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."