Royal Elite: Leander

by Danielle Bourdon

  And for good reason.

  To throw people off, Leander had dropped hints among the lower ranks that his family was in banking, and at another party halfway around the world two weeks later, he'd suggested a royal connection. Of course society twisted the tale to their own liking, embellishing grandly until Leander was actually the son of a superstar soccer player, which was exactly the reason he'd dropped all his hints into the ears of very drunk people in the first place. It added to the general confusion and kept him out of the limelight. It kept tongues wagging and people guessing, never a bad outcome when he wanted to steer true knowledge as far away as he could.

  Someday, he knew, he would have to tell Wynn. So far she hadn't pressed him too hard for information, but it wouldn't last. Especially when they had children.

  “You going to sit in the seat and miss all the action?” Sander said.

  Interrupted from his mental reverie, Leander snapped his attention from the window to Sander. The jet had come to a stop after taxiing into place and both Sander and Mattias stood near the door, waiting.

  “I'm coming, I'm coming.” Lurching up out of the seat, he snagged his backpack and followed the men down the stairs to the tarmac. Even for early morning, a hot wind gusted across the terrain, whipping at their clothing and packs. Each man carried hidden weapons and extra ammunition along with other gear sometimes needed on missions. Rope, knives, gloves and many other articles that came in handy in a pinch. No one asked any questions, no one stopped to check their bags. Money greased the palms of the hands that mattered and anyone in authority looked the other way.

  Entering the terminal, a squat, square building that blasted cold air from high vents, the men navigated the spacious layout of sofas and chairs and the single side bar manned by two bartenders. Through the other set of doors, a rugged, all terrain vehicle resembling a miniature tank waited. To better blend into the desert landscape known in this part of the world, the transport was the color of sand, with tread on the tires gutted so deep Leander could nearly fit his entire boot inside.

  A driver sat in the front seat, decked out in military fatigues the same color as the vehicle, someone known and used by the elite on missions of this nature. For every five men on the ground, there were fifty doing work behind the scenes: intel hackers, computer wizards, photographers, spies. The Elite kept their network of outsiders as small as possible to avoid detection. Whenever possible, they chose to pull from the higher echelons of society, functioning as a group under the radar of everyone else.

  Climbing into the passenger seat, Leander took point and tucked his backpack down into the space between his feet. Mattias and Sander got in the back and banged their doors closed.

  “All right, let's go.” Leander wasted no time getting away from the airport. As the vehicle surged away from the building, he started the process of arming himself. Shoulder holsters, knife belts, extra magazines of ammunition and other weaponry found their home somewhere on his body. The growl of the engine drowned out the sound of ripping velcro as he filled the pockets of his vest and pants.

  Mattias guided the driver from the back seat, directing him around the heart of the city to the perimeter. Here, where the modern creep of technology knocked on the door of old, dated structures, the past warred with the future for dominance. Leander saw decaying clay, stone and wood buildings stand between ultra contemporary, all glass centerpieces of stunning architecture. In his vast travels, Leander had seen what he referred to as The Takeover time and again. Eventually, the most ancient buildings would either be honored and saved as relics and remembered history, or flattened to the ground in favor of progress.

  It never failed to make him nostalgic to see bits of history ground to dust. Even in countries that were not his homeland, he experienced flashes of sorrow for the lost ambiance that simply couldn't be replaced once it was gone.

  Eventually, after a half hour of stop signs, stop lights and turns, the vehicle pulled up behind a moderately aged building with five floors. Leander couldn't tell if it had once housed apartments or commercial offices.

  “This is where we're making our final preparations.” Mattias exited the vehicle at the same time as Sander.

  Leander followed suit, dragging his much lighter pack over a shoulder. Already the temperature was rising outside, vaulting past an arid but cool morning straight into hot-as-an-oven territory. Beneath the layers of his dark clothing, heat pricked his skin. The interior of the structure wasn't much better; either it didn't have air conditioning or the unit was out.

  Trained to deal with all kinds of weather and extreme conditions, Leander dismissed the discomfort and focused on the white washed walls, chipped stone floor and the utter lack of décor. It looked as if someone had simply thrown watered down white paint on the walls and called it a day. He saw no furniture in the halls or the rooms they passed on the way to the stairs.

  Winding through a back corridor while Mattias plotted their progress from a schematic on his phone, Leander shrugged the pack up higher on his shoulder, taking note that the monstrous transport had not left yet. Ever aware, Leander filed away the knowledge that an extra man remained downstairs, covering their back.

  On the fourth floor, the last room on the right was as nondescript as the rest of the building. White walls, plain floor, furniture and all remnants of old tenants stripped away. A quick glance told Leander that there were no other rooms, not even a kitchenette. No heater or vent ducts. It was the basest of base living conditions, abandoned for greener pastures.

  Heavily framed windows overlooked the street below. Across the road stood other buildings, some as decrepit as this one, others of newer make.

  Mattias put his pack down in the farthest corner and set the phone on the ledge of the windowsill. From his pack he withdrew a pair of binoculars and sighted in on a structure across the street, perhaps three buildings down.

  Leander stood to the side of the window and examined the area, honing in on the same structure Mattias viewed. He didn't need to be told that was where Kristo was being held. The beige, six story building was of the same era as the one they currently stood in, with at least two entrances or exits that he could see. Pulling his own pair of binoculars from his pack, Leander took in the questionable detail of the fragile looking doors and the boarded windows on the lowest floor.

  “They're on one of the higher floors, probably, which means we're going to have to ascend the stairs blind,” Sander said. He had binoculars in hand as well.

  “Unless there's some kind of outer staircase in the back, I don't see any other way up,” Leander said.

  “That door on the side looks promising. We can approach from the back, along the other block, so they don't see us coming from the street out front,” Mattias said.

  “Darkness should give us decent cover.” Leander lowered the binoculars and set them on the concrete floor below the window. He slung his pack to the ground and went through a secondary weapon and ammunition check.

  “We'll plan for a night raid unless intel comes back that the people responsible for the kidnapping are getting itchy trigger fingers should Augustin not come up with the money,” Mattias said.

  Leander added, “And I have a feeling he won't. Things are about to get dicey.”

  . . .

  Thanks to a layover in Britain and another in New York, Wynn didn't arrive on the west coast of the United States until the wee hours of the following morning. By the time she collected her luggage and car from the rental company, the sky was just starting to lift from purple-black to pewter tinged with pink. Departing Arcata airport in a compact rental car, Wynn punched in the address on the navigator and followed guidance onto Highway 101, heading north.

  With the Pacific to her left, Wynn drove up the coast toward the Redwoods. She stopped for coffee and something small to fill her stomach as the sun breached the horizon, eating on the road because she didn't want to waste precious minutes loitering around a fast food restaurant. Aware of the press o
f time, of the days creeping past closer toward the wedding, all Wynn could think about was finding Leander's father and putting an end to whatever danger her fiance might be in.

  Towering redwood trees, the reddish trunks broad and tall, crowded closer to the road as she drew in closer to her destination. The forest of ancient trees threw dappled shadows over the winding road as the sun began its slow ascent into the sky.

  Any other time, Wynn would have paused to enjoy the unique giants and the expansive forest floor. She loved the redwoods and had spent time in this part of the world on former vacations. Assuming this was where Leander grew up, that the address was a house his father owned, it amazed her to think Leander had been here the whole time, living his life unaware his future wife paid regular visits to the area. She'd had to go halfway around the world to meet him, and wasn't that the irony of ironies.

  Leaving the main highway behind, Wynn navigated the directions from the GPS through several smaller side roads, where quaint businesses and most other residences disappeared. For nine miles, she saw nothing but trees.

  Driving slower, Wynn rounded a gentle curve and hit a small straightaway. Signs, brightly yellow with bold black lettering, announced this was a Dead End. A voice penetrated the quiet music in the background. “In a quarter of a mile, your destination is ahead on the right.”

  Indeed.

  Pulling to the shoulder, Wynn stared up past heavy tree trunks to the homestead sitting back a small distance from the road. Whatever she expected to find at the end of her journey wasn't the modest, log cabin style house nestled into uncountable acres smack in the middle of the forest. A broad front porch with rocking chairs overlooking the trees gave the residence a comfortable, lived in appearance. The house wasn't cut from a millionnaire's budget, but it also wasn't a shack by any means, with its well cared for exterior and fine craftsmanship.

  Putting the car in park, Wynn cut the engine and exited the vehicle. In such a desolate area, she didn't think twice about leaving her purse on the passenger seat or the keys in the ignition. She did take the letter with her, however, as she walked up the flat driveway, assaulted by the scent of forest and greenery and the pungent musk of redwood bark.

  Once, she thought she saw a flicker of movement in the rugged terrain, but by the time she looked, all was still and calm. A darting rabbit or other forest creature, no doubt.

  Noting the driveway led back beyond the house to a separate garage and other strange looking outbuildings, Wynn cut across the sidewalk, ascended the wooden stairs, and knocked on the front door.

  She couldn't tell if anyone was home or not.

  After several minutes and no answer, she knocked again. If she had to park her backside in one of the rockers and wait, she would.

  Whatever it took.

  Deciding to explore, in case Leander's father was out in the back and unable to hear, Wynn left the porch via a side set of smaller stairs and followed the driveway toward the three car garage. Three more buildings of varying size flanked the property. One in particular, all white with small, high windows, reminded Wynn of an above ground bunker. A steel door that looked impossible to breach faced the garage, just visible from her position.

  “Hello? Excuse me, is anyone here?” She paused beside the garage. Behind the house, between it and the bunker-building, was a neatly tended yard. A back porch, larger than the one in the front, spanned the entire back of the house. Steps led down onto a square area of nestled stones that created a sitting area beneath the enormous trees, with several, expensive looking outdoor sectionals surrounding a stone fire pit.

  “Hello?” Her voice echoed, bouncing back off the landscape.

  “You better have a good reason to be here,” a voice said behind her.

  Wynn spun around, fingers clutching the letter so hard it crinkled. The man standing between her and the homestead wore such a hard look that it momentarily set Wynn back. That he'd managed to convey hostile intention with features that looked soft, almost rubbery, as if he'd not lost all the baby fat out of his face even in his middle fifties, was a feat in itself. Thin, metal rimmed glasses covered eyes the exact same color as Leander's. A neutral gray, lighter than slate but darker than ash. Close to six feet, his build was bird-like, thinner through the extremities and lean everywhere else. A plaid shirt of white and tiny blue lines looked a little more nerdly than anything Leander might wear, as well as the beige slacks and loafers this man wore. He resembled someone Wynn would expect to find at a troublesome desk job in a mediocre company.

  What shocked her more than anything was the shotgun he held in two hands across his body, muzzle pointed up in the air.

  “I...you must be Leander's father. I came here because of this.” Wynn flipped the paper around, fingers pinching the edge so the rest flopped into the man's view.

  The man never looked down. He stared at Wynn as if trying to decide whether or not to shoot her.

  Undaunted, Wynn said, “It says here that Leander is in danger. I want to know what kind of danger and how to make it go away. You—this is your letter, it has to be—state that he'll die unless he comes to see you. So what can you do to help him? What information do you have that he needs?”

  “And so he will. Die that is. Since you've got the letter instead of him, I suspect you've confiscated his mail and that he hasn't seen it. Either that, or he's choosing death.” The man tightened his grip on the shotgun, as if the thought of Leander willfully ignoring the summons upset him.

  “He hasn't seen it because he's gone right now. I mean away from home. I'm Wynn, his fiance. I opened the letter because someone hand delivered it and I thought it might be important.” Wynn forced herself to focus past the sudden pounding of her heart. To hear someone speak of Leander's demise so cavalierly shook Wynn to her core.

  The man frowned. “His fiance?”

  “He hasn't told you? It mentions a grudge in the letter. Have you two not spoken in a while?” Wynn flapped the paper up and down a few times, growing impatient with so few answers.

  “Tell him that I meant every word I said. Urge him to come home, at least for a few minutes. If he wants to live, that is.” The man, who had never bothered to introduce himself, lowered the gun to his side in an easy motion that suggested prior military training. He made a strange, flipping motion in the air with his hand, then pivoted on a shoe and stalked back toward the house.

  Wynn stared at his back, dumbfounded to be left in the proverbial dust.

  “Wait!” She trotted forward, refolding the letter, and stuffed it into a back pocket.

  He continued across the patio area toward the back stairs.

  “That's the problem. I can't get in contact with him right now. If you tell me why or how he's going to die in four days--”

  “Three.” The man stopped mid-step and twisted his torso back to look at her. “Three days.”

  Wynn stopped near a sectional. “Look. If you don't help me, I can't help him. He's off on some...thing. A mission or something. He doesn't answer his phone when he does this, but I might have access to finding him. Three days isn't a long time, or enough time, not with the flight delays and time differences and whatever else. Tell me what he needs to know to be safe, and I'll take the knowledge back with me instead of wasting more time for him to come here.”

  “I can't do that.”

  “Why not? He's your son and you bothered to write him a cryptic letter that wouldn't have answered any questions for him, either.”

  “If he wanted to live, he would know to heed my words. It's his choice to decide, not mine to chase him down.”

  A blaze of anger shot through Wynn. This was his son they were talking about. She didn't understand his unwillingness to go with her. Fear for Leander's life enhanced her irritation. “You might not love him anymore, but I do, and I want him to live,” she said, adamant that he listen.

  The man paused again just as he began to ascend the rest of the stairs, turning to meet her eyes. Something like sorrow passed
across his features. For a moment, he appeared to age right before Wynn's eyes.

  “I wouldn't have gone to the trouble of hiring someone to take a message all the way to Latvala if I didn't love him. You misunderstand. Leander wouldn't take any of my calls last week, not one, so it has to be his decision to come to me for help. I'm the only one who can do it. The only one who can save him. Do you see the irony in the fact that he doesn't want my help, but without it he'll die?”

  “Did you tell him that on the phone?”

  “I couldn't. Can't. Because then he'll call back and ask why and I can't talk about it over the phone.”

  “Why? What is going to happen to him?” Wynn couldn't recall a time when she felt so frustrated and helpless.

  “Contact him, tell him to come home. Hurry, Wynn, if you really want him to live.” The man landed on the porch and walked to the back door. Before he entered, he glanced at one of the outbuildings, then toward the trees, and finally let himself inside.

  Wynn couldn't help but look in the same direction. She saw nothing particular in either place, yet the hair went up on the back of her neck and she could have sworn she was being watched. There was a sense of expectancy or anticipation in the air.

  Fishing her cell phone out of her pocket, ignoring the warning bells going off in her mind, Wynn tapped a button while the screen flared to life. No Signal.

  Chapter Six

  “What did they say?” Leander, who had taken up a kneeling position near one of the windows facing the building where Kristo was being held, glanced over to Mattias at the end of the phone call.

  “Augustin is appealing. He says he doesn't have the money to pay so he's attempting to work out a trade,” Mattias said, ending the call. He slid the phone into a vest pocket.

  “And the people holding Kristo for ransom?”

  “Not good. They're getting impatient and want cash, not a stash of gas or oil or whatever other export Augustin will try to use.”