Deceptive Lies (Prey Security: Charlie Team #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

July 9 th

10:57 P.M.

The loudest sound he’d ever heard ripped him from a deep sleep.

It sounded like an explosion only …

Why would someone be blowing up his house?

Thirteen-year-old Cooper Charleston jerked upright, his heart hammering so hard in his chest it physically hurt, blood pumping so furiously through his body he felt strung out, like he’d just run a marathon even though he’d just been sleeping.

“Coop?”

The trembling voice came from the other side of the room, and he looked over to see his twin brother’s shadowy form also sitting up in bed.

“What was that?” Connor asked, voice scared.

He was scared, too. Frozen in fear.

Some unknown instinct inside him screamed that he needed to move, to do something, but he had no idea what. Something was wrong, that much he knew, he just had no idea what it could possibly be.

“I don’t know.” He managed to force the words out through a throat that felt like it was closing up.

Before either of them could say more, the door to their room was flung open.

Connor screamed.

Maybe he did too.

He wasn't quite sure.

The fear inside was too much. There was no fight or flight for him, just fear, just freeze, just sit there in the bed as four huge figures dressed in black stormed into the room he shared with his twin brother.

Another scream fell from his brother’s lips, and from the corner of his eye, he saw his brother scramble out of his bed.

That’s what he should be doing.

Trying to escape before the men got them.

They lived in a big house with five bedrooms—one he shared with his twin, one was shared by their older and younger brothers, one was used by their baby sister, one was used by their two stepbrothers, and the master was now for his mom and stepdad. Only six months ago his dad had been killed when his Delta Team had been attacked. The only survivor of the attack was now married to his mom. Nine people lived in this house, and if four men had gone running into all those bedrooms, there were at least twenty men who had broken into their home.

Why?

Who were they?

What did they want?

The questions ran through Cooper’s mind as his body shook, stuck in place as two men approached his bed. The other two had gone to Connor’s bed and yelled at him as his twin tried to fight them off.

A high-pitched scream echoed through the house.

Cassandra’s scream.

His little sister was only five years old and wouldn't start kindergarten until the fall, she was just a baby.

Yet there must be men like this bursting into her pretty, pink princess bedroom in the middle of the night, scaring her .

Anger ignited inside him, shoving away some of the fear.

No one got to hurt his little sister and get away with it.

Just as the men tried to reach for him and pull him from his bed, Cooper launched to his feet. The window was right between his and his brother’s beds and right outside was a huge oak tree. How many times had they gotten in trouble for jumping out the window and into the tree?

Hundreds of times.

Last winter when little Cassandra decided to follow her big brothers and do what they did, she’d attempted the jump only to fall and break her arm. All four boys had been in huge trouble for not stopping her.

Now nothing was going to stop him.

He was going to get out that window, into the tree, then he was going to scream as loud as he could and get to the closest neighbor’s house and get them to call the cops.

“Don’t do it, kid,” a voice warned as he jumped toward the open window.

For a second, he hesitated at the authority in the man’s tone, but Cassandra’s screams still filled the house, and they spurred him on.

At the window, he went for it.

He jumped.

Only to be caught before he could reach the tree.

A hand snapped around the T-shirt he was wearing and yanked him roughly back into the house.

“Damn kids,” a voice muttered.

“No wonder given who the mother is,” another grumbled.

Helplessness filled him as he was set on his feet, a hard grip on his shoulder preventing him from going anywhere other than where he was marched. Helplessness had been the catch cry of his life these last six months. From learning that the dad he idolized was dead, to his mom marrying someone just a couple of months later, to having to learn to live with a new man and two new kids in the home he had shared with his family.

But this was worse.

Lights began to flicker on throughout the house as Cooper was marched out of his bedroom, his brother behind him. His fifteen- year-old brother Cade was fighting against the two men manhandling him, and eleven-year-old Cole was crying. Stepbrothers Jake, who was fourteen, and Jax, who was twelve, were both trying to break free of the men holding onto them, as all six of them were dragged down the stairs and into the living room.

“Get your hands off my sister,” Cade growled in a deep fury-filled voice Cooper had never heard his big brother use before.

When he saw one of the men in black carrying a shrieking Cassandra down the stairs, the anger inside him surged.

Nobody touched his sister.

With four older brothers and six years between her and the next youngest, Cole, there was no denying that Cassandra was spoiled. No one in the family was any good at saying no to the little girl, but despite being pampered as she was, there wasn't a sweeter child in the whole world than Cassandra.

“No one is hurting the girl,” the man carrying her snapped like they were the problem and not him.

When Cassandra continued to wail, she was thrust toward Cade who immediately took the little girl into his arms. “Shh, boo,” he whispered, calling her by the nickname she’d gotten as a toddler because of her complete love and obsession with hiding and then jumping out when you walked past her hiding spot and screaming boo at you.

“Why won't she shut up?” one of the men grumbled.

“She doesn’t have her bunny, that’s why she’s crying,” Connor informed the men hovering around them, his blue eyes shooting daggers at each and every one of the men who had broken into their home tonight.

“Go get the kid the bunny,” the man holding Cole ordered. After casting a glance at his oldest brother, the eleven-year-old ran back upstairs after Cade nodded his ascent, returning a minute later with Cassandra’s treasured bunny.

Once the little girl had it in her arms, she began to quieten, her sobs becoming sniffles as they all stood around and … waited?

Cooper had no idea what was going on.

No idea who these men were or what they wanted, and they didn't seem inclined to offer any answers. From his spot in the living room, Cooper could see that the front door had been rammed off its hinges, that must have been the boom that woke him. These men in his home all had weapons and given that he didn't hear the sound of sirens and knew that the attack on his house must have been loud enough for some of the neighbors to hear, he had to wonder if maybe the men in black were the cops.

But why would the cops break into his house?

And where was his mom?

It was Jax’s gasp that had his head snapping up. His stepbrother was looking toward the top of the stairs, and the look on his face told Cooper that whatever Jax was looking at, he wasn't going to like.

He didn't want to look.

Yet he had no choice.

His head turned of its own accord.

There, at the top of the staircase were his mom and stepdad.

Both were in handcuffs, both had blood on their faces and fresh bruises already forming.

Just like that his world changed forever.

Cassandra, Cole, and Jax all began to cry. Cade and Jake began to shout angrily at the men who had turned their world upside down while he and Connor stood there in shock.

“Mommy,” Cassandra wailed. “I want my mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”

Cooper woke with a start, his baby sister’s screams from that night eighteen years ago still echoing in his ears with as much clarity as they had when he and his siblings had been forced to watch as their parents were dragged down the stairs and thrown into the back of a van.

They hadn't been allowed to say goodbye.

There had been no last kiss, no last hug, and no last exchange of I love yous.

That was the last time he’d ever laid eyes on his mother. A couple of days later, his family was informed that his mom and Jake and Jax’s dad had both committed suicide in their cells.

The charges that put them there—treason.

A crime neither he, his siblings, nor his step-siblings believed .

He was now sitting on a plane on his way to Egypt to hopefully finally prove his mother and her husband were innocent of that crime.

July 9 th

11:32 P.M.

How was she supposed to sleep when her entire body ached and throbbed?

Willow Purcell groaned as she shifted slightly on the thin mattress she’d been given to sleep on. A mattress that did one step away from nothing to protect her from the hard stone floor of her underground cell.

It was so dark in there that it was impossible to see her hand even when she held it directly in front of her face. And that was after being locked in there for hours.

Every day for almost two weeks it had been the same thing.

Beatings.

Torture.

Starvation.

She did her best to keep a record of the passing of the days the only way she could, by gouging another mark into the floor of her cell with the end of the chain keeping her bound to the floor.

Twelve marks.

Twelve days.

Twelve horrific days filled with pain, terror, and the dwindling hope that she was going to be rescued.

No one was coming for her.

That was finally beginning to sink in.

Instead of coming to Egypt to find the proof she’d been looking for to bring a dangerous man to justice, she was going to wind up becoming a casualty of that same man. She’d thought she had what it took to make it in this industry, she wanted to be a good journalist, one who cared more about finding the truth than fame and fortune.

Not like them.

Not like the people who had gotten her father killed.

Shifting her battered body again, Willow did her best to ignore the way the hard ground dug into her. After being given nothing but a little stew to eat once a day since she’d been caught, not only was she weak, but she was beginning to lose weight, her bones protruding where they never did before, making sleeping on the floor that much worse.

Over these last two weeks, she’d moved through a gamut of emotions.

Fear, of course, she’d come here to try to do something good and it had spectacularly backfired. Anger had followed, there was no way she deserved to be subjected to this when she’d come here with the best of intentions to find proof a university professor was, in fact, recruiting young men to join Allah’s Warriors, a small but steadily growing sect and terrorist cell. Acceptance was the next step, she was going to die in this house that looked nice enough on the outside but on the inside was run by a vicious man who enjoyed inflicting pain just because he could.

Now she was mostly numb.

She wanted this to be over.

Not that she had any intention of rolling over and giving up. That wasn't in her nature. She was a fighter, she had to be after living through what she had as a child.

Eight had been much too young to learn that every person in her life had an ulterior motive and most didn't care who they hurt as long as they got what they wanted for themselves.

Valuable lessons, hard as they’d been.

Accepting her fate didn't have to mean giving up. It just meant that she was ready for death when it came for her, but she’d still try to hold it off for as long as possible. Just in case fate decided to throw her a helping hand.

Not giving up meant taking care of herself the best way she could.

Which meant trying to sleep.

Doing her best to ignore everything else, the suffocating heat, the hard ground, the pain coursing through her body, Willow concentrated on evening out her breathing, relaxing each muscle, and calming her brain until finally, she drifted off.

Only sleep wasn't restful here.

It was just another way to suffer.

Just like that, she was eight years old again, climbing out of her bed when the sounds of someone hammering on the front door dragged her from sleep.

Like the curious child she’d been, Willow climbed out of bed and went to her window, looking down to the front door below to see who was there.

There were men.

Lots of them.

At least twelve that she could see.

She didn't recognize them, but they were yelling her dad’s name, so maybe they were his friends?

A scream stuck in her throat when her dad opened the door and the closest man grabbed him, pulling him out into the front yard.

“No!” Willow screamed as the men began to hit her dad.

Over and over again.

There were too many of them.

Twelve against one wasn't fair.

Her mom always said picking on one kid was never fair. If all your friends were being mean to someone, you were supposed to stick up for that person and help them.

But no one was helping her dad.

They were all hitting him.

Red.

Blood.

It was all over her dad.

She had to help him.

Had to make the men stop.

Why were they hurting her daddy?

He was a good daddy, she thought as she ran down the stairs. He read her bedtime stories every night, and he went to every one of her ballet recitals. He had tea parties with her and let her put makeup on him. He was a teacher at her school, teaching the fourth grade, and she wanted to be in his class next year. He coached her cousin’s soccer team, and he helped out at the Kids Club at their church .

When she got downstairs, she saw her mom standing in the doorway watching.

Watching as those men hurt her daddy.

Why wasn't Mommy helping?

If Mom wasn't going to help then she would.

She’d help her daddy. She loved him so much.

“Daddy!” she screamed as she ran toward the front door.

As she tried to get through it, her mom grabbed her, held her back, and stopped her from getting to where the men were still hitting and kicking her dad, who now lay on the grass in their front yard, right under the tree where they had their tea parties in the summer.

He wasn't moving.

“Daddy,” she sobbed again. A couple of the men looked over at her, but they didn't stop.

They didn't care.

They wanted to hurt her daddy.

“Why?” Willow begged the men she was old enough to understand were killing her father right before her very eyes. “Why are you hurting my daddy?”

“Because he’s nothing but a disgusting child killer,” one of the men sneered, delivering another hard kick to her father’s head which no longer looked the way a head was supposed to.

“No,” she whispered as she collapsed into her mom’s arms.

They were wrong.

Her daddy would never hurt anyone, especially a kid, and he’d never ever kill anyone. Killing was bad, and her daddy knew that.

He wouldn't.

“He wouldn't,” Willow said, waking on a sob.

After twenty-one years, that night was still as vivid in her mind as it had been when it played out in front of her.

It didn't hurt any less either.

That was something no child should ever have to witness even if it was true that her father was a child killer.

And it wasn't.

Her dad was no killer.

An overly eager journalist wanting to build a name for themselves by breaking the story first had named him as the cop’s number one suspect and the parents of the murdered children had acted on what they believed to be correct intel.

Only it wasn't.

And her dad had paid the price.

“I'm not like them,” Willow said aloud as she shoved to her feet, ignoring the pain from the litany of bruises covering her body.

Even though she had watched what happened to her father as he was beaten to death, it was only in these last two weeks that she’d had firsthand experience of what it was like for him that night. The pain he’d suffered, the fear as blows came from all directions and he was powerless to do anything about it.

“I came here to do good. I wasn't lying or making anything up, I just wanted facts.” Tears tumbled down her cheeks as she hobbled around the small underground cell. “I want to go home. I don’t deserve to be here.”

There had been no real justice for her wrongly accused father. The men who had beaten him to death that night had all got slaps on the wrists, as had the journalist who started it all and the paper who had published unsubstantiated claims.

Nobody cared that an innocent man had died for crimes he had not committed. Crimes that only a month later the real culprit had been identified, only after he’d taken another young life.

Would anyone care if she never came home?

Would anyone try to find out what happened to her?

Would there be any justice for what was happening to her?

Or would she simply become another statistic, another death in a country that could be unsafe for a woman to travel to alone?