Mitchell Parker Crime Thrillers Collection - The Complete Series

Excerpt from Mitchell Parker Crime Thrillers Collection

Special Agent Mitchell Parker tried to keep his heart rate steady. He breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly and applied techniques that were second nature to him in stressful situations, except when he was on the water. His six-foot-two frame and diving gear took up one corner of the 42-foot Duffy boat in which he sat and waited.

“OK?” his teammate Ellen Beetson asked from port side.

He looked over at Ellen, petite and blonde, and a divemaster.

“Unlike you, I prefer my feet on land or in the air,” he said.

She laughed breaking the tension.

“You’ve got to agree this is beautiful,” their skipper called back as he navigated over the endless stretch of blue ocean.

Mitch turned his gaze to the water streaming by him. He looked over the edge and scoped the surface of the area they were approaching. He knew what to expect and beauty didn’t come into it on this fly-in, fly-out assignment; he’d be home late tonight like nothing happened.

“We’re almost at the coordinates,” the skipper called, “and there’s about an hour of light left.”

“Let’s get to it,” Ellen said. She zipped up her wetsuit and Mitch followed suit. Ellen checked their gear again before shrugging on the air tank that Mitch held up for her. He slipped his own tank over his shoulders.

The boat stopped and dropped anchor. A minute later the skipper joined them.

“Right above where you need to be,” he said.

Mitch and Ellen put on their masks and sitting on the edge of the boat, flipped back into the water with one easy push. Mitch was struck by the silence as he glided through the depths following Ellen. The only sound he could hear was his own breathing … in and out. He reeled as a large black-spotted eel zipped past his mask. He followed Ellen towards the wreck on the floor of Cape Hatteras. She pointed to a shark following a large school of fish.

Mitch didn’t notice. He was looking to a flat area on the bottom of the ocean not far from the wreck where a bundle lay.

He swam towards it; dreading what he knew to expect. Tangled with cable, their masks and tanks still on, two drowned men stared blankly at him.

* * *

TWO DAYS EARLIER:

The middle-aged Asian man stood on the shoreline of Cape Hatteras lighthouse beach and looked out to sea. Remnants of sand castles were dotted around the water’s edge. Several families braved the cool weather to wade knee-deep into the water.

He knew this beach.

The Graveyard of the Atlantic; strong tides and rip currents, home to hundreds of ships lost at sea. The definition ran through his head.

And well located for navigation along the eastern seaboard of North America.

He raised the binoculars to his eyes. Water engulfed his shoes; he didn’t notice. He lowered the binoculars. Panic swept through him as he stared out to sea; he had been waiting for hours now. The sun was beginning to dip lower on the horizon.

Where are they? He clenched his teeth. They’re an hour late. No instruction to abort.

An elderly couple stopped near him.

“Give it a few more weeks … the herons are migrating now but soon the ducks and geese will be here for the winter.” The man tipped his hat.

The Asian man smiled and nodded. “Thank you, thank you,” he said.

As the couple passed, he glanced at his watch, turned and walked towards a sandy ledge. He climbed and stood atop.

Another glance through the binoculars; nothing.

He sank down, discarded the binoculars and rubbed his hands over his face.

What’s gone wrong this time?

William decided then that he would not report the extent of the failure up the line; this project had to work, there was no going back and he wouldn’t tolerate someone higher up getting cold feet and calling it off.

After a few moments, he rose, stumbled down from the dune and disappeared behind it.

NOW:

Mitch followed the black line.

He winced from the strain in his shoulders and promised himself he could quit after four more laps. Mitch was a running man. He liked to put on his runners and head out the door, any day, any time. Swimming required organization—fitting around pool opening times, packing gear and carrying cash—planning he couldn’t be bothered with most days, not to mention sharing lanes with fellow swimmers who had to be competitive. He would have liked to have counted the dive yesterday as water time but he knew that was cheating. Besides he spent more time on the flight to and from Cape Hatteras than he did in the water… no exercise in that.

Once a week, he told himself as he followed the black line, lap after lap. Once a week to give the joints a break and keep up my swimming fitness.

He was a capable swimmer and with his athletic build, he made it look easy. He turned mechanically at the end of the lane, kicked out against the wall and propelled through the water for another round of freestyle. In the water his time was his own; he couldn’t carry a pager or be tracked down. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind—what happened to those men? Why were they there? Where did they come from? Where is their ship now?

Mitch hit something in the water. He stopped mid-lane to see a flipper floating in front of him. He looked up and through his goggles saw a tall, blond man standing pool side with hands on hips. It was one of his team, Nicholas Everett.

“Nick! What?” He threw the flipper back and pushed the goggles up on his forehead.

“We’re wanted.” Nick held up his pager.

“I’m not here,” Mitch said.

“I’ve seen you!”

“Can’t you see me in about half an hour?”

Nick frowned.

“Right.” Mitch sighed and sank back into the blue surroundings of the pool. He debated not coming up but his lungs demanded it. Nick was gone, and he finished the twenty yards to the end of the pool and hoisted himself out.

Mitch grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his shoulders to cover the scars running the length of his back. He glanced around; no one had noticed.

The adrenaline began to course through him. It was not uncommon to work twenty-four-seven when on a case, but after retrieving the bodies yesterday, it was normally just a waiting game.

Not anymore!

* * *

Mitch raced up from the parking lot to his office in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, the headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s field office in Washington D.C. Inside, he took the stairs two at a time to his department’s floor and glanced towards John Windsor’s office—the Executive Director for the Trans-national Crime Unit. John was on the phone and Mitch’s team gathered in the coffee station outside his office, waiting.

“Hey,” he announced his arrival.

“Mitch, thanks for coming,” Nick, the newest member of the team and Mitch’s oldest friend, ragged him.

“Wanted to make an entrance.” Mitch grinned at Nick, who except for being the same height was a perfect contrast to Mitch’s dark hair and blue eyes.

Ellen flicked through the newspaper as she sat on the desk next to Nick. Her blonde hair was tied back and the odd splatter of paint featured around her face and on her arms.