The Monarch (5 page)

The stranger ran past Lew and kept going. Lew spun and ran after him.

“Come on!” he shouted when Lew sidestepped into the stall that had been his dressing room minutes ago. He grabbed his duster and slipped it on before heading back out.

“Seriously?” he said when he saw what Lew had done. “A coat?”

“This is a great fucking coat,” Lew said. “A lot of memories are in this coat.”

Just then one of Chico's men emerged from a side room. It took him only a second to see what was happening. The stranger, obviously caught off guard, raised his machete, but the man grabbed it with one hand and pulled out a knife with the other. He was thrusting downward when a shot rang out. The bullet caught the man in the shoulder, the blade flying out of his hand. Lew fired again, hitting the wounded man in the forehead. He fell to the ground, dead. The stranger looked up at Lew.

“A lot of memories and one damn fine gun,” Lew said with a grin.

“Thanks,” he said. “Now, come on.”

They ran down the length of the stable and found the back door Lew had mentioned. Never slowing, Lew kicked the door open as they ran. The light wasn't as bright now, the afternoon turning to dusk, but it still took them a second to survey the area.

A dirt road ran past the back of the stable, obviously a ser­vice road meant for trucks and horses. To the right the road wound up and then around a bend behind some shacks. To the left it shot straight down a steep incline that seemed to go on forever, but eventually met up with a paved road in the distance that looked like some kind of highway with almost no traffic. Straight across the road was nothing but jungle. This close to dusk, that way was a fool's journey.

“Which way?” Lew asked.

“I have no idea,” the stranger said as the first man from the crowd came around the corner, bringing his shotgun to bear on them.

Lew fired twice, wood from the back of the stable exploding over the man's head. The man dropped his shotgun and ran back around the corner. The stranger ran over and picked up the shotgun, cracking it open to check it—­it wasn't loaded. He tossed the useless shotgun to the ground and rejoined Lew.

“What do you mean you have no idea?” Lew shouted, eyeballing both him and the corner of the barn. “What happened to your big plan?”

“This was it. Get us away from the crowd and out the back door. End of plan.”

“Remind me never to disarm a bomb with you,” Lew said, looking at the wall of jungle in front of them.

“Forget it,” he said, and motioned down the hill. “We go that way.”

“Why?” Lew asked, though he joined him in a light jog as they headed down the road.

“We have no idea what's around the bend back there. Unknown is bad. We like known. So we go this way. Besides, in this altitude, if you have to run, do it downhill.”

Lew had things he wanted to ask this guy, but they needed to conserve their energy for the run, so he just listened to the rhythm of their feet smacking the hard-­packed earth.

They reached the pavement and stood on the side of the road bent over and panting, Lew more so than his new partner.

They'd almost caught their breath when a truck's lights came over the hill. They flagged him down and the stranger convinced the driver to let them ride in the back of the open-­topped cargo truck into downtown Bogotá.

They walked around the back of the truck and the stranger hopped up with Lew's help. He turned around and stuck out his hand to help Lew up. Lew looked at him for a moment but then put up his hands like the offer to help him up was a hold-­up.

“Not me, gringo. I'm not done here, yet,” Lew said.

“What? What are you going to do, go back to fighting?”

“No, I think you pretty much put an end to my career on this circuit. Hey, don't sweat it. It was time, anyways. You did me a favor. No, I . . . I just haven't found what I'm looking for yet,” Lew said, looking off toward the mountains.

“In my experience, if a man gets too comfortable looking for something, he won't recognize it when it finally shows up,” he said. Lew looked away but didn't say anything. “Come on, what could it hurt. Let me treat you to a night of the good Bogotá on Uncle Sam's nickel. Then if you still feel the death wish gnawing at you, I'll get you a ride back in the morning.”

“Uncle Sam, huh?” Lew said.

“Am I telling you anything you didn't already know?”

“Not really,” Lew said. He thought it over for a moment and then reached up and took his hand, but just to shake it.

“Name's Lew,” he said.

“Jonathan,” the man in black said. Lew made no move to get in the truck.

“Later, Jonny. Don't take any wood—­”

A bullet zinged past Lew's head. They looked up the hill and saw a group of about forty men running toward them full-­tilt. Another ­couple of wild shots screamed over their heads.

Lew and Jonathan exchanged the realization, eyes wide. Jonathan pulled and Lew came flying into the back of the already moving truck.

J
ONATHAN AND
L
EW
leaned back in their chairs on the patio of the Cielo Jardin restaurant in the north end of Bogotá, their stomachs full of red snapper and spicy corn and potato soup. They'd ridden in the truck as far as the farmer would take them, which happened to be far enough away from the angry mob. They walked for a few miles before they came to a phone. Jonathan made a call, spoke a code, and twenty minutes later a car showed up. The window whirred down and an envelope was passed out before the window whirred back up and the car drove off. Inside the envelope was a passport, keys for a safe house, and a credit card paid by the government. Jonathan tried not to enjoy the stunned look on his new companion's face too much. They grabbed a taxi, and fifty thousand pesos later, they were taking a spot on the restaurant's patio.

It was a beautiful night; the sky was clear and the light breeze was kept off them by the long sheets that hung from the top of the patio's pergola, tied off on the railing that ran around the serving area. With each gust the white sheets snapped full and arched, looking more like a ship's sail.

The dinner and the night were on Jonathan. Or, on Jonathan's credit card, which his agency paid. It was the last meal he'd ever have at their expense. He was done with the intrigue.

“So how long were you in?” Jonathan asked before taking another pull on his bottle of Aguila.

“Still shows?” Lew asked, lighting a cigar to go with the whiskey he was drinking. Jonathan had never seen anyone who could hold his liquor like this guy. He was pretty sure Lew was just a lost soul, but it wouldn't be the first time someone was placed in his life to test him.

“Mostly in the way you fight. You don't pick that up on the street,” Jonathan said. Lew took a long draw of smoke and blew it up into the air over the table, the wind quickly dissipating the plumes.

“Ten years. Or would have been ten years.” Lew didn't expand on that.

“What made you quit?”

“How do you know I quit? Maybe I got drummed out or I'm AWOL. You never can tell,” Lew said with a grin and a wink.

“I can. Usually,” Jonathan said. He had to admit, Lew was hard to read, but he didn't get the sense he failed at much he set his mind to. “And you didn't answer the question.”

“I guess I owe you that much for getting me out of there. Not sure why I didn't leave on my own,” Lew said, sounding disappointed in himself. Jonathan knew how that could happen. Sometimes you get into spots that you think you deserve, whether it's true or not.

Once Lew's lips loosened up, they just kept on going. He obviously felt a kinship of some sort with Jonathan, but Jonathan got the sense that Lew had been waiting for a while to tell his story. To anyone.

He'd gone into the military to change the world. To do some good and help ­people. And he'd spent all ten years doing exactly the opposite. After what he went through in Kuwait, all to preserve the flow of oil to drag racers in the States, Lew had had enough.

“I took a half pension and walked away,” Lew said. “Haven't looked back since,” he said, raising his glass before downing it. Jonathan knew that wasn't true.

“You know what I think? I think you put so much of yourself into the army that when you left you didn't even know who you were anymore. I mean, you said, ‘If I'm not a soldier, who the hell am I?' And you've been wandering around ever since trying to find the answer. Mostly in the bottom of a bottle or at the end of someone's fist,” Jonathan said, watching Lew's expression slip from jovial to stoic.

“Getting kinda personal there, Jonny,” Lew said. He wasn't angry, he just seemed unimpressed. “Maybe I should tell you what I think of you.”

“Maybe you should,” Jonathan said. Sometimes listening to someone talk told you more about him than a profile could.

“All right,” Lew said, his grin returning. Jonathan knew his type. If you made it a game, he was up for almost anything. “Let's see. You're obviously a spook. You're not with the major agencies, at least not directly. You're on your own. And you like it that way. But I'm thinking you're about as happy with your career as I was.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Those melon heads that grabbed you and brought you to Bogotá. There's a sheen on you that says if you really were on your game, no way they would have gotten you. Or survived to transport you. You let them take you. You wanted to see what adventure they took you on. You were so bored, anything else was better. Especially if there was some risk involved. Which landed you in my little sandbox.”

“Interesting theory,” Jonathan said, hiding his amazement at Lew's intuitiveness.
This guy is way smarter than he looks.

The next few hours were filled with more such discussions; some opinion and some confessional. And lots of alcohol. Jonathan told Lew that he did indeed feel the same way. He'd become a spy to fight the supposed evils in the world. But more often than not, he watched the powerful prevail while the weak suffered.

The restaurant owner finally got them to leave so he could close by giving them each a bottle of whiskey to take with them. With no destination and enjoying their newfound friendship too much, they wandered the streets of northern Bogotá, alternately singing and laughing.

Stopping in an alley to relieve themselves, Jonathan fell backward over some garbage cans while trying to do up his fly.

“Jeshus, you okay?” Jonathan said from the ground.

“Yeah, I'm fine. You I'm not so sure about,” Lew said, bending over to help him up. Instead, Jonathan ended up pulling Lew onto the ground with him. They laughed and sat up against the alley wall.

They stared at the night for a while. Their wild ride was over and they knew it. Pretty soon they'd fall asleep or pass out, and tomorrow they'd wake up to a world of hurt and unknowns.

“You know my only regret? Well, my recent regret,” Jonathan said.

“You weren't man enough to join the army?”

“Ha-­ha. No, seriously. When I was in Brazil I was doing a handoff to this fat cat in the government. Guy had a house the size of my old high school. And you could tell by the way he walked around he didn't think anything could hurt him. He was completely untouchable. But that wasn't even enough for him. After the handoff, he had to march me around and show me all his shit. Stuff he'd had stolen for him from all over the world. He was one of these private collectors. Art, antiq . . . antiq . . . old expensive shit, books—­you name it.

“He shows me this secret room he's got in the basement where he keeps his best stuff. Stuff that should be in museums. And all I keep thinking is why do you have this stuff if you keep it locked away in a room in your basement? What's the point, you know?”

“Yeah. That's your regret?”

“No, no. In this room, he has this one painting. I kid you not, a fucking van Gogh. He had some guy steal it for him years ago and replace it with a copy he had made. I mean, the museum has been showing this fake to ­people for years and they don't even know it. All these ­people who spent their tiny amount of vacation time to go see this work of art, this thing of beauty, and they've been staring at a fake. It just made me mad.”

“I hear ya,” Lew said.

“My regret is that I didn't have the balls to lay him out and take the painting back to the museum where it belongs.”

“So why don't we steal it?”

“Yeah, right. We should,” Jonathan said, laughing. He looked at Lew's face and saw he wasn't kidding. “Are you serious? We can't do that.”

“Why not? Think about it. You're as pissed as I am at how the world works. The rich get richer, the poor get poorer, and it ain't ever changing. And in a few days we're going to go our separate ways and you know as well as I do we're going to either end up dead or doing the same old shit we were doing before. But this could be our chance. Our chance to do
one
thing right. Our chance to feel good about something.”

“Yeah, but—­”

“You gonna tell me you've never stolen anything as part of an op?”

“No, that's not the point.”

“Then what's the point?”

“The point is . . . the point is . . .” Jonathan trailed off and thought about it. Soon he was smiling. “The point is it would feel fucking great.”

 

PART TWO

Saturday

 

5

New York City

10:05
P.M.
Local Time

W
ITH A FINAL
thump on the thick glass, Emily Burrows fell back into the Town Car's creamy silver leather upholstery, the heel of her hand red and sore from pounding on the glass for over five minutes straight, her throat raw from screaming. The panic rifling through her body aside, she'd never been in such a luxurious car before. At almost six feet tall, her slender frame fit easily into the space, a new experience for someone who spent most of her life banging her head on low ceilings. As her panting eased, she was about to start a renewed assault on her prison when a melodic voice spoke by her ear. She snapped her head around, confirming she was alone in the ample space.

“Over here, Miss Burrows,” the voice said.

It was coming from one of the three LCD screens set into the wood grain panel along the front of the compartment, door-­to-­door smoked glass above it, similar to the glass on the doors and behind her. Unlike most tinted glass, she couldn't see through these at all.

This car was made for kidnapping
. The thought renewed her panic and her breathing sped up. She swallowed hard and fought futilely to calm down.

“Please try to relax, Miss Burrows. Have a drink.” With that last, a seamless panel opened, revealing a few bottles of water in a refrigerated compartment. Against her better judgment, her dry throat made her grab one of the bottles and gulp down half of it.

Just then, the LCD screen showed the image of a well-­appointed study, rows and rows of bookshelves in the background. Sitting at an expensive-­looking desk was a man in a black suit, white shirt, and thin black tie. The man wore a mask over his eyes and nose. The kind of mask worn at luxurious masquerade balls: Short, colorful feathers sprouted out the top of the mask, and loops of jewels hung down from the bottom.

On the desk in front of the stranger sat a copy of her book:
The Monarch's Reign
. She could see that more than half of the books behind the stranger in the rows of shelves were also versions of her book. All of the translations and formats were there: hardcover, softcover, book club, Italian, Spanish, French, German, and on and on.

A psychotic fan? Is that what this is all about?
If nothing else, she was glad he was just an image on a screen. Actually being in that room would have been too much to take.

“Better?” the man asked, an almost gentle smile below the bizarre mask.

“Better? No, it's not bloody better! You won't get away with this,” Emily said, looking at the screen, but slowly reaching into her bag. The water had calmed her somewhat, at least enough to think. She slipped her cell phone out of the bag and attempted to dial without looking at it.

“Please stop wasting time. Your phone won't work in there,” the man said, seeming disappointed rather than angry.

Emily stopped moving for a moment when her ploy was spotted. She looked up and saw a tiny camera in the corner of the car's cab. She dialed 911 anyway. After a moment she saw he was right. There were no bars on her phone at all.
Bollocks
.

“Who are you? What do you want? Why am I here?” Emily spouted.

“I just want to talk. I think it will be quite beneficial for both of us,” the man said.

“Well . . . you better talk fast. That was a police detective I was with when your thug grabbed me,” Emily said accusingly, tossing her phone back in her bag. The detective was taking her down to the chief medical examiner's office on First Avenue to be questioned about the subject of her book when a woman nearby had screamed, distracting him. He'd told her to stay put on the sidewalk while he went to see what was happening, then the thug grabbed her and pushed her into her current prison. The screamer was obviously a ruse.

“Yes, Miss Burrows, I know. Time is shorter than you could possibly imagine. That's what I want to talk to you about. Be reasonable and you'll be back on the sidewalk in just a few minutes. I need your help,” the man said.

“My
help
? Are you bloody insane? Why would I—­” Emily briefly wondered what would happen to her if she wasn't
reasonable
.

“Or should I call you Miss
Denham
?” the man said softly. Emily's bluster evaporated, her eyes widening and her mouth dropping open at the use of her real name.

Thoughts raced through Emily's mind.
How much does he know? Does he just know the name or does he know everything?
She knew there was only one way to find out.

“Why . . . why would you call me that? My name is—­”

“Emily Katherine Denham,” the man said. “Daughter of Sir Richard Denham, curator of the British Museum in London. Thirty-­two years old, you studied law and criminology at Oxford University until you were expelled in your third year for . . . poor judgment. Your father used his influence to get you a posting with Interpol as the editor of their Web site, which you did for three years before resigning and dropping out of sight. Shortly before Emily Burrows, ex-­Interpol
operative
showed up in New York. You spent the next two years researching and writing
The Monarch's Reign
, which was published two years ago. Did I miss anything?”

Emily drained the rest of her water and then slumped into her seat, deflated.

“You said it would be mutually beneficial. Beneficial how?” she asked.

“Much better,” the man said.

A buzzer sounded beyond the obscured glass above the LCD panels. Almost instantly the glass whirred down from the top a few inches. A gloved hand pushed a metal case through the opening.

“Take the case. It's yours,” the masked man said. She was tempted to jump up and look at who was in the front seat, or scream, hoping the glass wasn't as thick up there. Not that anyone would notice even if she was right. But with the revelation of her past, especially the mention of her father, she needed to play this out at the moment. He hadn't said as much, but the implication was clear—­extortion. Honor was everything to her father and his world. If the truth about her past came out, it would destroy him.

She took the case and put it on her lap. The window whirred back up into place.

“Open it,” he said.

She did. And stared speechless at the contents.

“I trust I have your attention,” he said.

Emily lifted one of the packets of money out of the case and riffled through the bills to be sure it wasn't a ­couple of banknotes with newspaper between them. It wasn't.

“What exactly do you want from me?” Emily said, still mesmerized by the cash.

“To give you an opportunity. An opportunity to finish what you started,” he said, gesturing with the copy of
The Monarch's Reign
.

The fear and anxiety in her chest now had a new comrade—­excitement.
Can it be?

“I want you to reveal The Monarch's true identity.”

The words were so heady and powerful, she thought she might pass out.

“But first, we have some work to do. Or rather, you do.”

The other two LCD screens snapped to life, showing several disfigured murder victims. Emily was dizzy with the roller coaster of emotions she felt from the fear of abduction, to the elation of a dream come true, and now to this—­revulsion and horror.

“Pay attention, Miss Burrows. You have much to learn.”

E
IGHT THOUSAND MILES
from New York, as Emily was released from her limo prison, Nathan Kring, CEO of Kring Industries, took off his mask. He rose from behind his desk and slowly walked to the floor-­to-­ceiling smoked windows overlooking his compound's courtyard. He stared at the jungle and then the ocean beyond, the sun just rising in the distance. Paradise.

Any normal man would have been satisfied to forget the world and spend the day on the beach working the burning sand through his toes. He wasn't any normal man. And the disease racing through his dying body would soon overcome the serum pumped into him that allowed him to appear normal. But he wasn't the only one that was dying.

Kring Industries was practically in its death throes, thanks to the past six months. The past six months—­and The Monarch. The view outside his pseudo-­castle's window and a few small companies scattered around the world were all that were left of the billions in enterprise his father, Bertil Kring, had left him. Nathan could just imagine his father's smug face as he watched his prediction come true. If he were alive, that is. The corner of Nathan's mouth twitched slightly at that last thought. To anyone else it might have just appeared as the first signs that the serum was wearing off. He knew better.

It was a Hail Mary, a final-­ditch effort to prove his father wrong, the only thing he really cared about. If not for that, he'd willingly give in to the pain and anguish that was now his daily life and embrace the sweet relief he was staving off. He had to triumph—­had to live—­to have time to rebuild what he'd pissed away.

But at what cost?

Nathan, whose pride was immeasurable, had not only swallowed it, but had all but bootlicked over the past six months for his one last chance to triumph and fulfill his life's destiny. The only obstacle in his way now was a faceless thief hiding in America.

Nathan shook off the doubts trying to overtake him and redoubled his confidence in his plan. All the pieces were in place and there was no turning back now. Doubts were pointless. He would prevail—­prevail and more. And in a matter of days he'd crush the life out of the one thing standing between him and his survival.

The Monarch.