriller.

Excerpt from Prescription for Deception (The Secret Shepherd Conspiracies Book 1)

CHAPTER ONE

Intercontinental Hotel

New York City

“What do you want, Roberta?” Paul Winton said curtly, answering his iPhone.

“This is really, really hard for me,” his estranged sister said. “I have no business asking you to forgive me.”

You’ve got that right, Paul thought. He’d last seen Roberta a decade earlier in a Pueblo, CO courtroom where the disbarred lawyer was being sentenced for conspiracy to have him murdered.

“Nothing can undo the terrible things I did to you, Paul, and I’m really, really sorry for that,” Roberta said. “But I have nowhere else to turn … we really need help … your help … that is, my kids, Joel and Jessica, and I, need your help.”

“What do you want?” he repeated curtly. “Where are you and the kids?”

“I … we’re still in Pueblo,” she replied. “I got released a couple of weeks ago from LaVista Prison ). Just picked up the kids from their foster home.

“Paul, I don’t have any money for food or an apartment or even clothes and school supplies for the kids,” Roberta added. “Frankly, we’re gonna be homeless in a week or so … no one wants to hire an ex-con. I was hoping you might consider a loan. I promise I’ll pay you back, every cent, with interest, just as soon as I can.”

“I’ll have to think about that,” Paul said. “Call you back,” he added and hung up.

This doesn’t make sense, Paul thought. I just set up a bank account for her in Pueblo a couple of weeks ago with fifty-thousand dollars to help her get back on her feet.

He’d done that against his better judgement and over his wife Anne’s objections.

Roberta should have got that money when she was released, he thought. I’ll check with the bank. Surely this isn’t some kind of a setup.

***

That Evening

Paul smiled as Anne’s attractive image appeared on FaceTime, warming his heart like the glow of the rising sun.

“Remember now, you promised me you won’t put yourself in any danger this trip?” Anne said, a lovingly stern reference to his previous high-risk exploits. “You’ve had some nasty scrapes helping MI6. You said this would be different.”

Paul tried changing the subject.

“I hope my call didn’t wake you, my love,” he said. “It’s six o’clock here … there’s a five-hour difference to England, right?”

“It’s eleven,” Anne replied abruptly, “and I’m still up. Now, please answer my question.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Two very skilled law enforcement agencies, the FBI and the New York State Police, are handling the raid tomorrow morning. I’m there just as a representative of MI6. The FBI’s intelligence says we’ll outnumber the bad guys at least three-to-one, or more.”

“I hope so,” Anne said, unconvinced.

“I need to tell you, Anne,” he said. “I’ve asked our surveillance detail to increase security for you and Michael for a while.”

“Why?” Anne asked, her tone revealing her impatience over the past decades of twenty-four-hour security they’ve endured.

“We got a tip from Interpol that one or more thugs from the syndicate may be among those the FBI plans to arrest tomorrow morning,” he replied. “Only a few people should know I’m here, but I want to make sure you and Michael are safe. They could be up to something. We’ll find out after they’re rounded up.”

“Those are terrible people,” Anne replied.

“Indeed,” Paul said with a sigh. “I have to admit, it’s not impossible they’ve caught wind of our plans to go on the offence … to hunt them down, to turn them into prey for a change. We can’t be certain word hasn’t got out. Police forces are notoriously leaky.”

“Well, if there’s been a leak, that’s all the more reason for us to go after them,” Anne said. “Do you think MI6, or the police will try to stop us?”

“Law enforcement people I’ve spoken to would rather we hadn’t hired some investigators,” Paul replied. “But all of them agree their legal restraints limit what they can do. It’s almost like doctors being limited to treating only the symptoms of an ailment when they should be treating the causes of the illness. That damned syndicate is the illness.”

“I’m sure Michael and I will be just fine,” Anne said. “And you promised to stay out of danger tomorrow.”

“Little did we know what would happen when I rescued young Ahmed Mousavi from that syndicate years ago,” Paul said. “Those barbarians murdered him, a promising and innocent young man, for no other reason other than revenge.”

“Please be sure and call me as soon as you can tomorrow, okay?” Anne said, struggling to keep unease out of the sound of her voice.

“I’ll call you as soon as I can,” Paul said.

“Is everything else okay at Earnscliffe?” he added, referring to their renovated 500-year-old manor house near Maidstone, in southeastern England.

“Everything would be perfect if you were here,” Anne said with a longing smile.

Paul shared the loneliness he could hear in her gentle voice.

“Love you,” he said.

“Love you more,” she chuckled, using an affectionate exchange they shared then promptly ended their video.

Paul smiled at the blank screen.

He decided to tell Anne later that MI6 had authorized him to take an active part in the planned raid, a privilege that came with being a member of a British parliamentary committee on security.

***

Next Morning

Upstate New York

The helicopter gunship rose quickly over a tree-covered ridge. It was ninety minutes before dawn. Dead ahead lay a decaying lakefront cottage on the weedy shore of Oneida Lake. Beside it sat a dilapidated boathouse.

“You ready, Paul?” Lt. Ben Hillier, pilot for the New York Police Service, radioed to his civilian VIP passenger. “ETA ten seconds.”

“Affirmative,” Paul replied.

A harness secured Paul to a bench seat in the prototype Bell helicopter. Across from him, an NYPS officer checked a .50-caliber machine gun mounted in the open door, a weapon not usually found in NYPS armories. The officer, Sgt. Peter Langley, had been specially trained on how to use the heavy weapon by the New York National Guard.

“There’s the target cottage,” Ben said. “No sign of those suspects we saw on the drone video at the briefing. Likely six or eight of them … must all be inside.”

A confidential informant in London had tipped MI6 about the weekend meeting at Oneida Lake, starting last night, between the leaders of an espionage cell and a government contractor. The cell, funded by Türkiye’s secret service, was suspected of trying to buy closely held “Five Eyes” security secrets for Türkiye to use in trade negotiations with Russia. With intelligence from MI6 and Interpol, the FBI made plans to raid the meeting with a special task force comprised of FBI agents and officers from New York Police Service, with Paul representing MI6.

“Just got the locator signal from the offshore zodiac,” Paul announced. “That team is tucked into bulrushes next to the cottage and ready to go.”

The zodiac contained four members of the Special Operations Response Team (SORT). Their assignment was to secure the lake side of the cottage and intercept anyone trying to escape by water. With them in place the raid could proceed.

“Arm your weapon,” Ben said over the intercom to Sgt. Langley. The NYPS officer acknowledged.

“What the hell,” Paul shouted as tracers visible through the open door soared up toward them. “We’re under fire … intense fire. There must be twenty or more shooters down there. Where the hell did they come from?”

“Hold on,” Ben yelled over the intercom. “I’m taking evasive action.”

The helicopter swerved hard to starboard as a rocket-propelled grenade shot by, barely missing them. The stealth-quieted sound of the helicopter was overtaken by a chorus of chatters from AK-47 assault rifles. The helicopter’s heavy machine gun returned fire. It fell silent as Ben swung the helicopter away from the target house.

“We’re experiencing heavy fire,” Ben radioed to those on the ground. “I’ve got to get you outta here, Paul. I have strict orders to not put you or this chopper at risk.”

“Copy that,” Paul said.

The experimental helicopter’s outfitting was a prototype, and Ben’s idea. He’d fought hard to get conditional approval to have an NYPD chopper configured similar to a US Military Blackhawk. Its primary role was reconnaissance and, only if absolutely necessary, offer aerial defensive fire to support the SORT officers on the ground.

“Once you set her down, Ben, we can back up your guys on the ground,” Paul said. “They’re heavily outnumbered.”

“You bet,” Ben agreed.

The original plan was that other small teams of SORT officers would make their way through deep woods to positions at both ends of the cottage, and then wait for the zodiac team to secure the lakeside. After the helicopter’s initial reconnaissance role, it was to land and cover the rear of the cottage, thus keeping occupants of the house inside until arrested.

“Okay, let’s go,” Paul said after Ben landed the chopper behind a dense cedar hedge screening it from the gunfire.

“What the hell?” Ben shouted. His attention was drawn back through the windshield. “We don’t have a Sikorsky, do we Noah?”

“Hell no, sir,” copilot Sgt. Noah Marietta replied.

“It’s attacking,” Ben said. “Move … move, all of you. Get the hell outta here. Now.”

Muzzle flashes appeared from the approaching chopper and then spurts of grass and dirt began a rapid march toward their helicopter.

The incoming chopper exploded. Pieces flew in all directions, tumbling through the air out of a ball of fire. Debris bounced off the roof. The fiery wreck tumbled onto the lawn about fifty yards away amid popping sounds of exploding ammunition from within.

Heavy gunfire continued from all sides of the house and the boathouse.

“Nice shooting, Peter,” Ben called out as the four men ran toward a clump of bushes between them and the farmhouse. “You’re free to ignore orders anytime you feel the need to save our asses.”

***

Paul, and the others crouched behind the cedar hedge hoping to identify friend from foe. A voice with an unfamiliar accent called out amid the pre-dawn fog rolling in from the lake.

“Geoff … where are you?”

“Over here,” the voice of a scuba-clad figure replied, apparently the leader called Geoff.

Paul whispered to Ben, Noah, and Peter: “Not sure if he’s one of us or a bad guy. Why don’t I go behind that big tree over there and draw his attention? If he fires, shoot him.”

A minute later, Paul stood behind the tree, his sidearm poised, and called out. “FBI. Identify yourself.”

“Geoff Larigani here,” a tall figure replied. He was silhouetted by the burning wreck behind him.

As Paul and the others stepped cautiously toward Larigani, he turned and called out over his shoulder, “Did we get them all?”

“Think so, Geoff,” the first voice replied. Then a chorus of replies from all sides said: “Yeah.” “Yeah.” “Yeah.”

Shit, I know that guy, Paul thought. He’s Geoff Larigani. He’s with that damned drug syndicate’s operation in London. What the hell is he doing over here?

The apparent leader, Geoff Larigani, walked over to where Paul, Ben, Noah, and Peter were standing.

“Did you guys shoot down that chopper?” Larigani asked. Paul kept back, letting the other three go ahead and screen him from Larigani.

“Sure did,” Ben said, extending his hand. “I’m Lt. Ben Hillier, NYSP. I didn’t see you at the briefing. Was there a last-minute change?”

“Something like that,” Larigani said, ignoring the offered hand. “Who was the shooter?”

“My talented colleague here,” Ben said, nodding toward Peter. “We didn’t hear the damn thing coming. Peter got it just in time. A split second later and we’d have been dead meat.”

Larigani pulled a handgun from a chest holster and shot Peter in the temple. He crumpled to the ground.

“Peter,” Ben shouted, dropping to his knees beside his fallen copilot. Blood oozed from a bullet hole in the side of Peter’s head. His eyes were open in a death stare.