Excerpt of Trust No One by Meryl Sawyer

Brody Hawke hunkered down in the mire of silt and reeds lining the bank of the river. He'd been in this muddy tributary of the Amazon for nearly eight hours, and he was so bored he could hardly concentrate.

"Get a grip," he muttered under his breath. "A wandering mind is as deadly as a bullet."

Brody forced himself to watch the traffic on the river for the boatload of terrorists their informants claimed were coming here to be trained. A variety of watercraft chugged by him, and each time he hid, dropping under the water and holding his breath until the boat went by. Hours passed, one long minute at a time without any sign of the terrorists.

Brody cursed, wondering if all this waiting would make him lose his edge. He thrived on action, danger. Waiting day after day wasn't his style, but he supposed it came with the territory. So far, his missions had been fast-paced. This time was different, and he'd damned well better adjust his mind set.

He went off duty, saying catch you later to the man who relieved him. Like a panther, he silently and quickly stole his way between shacks built along the river bank. Finally, he reached the lean-to they used as a safe house.

The ceiling in the grass shack wasn't high enough for him to stand up straight. He bent over and peeled off his wet suit. As he stripped, he noticed the letter on his cot. He stared down at the envelope and wondered who would write him. His mother was dead and he had no close relatives.

The return address on the typewritten envelope wasn't the least bit familiar. St. Helena, California. He didn't know anyone in California. Hell, he hadn't been in that crazy state except for the six months he'd spent in San Diego for SEAL training.

Who would be sending him a letter?

He ripped the envelope open and pulled out two sheets of paper. The letter had been written on a computer he noticed. He read the opening line, then dropped onto the cot, dazed.

Dear Son.He scanned the first page of the letter from the man who claimed to be his father. The poor bastard was certifiable, Brody assured himself. His father had died in an automobile accident when Brody had been three.

"Yo, Hawke! You're losing it."

Brody looked up and saw another SEAL had entered the hut. He hadn't heard him come in. Cuidad del Este was a haven for terrorists, drug lords, and every other kind of criminal. Letting his guard down was crazy.

Jake Wilder shrugged out of his sweat soaked T-shirt, then used it to wipe off the charcoal smudged on his face for camouflage. "Whatcha got there?" Jake asked. "A love letter from your main squeeze?"

"Nah, it's from some nut."

Brody flipped over the second page without reading it, intending to wad up the letter and toss it into the corner with the rest of the trash. A photograph taped to the back page caught his eye.

"Son of a b****!" he cursed between clenched teeth.

Jake leaned over his shoulder and looked at the picture, too. "Hey, you can be hosed off and taken out in public, Hawke. Who'd have guessed?"

Brody was too stunned to respond to Jake's ribbing. The man in the photograph could have been Brody—except he wasn't. He had the same thick, dark hair, angular jaw, and cleft chin. The same piercing blue eyes beneath straight brows.

The shot showed the man from the shoulders up, making it impossible to know if he was six three. Judging from the breadth of his shoulders, Brody assumed the man was that tall, maybe taller.

"Wait a minute!" Jake pointed at the man's right eyebrow. "That isn't you. He doesn't have a scar."

Brody reached up and touched his eyebrow. He vividly recalled the fight, even though it had been more than twenty years ago. He'd been seven at the time and terrified of the school bully. Because he was slight and small for his age, Brody had been easy to pick on. He knew if he didn't stand up for himself he would go through life an underdog, a punching bag for every bully.

He hadn't won the fight, but he'd held his own and came away with nothing more than a cut above his eye that had gushed blood. A badge of courage. And a rite of passage even though he'd been very young.

He and his mother had moved from town to town, never staying long in one place, so Brody was forced to prove himself over and over. The first fight—the one that had caused the scar—had given him courage. He began to win more fights than he lost.

He never became a bully even when he had a growth spurt and became much taller and more solidly built than other boys his age. To the contrary, his early experiences sent him to the underdog's corner to take on bullies even when he wasn't directly threatened.

The scar wouldn't be visible today if his mother had taken him for stitches. But she barely had enough money for food, so going to a doctor had been out of the question. "Be brave," she'd said, the way she always did when he needed comfort. "You're my stand-up guy, remember?"

Brody never would have traded the small scar that bisected the outer edge of his brow, lifting it slightly. Who would want to look as perfect and happy as the guy in picture? Brody liked the slightly menacing expression the scar gave him. Women jokingly said it made him look dangerous, which was closer to the truth than they suspected, considering his occupation.

"Who's the guy in the photo?" Jake asked, breaking into his thoughts. "He's a dead ringer for you. Black hair. Blue eyes. Same crazy dent in the chin."

"Damned if I know."