Mercury Rising, page 1
MERCURY RISING
A BLAKE BARRETT THRILLER
BOOK 4
R.J. PATTERSON
PRAISE FOR 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
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
ALSO BY R.J. PATTERSON
Titus Black series
Behind Enemy Lines
Game of Shadows
Rogue Commander
Line of Fire
Blowback
Honorable Lies
Power Play
State of Conspiracy
The Patriot
The President's Man
The Haitian Assassin
Codename: Killshot
Chaos Theory
House of Cards
False Flag
A Deadly Game
Brady Hawk series
First Strike
Deep Cover
Point of Impact
Full Blast
Target Zero
Fury
State of Play
Seige
Seek and Destroy
Into the Shadows
Hard Target
No Way Out
Two Minutes to Midnight
Against All Odds
Any Means Necessary
Vengeance
Code Red
A Deadly Force
Divide and Conquer
Extreme Measures
Final Strike
Cal Murphy Thriller 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
Polar Vortex
Lunar Deception
For Jeff Menendez
Keep drumming to a beat that keeps the world around you dancing. I appreciate your friendship so much.
CONTENTS
Untitled
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
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
Newsletter Signup
About the Author
MERCURY RISING
CHAPTER 1
AEGEAN SEA | SOUTHWEST OFF COAST OF MILOS, GREECE
Blake Barrett’s knuckles tightened as he held onto a railing while the boat skimmed across the choppy water. If the ride hadn’t been so rough, he might have relished the moment. But as it was, the stoic captain at the helm of the nimble delivery ship cared little about the comfort of his crew. With a steady gaze on the yacht a mile or so south of their position, the boat was making good time at the expense of Barrett’s back.
Gritting his teeth, Barrett stole a glance at the white, wind-sculpted cliffs towering over the nearby beaches serving as a siren song to Greek isle tourists. He wondered how such violent and harsh conditions brought about by stormy seas and steady breezes could render such exquisite natural art. Unrelenting elements in his own life hadn’t had the same effect. Nobody marveled at scars, at least not like the ones on display against the backdrop of the turquoise waters of the Aegean Sea. And especially not his scars, though he kept most of them hidden.
But Barrett shifted his focus back to the yacht looming larger on the horizon with each passing second. He had questions for the ship’s owner. And in a few minutes, he hoped he would have answers to a mystery more pressing to him than the way nature bestowed beauty upon the cliffs of Milos.
“How clear is this signal?” asked Jasmine Watts over the coms unit.
Barrett put a finger to his ear and looked away from the captain. “Like you’re standing right next to me.”
“For once, I’m glad I’m not,” she said. “These cliffs are much better viewed up close.”
“I still hope you’re paying attention. I believe you said you wanted this to be a working vacation.”
“And with an emphasis on vacation,” she quipped.
Watts was honest, if anything, oftentimes brutally so. Barrett had tried to dissuade her from coming, encouraging her to stay home and help nurse their other team member Grant Stone back to health. Despite Barrett’s insistence she stay, Stone expressed his disdain for moral support. And when she saw surveillance photos of where Rear Admiral James Becker was allegedly hiding out, nothing could dissuade her. Watts was convinced that her presence on the mission would not only be helpful but was absolutely necessary.
Barrett didn’t mind the company, but he could’ve handled this simple assignment on his own. All Barrett wanted was to ask Rear Admiral Becker a couple of poignant questions, chief among them what was really going on in Afghanistan under the direction of the enigmatic Col. Sanders. Yet Barrett couldn’t deny the universal appeal to combining a simple mission with some rest and relaxation in a pristine locale.
“Just give me a heads up if anything looks suspicious,” he said. “Using burner phones and going dark on Simpson doesn’t mean someone can’t find us.”
“Copy that.”
Barrett had sent a handwritten letter to his handler Lt. Col. Jerry Simpson detailing their plans. Simpson was still serving as a handler for Col. Sanders’ Echo Syndicate, but was working as a double agent—along with Barrett, Watts, and Stone—under the newly-created Mercury program, a covert operation targeting Echo. And the first step in doing so was unveiling the true identity of Col. Sanders. Simpson had never seen the man despite working for him for several years. The Colonel was as mysterious as he was unpredictable, the true nature of his work remaining a well-kept secret.
While most of Echo’s work had remained under the radar, that all changed when Simpson assigned his then-operative—and Barrett’s best friend—Slade Gordon to assassinate Barrett. After surviving the attack, Barrett had assumed Gordon’s identity in an effort to determine why he’d been targeted. For a few years prior to the assassination attempt, Barrett had been working as a freelance operative, living by the mantra of “no blood, no fuss” as he mostly penetrated heavily-guarded facilities and stole information. Mission plans, embedded agents, high-tech weapon blueprints—it didn’t matter to Barrett. If some western intelligence agency was paying, he was willing to do the job. But Barrett’s focus had shifted from the stale and rote task of stealing secrets.
With the revelation that an underground organization was playing deviant puppet master, Barrett had been given a new purpose, one that centered around uncovering secrets. His former had paid the bills; the latter had renewed his motivation for entering the world of espionage. Patriotism was an important purpose, but patriotism alone wasn’t enough to sufficiently motivate anyone to do what he needed to do. And exposing Echo and Col. Sanders was about far more than mere patriotism. Deep down, Barrett wanted his work to count for something, to matter long after he was gone. And lately, he’d felt that when he awoke every morning.
That feeling was even stronger for Barrett as they drew closer to Becker’s yacht.
During the two weeks that Barrett and Watts had been in the Greek Isles, they had carefully plotted their mission. For starters, they had to verify that it was indeed Becker aboard the identified yacht. According to Simpson, Becker had announced his retirement and vanished about a year ago. There were rumors he was hiding out in Maldives, but it wasn’t confirmed until some tourists sailing near his ship snapped a photo and caught him in the background standing on the deck of his boat. Some diligent grunt at the NSA trying to impress his boss had been collecting photos from social media taken in that area and running them through facial recognition programs. The discovery had stirred the intelligence community due to the prevalent lawlessness that ruled Maldives and its hundreds of islands. The prevailing sentiment regarding Maldives was that nobody went there unless they were looking for trouble. But by the time anyone went to independently verify Becker’s presence there, he was gone, rekindling rumors that Becker had deep connections within the U.S. intelligence community.
And the hunt for Becker continued.
But two weeks before Barrett and Watts traveled to the Aegean Sea, another social media photo identified a similar yacht to the one Becker owned. This discovery—one that wasn’t made by the NSA—was kept a secret. Watts had developed a program to scour online photos with similar technology used for facial recognition but instead applied it to boats. While the name of the yacht had been changed, there was a dent in the hull of the starboard side that matched the one in Becker’s original photo. That discovery prompted their secret dispatch to find the well-decorated Rear Admiral and get answers to pressing questions.
Barrett watched the way Becker navigated his ship around the isles. When any ships came within a quarter of a mile, he moved. It was almost as if he had a program designed to help him keep his distance. And he never retreated to port, maintaining his distance by having both fuel and food delivered to him on the only ships that were ever allowed to get close to his.
However, Barrett had figured out a way onto the food delivery ship, convincing the owner to let him join as researcher for a book Barrett claimed to be writing on maritime jobs. The plea was somewhat convincing, but the ten thousand dollars he offered helped secure the temporary position aboard the Apollo Delivery boat.
The droll hum of the ship’s motor weakened as they neared Becker’s yacht. Though not too large to attract unwanted attention, the yacht appeared to measure about sixty feet in length and would be considered on the low end of luxury vessels. But it was far better than most boats in the vicinity and a considerable step up from the cabin cruisers and catamarans that proliferated the waters.
Barrett pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and checked his coms one final time.
“It’s almost showtime,” Barrett said in his best ventriloquist impersonation. “You still with me?”
“In spirit, though I was about to take a dip,” she said. “I mean, you don’t really need me anyway, do you? Isn’t that what you said when you were trying to convince me to stay with Stone?”
A flicker of a smile appeared around the corners of Barrett’s mouth. But he said nothing, convinced that any reply would expose his feeble attempt at matchmaking. Stone had a strong affection for Watts, though she’d rebuffed his every advance.
“Don’t ignore me,” she said. “I know you can hear me.”
Barrett strode to the bow and used one hand to soften the two ships coming together while flipping bumpers over the edge. After a few seconds, the boats collided with the bumpers, assuring a soft landing devoid of any exterior dents or scratches. Barrett could only imagine how Becker might react if he added another one to his yacht’s hull.
The admiral, who cradled a glass of liquor, shuffled to the starboard side and studied Barrett closely. Becker lifted his index finger off the glass and aimed it at Barrett.
“Who’s this?” Becker asked.
“We needed some temporary help,” the captain said, annoyance showing in his voice. “So, here he is.”
Barrett knew the captain hadn’t been fond of his new help, but the owner had made it clear that he didn’t care. Fistfuls of cash and a week off of work was enough to reorient one’s priorities, even if only temporarily. But the captain was stuck with the laborious task of training Barrett for the week, not even remotely shy about how he viewed the assignment.
“This isn’t some charity gig,” the captain said. “I expect you to do exactly as I trained you.”
Barrett gave the man a mock salute.
“Now, let’s get this gentleman his food,” the captain said. “Everything is grouped under a sign for Mr. Jameson.”
“Yes, sir,” Barrett said before hustling below deck.
Barrett descended the stairs and searched the area for the stack of boxes beneath a hand-written sign of “Jameson,” though he could verify it was Becker. The man’s bushy eyebrows and bluish-gray eyes gave him away—that and the unique tattoo of a walrus etched into his forearm. And the fact that he was ordering a case of port served as further evidence that this was the man Barrett had sought.
Barrett hugged the box against his chest as the items stored in glass rattled against each other while walking up the steps. When he reached the top, he strode over toward the makeshift bridge connecting the two ships. Becker held out his arms to receive the goods, but Barrett insisted he take it over. After a brief moment of resistance, Becker yielded, reluctantly gesturing with his hand for Barrett to walk across. As he stepped onto the yacht, he shot a furtive glance at the back of Becker’s waistband and noticed the faint outline of a pistol. The presence of a weapon wasn’t ideal, though Barrett thought he might be able to leverage that to his advantage.
“Where can I put this?” Barrett asked.
“Just put it down there,” Becker said, indicating the space by Barrett’s feet. “I can take it to the galley myself.”
Barrett complied and continued transporting the boxes until he reached the last one. The captain met Barrett on the landing with open arms.
“I’ll take the last one,” the man said.
Barrett shook his head. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
“No,” the captain said sharply. “I insist.”
“Okay,” Barrett said, his mind whirring as it dreamed up a new plan to maneuver this abrupt detour. He’d carefully planned the entire delivery and even counted the boxes, adjusting each time how many he grabbed based on how many the captain carried to Becker’s ship. But demanding to take the final box had caught Barrett off guard.
Then an idea occurred to him. It wasn’t the greatest in the pantheon of pivot plans, but it held promise.
As Barrett offered the box, he let go before the captain had a grip, sending the contents of the box crashing to the deck. The captain cursed as he carefully backed away from the contents that had spilled around his feet.
“I swear,” the captain growled through clenched teeth, “I would fire you on the spot if it were up to me, but since it’s not—”
Barrett needed to diffuse the situation before the captain said anything Becker might find suspicious.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Barrett said, cutting off the captain. “They used to call me Butterfingers when I was a kid. Dropped more fly balls than I caught when I was ten years old. A new legend was born.”
Barrett tapped his chest twice in a self-deprecating kind of way.
“And here I am, deepening the legend of Butterfingers Buchanan,” Barrett said, referencing the alias he’d used with the delivery owner—Buck Buchanan. “Long live, Butterfingers.”
The captain narrowed his eyes as he stared at Barrett, tone measured and sharp. “Pick it up—now.”
“Aye, aye,” Barrett said.
Dropping the box served a two-fold purpose, chiefly shutting up the captain. Even better, Barrett’s clumsy drop would all but ensure that he would step onto the yacht one final time.
Dropping to his knees, Barrett collected the boxes of pasta and bunch of bananas that had tumbled onto the deck and returned them to the box.
