Ambush

Praise for the Betrayed Series
(30
Pieces of Silver
,
Havoc
& Shiva)

“Even as I write this, I find I can’t do justice
to the scope and breadth of
30 Pieces of Silver
. It is
cinematic in its ambition and execution, taking the reader on a
well–thought–out and well–written journey.”

The
Word Zombie

Book Reviewer

“If you are looking for an action–packed,
archaeological thriller, then look no further than Carolyn McCray’s
30 Pieces of Silver
. I cannot
say enough good things about this book! I started reading this book and found
myself taking it everywhere I went just to finish it. McCray has you on the
edge of your seat from start to finish.”

The Pen & Muse Review

Book Reviewer

 “This novel messed with my head, plain and simple.”

John Hopkin

Book Reviewer

“Carolyn McCray's
30 Pieces of Silver
proves that Dan Brown's crown is up for grabs. Part minefield and all roller–coaster
ride, here is a story as controversial as it is thriller. Hunker down for a
long night because once you start this book you won't be putting it down.”

James Rollins,

NY Times bestseller of
Devil
Colony

Start Reading

About the Author

Afterword

Other Works by Carolyn McCray

Copyright

Contact Information

Table of Contents

Four kilometers outside the town of Xphil

Campeche Region, Mexico

Crunch.

Sergeant Vincent Brandt froze
as a twig snapped underfoot. The rest of his team pulled to a stop, paused,
waiting. The wilderness surrounding them seemed to draw in a breath, as well.

The multitude of insects
stopped their persistent pre–dusk buzzing. Only a light breeze rustled the
large leaves of the mahogany trees. Then even that died down. Brandt glanced up
to find a toucan with its striped bill staring at him, cocking its head from
side to side. Apparently, the gaily–colored bird was trying to figure out why
in hell anyone would approach this close to a Los Zetas cartel’s campsite.

Brandt was beginning to wonder that himself.

It wasn’t the fact that a well–placed CIA asset’s cover had
been blown. No, it was that the CIA hadn’t bothered to tell anyone about it.
Not the DEA, not the DoD—hell, not even the Red Cross. The agency had gone all
trigger–happy and mounted their own rescue mission of their asset. Which of
course meant Brandt and his men now had to go rescue those captured CIA
operatives, plus apparently a foreign operative who had wound up in the mix.

So here were Brandt and his team, deep in the Mexican
jungle, missing the bulk of their leave, trying to avoid the cartel’s patrols
and ending up another drug war statistic. They should have been in the Florida
Keys pretending to fish, but really just having a moment to take a load off. “Blowing
off steam” was what the head docs called it. Brandt called it second survival.

Out here in the jungle you stuffed it all down. The fear.
The nerves. The fact that none of them had a successful relationship. Brandt’s
mother was all about getting grandkids, however unless he stumbled onto some
smart, funny, hot chick in the middle of the jungle, that was not very likely
to happen.

The tension of all that had to go somewhere. Hence the
fishing—priming the pump for the next mission. But no, instead they were in
Mexican drug cartel–filled jungle. Awesome.

Svengurd, the team’s tall point man, swiveled his head from
side to side, making sure that no one else had heard the snap of that branch.
Finally, Svengurd moved them forward again, pushing further into the jungle,
following his GPS signal, since there weren’t any trails leading to the Zetas’
back door.

Brandt waited until Lopez followed Svengurd. Usually the
corporal was their vehicle procurement officer, or, as Lopez liked to call it,
their “get, get, getaway driver.” Brandt had, of course, squashed that
nickname.

Today they needed Lopez’s gun in the mix. If they couldn’t
quickly and quietly get the hostages out of this makeshift camp, a getaway car
wasn’t going to do them any good.

Svengurd’s fist clenched. Brandt stopped mid–stride. Had the
point man spotted a sentry, or the camp itself? Glancing down, he checked his
GPS monitor. They were still a good two hundred feet from the coordinates the
CIA had given them. But then again, this was the same agency that had gotten at
least two of their men killed and another two captured.

He would trust Svengurd’s instincts over any coordinates.

Confirming Brandt’s suspicions, the point man flashed
fingers from his eyes towards a figure, no, make that two figures, in the
jungle. Make that two
young
figures. Boys, really. Boys of no more than
thirteen who carried M4 carbine machine guns with grenade launchers attached.

Brandt had discretion, of course. They could shoot the enemy
combatants down without a warning. It galled Brandt, though. It wasn’t these
kids’ fault they had been born in one of the poorest regions of the world and
had been taken advantage of by the cartels for cheap, disposable security.

Svengurd and Lopez were set up to take the shot, but Brandt
gave a sharp shake of his head. Despite their age and circumstance, the team
still couldn’t have the child soldiers raising any alarms. There had to be a
way to achieve a silent entry without harming the boys. He nodded at them to go
east, around the guards.

The sounds of a
jai alai
game blasted from an old
transistor radio. Clearly the boys’ team was winning, as they listened
intently, whooping at each score. Just as well. The more distraction the
better. Circling around, they approached from the boys’ backs.

As Svengurd kept watch, Lopez and Brandt slung their weapons
and, step by step, came up behind the boys. They needed to be perfectly
synchronized, or there would be blood on their hands.

Brandt counted down with blinks.

Three. He took his final step to the child soldier.

Two. His hands came up into position.

One. Brandt’s arm lashed out, grabbing the boy in front of
him around the neck, lifting him from his feet. His gun clattered against the
small metal table, knocking the radio onto the ground. The commentator’s words
muffled by the dirt.

The boy flailed in his grip, fingernails raking down
Brandt’s sleeve.

It’s way better than death
, Brandt thought, but knew
the kid wouldn’t understand. Silently he kept his hold, closing off the
sentry’s windpipe until the child slumped in his arms.

Lopez had been equally successful. As his guard’s eyelids
fluttered, the corporal whispered, “
Cuando te despiertas
.
Ejectar.
”
Lopez tucked several hundred dollar bills into the boy’s pocket.

The money had been meant for bribing any local official a
little too interested in the foursome of American men. Brandt agreed. The cash
was better spent here. He nodded as Lopez did the same for Brandt’s boy.
Hopefully the kids would find the money and get the hell out of Campeche. Start
a new life that didn’t involve killing innocents to keep the drug cartels
profitable.

Movement from the side brought Brandt’s gun up, but it was
only Svengurd. Lopez handed the point man a fistful of dirt. The tall Swede
looked confused until the corporal rubbed a bit of earth onto his own head.

Svengurd’s platinum blond hair, even shaved down to a half
inch, stood out against the mottled jungle. They all wore camouflage face
paint, but keeping the point man’s towhead under control seemed to be a bit
more of a problem.

Taking a deep breath, Brandt gave the signal to move into
the final stage of this operation. Breach and extract. It sounded so simple.

Yeah. Right.

Wordlessly, they broke formation, splitting off to surround
the nearest building. Actually, “shack” would be a generous term for what stood
in front of them. The CIA insisted the hostages were being kept there. Which
gave them about a fifty–fifty shot they were actually there. But beyond playing
paper, rock, scissors, it was the best shot they had.

Cautiously, Brandt made his way to the north side of the
wooden structure. The walls bowed and the ceiling sagged. The rest of the
buildings didn’t look much better. This wasn’t a resort. It was an outpost. One
that moved every few days. One of the reasons why his team had to strike now.
Today. Before they moved the hostages.

The guard at the door wasn’t much more attentive than the
boys had been. He had an ear bud in that leaked the
jai alai
game. It
must have been a championship match or something. An unfiltered cigarette
drooped from the guard’s lips.

Even though his men were out of line of sight, Brandt
counted down, trusting that they were doing the same. At exactly sixty seconds
from the moment they split off, Brandt pulled his knife out, sliding it across
the man’s neck. This guy had had a choice and he chose the cartels. Brandt
didn’t mind the hot blood spilling across his hand. One less Zetas to terrorize
the countryside. Pulling the man out of sight of the rest of the village,
Brandt tested the door.

Locked.

Quickly, he searched the dead guard’s pockets and came up
with the key. Right on time, Svengurd turned the corner, Lopez behind him. They
gave a curt nod. Their guards had been dispatched, as well.

Sliding the metal key into the lock, Brandt twisted it. Once
he felt the clunk of the lock giving way, Brandt backed to the side, his hand
on the doorknob. Carefully, he turned it, then shoved it inward.

Svengurd burst into the dimly lit room. Brandt followed
Lopez as Svengurd sank his knife into the gut of the inside guard. The man
slumped over without a sound. Several figures scrambled back, cowed, frightened
of the danger that rode into the room.

“Are you American?” one of them asked.

Brandt put his fingers to his lips, then signaled to the
small group to follow.

“I don’t think he can get up,” a dark–haired man said,
wincing as blood dripped down from his cut eye. He must have been Kirkland, one
of the CIA field operatives. The other one kneeling by the downed man must have
been Pollov.

Lopez knelt by the Latino on the ground. When the corporal
turned over the CIA’s informant, Brandt was shocked at how young was. Not more
than a few years older than the boy soldiers outside. His skin was marred by
black, blue, purple, green and even yellow bruises. Someone had been tuning the
kid up for days.