The Prisoner's Gold (The Hunters 3)

by Chris Kuzneski

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Feng said in English.

  Relief filled the tourist’s face as he looked up at Feng and Lim.

  ‘Oh, thank God! Someone who speaks English. Listen, mate, I’m not sure what these boys have told you, but I didn’t do anything wrong. My business partner assured me that the items were paid for and our shipping permits were up to date. Obviously I can’t read the damn forms – they’re written in symbols or whatever you call those squiggly things – but I swear to you, I thought everything was legal.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Feng said, pondering his next move.

  ‘I’m telling you, mate, it’s nothing but a misunderstanding.’

  Feng nodded and stuck out his hand. ‘Yes. A big misunderstanding.’

  The Aussie smiled and leaned forward to shake hands with Feng, hoping upon hope that Feng was dumb enough to believe his lie, but it wasn’t meant to be. Feng struck with lightning speed, grasping the man’s wrist and twisting it with so much force that bones cracked.

  The man dropped face first onto the desk, wailing in agony.

  Feng continued, ‘You believed you could come to my country and steal our history. You misunderstood who the Chinese people are. We are not your playthings, your servants, your inferiors. Then again, your people descended from criminals, so I should expect no better.’

  Between shouts of pain and gasps for breath, the Aussie tried to explain himself. ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to disrespect you … Ahhhh! Look, just call the embassy, I’ll give everything back …’

  ‘You’d like us to contact your country’s consul general? To send him a message?’ Feng twisted the hand harder, and the young man screamed. Tears were literally shooting from the man’s eyes, and a thick band of yellowish snot stretched from his nostril to his mouth. Meanwhile, the rest of his face had turned a brilliant crimson from the rush of blood.

  ‘Yes! Please! Send him a message!’

  Feng slammed the Aussie’s arm flat on the desktop and held out his free hand. One of the guards placed a gleaming meat cleaver in it without missing a beat. Then he stepped back to enjoy what he knew would happen next.

  With one perfectly executed swipe, Feng brought the blade down, embedding it almost an inch into the scarred wooden desktop, separating the foreigner’s hand from his wrist. The Aussie’s choked tears sounded like a drowning victim trying to spit out seawater, as the table and floor were coated with a viscous puddle of gushing blood.

  Feng picked up the severed hand and dangled it in front of the Aussie’s face. ‘I will gladly send him a message. Your hand, along with a note reminding him that foreigners are no longer welcome in the new China. You will all leave immediately – whether whole or in pieces.’

  Then Feng tossed the hand to Lim as he turned for the door.

  4

  Hay-on-Wye, Wales

  (134 miles west of London)

  Jack Cobb stepped into the small café and inhaled deeply, enjoying the rich aroma of freshly baked bread that had caught his attention outside on the sidewalk. The place was tiny, but there was an open table near the bay window that overlooked the street.

  His seat, much like the area itself, was perfect for his needs.

  Hay was a small market town straddling the border of England and Wales. It was known far and wide as a Mecca for book lovers. With over two dozen bookshops, there was one in nearly every building in town. Additionally, every spring the community hosted the Hay Festival, a major writing event that attracted authors from around the world.

  Although Cobb enjoyed reading in his downtime, it wasn’t the reason he had picked this place. He had chosen Hay because it was so far off the beaten track that it barely had any CCTV cameras on the streets, which was a rarity in the UK. Cobb always did his best to avoid cameras whenever he could, but privacy was particularly important for today’s meeting.

  It needed to be confidential.

  During the past year, Cobb had grown more and more suspicious of Papineau. Whether it was seeing through his lies and half-truths or doubting his real motivation for finding these treasures, Cobb knew that Papineau wasn’t the free-spending billionaire that he pretended to be. He sensed that Papineau was working for someone else – someone who preferred to stay in the shadows – and that didn’t sit well with Cobb. If he was going to continue to risk his life and the lives of his squad, he needed to know who was calling the shots.

  And he needed to know now.

  Cobb ordered tea and toast, then looked outside through his own reflection in the glass. He was a shade over six feet tall with short brown hair and a handsome face. For some reason, women always told him that he looked like a racecar driver. He didn’t know what that meant, but he was assured it was a compliment. Chiseled, but not bulky; people often underestimated his strength until he rolled up his sleeves and they saw the muscular definition of his forearms, with veins so thick it looked like snakes had crawled under his skin.

  And yet that wasn’t his most distinguishing feature.

  What stood out the most were his eyes.

  They were gun-gray and piercing, so distinct that he was often forced to wear colored contacts on covert missions for fear of recognition. When he landed at Heathrow, they had been brown. Now they were hazel. After this meeting, he would wear aviator sunglasses to hide his eyes completely. Sometimes it was a pain in the ass, but he wouldn’t trade his eyes for anything.

  They were his favorite feature.

  As the waitress arrived with his order, Cobb saw the man he was waiting for.

  Seymour Duggan ambled along the cobbled street, jauntily whistling a tune as if he were on his way to work in one of the local bookstores. Thin and nearly bald, he wore a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows. The lone splash of color in his outfit was his bright-yellow bow tie, which matched the canary-colored suspenders that were hidden under his coat.

  Cobb stood as the man entered the café. ‘Good morning, Seymour.’

  Duggan smiled warmly. ‘Same to you, Jack. It’s been a while.’

  They shook hands like old friends before settling in at the table.

  ‘Would you like something to eat or drink?’

  Duggan nodded. ‘Same as you. Tea and toast.’

  ‘Actually,’ Cobb said, ‘I ate earlier. I ordered these for you.’

  Duggan broke into a wide grin. ‘I see you’ve done your homework.’

  Cobb shrugged. ‘I like to be prepared.’

  ‘So do I,’ Duggan said as he poured himself some tea. ‘Which is why I left my wallet at home. I naturally assumed you were going to buy me breakfast to curry favor.’

  Cobb smiled. ‘Touché.’

  The New Zealander laughed loudly. It was a snorting kind of laugh that grated on most people’s nerves, but Cobb was the kind of man who would tolerate such things as long as Duggan could deliver when it mattered most.

  In the spy game, Duggan was known as a bloodhound – a specialist at finding people who didn’t want to be found. For years, he had rented out his services to governmental agencies like MI6 or the CIA, which was where Sarah Ellis had met him on one of her undercover missions with the Agency. Based on her recommendation, Cobb had hired him to find a missing professor during their search for Alexander the Great’s tomb, and Duggan had performed brilliantly.

  So brilliantly, in fact, that Cobb wanted to hire him again.

  Duggan sipped his tea. ‘I have to admit that your invitation caught me off guard. So did the first-class ticket from Cairo. It wasn’t necessary, but much appreciated.’

  Cobb nodded but said nothing.

  ‘Do you know, in all the years I lived in England I hadn’t even heard of this town.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope no one else has either.’

  ‘So, why are we here, Jack?’

  ‘I’ll get right to it. I need your expertise; or the expertise of someone you recommend, if you don’t think you’re the man for the job.’

  Duggan leaned forward. ‘You have my attention, s
ir.’

  ‘Based on our last conversations in Egypt and the assistance you were able to provide, I won’t insult you by assuming you don’t know who I’m working for.’

  Duggan smiled coyly. ‘That would be a great start, because of course, I do. Monsieur Papineau not only paid me for that service, but he tried to recruit me after your adventure.’

  That last bit was news to Cobb. ‘And you turned him down?’

  ‘Despite what Sarah might have told you, I don’t work strictly for the money. I have enough of it now that I can pick and choose my clients. Oh, I told Jean-Marc that I was already embroiled in another issue, but the truth was I just didn’t like the cut of his jib.’

  ‘But you were still willing to meet with me …’

  ‘Yes. My curiosity has got the better of me.’ Duggan raised an eyebrow. ‘I have an idea what it is you want me to work on, but I’d like to hear it from you.’

  Cobb obliged. ‘I need someone to perform the work that I can’t do when I’m on a mission. I want someone on my side. A resource I can call who can find anyone or anything for me.’

  Duggan sat back and straightened his bow tie. ‘I couldn’t possibly recommend anyone else for the job. This sort of thing requires international work, which happens to be my specialty.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And international work is quite expensive.’

  Cobb nodded. ‘You’re obviously aware of what went down in the desert. Prior to that mission, we located a lost train in Romania.’

  Duggan’s face showed that he’d heard about the train full of gold.

  Cobb went on. ‘Jean-Marc – or rather his employer – is paying each member of my team a nice chunk of change. The implication is that there might be several more jobs ahead. I will pay you a quarter million per job. Retroactively. So you’ll get a half-million signing bonus.’

  Duggan had just taken a sip of his tea when he heard the amount. He sputtered and coughed, having snorted some of the hot liquid up his nose. The other customers looked over briefly, but Cobb waved them off as Duggan whipped out his handkerchief and coughed into it.

  Cobb continued. ‘From this point on, you’ll only get paid on successful missions – just like me. But I’ll cover your expenses up until that point, naturally.’

  ‘Dear God,’ Duggan whispered, once he had recovered his ability to speak. ‘That’s bloody generous, mate. You understand that’s far beyond my typical salary, right?’

  ‘I do,’ Cobb said, leaning forward. ‘But I require absolute silence for it. The truth is I don’t need the money. The money I have now will keep me for the rest of my days. What I need is to live long enough to enjoy it. I don’t like being in the dark.’

  ‘No one does.’

  ‘Plus, I need your complete loyalty on this. You wouldn’t be Sarah’s asset anymore. You’d be mine. I’ll need you to drop all your other clients and work for me full time.’

  ‘Understood,’ Duggan said with a nod. ‘My experience with these sorts of things has shown me that you might not like what I uncover …’

  ‘Let me worry about that. The team will be in Florida today or tomorrow. That seems like a good time to start – if you like the cut of my jib, that is.’

  ‘I like the cut of every sail on your sloop, Jack.’ Duggan leaned across the table and shook Cobb’s hand. ‘I’ll have my people begin immediately. Just tell me who you’re looking for.’

  ‘Wait. Your people?’ Cobb said, suddenly wary.

  ‘Relax, Jack. This sort of work can’t be done with a single man anymore. I have agents who are highly skilled and loyal to me. In addition to their loyalty, there are several layers of protection between us. These days I don’t meet these people in person, but I still keep tabs on them, as any employer should. There’s a reason I’ve managed to reach this age in my profession.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Cobb said with a nod, ‘as long as there’s no direct connection from them to me. I know you, and I think I can trust you. But I’m not really comfortable trusting other people. So do me a favor and keep those layers intact. Or this relationship will end real quick.’

  5

  Monday, March 17

  Ft. Lauderdale, Florida

  The concrete stucco and simple tiled roof of the team’s headquarters gave the impression of an industrial compound rather than a lavish house. Built with practicality in mind, not prestige, the building looked more like a bunker than a beach home. The squat architecture, perfect for withstanding the tropical storms and powerful hurricanes that threatened the Florida coast each year, was unassuming in almost every way.

  From the outside, it reeked of modesty, not money.

  But inside was a different story.

  Nicknamed ‘La Trésorerie’ – the Treasure House – by Papineau, the four-thousand-square-foot home was adorned by the trappings of wealth. Exotic rugs, valuable paintings, and expensive chandeliers decorated the interior of nearly every room. Although the building was designed to keep them safe and included air filtration and water purification systems, as well as walls that could withstand a missile assault, the Frenchman saw no reason to sacrifice comfort.

  Ironically, the team couldn’t have cared less about such opulence. As long as they had beds to sleep in, couches to sit on, and food in the refrigerator, everything else was unnecessary. They were here to train, not entertain guests.

  Gaudy works of art meant nothing to them.

  Unless they were part of a mission.

  The morning had been relatively quiet at the team’s headquarters when Sarah Ellis burst through the front door like an angry bull. ‘Where is he? I know he’s here somewhere!’

  Sprawled in a wingback chair in the living room, McNutt froze when Sarah stormed into the house. He didn’t think he had done anything to piss her off in the past three months, but he braced for impact just in case. Thankfully, she blew right past him without so much as a glance. McNutt merely shrugged and went back to reading the latest issue of Guns and Ammo, as if this type of thing happened every day.

  Meanwhile, Garcia had a much different reaction. Dressed in a Skyfall T-shirt, knee-length shorts, and sandals, he grabbed his laptop and retreated to the opposite side of the dining room table from where he had been working. Behind him was a huge picture window that looked out on a magnificent terrace interspersed with interlocking swimming pools and palm trees. He figured Sarah was less likely to throw something at him if he was standing in front of glass.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Garcia shouted in his defense.

  Sarah glared at him. ‘Not you, Hector. You were just the messenger boy. I’m looking for Papi. I know he’s here. I saw his yacht in the marina.’

  At that moment, a short Chinese woman in her early forties entered the room from the kitchen. She carried a plate of steaming scrambled eggs and bacon, which she set down in front of Garcia as if she was a waitress at his favorite diner.

  Garcia thanked the woman quietly, then sat down to eat.

  Stunned, Sarah rocked back on her heels and examined the stranger.

  She had a flat nose, black hair pinned back behind her head, and bright red lipstick. Her outfit was a dark exercise suit partially covered by a white apron.

  She smiled at Sarah. ‘Mr Papineau assured me he would be here for breakfast.’

  ‘Um … thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ the woman said before slipping back into the kitchen.

  Sarah remained frozen. ‘Who the hell was that?’

  Garcia shrugged and mumbled, ‘Looks like Papi’s got himself a maid.’ Then he shoveled some eggs into his mouth, grateful to be eating something other than Twinkies.

  ‘A maid? How do we know we can trust—’

  Before Sarah could finish her question, the woman came sweeping out of the kitchen again, this time with a bowl of spiced beef and rice in one hand and a pair of silver-tipped ebony chopsticks in the other. She set them down on a side table next to McNutt.

  He smiled and bowed
politely. ‘Xièxiè.’

  Sarah’s mouth hung open as the woman scurried back to the kitchen again without a wasted step. Somehow she appeared to glide rather than walk. Sarah looked from the doorway to the kitchen, back to McNutt, then over to Garcia, then back to McNutt.

  ‘What did you say to her?’ she demanded.

  McNutt picked up a piece of beef with the chopsticks. ‘I said, “Thank you”.’

  Garcia stopped eating. ‘You speak Chinese?’

  ‘Hell no. Learning Putonghua is like trying to herd cats in the nude. You can do it, but you’re gonna hurt yourself.’

  Garcia was confused. ‘Wait. But you just said—’

  ‘I can say “thanks” and order beer in a bunch of languages. I can also say “How much for the girl with the donkey” in Tagalog, but that’s a loooong story with lots of graphic details.’

  Sarah rubbed her eyes in frustration. ‘Dear God, please don’t tell it.’

  A moment later, Sarah sensed someone behind her. She opened her eyes, and the Chinese woman was standing a foot away. Somehow she had slipped back into the room without the whisper of a sound. Sarah jolted back away from her.

  ‘Would you care for some breakfast?’ the woman asked. Up close, her face was smooth, with just the hint of laugh lines around her eyes.

  ‘Uh … no, thanks,’ Sarah managed. She was about to ask the woman’s name, but before she could the woman flitted across the room to McNutt’s chair.

  ‘You like the Naxi beef, Joshua?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, ma’am. It’s delicious.’

  She beamed with pride. ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  Then she zoomed off to the kitchen again.

  Sarah turned and glared at McNutt. ‘Ma’am? Did you say ma’am? Wow. It looks like someone’s been taking his medication.’

  McNutt put the bowl up to his face and shoveled in some rice. ‘What?’ he said with a mouthful of food. ‘I have great manners.’

  Sarah walked over to him and placed her hand on his forehead. ‘No, really. Are you okay? Maybe you have a fever.’