Crown of Serpents (26 page)

Kantiio tried to speak. Nero raised his hand. “Silence! I put my trust in you to pull off a simple job. I compensate you well. Have for many years. You are allowed any pleasure you desire. I don’t pay you to take a nap while performing a mission. This is unacceptable. And this,” Nero pulled out a pistol from his side pocket and pointed it at the contractor’s forehead. “This is my judgment.”

Kantiio flinched. Sweat trickled down his neck and he couldn’t catch his breath. He closed his eyes. But Nero didn’t pull the trigger.

“For failing me, here’s your choice,” Nero rasped. “You may run the gauntlet and have a chance at redemption should you survive. Or take the easy way out by telling me to pull this trigger right now. What’ll it be Ray? What’ll it be?”

Kantiio’s lips parted, but no words formed.

“Make a decision or I will!” The pistol inched closer.

“The gauntlet,” whispered Kantiio. “The gauntlet. I’ll run the gauntlet.”

Nero smiled, lowering his weapon. “Ahh, this will be fun.” He snapped his fingers and his two bodyguards pointed pistols at the back of Kantiio’s head in case he tried to escape. “Rousseau, call in all the men, pick four who you want to fight, then I want you to face him in the end. Five running the gauntlet total. We’ll do this right here, nice and private so no one hears a thing.”

Nero grabbed his cigar and retook his seat at his throne. He left his cell phone on the table. On the other end, Stanton was bent over her own cell phone with a mini-tape recorder.

Within minutes, several more Neo-Iroquois thugs arrived at the Scalp Room. Totaling eight of Nero’s security detail, they stood at attention awaiting orders. Rousseau picked his four toughest and had them shed their coats and shirts. They gave their weapons to the remaining guards who stationed themselves at various points in the room. Rousseau too stripped off his shirt, revealing a wide array of prison tattoos across his broad chest and arms. He took a position in front of the table where the rifle and cell phone lay. He faced the other end of the room and Kantiio.

The condemned man had stripped to the waist, his back to the guarded entrance. He knelt with closed eyes, mumbling a prayer.

Nero stood up from his throne, plucked an eagle’s feather from the highest point of his chair back, and bellowed to his failed contractor. “Should you make it through the gauntlet and grab this feather, you will then face final judgment by me. I will decide to keep you on or put you down. There will be five one-on-one fights to the death, lasting no longer than one-minute each. I keep the time. I will add time if I feel you are stalling. If you last the entire minute, knock out, or kill each opponent, you may advance to the next round when you are ready. Understood?”

“Yes,” yelled Kantiio. He stood up and took a step forward. He became a raging bull.

Nero held up the feather, checked his diamond and gold wrist-watch, then lowered the feather. “Begin!”

Kantiio’s first opponent was Nero’s top driver, a former New York City steel worker, a Mohawk named Mr. Kay. He had large Popeye-like forearms and a barrel chest. After a quick stare down they locked arms and grappled each other to the ground. Kantiio bit him on the bicep. Kay screamed, losing his grip. Kantiio then executed a close quarter pummeling with several elbow smashes upon the Mohawk’s nose and cheeks until he was unconscious. He then stood up, glistening with sweat.

“Shit. That was easy.” Breathing hard but still full of fury, he motioned for the next opponent. “Come on Jasper. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Mr. Jasper, an Oneida, had been a former pit boss at the Turning Stone Casino near Syracuse. Kantiio cursed at him and lunged forward. The younger man stepped aside planting a fist in his opponent’s ribcage. Jasper then kicked the back of the Kantiio’s knee out, dropping him. Another kick was aimed at the ribs but Kantiio caught it and pulled him down.

Pouncing on his prey, Kantiio choked his opponent, almost crushing his throat. The move didn’t last long as he was jabbed in the eyes. Kantiio threw an elbow but missed, smashing it on the floor. He grimaced in pain and collapsed onto his opponent. Jasper couldn’t get out from underneath the larger man. He threw several weak fists catching Kantiio in the side of the head. He then kneed the larger man in the groin with better effect.

Kantiio rolled off in dire pain. Bolting upright, Jasper finally landed his kick to the ribs, same spot as the earlier punch. Kantiio issued a guttural scream.

Nero whistled that time was up.

Jasper moped away, hands to his throat.

Kantiio lay on his side, panting hard. He took a full minute to recuperate and managed to get to his hands and knees. He looked up at the next guy, an Indian from the Seneca Allegheny reservation.

Mr. George was wiry-muscled and fast. Kantiio faked injury and waited until the Seneca moved in first. Springing into action, Kantiio drove his head into the guy’s face, knocking him backward. Blood ran down George’s nose. Surprised at the blow and wiping the red smear from his face, George curled his lips and faced his foe. Both took a boxer’s stance holding fists high, waiting for the other to bring it on.

The bloody Seneca yelled a war whoop and swung first with an uppercut. He missed. Kantiio kneed him hard in the groin, dropping him. He stomped the guy’s face five times until Nero whistled again. The Seneca was motionless. He looked dead, his face crushed in. Bright red blood oozed from his nose and mouth. He slowly groaned back to life and was helped away by the other security guards.

Kantiio’s fourth opponent was a former Cayuga Nation drug dealer, Mr. Makowa. He took a breath and stared Makowa down as they circled each other. He needed to buy time to regain his strength. He spit blood and taunted his new opponent until Nero shouted, “Fight or get the bullet.”

Makowa went in first and slammed the contractor in the gut like a bat against a slab of meat. Kantiio doubled over. Makowa then kneed him in the face catching him high on the brow. A cut formed and sprang a leak. Kantiio dropped to his knees with a grunt. Another kick was blocked. Makowa then landed a punch to Kantiio’s skull, breaking his knuckle in the process.

Kantiio collapsed on his back. Makowa held his hand in pain but shook it off as he saw his opponent start to rise. A stomp on his stomach took what little breath Kantiio had left.

Nero whistled.

Kantiio rolled back and forth holding his stomach. He mouthed the air like a fish out of water, not making a sound. Then finally a large inhalation of air gave way followed by coughing and groaning. Makowa spit on him.

“Get up,” Nero barked.

One man left. It was Nero’s top thug, the half Mohawk, half Quebecker Mr. Kenny Rousseau. He walked up to Kantiio. “Whenever you’re ready you gold-toothed mother fucking Mouth.”

“Fuck. You. Frenchy,” spat Kantiio between breaths.

Rousseau flipped his long black braided ponytail from his shoulder and held up stiff extended hands in a martial arts pose. “Get up,” ordered Rousseau again. “I’ve been wanting to do this to you for years.”

“Ray Kantiio,” interjected Nero. “One more opponent left. Get through him you get the eagle feather and my final judgment.”

Kantiio managed to stand, although swaying like a drunk. His inflamed skin was bright red. Blood smeared his body and dripped from his brow, nose, and mouth. His elbow was fractured at the tip and several broken ribs stifled his breathing. His fists were bloody and disfigured.

Rousseau knew he had him. He wound his arm all the way back for a full force roundhouse to finish the contractor off. Kantiio just stood, watching it come. At the point of facial impact, Kantiio blocked the blow with his forearm in a bone-jarring crunch. With his other hand he plunged two fingers into Rousseau’s eyes.

A scream announced he had hit his mark.

He grabbed Rousseau’s ponytail and pulled as hard as he could, swinging the enforcer around and slamming him into the corner of the stone viewing table. Rousseau dropped at Nero’s polished dress shoes.

Nero’s mouth was agape.

Kantiio reached for the eagle feather and was just about to snatch it out of Nero’s hand when his body fell out from under him. Rousseau had kicked out his legs. Kantiio hit the tile floor hard on his back. Rousseau sprang to his feet, blood pouring from an open cut on his forehead.

Rousseau stomped Kantiio’s gut, blowing air out of his lungs for the second time. The contractor’s eyes rolled toward the back of his head. Rousseau watched Kantiio squirm but an upward fist slammed Rousseau directly in the testicles. His knees buckled and he joined Kantiio on the floor, both men moaning and gasping for air.

Finally the doomed contractor inhaled. “Mercy Alex. Show me mercy,” he grunted as he rose to a seated position. Rousseau was already on his hands and knees and snatched Kantiio by his hair, bending his head backward. He collapsed back against the floor. His head bounced. He saw stars. “Mercy. Please Alex,” Kantiio pleaded again in a pain-filled whisper.

Nero approached and towered over him. He looked at his watch. “Ten seconds.” He held his thumb out horizontally in anticipated judgment — the man’s fate in his hands — just as the brutal Emperor Nero had done centuries ago. He let the clock run out.

“Please,” Kantiio moaned. “I beg you.”

Rousseau stood up.

“You have shown great bravery, Ray Kantiio,” announced Nero. “For this I will have mercy on your
soul
. Your scalp shall not grace my wall. But for failing me in my ultimate quest your body will pay the price!”

Thumbs down.

Kantiio couldn’t react in time. Rousseau dropped his whole body, his weight positioned into three stiffly extended fingers aimed at the contractor’s throat. The aim was true. He drove his fingers through flesh, crushing the larynx. Kantiio’s eyes bulged. He squirmed on the ground and clutched at his throat with a gurgling sound.

“Time’s up,” quipped Nero.

Thirty more excruciating seconds of grotesque spasms and Ray
The
Mouth
Kantiio’s body froze. Nero walked up with the eagle’s feather and released it over his head as his contractor’s eyes glazed over.

“He’s gone,” Rousseau noted.

“Put him in his Lincoln and send it to the bottom of the reservoir,” ordered Nero.

His cell phone disconnected.

20

Wednesday morning. Strathallan Hotel.

A
KNOCK AT his hotel door, a glance through the guest spy hole, and Jake allowed his uncle to enter. He gave him a nod, held up a finger to keep quiet, and resumed his cell phone conversation with MHI.

“Sir, listen, all I’m saying is we still stick with the original mission. We don’t falter because of what happened to Ashland. Finding that keg before Nero does will be a coup for MHI. It’ll expose that he was behind Ashland’s murder. I know it.”

Joe perked up. He moved closer to Jake to eavesdrop on the conversation.

“Do you have any hard evidence to back up your theory that Nero is behind all of this?” asked Dr. Paul Jacobson in a raised voice on the other end of the line.

His voice was so loud Jake had to pull his cell phone away from his ear. Joe raised his eyebrows wondering what was going on.

Jacobson wouldn’t let up. “Other than what the state police told you about this Kantiio guy serving time with Nero many years back, you’ve just got speculation to go on, don’t you?”

“True, I don’t have anything concrete,” acknowledged Jake. “But everything adds up to Nero pulling the strings. He thinks that keg of loot and gold belongs to him. He wants it to finish his collection on Thomas Boyd. Look how fast he acted on researching and stealing that rifle. It wasn’t but a day after buying the Boyd Box at Fort Niagara. I’ll even wager he’s going for Sullivan’s sunken cannon of gold too as his ultimate prize. Its location is on a clue supposedly inside of that buried keg.” Jake winked at his uncle.

“Not good enough Jake!” retorted Jacobson. “I’ve got a public relations fiasco down here. The media is camped at our front doors. On top of that I’ve got the Secretary of the Army breathing down my neck wondering what the hell kind of ship I’m running. I’m supposed to report back to him later this morning and it ain’t gonna be pretty—”

Jake cut him off to plead his case. “Give me some time and I’ll get you answers. I’m here. I’m in the field. I’m still working with the police. I’ve got tons of experience in tracking down killers—”

“That was in the battle zone. The rules of engagement are different in civilian life. You can’t just go out and call in an air strike on a target to bring him to justice.”

“I understand there are limitations. I understand I need hard evidence. But the means to accomplish the mission remains the same. It’s down and dirty leg work that’s — that’s
up my alley
.” Jake closed his eyes, cringing at using Ashland’s line.

There was a pause on Jacobson’s end.

Jake took advantage, sensing he had Jacobson moving to his side. “We get that keg and its contents then we start calling the shots.”

Jacobson sighed. “I want it just as much as you do. Hell, if I were any younger I’d be right by your side. But I can’t ask you to go this alone and risk losing another employee.”

“Well, that’s just the thing, sir. When you hired me I told you straight up you’d never have to ask me if I wanted to take these kinds of risks. You knew you could count on me that I would.”

“You better know what the hell you’re getting into. Don’t mess this up, for your own sake.”

“Thank you sir.” Jake looked at his uncle and nodded with a smile. Joe frowned back.

“Call me as soon as you’ve got something. And listen, good hunting out there.” Jacobson hung up.

Joe took off his coat and threw it on the bed. He shrugged angrily. “What’s going on? I got in the truck and drove over as soon as Billy told me you called. Said you couldn’t let on. And then I hear you talking about Nero and the keg and a murder?”

Jake sat down hard on a lounge chair. He was still in his sleeping clothes of gray sweat pants and t-shirt, both with silk-screened Army logos. He pointed to a white pocket folder on an end table. “Open that up. You need to see for yourself.”