The Plantation
( Payne and Jones - 1 )
Chris Kuzneski
Chris Kuzneski. The Plantation
(Payne and Jones – 1)
Teaser chapter
“CHRIS KUZNESKI . . .
completely understands what makes for a good story:
action, sex, suspense, humor, and great characters.”
– Nelson DeMille
THE PLANTATION
“INGENIOUS . . . Chris Kuzneski’s writing has the same kind of raw power as the early Stephen King.”
– James Patterson,
New York Times
bestselling author
“EXCELLENT! High stakes, fast action, vibrant characters, and a very, very original plot concept. Not to be missed!”
– Lee Child,
New York Times
bestselling author
“RIVETING . . . Kuzneski displays a remarkable sense of suspense and action . . . will leave readers breathless and up much too late! Don’t miss it!”
– James Rollins,
USA Today
bestselling author
“POWERFUL . . . A great plot twist. Right from the opening scenes, the book takes off, and all I can say is hang on for the ride.”
– Douglas Preston,
New York Times
bestselling author
“GRAPHIC . . . Becomes more sinister with each turn of the page.”
– James Tucker, bestselling author of
Tragic Wand
“ACTION-PACKED . . . The twists and turns of a Stephen King chiller . . . will keep you on the edge of your seat.”
-M. J. Hollingshead,
author of The Inspector’s Wife
“WOW! . . . Powerful stuff. It’s a gripping novel that smells of gunpowder and reeks of heroism, with a beautiful girl, some crazed characters, and lots of sadistic revenge . . . Kuzneski has written a sick, sensational yarn. I can’t wait for the next one.”
-Thom Racina, USA Today bestselling author
Titles by Chris Kuzneski
SWORD OF GOD
SIGN OF THE CROSS
THE PLANTATION
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Foreword
A few years ago I nearly gave up. Like many writers, I had a tough time breaking into the industry. Agents ignored me, and publishers rejected me. My life was like a bad country song, only I didn’t have a mullet. To make matters worse, my savings were almost gone, which meant I was this close to doing something desperate-like getting a “real” job.
Back then, the only thing that stood between me and the workforce was a novel I had just written called The Plantation . It featured two main characters that I really liked, Jonathon Payne and David Jones, and a plot that was pretty original. In hindsight, maybe too original. At least that’s what I was told in several rejection letters. Editors and agents loved the book but weren’t sure how to market it. And in the book business, that is the kiss of death. No marketing means no sales. No sales means no book deal. And no book deal means it’s time to search the want ads.
Thankfully, I came across an article about a company called iUniverse and a new type of technology called print on demand. Simply put, copies of a book could be printed after a book order was placed, thereby eliminating large print runs that a struggling writer like myself couldn’t afford. Suddenly I had the freedom to print a small quantity of books that I could sell to family and friends. And if I was really lucky, total strangers would buy it, too.
Long story short, my plan worked. I sold enough copies out of the trunk of my car to ward off starvation, plus it gave me the confidence to take things one step further. I figured since readers loved The Plantation, maybe writers would as well. So I wrote letters to many of my favorite authors, asking if they’d be interested in reading my book. Incredibly, most of them agreed to help, and before long they were writing letters to me, telling me how much they enjoyed it. And I’m talking about famous authors like James Patterson, Nelson DeMille, Lee Child, Douglas Preston, and James Rollins. Each of them willing to endorse my novel.
Seriously, how cool is that?
Anyway, even though I had their support, I still didn’t have a publisher. But all of that changed when Scott Miller, an agent at Trident Media, bought one of my self-published copies in a Philadelphia bookstore and liked it enough to e-mail me. At the time I had a folder with more than one hundred rejection letters, yet the best young agent in the business bought my book and contacted me. Not only did I get a royalty from his purchase, but I also got the perfect agent.
By then I had written my next novel, a religious thriller called Sign of the Cross, which Scott wanted to shop immediately since The Da Vinci Code was dominating the bestseller lists at that time. It proved to be a wise decision. Within months, he had sold the American rights to Berkley and the foreign rights to more than fifteen publishers around the world.
Finally, I could throw away the want ads.
Next up was Sword of God, which became my second international bestseller. In my mind, it was book three in the Payne/Jones universe. But to most readers, it was only book two because The Plantation was never released by a major publisher.
That is, until now.
Several years have passed since I wrote the first draft of The Plantation. The original version was much longer and contained several mistakes that rookie writers tend to make. With the help of my good friend Ian Harper, I tried to eliminate as many of those as possible-while keeping the plot intact. After a lot of tweaking, I’m thrilled with the final product.
To me, The Plantation is my first love. It’s the book that allowed me to write for a living.
Hopefully, you’ll fall in love with it, too.
CHAPTER 1
Thursday, July 1st
Icy River, Colorado
(122 miles southwest of Denver)
ROBERT Edwards hurdled the fallen spruce but refused to break his frantic stride.
He couldn’t afford to. They were still giving chase.
After rounding a bend in the path, he decided to gamble, leaping from the well-lined trail into the dense underbrush of the forest. He dodged the first few branches, trying to shield his face from their thorny vegetation, but his efforts were futile. His reckless speed, coupled with the early-morning gloom, hindered his reaction time, and within seconds he felt his flesh being torn from his cheeks and forehead. The coppery taste of blood soon flooded his lips.
Ignoring the pain, the thirty-two-year-old struggled forward, increasing his pace until the only sounds he heard were the pounding of his heart and the gasping of his breath. But even then, he struggled on, pushing harder and harder until he could move no farther, until his legs could carry him no more.
Slowing to a stop, Edwards turned and scanned the timber-land for any sign of his pursuers. He searched the ground, the trees, and finally the dark sky above. He had no idea where they had come from-it was like they’d just materialized out of the night-so he wasn’t about to overlook anything. Hell, he wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d emerged from the underworld itself.
Their appearance was that mystifying.
When his search revealed nothing, he leaned against a nearby boulder and fought for air. But the high altitude of the Rockies and the blanket of fear that shrouded him made it difficult to breathe. But slowly, the pungent aroma of the pine-scen
ted air reached his starving lungs.
“I . . . made . . . it,” he whispered in between breaths. “I . . . fuckin’ . . . made . . . it.”
Unfortunately, his joy was short-lived.
A snapping twig announced the horde’s approach, and without hesitation Edwards burst from his resting spot and continued his journey up the sloped terrain. After a few hundred feet, he reached level ground for the first time in several minutes and used the opportunity to regain his bearings. He studied the acreage that surrounded him, looking for landmarks of any kind, but a grove of bright green aspens blocked his view.
“Come on!” He groaned. “Where . . . am . . . I?”
With nothing but instinct to rely on, Edwards turned to his right and sprinted across the uneven ground, searching for something to guide him. A trail, a rock, a bush. It didn’t matter as long as he recognized it. Thankfully, his effort was quickly rewarded. The unmistakable sound of surging water overpowered the patter of his own footsteps, and he knew that could mean only one thing. Chinook Falls was nearby.
Edwards increased his speed and headed for the source of the thunderous sound, using the rumble as a beacon. As he got closer, the dense forest that had concealed the dawn abruptly tapered into a grass-filled clearing, allowing soft beams of light to fall across his blood-streaked face. Suddenly the crystal clear water of the river came into view. It wasn’t much, but to Edwards it was a sign of hope. It meant that things were going to be all right, that he had escaped the evil presence in the woods.
While fighting tears of joy, the athletic ski instructor scurried across the open field, hoping that the campground near the base of the falls would be bustling with early-morning activity, praying that someone had the firepower to stop the advancing mob.
Regrettably, Edwards never got a chance to find out.
Before he reached the edge of the meadow, two hooded figures dressed in black robes emerged from a thicket near the water’s edge, effectively cutting off his escape route. Their sudden appearance forced him to react, and he did, planting his foot in the soft soil and banking hard to the left. Within seconds he’d abandoned the uncovered space of the pasture and had returned to the wooded cover of the thick forest. It took a moment to readjust to the darkness, but once he did, he decided to climb the rocky bluff that rose before him.
At the top of the incline, Edwards veered to his right, thinking he could make it to the crest of the falls before anyone had a chance to spot him. At least that was his plan. He moved quickly, focusing solely on the branches that endangered his face and the water that surged in the distance. But his narrow focus prevented him from seeing the stump that lay ahead. In a moment of carelessness, he caught his foot on its moss-covered roots and instantly heard a blood-curdling snap. He felt it, too, crashing hard to the ground.
In a final act of desperation, Edwards struggled to his feet, pretending nothing had happened, but the lightning bolt of pain that exploded through his tattered leg was so intense, so agonizing, he collapsed to the ground like a marionette without strings.
“Shit!” he screamed, suddenly realizing the hopeless-ness of his situation. “Who the hell are you? What do you want from me?!”
Unfortunately, he was about to find out.
CHAPTER 2
Mars, Pennsylvania
(13 miles north of Pittsburgh)
THE alarm clock buzzed at 10:00 A.M., but Jonathon Payne didn’t feel like waking up. He had spent the previous night hosting a charity event-one that lasted well past midnight-and now he was paying for his lack of sleep. Begrudgingly, after hitting the snooze button twice, he forced himself out of bed.
“God, I hate mornings,” he moaned.
After getting undressed, the brown-haired bachelor twisted the brass fixtures in his shower room and eased his chiseled, 6’4”, 230-pound frame under the surging liquid. When he was done, he hustled through the rest of his morning routine, threw on a pair of jeans and a golf shirt, and headed to his kitchen for a light breakfast.
He lived in a mansion that he’d inherited from his grandfather, the man who raised Payne after the death of his parents. Even though the house was built in 1977, it still had the feel of a brand-new home due to Payne’s passion for neatness and organization, traits he had developed in the military.
Payne entered the U.S. Naval Academy as a member of the basketball and football teams, but it was his expertise in hand-to-hand combat, not man-to-man defense, that eventually got him recognized. Two years after graduation, he was selected to join the MANIACs, a highly classified special operations unit composed of the best soldiers the Marines, Army, Navy, Intelligence, Air Force, and Coast Guard could find. Established at the request of the Pentagon, the MANIACs’ goal was to complete missions that the U.S. government couldn’t afford to publicize: political assassinations, antiterrorist acts, etc. The squad was the best of the best, and their motto was fitting. If the military can’t do the job, send in the MANIACs.
Of course, all of that was a part of Payne’s past.
He was a working man now. Or at least he tried to be.
THE Payne Industries complex sat atop Mount Washington, offering a breathtaking view of the Pittsburgh skyline and enough office space for 550 employees. One of the execu tives-a vice president in the legal department-was exiting the glass elevator as Payne was stepping in.
“Morning,” Payne said.
“Barely,” the man replied, as he headed off for a lunch meeting.
Payne smiled at the wisecrack, then made a mental note to dock the bastard’s wages. Well, not really. But as CEO of his family’s company, Payne didn’t have much else to do, other than showing up for an occasional board meeting and using his family name to raise money for charities. Everything else, he left to his underlings.
Most people in his position would try to do more than they could handle, but Payne understood his limitations. He realized he wasn’t blessed with his grandfather’s business acumen or his passion for the corporate world. And even though his grandfather’s dying wish was for Payne to run the company, he didn’t want to screw it up. So while people with MBAs made the critical decisions, Payne stayed in the background, trying to help the community.
The moment Payne walked into his penthouse office, his elderly secretary greeted him. “How did last night’s event go?”
“Too late for my taste. Those Make-A-Wish kids sure know how to party.”
She smiled at his joke and handed him a stack of messages. “Ariane just called. She wants to discuss your plans for the long weekend.”
“What? She must be mistaken. I’d never take a long weekend. Work is way too important!”
The secretary rolled her eyes. Payne had once taken a vacation for Yom Kippur, and he wasn’t even Jewish. “D.J. called, too. In fact, he’d like you to stop down as soon as you can.”
“Is it about a case?” he asked excitedly.
“I have no idea, but he stressed it was very important.”
“Great! Give him a call and tell him I’m on my way.”
With a burst of adrenaline, Payne bypassed the elevator and headed directly to the stairs, which was the quickest way to Jones’s office during business hours. When he reached his best friend’s floor, he stopped to admire the gold lettering on the smoked glass door.
DAVID JOSEPH JONES Private Investigator
He liked the sound of that, especially since he’d helped Jones achieve it.
When Payne inherited the large office complex from his grandfather, he gave Jones, a former lieutenant of his, a chance to live out his dream. Payne arranged the necessary financing and credit, gave him an entire floor of prime Pittsburgh real estate, and provided him with a well-paid office staff. All Payne wanted in return was to be a part of his friend’s happiness.
Oh, and to assist Jones on all of his glamorous cases.
Plus he wanted business cards that said Jonathon Payne, Private Eye.
But other than that, he just wanted his friend to be happy.
>
Payne waved at Jones’s receptionist, who was talking on the phone, and entered the back office. Jones was sitting behind his antique desk, a scowl etched on his angular face. He had short hair, which was tight on the sides, and cheeks that were free from stubble.
“What’s up?” Payne asked. “Trouble in Detectiveland?”
“It’s about time you got here,” Jones barked. His light mocha skin possessed a reddish hue that normally wasn’t there. “I’ve been waiting for you all morning.”
Payne plopped into the chair across from Jones. “I came down as soon as I got your message. What’s the problem?”
Jones exhaled as he eased back into his leather chair. “Before I say anything, I need to stress something to you. What I’m about to tell you is confidential. It’s for your ears only. No one, and I mean no one, is allowed to know anything about this but you. All right?”
Payne smiled at the possibilities. This sounded like something big. He couldn’t wait to hear what it was. Maybe a robbery, or even a murder. Jones’s agency had never handled a crime like that. “Of course! You can count on me. I promise.”
Relief flooded Jones’s face. “Thank God.”
“So, what is it? A big case?”
Jones shook his head, then slowly explained the situation. “You know how you have all those boxes of gadgets near my filing cabinets in the storage area?”
“Yeah,” Payne replied. He’d been collecting magic tricks and gizmos ever since he was a little boy. His grandfather had started the collection for him, buying him a deck of magic playing cards when Payne was only five, and the gift turned out to be habit-forming. Ever since then, Payne was hooked on the art of prestidigitation. “What about ’em?”
“Well,” Jones muttered, “I know I’m not supposed to mess with your stuff. I know that. But I went in there to get some paperwork this morning, and . . .”
“And what? What did you do?”
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