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  What Others Are Saying

  About R.J. Patterson

  “R.J. Patterson does a fantastic job at keeping you engaged and interested. I look forward to more from this talented author.”

  - Aaron Patterson, bestselling author of SWEET DREAMS

  “Patterson has a mean streak about a mile wide and puts his two main characters through quite a horrible ride, which makes for good reading.”

  - Richard D., reader

  “Like a John Grisham novel, from the very start I was pulled right into the story and couldn’t put the book down. It was as if I personally knew and cared about what happened to each of the main characters. Every chapter ended with so much excitement and suspense I had to continue to read until I learned how it ended, even though it kept me up until 3:00 A.M.

  - Ray F., reader

  DEAD SHOT

  “Small town life in southern Idaho might seem quaint and idyllic to some. But when local newspaper reporter Cal Murphy begins to uncover a series of strange deaths that are linked to a sticky spider web of deception, the lid on the peaceful town is blown wide open. Told with all the energy and bravado of an old pro, first-timer R.J. Patterson hits one out of the park his first time at bat with Dead Shot. It’s that good.”

  -Vincent Zandri, bestselling author of THE REMAINS

  “You can tell R.J. knows what it’s like to live in the newspaper world, but with Dead Shot, he’s proven that he also can write one heck of a murder mystery.”

  - Josh Katzowitz,

  NFL writer for CBSSports.com

  & author of Sid Gillman: Father of the Passing Game

  DEAD LINE

  “This book kept me on the edge of my seat the whole time. I didn’t really want to put it down. R.J. Patterson has hooked me. I’ll be back for more.”

  - Bob Behler

  3-time Idaho broadcaster of the year

  and play-by-play voice for Boise State football

  DEAD IN THE WATER

  “In Dead in the Water, R.J. Patterson accurately captures the action-packed saga of a what could be a real-life college football scandal. The sordid details will leave readers flipping through the pages as fast as a hurry-up offense.”

  - Mark Schlabach,

  ESPN college sports columnist and

  co-author of Called to Coach

  Heisman: The Man Behind the Trophy

  Other titles by R.J. Patterson

  Ed Maddux thriller series

  King of Queens

  To Catch a Spy

  Whispers of Treason

  Brady Hawk series

  Dead Shot

  Dead Line

  Better off Dead

  Dead in the Water

  Dead Man's Curve

  Dead and Gone

  Dead Wrong

  Dead Man's Land

  Dead Drop

  Dead to Rights

  Dead End

  James Flynn Thriller series

  The Warren Omissions

  Imminent Threat

  The Cooper Affair

  Seeds of War

  Brady Hawk series

  First Strike

  Deep Cover

  Point of Impact

  Full Blast

  Target Zero

  Fury

  State of Play

  Siege

  Seek and Destroy

  Into the Shadows

  Hard Target

  No Way Out

  Two Minutes to Midnight

  Against All Odds

  Any Means Necessary

  AGAINST ALL ODDS

  A Brady Hawk Thriller

  R.J. PATTERSON

  For Cal Powell, for great friendship

  and seemingly infinite inside jokes

  CHAPTER 1

  Venice, Italy

  HAWK ALWAYS IMAGINED snorkeling with his wife on his honeymoon, just not in the murky canal waters of Venice. This excursion wasn’t part of the all-inclusive resort. Instead of coral reefs and colorful fish, his flashlight illuminated petrified wooden pilings and trash still making its way to the bottom of the water.

  “You doing okay back there?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

  Alex flashed him a thumbs up.

  Will she ever let me live this down? Going on a mission on our honeymoon? I’ll never hear the end of it.

  Hawk took a hard right and rolled over onto his back. The blue sky beaming down on them from above was still faintly visible. Seconds later, it vanished, covered by a gondola lazily moving along. However, there was still just enough light for Hawk to see an oar slice through the water near his head. He rolled away from the boat and waited until it eased down the canal and the overhead light returned.

  “Almost there,” he said.

  Alex didn’t say anything, and Hawk wasn’t sure what that was a sign of. He suspected it wasn’t good. When women go silent, he was preconditioned to believe he’d done something wrong. But Alex? She could be an enigma at times, instead caught up in contemplating something quietly. There was an equal chance that she was stewing over something he’d said during lunch or admiring the architectural brilliance of creating a city in the water out of nothing but wood.

  Hawk checked his GPS coordinates and followed them to his left, leading right into the boat garage of Andrei Orlovsky, known Russian arms dealer. After surfacing for air, Hawk scanned his surroundings for a dock. He spotted it just on the other side of a sleek motorboat that contained far more horsepower than necessary on its outboard twin engines. As he swam around, he waited for Alex to appear. A few seconds later, her head bobbed out of the water with barely a splash. Operating stealthily was of utmost importance on this operation.

  When Blunt called and requested Hawk and Alex go on a short mission, Hawk was hesitant. But Blunt made a strong case that they may not have a chance like this again. According to intelligence reports from the CIA, Orlovsky was in Venice on business for a few days and always took his laptop with him. The nearest operatives couldn’t get to Venice and get outfitted before Orlovsky would be gone, disappearing again off the grid.

  To his credit, Hawk asked Alex if she wanted to go. Her response was less than enthusiastic.

  “How can we say no?” she said.

  Hawk wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but it signaled her willingness. He promptly conveyed the message to Blunt, who had equipment at their hotel room less than an hour later.

  With Orlovsky scheduled to meet an African drug lord for lunch, Hawk and Alex seized the opportunity to go after the coveted intel: Orlovsky’s contact list. The CIA had attempted to acquire the list in the past but failed when Orlovsky discovered the list had been stolen. He immediately enacted an emergency protocol with all his clients, alerting them of the theft. By the time the CIA attempted to utilize the information, it had been rendered useless. Phone numbers, addresses, emails—all changed or disabled and wiped away, with the exception of one. An arms dealer in Chechnya kept his information current and set an ambush for a covert CIA team, killing all of them. Such a brazen attack was the impetus behind the CIA aggressively pursuing the contact list yet again. The Chechnya buyer would be the first to pay.

  Hawk eased out of the water and stripped out of his wetsuit. Alex opened her laptop, focused on her task.

  “Being married makes these missions a little more fun,” Hawk whispered.

  She wagged her index finger at him and rolled her eyes.

  Always such a stickler.

  Hawk dressed in the clothes he’d brought with him in a bag. This time they had to make sure not a single trace of evidence, especially digital e
vidence, was left behind to signal that the list had been compromised.

  Once Hawk finished dressing, he looked at Alex. She nodded and pointed at the door, signaling that she had rebooted the alarm system. A mainframe update would take down the security monitors for two minutes. She then hacked into the cameras and set up loops so Hawk could roam around the house without being seen.

  He shoved the comlink in his ear and then eased inside.

  “Do you have the flash drive?” she asked.

  “Yep,” Hawk whispered.

  “Be careful. There are still two armed guards in the house.”

  “Roger that.”

  Hawk crept upstairs and made his way into Orlovsky’s study. The desktop was devoid of anything, most notably a computer.

  “There’s nothing here,” Hawk said.

  “No computer?”

  “Negative.”

  “Check the drawer.”

  Hawk gave it a tug, and it didn’t budge. “It’s locked. How much time do I have?”

  “Ninety seconds. Better hurry up and pick the lock.”

  Hawk fiddled with the lock, and after a few seconds it gave way. He opened up drawer after drawer and found nothing.

  “Sixty seconds,” Alex warned.

  “There’s no computer here.”

  “Can’t be. Our intelligence report said he always takes it with him.”

  Hawk knelt and rifled through a bunch of files. “Wait a minute. I think I’ve found something. I found a folder with a spreadsheet of a bunch of contacts. This has to be it.”

  “Take a picture of it, and get out of there. You’ve only got ten seconds before you’ll be caught in dead man’s land.”

  Hawk whipped his phone out and snapped photo after photo of the eight-page document before shoving it back into the desk.

  “You need to be leaving like twenty seconds ago,” she said.

  “I have to lock the drawer.”

  “Hawk! Get out of there now. You’ve got trouble headed your way.”

  “Grab my gear, and I’ll meet you at the rendezvous point.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Just trust me.”

  Hawk grabbed a mail opener and jimmied the drawer locked. He had started an internal clock in his head and had about five seconds left before the cameras would restart and catch him in the room. But that was the least of his worries as he heard footsteps approaching down the hallway.

  Hawk dashed across the room and climbed through the window that opened onto a small balcony extended over the water. He closed the door behind him and stood on the ledge. Wrapping his feet around the railing, he crouched to jump. The sound of the door latch clicking open in the study spurred him to take his leap.

  He hit the dingy water with a loud splash. As he rolled over onto his back, he could see the opaque scene above—a man leaning out over the balcony glancing down at the water. After a few seconds, he closed the windows and returned inside.

  But Hawk wasn’t taking any chances. Harkening back to his Navy SEAL training, he held his breath and stayed beneath the surface as he swam. When he emerged, he was around the corner, staring directly at a gondola.

  “I thought you were busted,” Alex said, reaching her hand down to him.

  Hawk gingerly climbed aboard, cautious not to rock the boat too much and tip them both.

  “Did you get it?” she asked.

  He smiled and held up his phone. “Gotta love innovative technology like waterproof phones.”

  “Great,” Alex said. “Now let’s get going.”

  Hawk slipped a hat on and started rowing down the canal, while Alex, still decked out in her wetsuit, lay down beneath her blanket. As the oar cut through the water, he belted out the famous barcarola, “Belle nuit, ô nuit d'amour.”

  “I never knew this side of you,” Alex said. “I only wish I could see it.”

  Hawk tried not to laugh as he continued singing. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he looked back to see the guards at Orlovsky’s place calmly patrolling along the rooftop.

  One of the guards looked in his direction, but it was merely a passing glance. Hawk steered the gondola around the corner and out of the guard’s line of sight. He tied the boat off at a small dock on the other side of a bridge that connected two central plazas.

  When Alex emerged from beneath the blanket, she was no longer wearing a wetsuit, instead sporting a touristy tank top and shorts.

  “Impressive,” Hawk said to her as they both quickly stuffed their gear into an oversized beach basket and casually joined the flow of tourists.

  “Not as impressive as your operatic singing. But like it or not, I have to cross something off the honeymoon bucket list.”

  “What’s that? Swimming in the Venetian canals?” he asked, holding a mischievous grin.

  “Uh, no,” she said as she shot him a sideways glance. “I was going to say getting serenaded while riding in a gondola. Of course, I didn’t imagine me hiding under a blanket while wearing a wetsuit and you being the one doing the singing, but off the bucket list it is.”

  Hawk stopped and took her by the hand. “You know I’m going to make this up to you, right?”

  “Was that ever a question?” she said as she tugged on his arm. “Now let’s get this info back to Blunt so we can get back to having fun.”

  “What? That wasn’t fun for you?”

  “Hawk, I swear one day I’m gonna teach you how to have some real fun that doesn’t involve breaking laws and shooting people.”

  “I’ll welcome that lesson,” he said. “Just don’t make me dance.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Two weeks later

  Washington, D.C.

  HAWK PULLED OUT Alex’s chair before settling into the one next to her. Blunt was sitting across the table, reading a copy of The Washington Postbetween bites of the chips and salsa situated in the center. After slipping the chip into his mouth, he let out a satisfied grunt once he’d finished.

  “Enjoying the chips, Senator?” asked the waitress, who was at least forty years his junior.

  “Always, Ella,” he said.

  “Perfect. Are you ready to order?”

  He shrugged. “There’s pretty much only one thing on the menu—those delicious fish tacos. Alex? Hawk? You two good with that?”

  “Sure,” Alex said. “Anything to get food here more quickly. I’m famished.”

  Hawk nodded his approval at Ella before she bounced away toward the kitchen. He scanned the dive, complete with rustic brick walls and wooden booths. There was even a clunky metal cash register devoid of any digital readout that dinged every time it slid open. Hawk also noticed there were no security cameras or wi-fi. Even the menu was artistically drawn in chalk on a blackboard behind the register. Only a single flat-screen television mounted on the wall served as a lone reminder that this wasn’t 1960.

  “This is like the place time forgot,” Hawk said.

  “It’s like heaven to me,” Blunt said. “You can barely get a signal on your phone here. They don’t even accept credit cards at this place. Amazing in this day and age.”

  “Anything interesting in The Posttoday?” Alex asked.

  “A curious drowning by a Russian attaché in the Potomac,” Blunt said. “His car careened off the Roosevelt Bridge.”

  “That takes a special talent to get over the edge of that bridge,” Hawk said.

  “Apparently, he was drunk off his ass, speeding around in a Ferrari.”

  “How often do you come here?” Hawk asked Blunt, changing the subject. “You know the waitresses on a first name basis?”

  “I come more than enough,” Blunt said. “And I’ve only ever known the waitress as Ella. She was college roommates with my niece, Darcy.”

  “You have a niece?” Hawk said. “How come I didn’t know that?”

  “It never came up.”

  “Well, let’s get down to business so we can eat when the food arrives,” Alex said.

  The television behi
nd Blunt was on CNN. They all stopped talking when the newscaster began a report about Al Hasib.

  “Intelligence officials are telling us that following the failed terror attack in London last month that resulted in the death of Al Hasib leader Karif Fazil, the terrorist group has virtually collapsed and no longer poses a threat to national security.”

  The anchor woman appeared on the screen again.

  “President Young, who has been stumping for fellow party senators and congressional representatives on a swing through the southeast, had this to say at a political rally earlier today.”

  Footage of President Noah Young gripping a podium as he spoke rolled across the television.

  “We refuse to cower in fear to these radical groups that have no agenda other than to cause harm to our people,” Young said. “The systematic takedown of Al Hasib would’ve never happened without the dedicated members of this great country’s intelligence staff working tirelessly to keep all of us safe and to root out evil in the darkest places of this planet. Because of our intelligence organizations, not only is America safer but so is the rest of the world.”

  A thunderous applause followed his comment, which led the newscaster into introducing a panel of foreign intelligence experts who debated the veracity of President Young’s statement. That inane banter drove Blunt to ask Ella to mute the television so they could have a productive meal without having to listen to people shouting at each other.

  Blunt turned toward Hawk and Alex.

  “I appreciate all your work in Venice. That was a major coup for us.”

  “When you say us, what exactly do you mean?” Hawk asked. “Our country? You personally? The CIA?”

  “Take your pick,” Blunt said. “Perhaps, all of the above. But I know what you’re driving at.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You want to know what team you’re on. Who do you report to? Who’s going to bail you out if you find yourself in a jam? Who sets the mission parameters?”

  “That would be nice to know,” Alex said, “that is, if you intend on all of us continuing to work together. In fact, that’s vital for me. If I don’t know who’s in charge—”