In a few months we’ll be announcing publication of Book Two in my Secret Shepherd Trilogy. As a prologue to that upcoming release, I’m pleased to offer a taste of Book One, PRESCRIPTION FOR DECEPTION … just in case you missed it. 

This is the plan: For the next several months I will be posting here a chapter (and maybe two depending on their length) of PRESCRIPTION FOR DECEPTION. 

The response to the novel’s release last fall by my publisher, Next Chapter Publishing Inc. has been very encouraging. Below is a review posted recently:

“Just finished Prescription For Deception 30 minutes ago!  Wow!!! What a thriller!!!! Began reading it this afternoon and couldn’t put it down. 

“What an amazing writer James Osborne is! His characters were vivid, the action rapidly unfolded, the plot was complex and expertly woven, with an unexpected twist at the end! The book pulls you intensely into the circumstances he has created. I absolutely loved it!!!

(The exclamation marks are the reviewer’s)

Reviews like this make it all worthwhile!

If you’re intrigued, here’s the Amazon link: https://a.co/d/41JLDMC. My novel has also been posted by Next Chapter on numerous other websites around the world, including Chapters/Indigo, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Apple Books, and Google Play.

Here’s a summary:

After the mysterious deaths of his parents, Paul Winston’s life as a Colorado rancher changes dramatically. Determined to use his newly-inherited fortune to help others, Paul inadvertently makes himself and his wife Anne targets of a murderous drug syndicate

Annoyed with being pursued by the syndicate’s wannabe assassins, Paul and Anne go on the offence, turning the syndicate leaders into their prey but in the process provoking dangers they never could have imagined. 

*

You will find the first chapter after the cover photo below. Your feedback is always appreciated and can be posted on here.

 Enjoy!

PROLOGUE 

British-American aristocrat Paul Winston and his English-born wife Anne have run out of patience. After numerous run-ins with wannabe assassins from an international drug syndicate, the couple have gone on the offence, determined to track down the leaders and shut them down. 

Years ago, Paul rescued a bright young man, Ahmed Mousavi, from the syndicate and got their profitable London distribution network shut down by police. The infuriated syndicate leaders retaliated by murdering young Mousavi and offering bounties for Paul and Anne’s murder.

For years, numerous wannabe assassins have tracked the dedicated philanthropists around the world where the couple have sponsored projects, from London to New York to Africa to Canada. Each attempt failed or was foiled. 

Now, a new syndicate leadership has raised the bounties enormously and ordered the pursuit to include a two-pronged attack on them as well as their three children: they recruit Paul’s estranged sister Roberta, a disbarred lawyer, to lure Paul into a murderous trap and, second, they join forces with undercover spies in Europe for a second betrayal, thrusting the couple even deeper into peril.

*

CHAPTER ONE 

Intercontinental Hotel

New York City

“What do you want, Roberta?” Paul Winston said curtly, answering his iPhone. 

“This is really, really hard for me,” his estranged sister said. “I have no business asking you to forgive me”

You’ve got that right, Paul thought. He’d last seen Roberta a decade earlier in a Pueblo, CO courtroom where the disbarred lawyer was being sentenced for conspiracy to have him murdered.  

“Nothing can undo the terrible things I did to you, Paul, and I’m really, really sorry for that,” Roberta said. “But I have nowhere else to turn … we really need help … your help … that is, my kids, Joel and Jessica, and I, need your help.”

“What do you want?” he repeated curtly. “Where are you and the kids?”

“I … we’re still in Pueblo,” she replied. “I got released a couple of weeks ago from LaVista Prison. Just picked up the kids from their foster home.

“Paul, I don’t have any money for food or an apartment or even clothes and school supplies for the kids,” Roberta added. “Frankly, we’re gonna be homeless in a week or so … no one wants to hire an ex-con. I was hoping you might consider a loan. I promise I’ll pay you back, every cent, with interest, just as soon as I can.”

“I’ll have to think about that,” Paul said. 

“Call you back,” he added and hung up. 

This doesn’t make sense, Paul thought. I just set up a bank account for her in Pueblo a couple of weeks ago with fifty-thousand dollars to help her get back on her feet.

He’d done that against his better judgement and over his wife Anne’s objections. 

Roberta should have got that money when she was released, he thought. I’ll check with the bank. Surely this isn’t some kind of a setup.

*

That Evening

Paul smiled as Anne’s attractive image appeared on FaceTime, warming his heart like the glow of the rising sun.

“Remember now, you promised me you won’t put yourself in any danger this trip?” Anne said, a lovingly stern reference to his previous high-risk exploits. “You’ve had some nasty scrapes helping MI6. You said this would be different.”

Paul tried changing the subject.

“I hope my call didn’t wake you, my love,” he said. “It’s six o’clock here … there’s a five-hour difference to England, right?”

“It’s eleven,” Anne replied abruptly,. “aAnd I’m still up. Now, please answer my question.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Two very skilled law enforcement agencies, the FBI and the New York State Police, are handling the raid tomorrow morning. I’m there just as a representative of MI6. The FBI’s intelligence says we’ll outnumber the bad guys at least three-to-one, or more.”

“I hope so,” Anne said, unconvinced. 

“I need to tell you, Anne,” he said. “I’ve asked our surveillance detail to increase security for you and Michael for a while.”

“Why?” Anne asked, her tone revealing her impatience over the past decades of twenty-four-hour security they’ve endured.

“We got a tip from Interpol that one or more thugs from the syndicate may be among those the FBI plans to arrest tomorrow morning,” he replied. “Only a few people should know I’m here, but I want to make sure you and Michael are safe. They could be up to something. We’ll find out after they’re rounded up.”

“Those are terrible people,” Anne replied. 

“Indeed,” Paul said with a sigh. “I have to admit, it’s not impossible they’ve caught wind of our plans to go on the offence …… to hunt them down, to turn them into prey for a change. We can’t be certain word hasn’t got out. Police forces are notoriously leaky.”

“Well, if there’s been a leak, that’s all the more reason for us to go after them,” Anne said. “Do you think MI6, or the police will try to stop us?”  

“Law enforcement people I’ve spoken to would rather we hadn’t hired some investigators,” Paul replied. “But all of them agree their legal restraints limit what they can do. It’s almost like doctors being limited to treating only the symptoms of an ailment when they should be treating the causes of the illness. That damned syndicate is the illness.”

“I’m sure Michael and I will be just fine,” Anne said. “And you promised to stay out of danger tomorrow.”

“Little did we know what would happen when I rescued young Ahmed Mousavi from that syndicate years ago,” Paul said. “Those barbarians murdered him, a promising and innocent young man, for no other reason other than revenge.”

“Please be sure and call me as soon as you can tomorrow, okay?” Anne said, struggling to keep unease out of the sound of her voice.

“I’ll call you as soon as I can,” Paul said. 

“Is everything else okay at Earnscliffe?” he added, referring to their renovated 500-year-old manor house near Maidstone, in southeastern England. 

“Everything would be perfect if you were here,” Anne said with a longing smile. 

Paul shared the loneliness he could hear in her gentle voice.

“Love you,” he said.

“Love you more,” she chuckled, using an affectionate exchange they shared then promptly ended their video.

Paul smiled at the blank screen. 

He decided to tell Anne later that MI6 had authorized him to take an active part in the planned raid, a privilege that came with being a member of a British parliamentary committee on security. 

*

Next Morning

Upstate New York

The helicopter gunship rose quickly over a tree-covered ridge. It was ninety minutes before dawn. Dead ahead lay a decaying lakefront cottage on the weedy shore of Oneida Lake. Beside it sat a dilapidated boathouse. 

“You ready, Paul?” Lt. Ben Hillier, pilot for the New York Police Service, radioed to his civilian VIP passenger. “ETA ten seconds.”

“Affirmative,” Paul replied.

A harness secured Paul to a bench seat in the prototype Bell helicopter. Across from him, an NYPS officer checked a .50-caliber machine gun mounted in the open door, a weapon not usually found in NYPS armories. The officer, Sgt. Peter Langley, had been specially trained on how to use the heavy weapon by the New York National Guard. 

 “There’s the target cottage,” Ben said. “No sign of those suspects we saw on the drone video at the briefing. Likely six or eight of them … must all be inside.”

A confidential informant in London had tipped MI6 about the weekend meeting at Oneida Lake, starting last night, between the leaders of an espionage cell and a government contractor. The cell, funded by Türkiye’s secret service, was suspected of trying to buy closely –held “Five Eyes” security secrets for Türkiye to use in trade negotiations with Russia. With intelligence from MI6 and Interpol, the FBI made plans to raid the meeting with a special task force comprised of FBI agents and officers from New York Police Service, with Paul representing MI6.

“Just got the locator signal from the offshore zodiac,” Paul announced. “That team is tucked into bulrushes next to the cottage and ready to go.”

The zodiac contained four members of the Special Operations Response Team (SORT). Their assignment was to secure the lake side of the cottage and intercept anyone trying to escape by water. With them in place the raid could proceed.

 “Arm your weapon,” Ben said over the intercom to Sgt. Langley. The NYPS officer acknowledged. 

“What the hell,” Paul shouted as tracers visible through the open door soared up toward them. “We’re under fire … intense fire. There must be twenty or more shooters down there. Where the hell did they come from?”

“Hold on,” Ben yelled over the intercom. “I’m taking evasive action.”

The helicopter swerved hard to starboard as a rocket-propelled grenade shot by, barely missing them. The stealth-quieted sound of the helicopter was overtaken by a chorus of chatters from AK-47 assault rifles. The helicopter’s heavy machine gun returned fire. It fell silent as Ben swung the helicopter away from the target house.

“We’re experiencing heavy fire,” Ben radioed to those on the ground. “I’ve got to get you outta here, Paul. I have strict orders to not put you or this chopper at risk.”

“Copy that,” Paul said.

The experimental helicopter’s outfitting was a prototype, and Ben’s idea. He’d fought hard to get conditional approval to have an NYPD chopper configured similar to a US Military Blackhawk. Its primary role was reconnaissance and, only if absolutely necessary, offer aerial defensive fire to support the SORT officers on the ground.

“Once you set her down, Ben, we can back up your guys on the ground,” Paul said. “They’re heavily outnumbered.”

“You bet,” Ben agreed.

The original plan was that other small teams of SORT officers would make their way through deep woods to positions at both ends of the cottage, and then wait for the zodiac team to secure the lakeside. After the helicopter’s initial reconnaissance role, it was to land and cover the rear of the cottage, thus keeping occupants of the house inside until arrested.   

“Okay, let’s go,” Paul said after Ben landed the chopper behind a dense cedar hedge screening it from the gunfire. 

“What the hell?” Ben shouted. His attention was drawn back through the windshield. “We don’t have a Sikorsky, do we Noah?”

“Hell no, sir,” co–pilot[FS3]  Sgt. Noah Marietta replied. 

“It’s attacking,” Ben said. “Move … move, all of you. Get the hell outta here. Now.”

Muzzle flashes appeared from the approaching chopper and then spurts of grass and dirt began a rapid march toward their helicopter.

The incoming chopper exploded. Pieces flew in all directions, tumbling through the air out of a ball of fire. Debris bounced off the roof. The fiery wreck tumbled onto the lawn about fifty yards away amid popping sounds of exploding ammunition from within.

Heavy gunfire continued from all sides of the house and the boathouse.

“Nice shooting, Peter,” Ben called out as the four men ran toward a clump of bushes between them and the farmhouse. “You’re free to ignore orders anytime you feel the need to save our asses.”

*

Paul, and the others crouched behind the cedar hedge hoping to identify friend from foe. A voice with an unfamiliar accent called out amid the pre-dawn fog rolling in from the lake. 

“Geoff … where are you?”

“Over here,” the voice of a scuba-clad figure replied, apparently the leader called Geoff. 

Paul whispered to Ben, Noah, and Peter: “Not sure if he’s one of us or a bad guy. Why don’t I go behind that big tree over there and draw his attention? If he fires, shoot him.”

A minute later, Paul stood behind the tree, his sidearm poised, and called out. “FBI. Identify yourself.”

“Geoff Larigani  here,” a tall figure replied. He was silhouetted by the burning wreck behind him. 

As Paul and the others stepped cautiously forward Larigani turned and called out over his shoulder, “Did we get them all?”

“Think so, Geoff,” the first voice replied. Then a chorus of replies from all sides said: “Yeah.” “Yeah.” “Yeah.”

Shit, I know that guy, Paul thought. He’s Geoff Larigani. He’s with that damned drug syndicate’s operation in London. What the hell is he doing over here?

The apparent leader, Geoff Larigani, walked over to where Paul, Ben, Noah, and Peter were standing.

“Did you guys shoot down that chopper?” Larigani asked. Paul kept back, letting the other three go ahead and screen him from Larigani.

“Sure did,” Ben said, extending his hand. “I’m Lt. Ben Hillier, NYSP. I didn’t see you at the briefing. Was there a last-minute change?” 

“Something like that,” Larigjani said, ignoring the offered hand. “Who was the shooter?”

“My talented colleague here,” Ben said, nodding toward Peter. “We didn’t hear the damn thing coming. Peter got it just in time. A split second later and we’d have been dead meat.”

Larigjani pulled a handgun from a chest holster and shot Peter in the temple. He crumpled to the ground. 

“Peter,” Ben shouted, dropping to his knees beside his fallen co–pilot. Blood oozed from a bullet hole in the side of Peter’s head. His eyes were open in a death stare.

“Good God,” Ben said, glancing up at Larigani, his eyes filled with anguished disbelief. “What the hell?” 

Larigani kicked Ben in the jaw, waving his machine pistol toward him, Paul, and Noah.

“Drop your weapons,” Larigjani said, gesturing with his pistol. “Down on your faces. Hands behind your back. Do it now.”

Paul and the NYSP officers did as they were told. A powerful floodlight went on as Larigjani pulled Paul’s arms behind him and cuffed his wrists with zip– ties[FS6] , then did the same with Ben and Noah’s wrists. 

So far so good, Paul thought. If that bastard recognizes me, I’m done.

Twenty to twenty-five men armed with AK-47s, and rocket-propelled grenade launchers surrounded a small group of scuba-dressed men, survivors of the SORT team, who’d been surprised and outgunned by the much larger and heavily armed force. 

Damn it, Paul thought. There’s been one hell of an intelligence failure here. 

The assembled SORT officers were ordered at gunpoint to lie down beside them. Paul, Ben and Noah, and the SORT officers were told to remove their protective vests. Two captors gathered them up and put the vests in a large van. Gunmen covered them with assault rifles while other captors tied each of the SORT officers’ wrists. The rest of the attackers piled into the van. It headed down the driveway and away into the night.

“Take them to the boat after you’ve loaded up all the dead cops,” a heavily accented voice said. 

Gunmen kept the prisoners under guard until a shouted go-ahead came from out of the dark. Four captors grabbed Peter’s body roughly. Others prodded the prisoners to their feet and marched them down to the darkened boathouse. Inside was a classic thirty-eight-foot Chris Craft cabin cruiser.

“Any idea what they’re up to?” Paul asked the man beside him. 

“No talk,” one of the gunmen ordered in a thick accent. The butt of an AK-47 struck Paul in the mouth. The ferocity of the blow knocked him to his knees. Paul was prodded back to his feet with the muzzle and ordered to follow the other men inside the boathouse and toward the back of the boat. There the prisoners were ordered to step from the dock into the boat’s large open back and kneel on the weathered teak deck. 

“I don’t see Larigani,” Paul whispered to Ben. “I’ve a score to settle with that son of a bitch. He must have left in the van. I’ll bet he was part of the espionage cell we were told about. That means a certain drug syndicate is involved, too.”

“How so?” Ben asked. 

“Tell you later,” Paul said. “But for sure, there’s a leak. Intelligence told us only two from the Turkish gang would be at the lakeside house along with the two contractors, plus a couple of bodyguards. That damned ambush involved twenty-five to thirty.”

“And they were heavily armed,” Ben added. “AKs, and some RPGs.”

Bright, overhead, LED lights flashed on. Four captors climbed up into the boat’s wheelhouse while three more stood guard over the prisoners. 

“Check out the bow,” Paul whispered to Ben. “That’s Peter’s body on the bow. He’s beside other bodies in SORT gear.” Ben nodded back with a grieving look.

The big boathouse doors creaked as each slid open. One engine started, then the second. 

There was a conversation in a foreign language.

“Anyone understand what they’re saying?” Paul whispered after the three guards went forward.

“Yeah,” a voice whispered. “They’re speaking Persian … Iranian. I grew up there. They’re saying Larigani told them to get the hell out right away and to clear the place completely, leaving no trace. They figure the gunfire and explosions will draw local police. Evidently, Larigani ordered these guys to take us out in the lake and kill all of us, then dump our bodies.”

“Shit,” Paul said quietly, looking at Ben and the others. “We’d better think of something fast.”

The boat began throbbing beneath them. It pulled away from the dock and headed out into the calm lake shrouded in the pre-dawn darkness. After about fifteen minutes the engines throttled back. The big cruiser came to a stop. Paul and the other prisoners heard voices. Three of the captors carrying assault rifles came to the back deck of the boat.

“Which one of you is the fuckin’ big shot Brit?” Paul heard one of them ask with a thick Middle Eastern accent, waiving an AK-47 in the semi-darkness. 

“I am,” one of the SORT team said with a fake British accent, glancing subtly at Paul. The man started toward the officer when another said, “I am,” and then another said, “I am.” It continued until all of them including Paul and Ben had said in fake British accents, “I am.”

The captor shouted angrily. A second armed man walked over and kicked the nearest SORT team member hard in the ribs. He fell over wheezing and groaning. Two captors dragged him to the front of the boat while the third stood guard, his automatic rifle pointing at the prisoners. Paul and the officers heard the sound of a gunshot then chains rattle and a splash. 

A few seconds later, Paul heard footsteps come back toward them. Again, without warning, the captor who’d spoken earlier landed a kick to the jaw of another kneeling officer. He went down hard and was dragged forward by the other two, mouth bleeding and barely conscious. Again, they heard a gunshot and then chains rattle, and a splash. 

Paul and the others understood members of the SORT team were being systematically murdered. Their bodies were chained to something heavy like a cement block and thrown overboard. They heard chains rattle a few more times followed by splashes. No gunshots. Paul realized with dismay those probably were Peter’s body and the bodies of the murdered SORT team members. They heard the gunmen apparently preparing to head back.

“Time for a plan,” Paul whispered to Ben. “Even if we fight back and don’t succeed, what have we got to lose?” 

Paul and Ben quickly devised a strategy and whispered it to the other officers. The SORT officers arranged themselves close to where the captors had stood when they’d hauled away their previous two colleagues. 

The three captors came back. The earlier speaker pulled his right leg back preparing to kick a kneeling NYPS officer. Another officer just behind the speaker lunged forward blocking the goon’s upturned leg, forcing him off balance and headfirst over the rail into the lake. The officer dove in after him. 

The remaining two, startled by the sudden attack, swung their weapons around preparing to fire when two officers leapt at one of them. Paul charged the third gunman with his powerful six-foot-two body, grabbing the captor’s arm just as he got away two wild shots in the air before Paul forced him over the side. 

In the lake, the scuba-trained SORT officers quickly worked their bodies through their arms, so their tied wrists were in front. One helped Paul do the same. An officer had one of the captors around the neck from behind, legs wrapped around his body forcing the man’s head under water. His assault rifle was missing. 

Paul quickly grabbed the other gunman, struggling to stay afloat, from behind and seized his rifle, immobilizing it, while a SORT officer took the man’s head in both hands and brought his forehead down sharply on the man’s nose. He screamed as he let go of the rifle, giving the officer the split second needed to force that man’s head down between his knees, holding his head underwater as Paul pushed away.

“Watch out,” Paul shouted. “They’ve turned a searchlight on us.”

The remaining gunmen on the boat began firing at them with assault rifles. Paul fired back with the AK-47 he had, trying to force them to keep their heads down. Much to his surprise, he managed to disable the searchlight. The cruiser’s engines started, and the boat pulled away into the darkness. The sound of the engines grew fainter and then was gone.

“Okay folks,” the deep baritone voice of Sgt. Craig McKittrick boomed out of the dark. “You know how to break those ties. On your backs and bring your wrists down hard toward your waist. That’ll snap that little locking finger in the tie.”

Within seconds there was a chorus of “done”, “done”, “done.”

“The briefing maps showed this portion of the lake is long and wide,” Paul said. “My guess is the boat went the length of the lake. Let’s swim opposite to that heading.”

Everyone agreed.

Paul turned to McKittrick, leader of the NYSP officers on the SORT team who he’d met in the briefings. “Are these your colleagues from the ground groups?”

“Yes. Paul Winston, meet our special investigators Marg Jacoby and Kirk Dubrowski, and you will know special agent Jack Kendall our liaison with the FBI.”

“Okay, now, let’s all keep together right sir?” he added, nodding to Paul, who nodded back. 

#

(Hope you will tune back in next month for the next instalment)