The Monarch (25 page)

 

38

Pioneer Electronics

New York City

9:00
A.M.
Local Time

L
EW DIDN'T HAVE
many options. In fact, near as he could figure, all he had was
option
. And even that was a long shot. Jonathan was gone. Lew's only link to him was Emily. Emily was gone. Both of them had been taken right from under his nose. But if Emily could track someone with her phone, then maybe—­just maybe—­she could be tracked too.

Everything had been going well. Raiden Pioneer's shop was open and no one else was around. Lew thought he was finally catching a break, as he explained the situation to Raiden in his shop bathed in the early morning sun streaming through the dirty windows. But when Raiden came out from behind the cash register he didn't have a phone in his hand. He had a gun.

And it was pointed at Lew's heart.

“Put the gun away,” Lew said, raising his hands. Raiden Pioneer's glare and unshaking gun hand told Lew this wasn't the first time the unassuming man had held a weapon. He was also pretty sure Raiden wouldn't have a problem pulling the trigger if Lew cornered him.

“In the back,” Raiden said, wiggling the gun toward the curtain that separated the front of the store from his workshop. Raiden circled around behind him, staying at least six feet away, and locked the store's front door and turning over the “Open” sign.

This guy's no amateur
. Generally ­people who were new to holding guns on other ­people used their television-­acquired training and always stood close enough to press the weapon into their target's back. That invariably made it easy to overpower them, especially if you had close combat skills.

“Look, Hopalong, all I want to do is help Emily. She's in trouble and I need your help to—­”

A colon-­twisting
snick
echoed in the little store as Raiden cocked the gun's hammer.

“I don't know what you've done with Emily or why you're here, but I'm turning you in,” Raiden said.

“Turning me in? For what?”

“For mass murder.” Lew's eyes narrowed.

“What are you talking about?” Lew asked, afraid of the answer.

“It's been on the news for the past hour. A tourist came forward and turned a video of the Federal Plaza disaster in to the police when he couldn't sell it to the news stations. He didn't film the explosion, but he got a great shot of someone jumping onto a limousine and smashing the window as he ran from the scene. Someone wearing a duster. It wasn't hard for me to guess who it was after meeting you earlier. Your description is on every channel now. And I'll bet there's a nice reward involved.”

My duster? They didn't have my face or name. That's something
.

Lew was doubly glad he hadn't waited around at the accident for the cops to show up. But time was ticking and Emily's kidnapper could be anywhere by now, never mind where the hell Jonathan was. This suspicious little opportunist was his only hope. Though he wasn't going to get anywhere as long as Raiden had that gun.

“Things aren't always how they look,” Lew said, taking a tentative step forward.

“That's far enough,” Raiden said, seeing his idea plainly. “In the back!” Raiden waved his gun toward the curtain that led to the back of his shop.

Lew hesitated, but knew he had little choice. He turned around and stepped toward the curtain, his hands in the air.

“You're making a mistake,” Lew said.

“Let me worry about—­”

As Lew parted the curtain with one of his raised hands, he abruptly dove through the material out of Raiden's sight. The workshop was small and cluttered, a workbench against the wall beside the curtain, a few tables covered with electronic guts along the other walls and a door opposite the curtain. Lew saw through the door's window that a dark alley lay beyond. An easy escape that his flight muscle was begging him to take. But getting away was the last thing on Lew's mind.

Still, he opened the door, then doubled back and hopped up on the bench. Raiden had taken too long following him. Lew figured he was either just calling the cops from the store or he wasn't as steady with that gun as he'd appeared. Lew remained where he was, silent, hoping whatever was going to happen would hurry up because his accident-­bashed knee was killing him from crouching on the bench.

After what seemed like minutes, the tip of the gun finally appeared through the curtain. Lew forced himself to keep waiting. When the entire gun hand was through the curtain, Lew slammed his good hand down on the gun so the webbing between his thumb and index finger jammed between the hammer and the gun. Raiden reflexively pulled the trigger. The hammer slammed down and tore into Lew's flesh. He howled in pain and wrenched the gun away from Raiden, rolling off the workbench onto the floor.

“Son of a bitch! Fuck! Shit!” Lew, who had been shot more than once, had never felt pain so excruciating. He cocked the trigger and released his hand.

Raiden had backed against the wall, fear and the gun in Lew's hand keeping him from making a run for it. Lew continued to rage, the pain pushing buttons in him he tried to keep buried. He kicked a stool across the room and cleared everything off the workbench and the tables. Raiden remained where he was, his eyes growing wider and wider as he watched. Suddenly, Lew vaulted across the room and press the gun's barrel into Raiden's forehead, panting hot, rapid breaths through clenched teeth.

This was as close as he'd been in years. Close to losing himself. The aggression and mindless, numbing violence had been a necessity on the battlefield, but it had followed him out of the army too.

All he wanted to do was pull the trigger. Over and over. Just keep shooting until his frustration—­and Raiden's head—­were history. But then he'd be a self-­fulfilling prophecy, condemning Emily and Jonathan to their fates because of his ineptitude.
No! I'm not that man anymore.

“All I want. Is to find. Emily,” Lew managed with stilting, deep breaths. He forced himself to stop clenching his teeth, his head pounding from the effort. He stumbled back a few steps and then did what Jonathan would do. He took a risk and trusted someone else. He flipped the gun around so he was holding the barrel and held the butt out to Raiden. “Can you help me or not?”

A
LITTLE WHILE
later, Lew sucked wind through his teeth, clenched for a different reason now. Raiden had sewn up his hand and was taping the final bandage into place. It still hurt like hell, but now it was more of a throb than a stabbing that made his toes curl. Raiden had offered Lew whiskey to drink during the procedure, but he'd refused, which had made his thirsty liver kick him a few times. He had to stay clear. When this was over, no matter what the outcome, he was going to go on the mother of all binges, but for now, he took the pain.

“Where'd you learn to do that?” Lew asked, examining Raiden's handiwork while the electronics expert put his portable ER away.

“North Korea,” Raiden said, the tone of his voice saying he didn't want to share the details. Lew understood and let it go.

Lew got up and put his duster back on, easing his broken and damaged hands through his sleeves. Raiden handed him the tracking device he'd whipped together in less than five minutes. Watching him work had been awe-­inspiring. His hands had flown from tool to part to tool as if he wasn't even looking. The closest approximation Lew had ever seen was when he'd been in his prime, stripping and reassembling an M–16 in record time, over and over.

“This will find her?” Lew asked.

“Its range and signal attenuation is limited. If she's been taken out of the tri-­state area, I'm afraid she's gone.” Lew flipped it on, a blip showing up three-­quarters of the way down the screen. Raiden looked on and said, “She's headed for New Jersey.”

“Do you know what's in that area?”

“Uh, let's see. Industrial mostly. And a private airport.”

Crap
.

Airport meant ID check. If Warden Quinn wasn't dead by now, Lew's deal with him certainly was.

“We may have a problem,” Lew said. He explained he couldn't travel under his own ID without going into details as to why. He knew Raiden didn't need to hear them and would understand.

“Do you know anyone who can do papers in—­”

“Stand against the wall,” Raiden said. Lew backed up and watched Raiden take out a Polaroid camera,
Is there anything this guy doesn't do?

A few minutes later, Lew had a driver's license and a passport in the name of Sven Longren. He turned the documents over and whistled, impressed by their quality.

“Sven?” Lew said.

“You're big and blond . . . Hopalong,” Raiden said with a smile.

“Gotcha,” Lew said, smiling back.

“Do you have a car?” Lew asked. He needed new transportation, especially if he was going out of state.

“No, but I've got a motorcycle. The helmet would probably help you get out of the city without being spotted.”

“Perfect. I don't know how to thank you,” Lew said. But Raiden knew. Lew coughed up most of his cash and gave him a promissory note for twice as much once he was back. Lew didn't have a problem with signing; in all likelihood, he'd be dead before this was over.

Lew put on the black helmet, straddled the bike, and started the motor. He twisted the accelerator a few times, liking what he heard. He'd be there in half the time now, which still might not be soon enough. The blip on the tracking device wasn't moving anymore. Raiden and a few seconds on Google confirmed it was the airport.

“Thanks again,” Lew said over the engine's roar in the alley.

“Just take care of Emily. She has a good heart but your helmet has more street smarts,” Raiden said. Lew knew exactly what he meant.

“Count on it,” Lew said. He flipped the smoked visor down and kicked the bike into gear, the engine howling as he flew down the alley, his duster flapping behind him like a superhero's cape.

 

39

Drummond Field Airport

New Jersey

10:00
A.M.
Local Time

L
EW SHOT THROUGH
the afternoon, the drone and whine of the machine between his legs thankfully washing out any self-­deprecating thoughts from his brain. Traffic had been heavy, but Lew had weaved in and out without much trouble. Once out of the city and across the state line, he rocketed to the airport in record time.

Drummond Field, a small airport dedicated mostly to cargo flights, rose up on his left as he came out of a short tunnel cut through the bedrock. A high chain-­link fence ran around the airfield, the entrance a few hundred yards up ahead. Lew gunned the throttle and saw that the tarmac was a busy place. Planes taxied this way and that, figures in bright orange vests wearing big yellow ear protection waved batons with both arms, directing their charges. Most of the planes were mid-­sized cargo jets, some plain and some marked with familiar shipping company logos. A smattering of private and corporate jets rounded out the complement.

As Lew passed through the entrance and turned toward the buildings at the base of the control tower, he saw what he was after. The plane stood out like a sore thumb—­even the other pilots and crews stood around on the field to observe the sleek, red-­striped supersonic jet. Lew could care less about the plane's cosmetic beauty. As he pulled into a parking spot, the plane taxied out onto the runway. He put the helmet on the bike's handlebars and ran inside to the airport's information counter.

It was early and with the airport mostly serving private jets there was next to no walk-­in traffic. Which explained the minimum-­wage, long-­haired attendant who was more interested in his phone than what was happening out on the tarmac.

“Dude, I can't stop it. It's already been cleared for takeoff by the tower,” the young man behind the counter said in response to Lew's demand.

“Look, it's an emergency. I have to get on—­”

“Dude,” the man said, pointing outside. Lew turned and saw the red-­striped plane arc up into the sky, the roar of its engines practically shaking the building. “Jesus, that's sweet.”

Lew slammed his fist down so hard on the counter, several pens down the other end hopped up in the air.

“Uh, are we cool? I don't have to call anybody or anything, do I?” The man had backed away from the counter a few steps and was reaching for the phone.

Calm down, Lew. You can't help anyone if your ass is in jail.

“Sorry, man. I'm cool. It's just—­” Lew leaned in and motioned the man to come closer to share his secret. “I'm going to lose my job if my boss finds out I forgot to secure the sample,” Lew said, almost in a whisper.

“Sample?”

“It's not contagious or anything. Yet. But I really need this job. It's been a rough year, you know? Lost my last job last month. Those deaths were not my fault. CDC even said so. Think that saved my ass? Not even a little.” The young man's eyes were getting wider with every tidbit of story Lew laid on him.

“So what's this sample?” the young man asked, whispering himself.

“I've already said too much. I don't want to put you in danger. Maybe if . . . nah,” Lew said turning to leave.

“Wait! Maybe if what? Come on, dude. I can help.”

“Well, if I knew where that plane was going, maybe I could meet up with it. Secure the sample there, you know?”

“No worries. I've got it right here,” the young man said with a smile. He punched the keys on his computer for a second. “Stop over in Pensacola, Florida, then on to Zanzibar, Africa. Oh. You're pooched.”

“Why's that?” Lew said, having the information he needed.

“It's supersonic, dude. They're already halfway there. No way you'll catch it.”

“Do you have any flights going out to Pensacola I can hitch a ride on? Cargo or something?”

“Well, yeah, we've got several today, but like I said, you'll never—­”

“You get me in a jump seat and let me worry about that,” Lew said, holding out his bandaged hand. The man shook it. “You just saved my job. Maybe even some lives. You're like a hero, man.”

“Nah,” the man said, practically digging his toe into the sand. “Just helping out.”

“That flight?” Lew said, nodding toward the computer.

“Oh, right,” the young man said before he went to work.

It took what cash Lew had left, but he got the seat. He had forty-­five minutes to wait for his flight out, but if he didn't get that plane held up in Pensacola, he was done. A supersonic jet would be in Zanzibar in a ­couple of hours, though he doubted that was its actual destination. More than likely, it was nearby.

“It's Lew Katchbrow. Let me talk to him,” Lew said into a pay phone a few minutes later. Then a voice Lew thought he'd never hear again came on the line. “Save the pleasantries. I need a favor. And I mean now.”

L
EW EXAMINED HIS
duster as the cargo plane bounced in for a landing in Pensacola three hours after it took off. His collision with the truck back in New York had all but torn out the lining on the left side. On the right side, down near the hem, there were two bullet holes. Lew groaned. It had only been a ­couple days and it was already practically ruined. And he knew he wasn't done yet.

A few minutes later, the plane came to a stop. He undid his seat belt and waded through the tied-­down boxes and crates in the plane's hold, toward the back cargo door. A loud clunk echoed through the plane's cavity and the aircraft shook and rumbled as the entire back end of the plane slowly levered down to the tarmac. Warm air blew in ruffling Lew's short hair. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment. Spring in the Northeast sucked. He'd been cold the entire time. This was a climate he could tolerate. There was even something about the aroma of jet fuel and burning rubber that soothed him. Jonathan called it his army brain. Lew stopped his mind from wandering. He didn't like how he felt when he thought about Jonathan just now. He had to focus on Emily. Which was no problem at all.

The slowly descending tailgate finally gave Lew a view of the airport. Sitting on the tarmac behind the plane was the man he'd called. He was dressed in a white linen suit, had his arms crossed, and was leaning back against a shiny black Hummer, a huge smile on his face. Lew walked down the ramp, his damaged duster flapping behind him in the Everglade breeze. He smiled despite himself. They'd accomplished something together, which always bonded ­people, regardless of their characters.

“
Ese
,” Miguel Colero drawled out as Lew approached. “You look like a freakin' cowboy.” His Latino accent was still hard for Lew to take, and part of him would always think of the man as Mickey King.

“Subtle,” Lew said, glancing up at the huge vehicle behind Colero. They shook hands, both men squeezing harder than they had to. “Couldn't you find anything bigger?”

“I'm back and ­people need to know. Trust me,
ese
, in this thing, they know.”

“I'll bet. I wasn't sure when I called if you'd even be alive. Your competition has been dealt with, I take it.”

“Yes, and there are some very fat and happy alligators to prove it.” Lew didn't need to know more. And with the small talk over, he got down to business.

“You held the plane?” Lew asked.

“
Sí
. But this was not easy, especially with your no-­kill request. Whoever you're fucking with has some serious juice.”

“But the plane is here.”

“
Sí
, on the other side of that building. But we have to go now.”

They drove around the back of the building and as they came around the far corner, the supersonic jet came into view. They were in a remote area hidden from the rest of the airfield. Colero pulled the Hummer to a stop on the edge of the tarmac.

“Where's the crew?”

“Inside, but they are seriously pissed. Especially the Australian. He only calmed down when we let him make a phone call.”

“Who'd he call?”

“No idea.”

“You didn't find a woman on board?”

“No, just two men, including the pilot. But we just pretended to search it when they were off.”

Lew stared at the plane for a few moments, trying to hide his concern. She had to be on board, still. Unless . . . no, if they popped the door on a supersonic jet in flight, it would be ripped apart. She was definitely still on board. Whether she was alive or not was a different story.

“Did you bring my toys?” Lew asked, deciding to continue with his original plan.

“Right here,
ese
,” Colero said, opening the console between their seats. He pulled out two pistols and some spare clips and gave them to Lew. Lew pocketed the clips and put the weapons into his empty holsters. He'd pressed his luck pretty good back in Jersey, but there was no way he could've ridden in a jump seat if he was packing.

“Okay, ten minutes after I'm on board, let them go,” Lew said. He held out his hand and Colero shook it. “We're even, brother.” Colero squeezed hard and didn't let go, Lew's stitches aching.

“We passed
even
when you had me get the DEA to hold the plane, never mind the guns,
ese
.”

“The DEA? They're not your guys?”

“My guys can't hold a plane. Ever heard of the TSA?”

“So they're actual DEA agents. That work for you.”

Colero just looked at Lew and neither confirmed or denied anything.. In a flash Colero's eyes had gone from friendly to feral.

“What do you want?” Lew asked.

“When you've done whatever good deed you're doing, I want just one thing.”

“What's that?”

If he says my soul I'm going to shoot him in the face.

“The ride,” Colero said nodding toward the supersonic jet. Lew didn't hesitate at all.

“Deal.”

Colero smiled and let go, his eyes instantly softening. “
Buena suerte
,” he said, wishing Lew good luck.

Lew got out of the Hummer and, after checking the area, made his way to the plane. He thought about what he'd just promised. If he came through he'd be creating the first supersonic drug dealer in the world. But in reality, he knew he'd be lucky to get out of this thing with his skin, never mind the plane.

Lew slipped on board and after a quick check saw that the plane was indeed empty. Of course, he knew from the years he and Jonathan had slipped artifacts around the globe that just because something looked empty, didn't mean it was. It took him only a ­couple of minutes to find the false floor. He raised the panel—­aware he only had about five minutes—­and felt something tighten in his chest. There she was. Emily was tied up, wearing a gag and a blindfold.

He wanted to lift her up and run out of there, but if he did Jonathan would be lost. There was still a chance they weren't going to where Jonathan was, but it was all he had.

He thought the blindfold made her even prettier, if that was possible.
She's probably scared out of her mind
, Lew thought. He had only a moment but he wanted to put her at ease, let her know that he was there and nothing was going to happen to her. He leaned down next to her ear.

“It's okay—­AH!” The second she'd heard a voice next to her ear, Emily had slammed her head forward and head-­butted Lew above the eye. “Jesus, it's me, Emily. Lew.”

Rubbing the welt forming over his eye, Lew got her to calm down, explaining she had to sit tight for just a while longer. She struggled at first, but eventually calmed down when he held her hands.

“I promise I'll keep you safe, but right now you have to be quiet or this whole thing is going to be blown.”

Lew put the panel back in place, looked out the window, and saw the men leaving the building. Time was up.

Knowing true smugglers always have more than one hiding place, Lew moved to the back of the plane and looked for an empty place to hide. With moments to go, his fingers slipped under the edge of a wall panel. He pulled and the panel came away. It would be a tight squeeze, but he'd fit.

Lew wedged himself in and pulled the panel shut behind him, the clips that held it in place clicking just as he heard voices on the other side. He leaned back, got as comfortable as he could, and then pulled one of the weapons. He checked that it was loaded and then slid the clip back into the handle. He pointed the weapon at the panel and waited.