Code name disavowed, p.1
Code Name: Disavowed, page 1
CODE NAME:
DISAVOWED
By
SAWYER BENNETT
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2021 by Sawyer Bennett
EPUB Edition
Published by Big Dog Books
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Excerpt from Code Name: Revenge
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Greer
For a spy, I’m not being very smart.
I’m certainly not clandestine.
Parking almost directly across the street from Ladd McDermott’s house is actually kind of obvious.
And so very stupid, especially since Ladd is a spy himself.
Well, only stupid if I don’t want him to see me, but I had come with the idea in mind that we’d have a face-to-face. The confrontation would not be pleasant and could end up causing quite a commotion in the neighborhood.
It’s quite possible he might shoot me.
So I don’t know if I’ll actually have the guts to get out of the car, walk up to his door, and knock on it. It’s been over a year and a half since he’s seen me, and I’m not sure if that’s long enough for his anger to have diminished.
There’s only one way to tell, though. It’s with a determined sigh I reach for the door handle. My fingers curl around the metal, but before I can pull, a car that had approached from behind swings into Ladd’s driveway.
I immediately sink lower into my seat, pull the brim of my baseball cap down, and thank God the rental car has semi-tinted windows.
The dark navy BMW 5 Series comes to a halt before the garage where the brake lights stay lit for only a few seconds. The driver’s door opens, and my breath hitches when I see Ladd unfold himself from the seat.
Christ, he’s gorgeous and has hardly changed. He still wears his dark hair short, which is shot liberally through with streaks of premature gray, a phenomenon that started when he was just twenty-five years old. I used to tease him it was the nature of our work that did it, but his father was apparently the same way. Regardless, I thought the perfection of his face and cool blue eyes bore the gray wonderfully, and to me, he was simply the most beautiful man in the entire world.
Still is at age thirty, and while the gray might be taking up a little more real estate than it did at twenty-five, he’s even more handsome than the last time I saw him. Frankly, his hair could fall out and warts could pop out all over his head, and I’d still be attracted to him.
Ladd trots around the back of the BMW but rather than stepping onto the sidewalk that meanders through beds of begonias and daylilies to the front porch, he moves to the car’s passenger side.
My breath full-on freezes in my lungs when he pulls open the door and offers assistance to whoever is sitting there.
Things move in slow motion as an elegant hand extends outward, placing fingers into his palm. My stomach turns as Ladd smiles at what is obviously a woman in the passenger seat. She must say something because he tips his head back and laughs before his sparkling eyes come back to her.
Time speeds up and it all happens so fast, I have a hard time comprehending what I’m seeing.
He takes her other hand and her legs swing out, clad in leggings and ballet flats.
Ladd bends at the waist and tugs at the woman.
Yes, tugs—and my gut flops over on itself when I see a very round belly popping out of the car before the rest of the passenger.
She’s gorgeous with golden-blond hair flowing down her back, a brilliant smile, and a very, very pregnant belly showcased in a well-fitting shirt. She’s one of those women who can wear tight clothes when pregnant and still look like she could stroll down a Milan catwalk.
Ladd pulls her right into his body, wraps his arms around her waist, and dips his head to kiss her softly on the mouth.
Tears prick at my eyes as I note the wedding band on his left hand that I had not noticed before.
They pull apart, join hands, and then make their way up the sidewalk, to the front porch dotted with pots of flowers, and through the door where they disappear from sight.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter to myself, staying slumped in the seat as I stare blindly at the front of his house.
I’m too late.
Ladd’s life is complete. A wife, a kid on the way—everything he always wanted and nothing that I ever did.
I waited too long, and he’s moved on.
CHAPTER 1
Ladd
Ten years later…
I spy Jackson sitting at the large conference table where the on-duty Jameson agents are congregating for our weekly meeting and I’m surprised to see him.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” I ask, because Jackson should be in Bretaria with his girlfriend, Princess Camille Winterbourne.
He grins at me, kicking the rolling chair next to him out in a silent invitation to sit down. “Camille is ready to see the world. Or rather, Pittsburgh. We’re going to stay here awhile and travel in our downtime.”
“And you’re going to stay in your little apartment here at headquarters?” I ask, because while Camille is about as down-to-earth as royalty can be, I can’t see her wanting to live there.
“Oh no,” Jackson says, chuckling at the thought. “She’s looking for a house to buy and until then, we’re staying at the Fairmont.”
“Does it bother you that your girlfriend is richer than God and is essentially your sugar mama?” I ask slyly.
“Not one fucking bit,” he replies with a snort. But I know Jackson isn’t into Camille because she’s a princess and her family is one of the wealthiest in the world. The dude is truly in love, and she loves him back.
Lucky bastard.
I turn my head toward the conference room door and see Cage entering. He nabs the remote control from the end of the table and points it at the large-screen TV on the wall. As the TV is always tuned to a national news station, immediately the screen is filled with the charred remains of an airplane that crashed last night at the Pittsburgh Airport.
And not just any plane.
This one was chartered by the Pittsburgh Titans professional hockey team, and everyone on board was killed.
“Can you believe this?” I murmur as everyone silently watches the news coverage.
“It’s horrible,” Jackson replies, shaking his head.
The plane had what they’re calling a “catastrophic failure of the landing gear” that caused it to somersault down the runway on landing before breaking apart and bursting into flames. The news was confirmed this morning that no survivors have been found. The city—actually the entire nation—is reeling from this, and I’m a bit tired today as I admittedly stayed up until the wee hours watching the coverage, hoping they’d pull at least one person out alive. I finally fell asleep around three a.m., and I’m on my third cup of coffee this morning. I’m only feeling slightly sluggish.
More people file into the conference room that can easily seat twenty, but usually has no more than fifteen agents at any one time. The others are spread out around the world on missions. Kynan McGrath’s Jameson Force Security has more than quadrupled in size this last year alone and has become the preeminent private security agency in the world, as evidenced by the king of Bretaria hiring us in January to protect his daughter from a kidnapping and assassination plot. There are offices located in Pittsburgh and Vegas, but there’s a rumor that Kynan’s looking to put one on the West Coast and possibly one in Europe somewhere.
Our esteemed leader walks in last, closing the door behind him. Kynan glances at the TV grimly, picks up the remote, and shuts off the TV. Immediate silence settles over the room as we all turn our chairs Kynan’s way. He takes a seat at the head of the table.
“You’ve all obviously seen the terrible news about the Titans’ plane crash,” Kynan rumbles low, his voice filled with sorrow. His eyes shift left to Malik, sitting four chairs down from him. “Your brothers okay?”
Malik’s two brothers, Lucas and Max, play hockey for the Carolina Cold Fury. They, no doubt, had personal ties to people on that plane. Malik’s lips press flat. “They’ll be okay. Pretty shaken up, though.”
“If you need time off,” Kynan says, letting the offer hang in the air with sincerity.
Malik shakes his head. “I’m good.”
Kynan holds his gaze a second, just to be sure he is in fact good, then nods. His gaze moves right and he nods at Anna Tate, who sits directly across from Malik, and is coincidentally his girlfriend. She’s also Kynan’s right-hand woman, so to speak, and has taken to presenting cases to us at the start of each week. Her job is to update the team on current missions as well as highlight potential cases for consideration.
Kynan used to handle all of that himself, but he’s a smart enough man to know he’s surrounded by a wealth of talent and experience, and he values our opinions so much that decisions are made via group consensus. He has final say-so, of course, but it’s usually majority rules if we have concerns about accepting a particular case.
Anna doesn’t bother to stand but clicks a different remote at a SMART Board on the opposite end of the room, and we all turn our chairs to look. She puts together a PowerPoint each week with succinct summaries while she provides additional narration.
After she goes through the current cases, she says, “We only have one new case to consider, and this actually came in this morning, so I don’t have any formal slides prepared.”
She appears embarrassed by that, and it’s adorable. Malik seems to think so, too, because he’s smiling at her in an amused but I love you with every breath in my lungs way.
Also a lucky bastard.
Anna clicks the remote, and a copy of a news article pops up on the screen. I don’t bother reading it, knowing Anna will summarize. “This was published this morning in a San Salvador newspaper. An American was arrested and accused of being a spy.”
“Happens all the time,” Cage says dismissively. “Countries like that trying to stifle freedom of the press. They accuse reporters of being spies so they can basically hold them indefinitely.”
“Correct,” Anna says, and clicks the remote again. “Except… she’s actually a spy.”
My head swings to the SMART Board and on it is a dossier I recognize as CIA, the clandestine government branch I used to work for.
There’s a picture of a blond female that my eyes brush over briefly before going straight to the column on the right with the general information about her.
But something twists in my chest, and my eyes fly back to the photo. Her hair is the wrong color and much longer than when I last saw her, but I’ll never forget those eyes, the color of bourbon.
Son of a bitch… Greer Hathaway.
“… only realized what was going on when she missed her ex-fil this morning,” Anna continues.
“Ex-fil?” I ask, actually demand, harshly.
All heads turn my way, and Anna’s eyes widen at my tone. Her voice is measured when she says, “Yes. She’s CIA, and her mission was to gather intel on Hugo Mejia. Her last communication with her handler suggested she had an entire ledger of information that revealed buyers, suppliers, even some sleeper terrorist cells.”
Christ. Hugo Mejia is one of the world’s most prolific arms dealers, backed by the Vecindario 18, a heinously vicious gang in El Salvador that ironically originated in Los Angeles. I can almost guarantee that Greer wasn’t legitimately arrested, but cops on Mejia’s payroll probably nabbed her off the street and are holding her illegally. They’ll kill her if they’re able to recover the ledger, and if not, they’ll torture her until they get it.
“Why is the government asking us to help?” Jackson muses. “Doesn’t the CIA have special forces trained in rescue operations?”
“She’s been disavowed,” I say. It’s really a guess, but I bet it’s a damn good one. “The minute she was outed as a spy in the press—even a Salvadorian paper—the CIA will be forced to disavow her to protect her cover. She’s on her own.”
Anna nods. “Which is why the government is asking Jameson to go in and get her. They officially can’t.”
Conversation ensues around the table, the pros and cons of accepting such a mission. I immediately tune it out and focus on Greer’s picture. Her hair is naturally dark brown and her skin a very light bronze, the product of an Argentinian mother and an Irish American father. The blond suits her, but I don’t like it at all.
My eyes cut over to the information listed on the dossier about her. Name, aliases, educational background, and languages spoken. She’s fluent in Spanish, Portuguese, Arabic, and Russian. Her security clearance is at the highest level, and it even lists identifiable markings. Scar to the temple—that was from a skydiving accident when she came down into a copse of pine trees from a bad wind blowing. A scar to her right thigh—stabbed in a knife fight in Yemen. A burn to the inside of her left leg from the hot pipe of a Harley-Davidson, and finally… an infinity symbol on the back of her shoulder, same as me.
How many times have I thought about having it removed, and yet I could never bring myself to do it?
Kynan’s voice cuts into my thoughts. “I think you all make great points, and at this time, I’m not inclined to take this case. Our resources are a bit stretched right now—”
“I’m going,” I cut in over him.
His eyes snap to me. “Come again.”
“I’m going,” I repeat, nodding at the screen. “No arguments about it.”
“You know her,” Kynan guesses.
I nod hesitantly, not really wanting to divulge but feeling I need to. “We were engaged. I haven’t seen her since we called things off at least ten years ago, but I’m not letting her get tortured and possibly killed.”
“I’ll go with him,” Jackson volunteers.
Cage and Malik echo the same.
I shake my head. “Like Kynan said, we’re stretched thin, but regardless, I’d rather go alone. I assume if the government is hiring Jameson, I’ll have adequate support.”
Anna nods. “Yes. Full access to private travel, technology, weapons. The CIA wants her back.”
“The CIA wants the information in that ledger,” I reply bitterly. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking they care about her. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have disavowed her.”
“I’m sorry,” Anna murmurs softly.
I give her an apologetic smile—a silent regret for snapping at her—before turning my attention back to Kynan. “I need to leave immediately. If they took her this morning, time is running short. I’ll need comms and ex-fil support from you.”
Kynan nods. “I’ll have Dozer and Bebe at your direct disposal. I can get you in the air within an hour.”
That’s good. It’s roughly a four-hour flight to the capital city of San Salvador, and if the CIA provides good intel on where Greer is being held, I can have her out in double that amount of time. My greatest hope is that she hid the fuck out of that ledger and she can withstand the inevitable torture to get her to reveal the ledger’s whereabouts.
As long as they don’t have it, she’ll be kept alive.
CHAPTER 2
Greer
The illegal trade of guns isn’t an overly lucrative business, as opposed to drug dealing. Ironically, many buyers are drug dealers who like their pistols, submachine guns, and assault rifles to show might. While these transactions equal roughly $1 billion annually, it’s still small potatoes if a bad guy wants to make serious money.
As such, you’d think the CIA wouldn’t be all that interested in an arms dealer. However, those small arms, while not generating a lot of revenue, are more about providing power in communities, particularly those controlled by gangs.
In this instance—whereby I’m stuck in a small cinder block cell in the basement of some warehouse—it is to provide weapons to major transnational gangs. Here in El Salvador, gang activity is a huge problem, and it extends throughout South, Central, and North America.
Hugo Mejia is the man I’m after. I was charged by my employer, the Central Intelligence Agency, to come to the capital city of San Salvador, Mejia’s home of known record, and gather as much intel as possible so that our government can take him down. While the gang activity here in El Salvador is widespread and vicious, our government isn’t so magnanimous that it wants to help the poor souls here. No, the CIA is more interested in taking down those portions of the gangs that are rooted in the United States, being fed guns by Mejia.
