by Diane Capri
FALSE TRUTH 7
A JORDAN FOX MYSTERY
BY
DIANE CAPRI
WITH
BETH DEXTER
Presented by:
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Also by DIANE CAPRI
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The Heir Hunter Series:
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Fatal Game
Fatal Edge
Fatal Fall
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Fatal Distraction
Fatal Enemy
The Hunt for Jack Reacher Series:
Deep Cover Jack
Jack and Joe
Jack in the Green
Get Back Jack
Don’t Know Jack
Jack in a Box
Jack and Kill
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True Justice (Judge Willa Carson)
Fair Justice (Judge Willa Carson)
False Justice (Judge Willa Carson)
Cold Justice (Judge Willa Carson)
Wasted Justice (Judge Willa Carson)
Secret Justice (Judge Willa Carson)
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False Truth 7 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Diane Capri, LLC
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Published by: AugustBooks
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Reviews
Books by Diane Capri
Copyright
Cast of Primary Characters
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
Excerpt from FALSE TRUTH 8
More from Diane Capri
Dear Reader
About the Authors
CAST OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS
Jordan Fox
Nelson Fox
Brenda Fox
Claire Stone
Clayton Vaughn
Tom Clark
Drew Hodges
Richard Grady
Patricia Neil
Theresa Parma
Aaron Robinson
Hugo Diaz
FALSE TRUTH 7
CHAPTER 1
Dennis Raine died six minutes after the wheels of his Cessna 172 lifted off the pavement of runway seven in St. Petersburg, Florida.
From liftoff until minute five, his last flight was perfectly glorious.
The low cloud ceiling presented a stunning canvas for the setting sun to cast streaks of flame and electric cobalt across the horizon.
He was flying lower than usual because of the ceiling, too, which improved his view.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, although only God could hear him. He stretched to relieve the tension in his neck and shoulders. He’d been working hard. Too hard. But he’d be home soon.
He made a right turn, then heard the message he expected from Franklin Pierce Airport’s control tower in his ear.
“Okay, November 47 Juliet Whiskey 3, switch to Tampa departure 119 point 65.”
“Roger tower, switching departure 119 65, talk to you later.” Dennis manipulated a button the dashboard to the new frequency above twelve-hundred feet.
“Tampa departure, this is November 47 Juliet Whiskey 3. Passing one-thousand for five-thousand, five-hundred. Over.” Dennis relaxed into the familiar precise routine, an elaborate waltz between pilot and controller.
“Roger Juliet Whiskey 3. Radar contact. Five miles southeast of Franklin Pierce at one-thousand. You’re clear to climb to five-thousand, five-hundred.”
He nodded. Situation normal. Good. He’d been flying for decades, first trained in the Navy, but he wasn’t complacent about any of it. He’d seen how quickly things could go south.
&
nbsp; “Roger. Clear to five-thousand, five-hundred.”
From fifteen-hundred feet above Tampa Bay, the view was incredible. Dennis inhaled deeply, enjoying the fresh air flowing through the vents into his four-seater Cessna 172. He was in no rush to get to fifty-five-hundred feet, but he climbed steadily, as instructed.
Cloud cover over Tampa Bay and the late hour darkened the waves below him even as the Sunshine Skyway Bridge’s peaks glistened not far to the west. Florida. Nature. He loved it all. The pilot seat. Best place in the world.
Dennis took another deep breath and glanced across Tampa Bay. He cherished his flight time alone but he was looking forward to being home in Miami. He’d been gone too long. A few days with his wife and stepdaughter before he flew back to Tampa for work should relax and recharge his enthusiasm, he hoped.
DEA Agents like Dennis were swamped right now. He’d participated in a bust about eight weeks ago that captured a couple of heavyweight drug runners and the CEO of a local shrimp empire. He’d thought the problem was local, too. But it wasn’t. El Pulpo, a worldwide crime cartel aptly named for the octopus’s many arms and legs, had moved into Tampa in a big way.
Dennis wasn’t through working this case yet.
These big cartels, he knew, had endless supplies of drugs and minions to distribute them and were adding more all the time. What he really wanted was to capture The Boss. Cut the head off the snake and the body would die, at least for a while.
And he was getting closer to the snake. He could feel it.
A few days off and then he’d be back. Better than before.
He scanned his gauges again. Full tank of fuel. Cruising just below two-thousand feet at the moment, climbing slowly higher. Perfect.
Scanned for traffic again, too. All clear.
Checked his GPS. Right on track. He’d be home in less than two hours.
Dennis gazed through the windscreen. The moon hung low over the beach below. A lone shrimp boat moved along steadily on the west side of the Skyway Bridge. Headed out a little early, maybe, given the bright moon. Shrimpers usually wanted to be out on the Gulf in total darkness, he’d learned.
In another direction, he saw red and green lights on a passenger jet descending at Tampa International Airport. For them, the best part was over.
Enjoy the ride. He stressed it to himself again as he watched the twilight-filled horizon that would soon disappear with the final bits of daylight. He stole a look over his right shoulder at the bright setting sun well off to the side.
Turning back, a large bird in the west. Airport rangers kept birds off the runways, but up in the air, all planes were fair game. The bird was far enough west though. The scary ones were the flocks headed straight toward him.
He was just over two-thousand feet, continuing to climb. A moving speck caught his peripheral vision. The bird.
But it wasn’t a bird at all. It hovered. Closer now. But what was it?
Nothing from nature. A small aircraft? But it had no lights.
He radioed the control center.
“Hey departure, you got any traffic in the area?”
“I’m not painting anybody in your area at the moment.”
Control would know about any traffic in the area. Dennis shrugged. Must be a bird. Unless it was one of those idiotic amateur—
The object overwhelmed his peripheral vision space now. Close, and getting closer. He banked hard to the left, dipping his left wing.
He blinked hard to clear his vision. Once, twice. Then he looked again.
Something felt very wrong.
Sweat dotted his brow as he radioed Control.
“Departure? It’s a big white…machine.” He heard the panic in his own voice, which he hadn’t heard since his very first Navy mission all those years ago. “White possible UAV with a purple and green pattern.” Dennis squinted, his breath catching as he tried to spit out a description.
He swallowed and blinked hard again, holding his eyes closed a fraction of a second longer than before. When he opened, the drone was mere feet in front of him.
Big as the windshield almost, and coming straight toward his face, faster than he could register.
His thumb pushed the red transmission button. Hard. “Holy shit—”
BAM!
It happened fast.
A deafening noise.
The hovering, unmanned aircraft hit the propeller and then pierced through the windshield.
Rapidly spinning blades slashed his face and neck.
The weight of the machine knocked his head back with the force of a small missile, exploding his head like a watermelon.
Blood and brain and bone and skin splattered the cockpit.
The left wing banked too deep.
The plane corkscrewed down, down, down.
Twenty seconds later, the Cessna 172 hit the surface.
Both wings ripped off.
The plane dropped into the water’s perfect silence.
Down, down, until it rested on the bottom of the bay.
CHAPTER 2
Four nights earlier
Infidel Brewery was jammed. Sure she was only twenty-two, but Jordan Fox had declared herself done with the bar scene a while ago. Yet, here she was waiting for a blind date in the trendiest bar in Tampa on a Wednesday night.
How did she let herself get talked into this? She’d been shanghaied.
Theresa used her politely pushy reporter skills to set Jordan up with some guy. Claire supported the plan by tagging along.
Claire was always up for anything remotely social but Jordan hated going out to bars. And a date? Not a chance. Since her fiancé dumped her five months ago, she was off men. Forever.
She propped an elbow on the round metal table and tucked her feet behind the rod at the bottom of her barstool. Televisions adorned the walls and all of them were set on different channels. Somewhere in one of the back corners, a couple of musicians were warming up. The room was decorated in blue and coral with lots of beer paraphernalia and loud paintings and even louder patrons striving to be heard.
Jordan shouted over the din. “Theresa, I’ve seen how the older man thing goes. I really don’t want to—”
Theresa looked down her nose at Jordan and smirked. “For real? He’s twenty-five.” She spoke in slow motion, over-enunciating each word. “That’s freakin’ three years older than you. Hell, he’s four years younger than me and you and I are friends. Three years is nothing.”
Jordan sighed and swigged her beer, which was actually good. Not that she was an expert. She wasn’t much of a drinker, either. “It’s not remotely the same thing and you know it.”
Theresa gave Claire the side-eye. “Is she always this serious?”
Claire shrugged, as if to say it wasn’t her fault.
Theresa grabbed her wallet and stood, adjusting her long caramel hair over each shoulder of her black lace top. “Watch my purse, will you? I’m getting you a shot. What do you want?”
Jordan cringed. “No, really. I’ve got a full beer.” She grabbed the brown glass bottle in front of her and sipped, as if to prove it.
Theresa turned to Claire. “What does she like?”
A mischievous grin crossed Claire’s face. “She loves tequila.”
“Tequila it is.” Theresa gave a knowing nod and headed toward the bartender. Jordan watched her squeeze up to the front of the line. Theresa charmed her way between an attractive guy and his date on one side and a couple of guys on the other.
Claire leaned in. “You’ve been working hard. Really hard. You’re allowed to let yourself have fun for one night, you know? But just one night. We wouldn’t want you getting used to, you know, enjoying friends or happiness.”
Jordan watched Theresa work her magic on the crowd she’d infiltrated. The couple was focused intently on each other, but the guys seemed fascinated with Theresa. No surprise.
Jordan smirked and rolled her eyes and turned her attention to Claire. “Yeah, yeah. I have plenty of fun investigat
ing murders and competing with my friend Drew Hodges, thankyouverymuch.”
“Your friend Drew Hodges? From the way you’ve described your competition, you two are not all that friendly.” Claire’s blonde curls bounced as she shook her head. “How about Clayton? He’s really hot. If you’re not having any fun with him, maybe Theresa should give him a try.”
Jordan lifted her bottle, smiled and said nothing, but the idea of Theresa with Clayton gave her a little jolt.
Theresa had returned, and Claire slid gracefully from the barstool to the floor despite her miniskirt.
“Oh, come on, Claire,” Jordan yelled after her. What could she say about Clayton? “He’s just a—a business partner.”
Claire walked a couple of steps, turned back and paused. “He rescued you and drove you home. And he wasn’t even on duty.” She smiled and kept walking.
“Is one of those guys at the bar Tom Clark?” Jordan asked Theresa when she resettled. Theresa had claimed Tom wanted to meet Jordan. Or Theresa wanted Jordan to meet Tom. Or something. Which was why they were here.
