Greene's Calling: Seventeen Book Three (A Supernatural Action Adventure Thriller Series 3) (40 page)

Conrad clenched his teeth and charged the crewman wielding the machine gun, his immortal powers surging from his core. The man’s eyes grew round; a low grunt wheezed out of his lips as a short sword impaled his heart.

Conrad yanked the blade out and started up a staircase in the corner of the narrow space. Slugs fell to the floor in a sharp staccato as his wounds healed and closed.

Brightness flooded the landing at the top of the steps. The slow whirr of rotors rose from somewhere outside. Icy fear gripped Conrad.
They’re taking the helicopter!

He pushed through a door and stepped into bright sunlight. A floating, glass swimming pool shimmered to his right, the water rippling with waves from the increasing revolution of the nearby rotors. Conrad bolted up the steps beside the pool and saw the black helicopter some twenty-five feet ahead. Zoran was at the controls of the aircraft, while Nadica sat in the seat next to him.

Conrad raced across the sun deck, a single thought blazing through him: he had to get that briefcase.

Nadica’s eyes betrayed her alarm when she spotted him. She grabbed her brother’s gun from where it lay on the metal case by her feet, kicked open the door, and raised the weapon.

Conrad darted sideways as bullets pelted the aluminum superstructure. He sheathed the swords, exchanged the staff weapon for the HK P8, and fired at the helicopter.

‘
Go!
’ Nadica screamed at Zoran.

Mustafa’s heir adjusted the throttle.

Conrad put his head down and sprinted toward the aircraft, his heart in his mouth. He leapt onto the starboard skid and yanked the rear door open just as the chopper lifted off the sun deck. A bullet whistled past his head and slammed into the rear wall of the cabin as he lunged inside. The helicopter cleared the yacht and accelerated out to sea.

Conrad landed in the rear footwell with a harsh grunt. He twisted on his back and rolled sharply to avoid another shot. Nadica aimed the gun at his head once more. He sat up and grabbed her hands just as she pulled the trigger. The bullet punctured the roof of the helicopter.

A tortured whine rose from the engine mounted to the rear of the cabin pod.

‘Nadica!’ Zoran shouted, horror raising the pitch of his voice as he glanced at the young woman.

Conrad gritted his teeth as Nadica struggled against him. He twisted her wrists further and pushed her arms away. The gun shifted wildly in her grasp a second before she pressed the trigger once more.

The bullet flashed out of the barrel and entered Zoran Rajkovic’s head just below his ear. Fragments of bloodied skull and brain splattered onto the window as the shot exited the other side. He slumped over the controls, his eyes wide open.

‘
No
!’ screamed Nadica.

Her grip loosened on the gun. The weapon fell in the gap between the seats as she lunged toward Zoran. She wrapped her arms around his lifeless body, an agonizing sob rising from the very depths of her soul.

The helicopter pitched sharply toward the blue expanse below, engine shrieking.

Conrad was dimly aware of the Seahawk approaching rapidly from the west. His stomach rose in his throat as he watched the sea grow closer through the transparent cabin wall.

The helicopter smashed into the ocean with a deafening boom. A million cracks blossomed across the curved surface of the windshield. The aircraft sank beneath the waves, rotors still spinning and driving its descent into the deepening blue.

Conrad swung his legs around and kicked at the rear door. Cold water started to flood the aircraft, and the sharp smell of brine inundated the enclosed space. He cursed when the panel refused to budge. The pressure outside was already too great.

He lunged to the other side of the pod and tried the second door, desperation making his movements awkward. Twilight enveloped the aircraft.

Nadica Rajkovic sat frozen in the front compartment, her arms still folded around Mustafa’s dead heir. She gazed at the growing fractures in the cabin wall without a sound. The windshield imploded a second later.

Conrad took a few giant gulps of air as the sea rushed inside the aircraft. Water filled his ears and dulled the gushing roar. Coldness stung his eyes and skin. He blinked, grabbed the back of the front passenger seat, and pulled himself toward the gaping hole where the windshield used to be.

A hand closed around his leg as he passed through the opening. Conrad looked over his shoulder and saw Nadica’s fingers wrapped around his ankle. The woman stared at him blankly, her other hand clamped on the edge of her seat. Panic swamped Conrad. He kicked out sharply. Nadica Rajkovic’s grasp grew tighter.

Darkness shrouded them as the helicopter continued its plunge into the ocean depths.

Deep in the bowels of the Amazon rainforest, Roxanne woke up from her afternoon nap to the sound of Rocky howling.

Alarm tore through the old woman and she straightened in her chair. Her eyes darted around the small clearing at the bottom of the porch, looking for what had frightened the animal. Her brow furrowed when she found nothing threatening. Her puzzled gaze shifted to the dog.

Rocky stood on the bank of the river, his body shaking uncontrollably. He threw his head back and bayed at the sun-dappled branches above his head once more.

Apprehension replaced bewilderment in Roxanne’s chest as she listened to the heartbreaking sound. ‘What have you done,
Deus
Demônio
?’ she whispered to the muggy air.

Down by the water, Rocky continued to cry.

Nine hundred and seventy miles from the Sargasso Sea, James Anthony Westwood clutched at his chest.

‘Mr. President!’ The Secretary of Defense lunged from his seat. ‘Are you okay, sir?’

‘James!’ Sarah Connelly leaned toward Westwood, her eyes wide with concern.

Westwood raised a hand and winced. ‘I’m okay,’ he murmured. ‘Just—give me a moment.’

He was in the back of an armored car heading out of Washington D.C., as part of the emergency evacuation of the capital. He rubbed the painful spot over his heart. He was as healthy as a horse, so he doubted this was a heart attack. On the other hand, considering the events of the last week, having a coronary would not be in the least bit surprising.

His hand stilled as his consciousness finally registered what his body was telling him. Something had changed.

He could no longer feel the man who had granted him a piece of his immortal soul.

‘Greene.’ Westwood stared at Connelly, fear knotting his stomach. ‘Something’s happened to him!’

Chapter Thirty

November 2011. One hundred miles northeast of Hamilton Harbor. Bermuda.

G
eorge Tucker chomped down on his cigar and adjusted his captain’s hat. He watched the waves through the glass windows of
The Beaver
’s wheelhouse with a satisfied smile.

His fifty-four-foot seiner had been camped out in these waters for three days, ever since he heard of the hurricane that would soon pass through this part of the Atlantic. After studying the patterns of the winds, tides, and currents, he decided to bring
The Beaver
out to this remote stretch of the Sargasso Sea, where instinct told him the best catch would be. He had seen other seiners and trawlers scrambling out of Hamilton Harbor on the day he set off, though none had followed the course he laid out for
The Beaver
; fishing ahead of the storm would produce a heavier bounty than several normal trips combined.
The Beaver
’s keel already sat deeper in the water, its aluminum-tanked hold heavy with some fifteen tons of yellowfin tuna.

Tucker removed his cigar and lifted the VHF radio to his mouth. ‘All right Tom, close her up.’

His skiffman’s voice came over the airwaves. ‘Closing the net, captain.’

Tucker stepped out of the wheelhouse and was about to call down to the deckhands when Tom Fairbanks’s voice came over the radio once more.

‘Hey George, tell the boys to be ready for the mother of a haul,’ warned the skiffman. ‘Fish are going stir crazy here!’

Tucker turned and watched the expanse of ocean separating
The Beaver
from the skiff. Thousands of small ripples sparkled across the surface, against the prevailing wind and current. A few boobies and seagulls hovered in the sky, ready to plunge-dive for prey.

The captain’s heart thumped with rising excitement as he stared at the dancing water.
There has to be eight tons in that one catch alone!

Tucker had rarely seen anything like it in his forty-odd-year fishing career. He grinned and shouted down to
The Beaver
’s deck. ‘Get ready to haul gear! It’s a
big
one!’

The crew of four put on their waterproof coats and gloves, eager chatter ringing out among them. This was to be their last set of the day. They would be back in Hamilton Harbor by sundown, ahead of the black clouds staining the sky to the east.

Fairbanks’s skiff chugged steadily toward the seiner. He handed over the end of the dragnet to the deck crew and circled to the other side of the large boat to attach the second towline. A deckhand operated the winch to pull closed the heavy, lead-woven purse line at the bottom of the seine. Minutes later, another man engaged the power block to haul it in. The crew got to work at the business end of the boat, stacking the lines and webbing quickly and efficiently onto the deck.

Tucker waited until a third of it was on board before reversing
The Beaver
to submerge the float line. This would allow any large creatures captured inside the net to escape at the top of the safety panels in the webbing. He watched the bobbing corks closely and repeated the backdown maneuver several times. His lips curved in a contented smile when he saw the small, gray shapes of a couple of porpoises slip over the line.

Thousands of gleaming, thrashing bodies finally broke clear of the water as the yellowfin tuna surfaced inside the mesh. The crew gradually emptied it onto the deck and started to sort through the haul.

Tucker left the wheelhouse and headed down the bridge ladder. He grabbed the galoshes on the walkway at the bottom and started to climb in them. They would need all hands on deck to deal with this catch.

A horrified shout reached his ears as he stepped inside the second rubber boot. Tucker froze, alarm darting through him.
Holy hell! Did we catch a barracuda?
Or a young marlin?!

He knew all too well the damage those creatures could inflict to fishermen; he had several scars on his legs to prove it. The captain rose and stumbled aft of the boat.

Fairbanks and the deckhands were gathered in a half circle in the middle of the main deck. Tucker spotted a large, black shape lying in the midst of a mass of twitching, yellowfin tuna between their legs.

‘What is it?’ he called out sharply as he made his way toward the crew.

Fairbanks turned, his face grim. ‘It’s a man.’

Tucker’s stomach dropped. He reached his skiffman’s side and looked down at a lifeless body dressed in a faded, army-style, black tactical uniform. The wet slaps of fish bodies convulsing against the deck was a ghastly soundtrack to the macabre finding.

‘We better alert the coastguards,’ Fairbanks said in a low voice.

Tucker’s mouth had gone dry. He had only ever come across a floater once. He’d lost his appetite for days after.

‘I wonder if he’s the guy they’ve been looking for,’ muttered the youngest deckhand.

‘What d’you mean?’ asked
The Beaver
’s engineer.

The deckhand waved vaguely out to sea. ‘I mean the Navy. That US aircraft carrier’s been sending out search and rescue helicopters most days now for the last month. Apparently, some big-shot crashed their helicopter in the sea.’

The engineer made a face. ‘I doubt the US government would go to that much effort just to find a VIP.’ His gaze shifted to the body. ‘Anyway, whoever the poor guy is, no one deserves to die like this.’

Tucker stared. Although the grayish color of the man’s skin indicated he had been dead a while, the captain could see no signs of lividity or bloating. A black snake symbol twisted out from under the left cuff of the man’s long-sleeved shirt. The creature’s forked tongue stood out starkly against his pale wrist.

‘What’s that in his fingers?’

He squatted and cleared away a few fat tuna fish. A gilded staff appeared in the man’s left hand. Tucker gripped one end of it and pulled.

The staff didn’t budge.

Sarah Connelly stared through the tinted window of the SUV, her fingers clasped tightly on her lap.

Castle Harbor was a patchwork of dazzling blues and greens beyond the parapet of the low stone bridge the vehicle was travelling on. In the sky to the east, the white shape of an airliner grew steadily in size as it prepared to land at the island’s only airport.

It was a balmy eighty degrees Fahrenheit, and the sun blazed brightly down on the islands of Bermuda. Despite the SUV’s air conditioning, a thin sheen of perspiration already peppered her brow.