by Tom Abrahams
DOWNLOAD THE SEQUEL AND FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT TO MATTI, SIR SPENCER, AND PRESIDENT JACKSON.
READ AN EXCERPT FROM INTENTION: A POLITICAL CONSPIRACY BOOK 2
NEAR THE FLAVIAN AMPHITHEATRE
ROME, ITALY
Feodor Ivanovich’s killer walked away and he couldn’t do anything about it. He was silently bleeding to death at a corner table in the back of a cafe.
An unexpected and brutally quick trio of stabs through his serratus anterior muscle, underneath his left arm, had rendered him minutes from death. He was having trouble breathing. He was slipping into shock.
Though Ivanovich tried gaining the attention of the waiter, the man was engrossed with a pair of giggling women on their third glasses of wine and didn’t notice the pasty, thin Slav. It was impossible to find good service in Rome.
Ivanovich searched the cafe for an ally but found none. People were thumbing through their phones or had their attention focused on those at their table. He reached for his own phone and couldn’t find it. It was it in his pocket, he thought, though he couldn’t be sure. Not with the pain and sweat dripping into his eyes.
The meeting had started unremarkably.
Ivanovich arrived at the prescribed time at the agreed upon location. He found the tanned, muscled man in the back corner sitting alone, identifiable from behind by the thickness of his neck and a triangular tattoo at the base of his skull. On the table sat an empty water glass to his right and an espresso to his left.
“Have you been to the top of St. Peter’s Basilica?” Ivanovich asked as he slid into the seat across from his contact. He immediately saw the black in the man’s eyes and what he perceived as a complete lack of fear.
“I have not,” the man said, his English barbed with an accent Ivanovich couldn’t place. “The climb is too much for me. I have heard the views of the square and city are spectacular.”
Ivanovich exhaled and relaxed in the seat, sliding his bag to the floor next to him. He smiled, the wide gaps between his teeth evidence of his poor upbringing. He was new money.
“I am Jon Custos.” The man across the table offered his meat hook of a hand and squeezed Ivanovich’s fingers into submission. “You are Feodor Ivanovich?”
“I didn’t realize we were exchanging—”
“We’re not. I’m telling you who I am. I know who you are.”
Ivanovich gulped past what had quickly become a dry throat. He looked for a waiter but didn’t see one.
“You brought the merchandise?” Custos pulled the cappuccino to his lips. It looked like a dollhouse piece of china in his hand. “And it will perform as you say?”
“Yes,” Ivanovich replied. “I have it. It will work. It’s undetectable, I assure you.”
Custos nodded and set the cup on the table.
“And you have the payment?”
“Pull out your phone and check your accounts.” Custos licked his lips, his gaze never leaving Ivanovich.
The Russian did as he was told and pulled his phone from his pocket. He placed it on the table and punched in a security code. Then he accessed a secure banking application.
“It’s there, yes?” asked Custos.
Ivanovich looked up from the glow of the screen and nodded. The money was there; all eight figures. He slipped the phone back into his pocket.
“We’re finished with our transaction then,” said Custos. “I’ll be on my way.”
“I’m going to try to find a waiter and have a drink,” said Ivanovich. “Business makes me thirsty.”
Custos stood to shake his hand.
Ivanovich reached out and accepted the bone-crunching grip, but instead of feeling the pain in his fingers, there was a burning sensation under his arm when Custos pulled him close. At first, he thought the man had sucker punched him. Then twice more a searing jab, thick with heat, and he knew it was worse.
Custos’ lips were close to his ear, his breath warm when he said. “A Deo et Rege. A cuspids corona.”
Before Ivanovich sank back into his seat, Jon Custos had grabbed what he needed and was gone. He slithered through the crowded cafe and out the front door. Ivanovich reached for the water glass, forgetting it was empty until he pressed it against his mouth. He blinked his eyes around the room, settling on the entrance where his killer had escaped.
Beyond the glass front of the cafe were a wide boulevard, the Arch of Constantine, and the walls of the Colosseum, the Flavian Amphitheatre. Trying to focus past the pain and confusion, Ivanovich saw Custos disappear into the throngs of tourists cuing for a tour of the place where, millennia ago, so many gladiators gave their lives for their Emperor.
There was something Shakespearean about Ivanovich’s death. It was as if Brutus himself had plunged the blade. The Russian died, his head dropping to the table. Only the clang of the flatware alerted the waiter to his customer’s condition. One of the inebriated women next to the server screamed when she saw the pool of blood leaching across the floor.
Custos, however, smiled to himself as he dropped the shiv into a trash can and wove his way through the tourists to a waiting car. He disappeared without anyone noticing him, whistling Bartók’s “Music for Strings.”
He slid into the back of the car, the air-conditioning cold against the sweat on his shaved head, and placed the bag on the seat next to him. He caught the driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror and nodded. The car accelerated from the curb and sped toward the airport.
Custos had avoided Rome for so long. He didn’t like being there, of running the risk of people recognizing him and reporting him to people who probably wanted him dead. But he did the job because that was what was required of him. His loyalty to the man and to the secret organization, The Brethren, who’d changed his life so many years before knew no restrictions.
He would do whatever they asked of him and they paid him handsomely. Custos was nearly unrivaled in his abilities. He’d heard of others who were good. He believed he was better.
That was why they’d tasked him with the job in Rome; acquiring the bag and disposing of the man who brought it. It was step one. He had more tasks to complete.
Custos pulled an unfamiliar phone from his jacket pocket. He entered Ivanovich’s security code and dialed a number from memory.
“I have it,” he said. “I am on the move. Delete the money from his account.”
CONTINUE READING…
Acknowledgements
Without my wife, Courtney, you wouldn’t be reading this book. Her encouragement and gentle nudging are what have kept me writing and, in the case of SEDITION, helped shape a much better narrative. Our children, Samantha and Luke, are the world’s finest cheerleaders, even if neither of them can do a Russian split.
I also am grateful for the masterful editing of Felicia A. Sullivan. She improved the story and made my writing the best it could be. I owe her a gazillion dollars…or a yacht.
Hristo Kovatliev is a genius cover designer. Thank you.
The pages of this book are filled with the seemingly endless hours of research used to create a realistic, plausible (though unlikely) plot. I relied, in part, on the expertise of others who include Joel Androphy, Guy Womack, and Trek “Thunder” Kelly. I thank each of them for their help.
Thanks also to my wife Courtney, Curt Sullivant, Don Eaker, and Lisa Brackmann. They are the beta-readers who waded through the early drafts and gave me constructive critique.
Lisa, Bob Morris, Graham Brown, Murray McDonald, and Steven Konkoly are all wonderful, successful authors. Their help in navigating this “author thing” has remained invaluable.
To my parents, Sanders and Jeanne; my siblings, Penny and Steven; and my in-laws, Don and Linda Eaker, thank you for your support and endless viral marketing efforts on my behalf.
Finally, to you the reader, thanks for reading the book. Now, please, go buy more of them.
Table of Contents
Prologue
PART ONE: THE CONSPIRATORS
Chapter 1
>
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
PART TWO: THE PLOT
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
PART THREE: THE EXECUTION
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
Acknowledgements