Covert, the action packed Betrayed bridge short story between Havoc and Shiva.
While Covert can be read as a stand-alone short story, we strongly recommend you read the first two books in the Betrayed series…30 Pieces of Silver and Havoc before tackling this roller coaster ride of a short story!
Praise for the Betrayed Series…
“Part minefield and all roller-coaster ride, here is a story as controversial as it is thrilling. Hunker down for a long night, because once you start reading this book, you won’t be putting it down.”
James Rollins
Author of Bloodline
“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
“I love this series, Havoc the second book in this series and it is better than the first. All the characters that we love from the first book return in the sequel. This book has everything that a good religious thriller should…”
Anne “Eclectic Bookworm”
Amazon Reviewer
“With twists and turns galore the pace of Havoc never slows down, you are propelled along like an avalanche. Havoc is an accomplished thriller. I sort of hate to use the word "interesting" which sounds like a book report, but this novel IS interesting as well as being a great read.”
P.B.Sharp
Amazon Reviewer
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Afterword
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Other Works by Carolyn McCray
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Table of Contents
Covert
Brandt stopped as their new point man, Levont’s, hand balled up into a fist. Brandt didn’t even complete his step. He stood, balancing on one foot, waiting, listening for why the point man had called them to the halt.
Tension rippled through his muscles. Brandt shouldn’t be here in the steamy African jungle. He should be home, in the humid Southern summer, getting ready to marry Rebecca. But no, some tribe had to find a lost Nazi mine.
And not just any mine, but one with enough uranium to fuel a nuclear bomb. Hence the urgency of their mission, and why they hadn’t even disembarked from their plane in South Carolina before getting shipped out to the Congo. The nearest other rapid response team was in Turkey, busy on the Syrian border. Hence why Brandt and his team were needed here.
Levont’s hand relaxed, then snatched up into a ball again. Okay, that was enough. This was the fifth time they had stopped in as many steps. Once again, Brandt missed Svengurd. The tall Swede had been rock solid. None of this stop-start kind of crap. And even though Harvish was by no means a great point man, he had saved their lives in the end. So Levont had some pretty big shoes to fill, and just about now they didn’t seem to fit quite right.
Carefully, Brandt made his way past Davidson, Talli, and Lopez to come shoulder to shoulder with Levont. The dark-skinned man’s fingers swept from his eyes out into the jungle.
At first, Brandt didn’t understand what the man was looking at, until he spotted a hint of orange. Was it a flower? Then it moved, the color disappearing behind a wall of green. Guess Levont did know what he was doing.
“They’ve been tracking us for about a half a mile,” Levont whispered.
It didn’t make sense, though. If the figure was a member of the tribe guarding the uranium, they would have sent up the alarm, not quietly tracked them through the jungle, let alone while wearing orange, of all colors, while doing so.
Perhaps it was a curious villager? They didn’t have a single second to delay in searching for someone who did not want to be found. Not if Brandt’s team wanted to make their evac time. And Brandt very much wanted to get home.
With a nod, Brandt gave the order to move forward. Levont took point, but that orange color flashed again. This time, though, looking closely between the fronds, Brandt saw that it was a little girl tracking them.
He went to take a step forward, but the girl put a hand up, cocking her head to the south. Sure enough, the sound of footsteps drifted up from the path. His team abandoned the game trail and hid amongst the dense foliage.
Machine guns slung over their shoulder and dressed in jungle camouflage, soldiers ran past them. If the girl hadn’t warned them, they might have been discovered by a random patrol.
By the time the soldiers had trotted by and his team came out from the bushes, the girl was gone. Levont looked to Brandt. Should they try to follow the girl? They should, of course. She could raise the alarm back at the village. Although, somehow, Brandt didn’t think they needed to worry about that. If she wanted to get them caught, all she had needed to do was sit by and allow the soldiers to find them.
Brandt indicated toward the village and Levont set out. Lopez, Talli, and Davidson passed by Brandt, each giving him a curt nod and approval to his decision. Not that he needed it, he thought as he brought up the rear. He didn’t run his unit on popularity, yet his men would still follow him into hell. Actually, if you factored in Rome and Jordan, they already had.
He hoped the Congo wouldn’t be quite that brutal.
The key word there was “hoped.”
* * *
The deck bucked and rolled under Rebecca Monroe’s feet. Rain lashed at her face, soaking her hair. She clung to the guardrail as if the metal could somehow save her. They were being hounded, and if they got hit before they made shore…
For once, it wasn’t a secret millennia-old cult they were running from, but an Arctic storm. One that threatened to ram them right into Iceland’s western shore.
Bunny stepped up next to Rebecca, pulling her hood around her face, clearly trying to keep her hair from getting drenched—a task Rebecca had long ago given up.
“We could still head back to South Carolina,” Bunny playfully suggested.
“I’ll take the storm, thank you very much,” Rebecca replied.
With a sigh, Bunny nodded. “Me too.”
You would think that, with her wedding less than a week away, Rebecca would be thrilled. And she was. She was thrilled to be marrying Brandt. The wedding, however? That was turning out to be as problematic as their escape from Jordan. Her mother-in-law-to-be was on a rampage to make Brandt and Rebecca’s wedding page-one news in Charleston.
Which meant that Rebecca had to fit into a dress a size too small by Friday. Which, apparently, meant no carbs or fats, even while surrounded by southern cooking. It just wasn’t fair.
“Heard from Brandt?” Bunny asked.
Rebecca shook her head. The boys had barely touched down from Uruguay when they were called out again, despite their all being on leave. They were supposed to make contact at 8am and 8 pm whenever possible. They had missed this morning’s call, though. It happened.
She patted Bunny’s hand even though her own stomach had done flip-flops when the call hadn’t come in. “They’ll be fine.”
Rebecca wasn’t sure of Davidson and Bunny’s relationship status. Actually, Rebecca was pretty sure neither did they. After the debriefing in London, Davidson had been whisked away, only to return, months later, as part of Brandt’s team again. And the men had been on the go ever since.
“I know,” Bunny answered, then smiled. “But can you imagine if they hadn’t been called away? We never could have escaped the mother-of-the-Bridezilla.”
Bunny was so right. The men’s departure had made it far easier to hop on a plane to Reykjavik. Rebecca could remember reading the latest issue of the International Genome Project and finding the article, “T
he Found Tribe of Dann: Did the scales of justice migrate as far as Newfoundland?”
The Disciples were still out there. Unlike the Knot, which had been routed, the Disciples had melted into the night, hiding, apparently waiting for their moment to strike again. Rebecca would prefer to get the upper hand.
Which is why the article had sparked such an interest. Bunny had been reading through the same journal and ran into Rebecca’s room to share the information. They had both deduced the same thing. Someone, besides Rebecca and Bunny, was searching for the Disciples’ messiah.
Iceland seemed like a long shot for finding an ancient Jewish sect, but if a trip to the northern isle got them out of the house until the wedding, so be it.
“We should get inside,” Bunny urged as the boat pulled closer to the dock.
“No, I’m going to stay out here,” Rebecca said, perhaps a bit too sharply. Out here in the fresh air, the rolling and rocking of the boat was fine. Inside, though? Seasickness didn’t even come close to describing it. “I promise not to be thrown overboard.”
Bunny chuckled as she turned away. “You better. I am not explaining to Brandt, or his mother, how I lost their bride.”
Somehow, Rebecca thought that Mrs. Brandt would be the more difficult of the two.
Rebecca shooed Bunny inside. “Go, before your Louis Vuitton gets wet.”
Bunny put up no argument as the door to the deck shut behind her. Rebecca watched as the boat held steady just outside the dock as the waves roiled all around them and the wind whipped from all sides. Then a large wave lifted the boat up and into the slip. They didn’t even hit the bumpers. These descendants of Vikings knew their boating.
* * *
Levont held up his fist again, and this time, Brandt didn’t complain. The guy had proven himself. The point man crooked his finger, asking Brandt to come to the front of the line. He obliged.
Through the filter of wide fronds, Brandt could make out the small village in front of them. Really, it was a tiny shanty town thrown together with scrap wood and corrugated tin roofing. The population was doubled by gunmen, and tents made of animal skin were erected along the periphery.
Finding a fortune’s worth of uranium had created a mini-boom town. Although Brandt doubted that the villagers saw this as any kind of boom. It was the local chieftain who hoped to profit from the discovery, not the villagers.
It was common knowledge that Hitler had had mines in the Congo, searching for the fuel he needed to create his A-bomb. Their exact locations, though, were highly secret. And the one mine that had produced enough weapon-grade uranium? Supposedly, only ten people in the world knew where that was located.
Except for the workers, of course. Knowing first-hand what Nazi rule would feel like, the villagers had risen up, killed their guards, and caved in the mine. This had effectively stopped Hitler’s A-bomb in its tracks.
Flash forward sixty years, and now the uranium was up for grabs again, and the United States’ enemies—and even a few allies—were on the hunt for it.
“I’ve got thermal imaging online,” Lopez said, handing Brandt the tablet.
The feed was sketchy, since the satellite wasn’t directly overhead yet. Just about all eyes had been pointed at the Middle East. Why should anyone be scouting over the western jungles of the Congo?
The reds and bright yellows of the villagers stood out against the dark screen. Although Brandt wasn’t interested in them. He was much more interested in the small scattered readings around the periphery of the village.
Those were not villagers. Those were other teams dispatched to either obtain the uranium or blow the mine, depending on which side of the nuclear line they fell on. Given that weapons-grade uranium was the single most limiting factor in building a functional nuclear weapon, many, many countries had joined the party in the Congo.
Iran, of course, was here. A Quds team—Iran’s special forces—had been the first to head south to Africa. As soon as their wheels had lifted off, the Israelis had been right behind. The Quds didn’t go anywhere without a Mussad team ghosting them. Brandt doubted the Israelis even knew what they were going after—they just followed them on principle.
Then, of course, Egypt and Saudi Arabia had each sent a team. Probably the only Middle Eastern country not represented was Syria. Not that they didn’t want the bomb, they just didn’t have the luxury of sending any teams. The only other oddball team that had been dispatched to the area was from Brazil.
Supposedly, they had sworn off nuclear weapons in the 70s, just as they were on the cusp of developing them. Apparently, signing several dozen treaties hadn’t stopped them from wanting to be a player in the nuclear game. Or perhaps it was just the military that had wanted the Uranium and dispatched the BSO Brigade. The Brazilians had a long history of military coups, and they had a functioning centrifuge. Not good.
“My bet?” Lopez asked. “Those are the Turks.” The corporal pointed to a set of six dots in the jungle. Seven sat around one central dot that was larger than the others.
“Why?”
“Obviously, they are using a flameless heat source...”
Probably a heat stick. They were all carrying one. The fuel cells were hot enough to boil water without a flame to give you away. “And your point?”
Lopez grinned. “Making coffee, of course.”
Brandt did not even grin at the supposed joke. Although he wouldn’t mind some of that syrup-like coffee right about now.
“He could be right,” Levont said, then rushed on. “Not about the coffee, of course. But they do have the best seat in the house.”
About that, Brandt couldn’t argue. The team in questions had taken the high ground. In theory, the Turks should have been allies—however, despite being in NATO, they had their own aspirations for a nuclear weapon. Especially now with the unrest in Syria.
“They were the first with wheels up,” Levont explained. “And the Turks have a mining facility just to the south of here, which means they may have advanced intel of the area.”
Brandt nodded.
He didn’t like having so many guns here. Even if many of them were allies.
Brandt had a bad feeling about the mission, but kept it to himself. No need to worry the others. He was worried enough for all of them.
* * *
Rebecca allowed the gentle rocking back and forth of the Viking pony to lull her a bit. They were riding up one of the Viking trails, following in the footsteps of ancient explorers.
After cresting the black volcanic sand beach, they arrived at a pristine fjord to the left and a meadow blanketed with wild flowers to the right. The weather had cleared and sunshine flooded the sky, brightening the pinks, blue, and greens to an almost unnatural hue.
An ice wall on one side and a field overflowing with life on the other side. That was Iceland in the summer.
The others in their tourist group chatted away, but she and Bunney were silent. They only cared about the village, Núpsstaður, up ahead that they were going to stop at overnight. According to the article, this small, unassuming village had the highest concentration of Jewish DNA on the island.
As a paleo-DNA- archeologist, it would not be unusual for Rebecca to take some samples. She had a smart gene to prove, after all. Although Rebecca never thought she would be on the trail of the messiah.
Her pony tripped, dipping its head, then righting itself. Even so, one of the tour leaders, a dark haired “hottie,” as Bunny had put it, rode up.
“Let the pony have his head,” the man said, leaning over, loosening the reins in her fingers. “These plains are in their DNA,” he said with a smile.
Rebecca muttered a response. He patted her hands. “Just let them lead the way.”
Once he rode off, Bunny rode up alongside her. “Damn, woman, you are engaged and still can get them. That girl behind us has been flipping her hair for the last hour to get his attention.”
As a matter of fact, Rebecca had noticed the blonde tourist giving eve
n more than the usual amount of attention to her curls. Rebecca had chalked it up to the humidity.
“He wasn’t flirting,” Rebecca said.
“Please, he’s been watching you the whole time.”
Bunny apparently thought this was some type of flattery. Rebecca hadn’t even given the guy a second glance. But who would, being engaged to Brandt? Her fiancée could snap the tour guide in half without breaking a sweat.
“She can have him,” Rebecca answered.
“Ah, but it’s not her he wants,” Bunny countered, kicking her pony and trotting to catch up with the rest of the group.
The village, if you could call it that, was just up the hill. The first sign was a small house, built into the meadow. It could have been a hobbit house, except the structure had the classic “A” rooftop. The windows were broken and moss lined the wood, yet there was a sense of substance to the place. Like, “go ahead and scoff. I’ve survived three hundred years. What are you going to be doing in three hundred years?”
And the old Viking house would be right.
That was why Rebecca liked history. It didn’t take crap from anyone. What she studied had stood the test of time, unlike Katy Perry and whoever she was dating at the moment.
The group passed by a small brown-and-white church. Even though it was not built into the meadow, there were still flowers on the roof. The ground lay over the roof helped to insulate the church during the harsh winters. Rebecca glanced inside the darkened structure. It couldn’t fit more than fifty parishioners. But, looking ahead to the tiny homes that lined up on the trail, that would be just about right. The only way to get to this village was on horseback or helicopter. Given their history with helicopters, Rebecca and Bunny had decided to go with horseback.
“There are some interesting ice caves to explore, if you like,” the tour guide said.
Rebecca shook her head, trying to make sure her engagement ring was in full view. “We aren’t on vacation,” Rebecca stated. “We’re here to work.”
The guide smiled. “And miss the glory of Iceland’s natural beauty?’
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