A Touch of Deceit (Nick Bracco Series #1) by Gary Ponzo

though.”
    “He ever have any company? Other men visiting?”
    The man shook his head. “Not that I’ve ever noticed.”
    Nick patted the man on his upper arm, dismissing him. “You’ve been a great help. Thanks.”
    “You think that guy renting the Johnson’s place is a criminal?” the man asked.
    “No,” Matt said. “He doesn’t fit the description. The guy we’re looking for is fair-skinned and blonde.”
    “Oh,” the man said. Then he smiled and wagged his finger at the agents, “You guys are good. Asking me if he was dark-haired, when all along your man is blonde. You guys know all the angles.”
    The man shook his head and mumbled with short bursts of laughter all the way back to his house.
    Instinctively, the two agents turned their backs to the Johnson house. Nick pointed down the block toward the limo house for effect.
    “We can’t tell Evans and the crew about the rental,” Nick said. “We keep everyone focused down the street, the way it’s supposed to look.”
    Matt agreed. They returned to the van where the female agent was screwing her face into a knot trying to decipher the phone calls she’d been tapping.
    Matt tugged on Jake’s arm. “You have a parabolic with you?” he asked.
    “Sure,” Jake said, “but they’ve got one aimed at the place already. You need another one?”
    “Yeah,” Matt said, “Nick and I are going to take a stroll around the neighborhood and see what we can pick up.”
    Jake shrugged, entered the second van and returned with the small funnel-shaped parabolic microphone. “Here you go.”
    Nick told Evans not to move until he and Matt returned, no matter what they heard in the house. Nick and Matt walked toward the limo house, then after they were out of range, they turned right and away from the house, down a side street. They doubled back toward the Johnson rental using a parallel street behind the house. Under the bright moon of the desert sky, they were careful to work within the shadows of shrubs and palm trees. When Matt peeked past a property line wall, he pulled his head back like a frightened turtle.
    “It’s right there,” he said. “Give me the mike.”
    Without exposing anything but his left hand, Nick crouched, pointed the cone toward the house and placed the miniature headset over his ears. At first he heard loud static, the rustling of trees, the sound of a car’s engine in the distance. He twisted a knob on top of the cone, adjusting its focus, narrowing its beam to the Johnsons’ house. He heard a man’s voice speaking a foreign language. Nick was fluent in Kurdish, Russian, Spanish and got along all right with several other Latin-based languages. His eyes widened when he heard an authoritative voice speaking Kurdish say, “Where is Bracco? I lost him.”
    “Forget him,” another voice said. “He went to the other house.”
    Nick went rigid when he heard, “Kill the brother and get out of here.”

Chapter 8
     
    Hasan Bozlak peeled away the rug and yanked up on the trap door. He peered down into the dark tunnel. A simple string of lights illuminated the passageway. Working behind drawn curtains, Hasan was assigned four workers, mechanical drilling devices, and instructions on how to build the escape route. Twice a week the dirt was hauled from the backyard by a truck with a pool logo on its doors. A gate in the tall fence slid open and closed abruptly with each departure.
    The American government had its law officers surrounding the decoy house while Hasan prepared to lead his team of Kurdish workers through the tunnel to a house on a street directly behind them. It was only sixty feet to the garage where a car was waiting to take them to Kharrazi.
    He directed two of the men into the tunnel and was waiting for the final member of the team to execute the prisoner when he heard the strangest sound. The doorbell rang.
    The two men in the tunnel also heard the doorbell. The three of them swung their automatic weapons from the strap