The Luke Titan Chronicles: Books 1-4: The Luke Titan Chronicles Boxset

by David Beers

  Christian thought Tommy would have shrugged, had he been able. He couldn’t. He couldn’t move at all. Two years ago, when Tommy could have moved, there’s no way he would have shrugged in front of the Director for any reason, but time had changed all the men in this room. Time and Luke Titan.

  “No one is replacing you, Christian, and I don’t want to hear anything else about it.”

  “Sir, it’s been three months.”

  “So?”

  “I’m not sure I’m capable anymore.”

  Christian had thought long and hard about this conversation. He hadn’t slept in 48 hours, his days spent chasing Luke and his nights spent contemplating what he was now saying.

  “Why aren’t you capable?” Waverly asked.

  “I’ve been near him three times, and each time, he’s gotten away. Three different South American countries, and each time, people died.”

  He didn’t need to say anything else about that. Venezuela had been a disaster, Luke having wired the entire yard with surface explosives. Christian had gotten close two times before, and Luke had killed people during his escape—but not like Venezuela. It became an international blunder, with the cable news networks showing a cell phone recording of the explosions on a nearly endless loop.

  “You carry those deaths on your shoulders, don’t you?” He turned to Tommy before Christian could answer. “Do you agree with him? That he needs to give up his position?”

  “No,” Tommy said.

  “And you’ve told him that?”

  “Yes.”

  Waverly looked back to Christian. “You’re not resigning and I’m not replacing you. It’s as simple as that.”

  Christian didn’t know what to say. He felt nothing at the decision. Even as he stayed awake the past two nights, he hadn’t felt anything other than cold logic. Except that wasn’t a feeling, more a frame of mind.

  “Do you hear me?”

  “Yes,” Christian said.

  “Good. You’re staying. Three months doesn’t mean anything, Christian. Do you know how long some of those guys have been on the Most Wanted List? Years. I have people still looking for them, too. I get a monthly read out on Robert-fucking-Fischer, and he’s been on it since 2002. Three months is nothing.”

  Christian was silent but held the Director’s stare. He was able to do that with ease now—hold anyone’s actually. Most of the time other people looked away first, though that probably had more to do with the circular scar on his cheek than anything menacing in his gaze.

  “I’m not going to massage your ego, Christian, but no one else could have done what you’ve done. I’m not taking anything away from you, Tommy, but you’ve only been back six months. Christian, you’ve been at this for 18 months, and you’ve nearly caught him three times. That’s once every six damn months. If I could have you overseeing each one of my most wanted criminals, I wouldn’t have a Most Wanted List. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  Christian nodded. It was odd, hearing this from what amounted to the FBI’s CEO, yet not feeling anything about it. He hadn’t been at peace with leaving, because he knew that he could never truly leave the hunt for Luke. He may not orchestrate the FBI’s chase, but he would go after him. Forever, if need be. Two years ago, Luke had gone on and on about his insane purpose. Christian had his own now.

  “Good. I don’t want to hear anything else about it. You can resign when Luke is dead or captured. Now, let’s talk about what leads we have.”

  “We have one report from a small Mexican town called Temisco,” Tommy said. “It’s about an hour or two outside of Mexico City. We sent down two agents at the beginning of the week.”

  “Any news from them?”

  “Nothing substantial. They’re just beginning to make their rounds. Trying to keep a low profile.”

  “Still no more letters?” Waverly asked.

  Christian shook his head.

  “No,” Tommy said.

  DEAR, Christian,

  I WISH I could say it was nice seeing you, but we both know I’d be lying. You’re insatiable, Christian. Your need to find me—dare I say, kill me?—is impressive, if a bit frightening.

  Do you still see the other? The one that bleeds from his eyes and lives only in your head? What does he say about your quest? Do you still think about Veronica? The love you lost, even while managing to keep her alive? I’ve tried to keep up with her, Christian, but the Witness Protection Program has managed to shroud her even from me.

  How about your mother? What does she think of you now? She once had a quirky, genius, and sensitive son. What does she have now? I imagine your quirkiness will never leave, but is your genius corrupted? Is your sensitivity dead?

  I dream about you, Christian. Not often, but sometimes. It’s always the same. The world is on fire around us both, buildings ablaze and people dying. Tommy is there, too, though his life has already passed. You and I are looking at each other and we’re not speaking. We only stare in silence, the heat baking against us both.

  What do you think that means?

  The mind is a powerful tool, as you’re well aware. Our mind tells us things through dreams. The original etymology of dream meant ‘sleeping vision’. That’s what I’m having when I sleep and you appear—a sleeping vision.

  Fire is coming, Christian, and sooner than I wanted. It’s going to rain down, and everything you know will burn. You brought this on yourself, with your inability to let me live on my own terms. Yes, I would have returned at some point and began again, but not yet. Perhaps I would have shown some mercy, Christian; we will never know now.

  Mercy isn’t coming with me. Only fire. Only blaze. Only chaos.

  I will see you sooner than I had hoped, though I know not sooner than you hoped for.

  YOURS,

  Luke Titan, MD, PhD, Special Agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigations, Top Ten of America’s Most Wanted

  THERE HAD BEEN other letters over the past two years, but that was the last one. Luke proclaiming his return and threatening Christian, as well as everyone he loved.

  “Okay,” Waverly said. “Give me a situation report. What are you guys thinking?”

  “He’s not lying,” Christian said.

  “ … And?”

  “We have some disagreement between the two of us, sir,” Tommy whispered.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “He,” Tommy said, unable to point, but clearly speaking about his partner, “thinks Luke isn’t coming alone. I think he is. I think he’ll come and try to take us out one by one.”

  “Why do you think he’ll bring a crew, Christian?”

  There had been serious arguments about this between Tommy and himself. For the past three months, they had spent their time researching the possibilities, trying to understand how Luke would arrive (at the same time, both hoping he wasn’t already on the way—or worse, already here). All the research pointed at two possibilities, and Christian was diametrically opposed to Tommy on which one was correct.

  “He said it in the letter. Everything is going to burn, and he can’t do that by himself. Not the way he’s describing it. If he comes alone, we won’t stand in a ring of fire, with buildings burning and people dying. It’s too much for just one man to achieve. Even him.”

  Waverly’s brow furrowed as a quizzical look ran across his face. “You guys have been looking into this for months, and you’re basing it off of his letter?”

  Christian nodded. He had nothing else to say. He spoke the truth, even if no one else saw it.

  “What about your mansion?” Waverly asked. “Have you seen anything in there?”

  Christian’s mansion—that place which resided in his head, holding everything he experienced in life and allowing him to make seemingly impossible leaps of logic—had changed dramatically. Christian wasn’t afraid of it, as he had been previously. He held no feelings about it one way or the other. However, the top floor—the one dedicated only to Luke—had been silent on this matter.r />
  “No. There’s nothing.”

  Waverly’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Christian. After a moment, he turned to Tommy. “He telling you the same? That he’s not seeing anything in his head?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m right here,” Christian said. “You’re basically accusing me of lying, with me right across from you.”

  Waverly smiled and leaned back in his chair. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been deceptive, would it?”

  Christian said nothing.

  “How would he have a crew of people?” Waverly continued.

  “There are a couple of ways. He could hire them, though that doesn’t feel right to me. The other primary way would be to create some form of cult. A group dedicated to him and whatever he wants.”

  “That sure as hell sounds like him,” Waverly said.

  “I don’t buy it,” Tommy said. “If Luke were amassing some sort of group around him, it would be hard to hide it for long. The entire world knows his face; he isn’t like the others on the Most Wanted List. He’s Luke Titan. He can’t very well create a compound, even in a foreign nation, without attracting the authorities.”

  “That’s true,” Waverly said.

  These arguments were old between Tommy and Christian, both of them hashing everything out over countless nights, and still ending up on opposite sides.

  “He’s not coming by himself,” Christian said. “He did that last time, and now he’s on the run. When he returns, he’s bringing people with him.”

  Waverly was silent for a second, thinking. Christian admired the man’s decisiveness, and knew that he was coming to a decision on which path to take. There were no other options that either Christian or Tommy could map out.

  “I’m with Tommy, Christian. What you’re suggesting is too difficult, and I don’t think he’s had enough time to build up a cult. Two years might be long enough, if he wasn’t running from country to country.” Waverly turned to Tommy. “Let’s hear your plan.”

  CHAPTER 3

  T he waitstaff didn’t like the gringo that came in once a week. They didn’t dislike him either, though. He was quiet, always paid his bill, and always tipped well. In a small Mexican town like the one the restaurant resided in, that should have been all anyone needed to do to be treated like a King.

  The gringo was different. He wore a small sombrero and sunglasses each time he came to the restaurant, and he always sat in the same spot—outside on the porch, at a table nearest the street. He always faced the street and usually brought a pad of paper and a pen with him. Sometimes he wrote. Sometimes he watched the people passing by on the street.

  He would eat from the basket of chips placed in front of him and drink red wine. Three glasses before he asked for his tab and then left.

  El Fantasmo Blanco.

  The White Ghost.

  A cook gave him that name, an older bald man who had watched the gringo enter and exit the restaurant numerous times. The cook kept his distance and advised everyone else to do the same.

  “No está bien. Aquí arriba,” he said, tapping his own temple. He’s not right. Up here.

  The waitstaff saw it as well, even if they hadn’t been able to voice their feelings. It was in the way El Fantasmo Blanco carried himself. It was in the way he looked at the waitstaff (when he occasionally removed his sunglasses), how his eyes didn’t see them. Sure, he focused as he asked for something in perfect Spanish, but he saw through them.

  The waiters and waitresses treated him with respect, but kept their distance. They appreciated the tips, but would have appreciated it just as much if he stopped coming in.

  The ghost had been busy the past few days, even if no one at the restaurant knew it.

  He was preparing to leave, and as he sat down today, he had prepared for something else as well. He pulled his pen and paper out, setting them down in the shadow of the umbrella above. The sun was blazing, but the umbrella would keep its ruthless nature from annoying the gringo.

  The chips came first, and then the wine. The waiter did not ask what El Fantasmo Blanco needed. It wasn’t necessary.

  The gringo looked out at the street, watching people move to and fro for a few minutes.

  Finally, he turned and motioned for the waiter to come back.

  The gringo spoke in Spanish. “There is a cook inside. Will you bring him to me?”

  The waiter’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he kept his countenance. “Si, señor.”

  The white man went to staring back at the street as the waiter did his bidding. A few minutes passed and then the cook walked out onto the patio. He was wiping his hands with a rag, and his face was still as he approached El Fantasmo Blanco.

  “Hablas Englais?” the gringo asked.

  “Yes. Some.”

  “Good. Have a seat.”

  The cook pulled the chair out closest to the street and sat.

  “What is your name?” the gringo said.

  “Torez.”

  “Good. You didn’t lie.”

  The gringo studied the cook. There was fear inside him, but he hid it well. The man had seen a lot in his life, hardships unimaginable to many people north of the border. He might be sitting in front of a ghost, but it might not have been his first time.

  “Last week,” the gringo continued, “you stepped out here to smoke. You saw me and left, heading to the front. Why?”

  The cook swallowed. “I do not like you.”

  The white man smiled. “Now that I can understand. Why don’t you like me?”

  “You are evil.”

  The gringo took his glasses off. He leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “How do you know?”

  “Your eyes. They tell your soul to the world. Or, they would if you had one. You do not.”

  The white man nodded, his face still as he turned to the street. He was silent for a moment and then said, “I followed you over the past few days. It bothered me that you ran off so quickly last week, and I needed to understand what you knew.” He turned back to the cook. “I don’t think you know anything, so I’m going to tell you—”

  “No, señor. No,” the cook interrupted.

  “Hush now,’ the gringo whispered. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “My name is Luke Titan, Torez. I’m unsure if you know the name, but it could be very valuable for a man such as yourself. I’ve decided recently that I’m leaving this place soon, so your window of opportunity is closing rapidly. If you wish to sell that name, you will need to do it quickly. However, if you do sell it, you will die soon after. Much too soon to enjoy any of the money you would have earned.”

  The cook worried the rag between his hands.

  The gringo pulled an envelope from his front shirt pocket. It was relatively heavy, though its interior couldn’t be seen.

  “In here is $100,000. I buy your silence with that money. If you take it, no one will ever hear my name from you.”

  “And if I don’t take it?” the cook asked.

  “Then your silence hasn’t been bought.”

  The two stared at each other for a second, the envelope in between them.

  “You’re soulless. I cannot accept money from you. I will not speak your name.”

  The gringo looked for a second longer, then placed the envelope back in his pocket. “Your choice.”

  The cook’s jaw tightened for a second at the loss of such a great sum of money, but his face quickly resumed its normal state.

  “Okay, then. We understand each other,” Luke Titan said.

  The cook nodded and stood. He walked back into the restaurant, leaving El Fantasmo Blanco alone.

  Luke looked back at the street. He wasn’t surprised the old man hadn’t taken his money. The cook’s fear was genuine, and superstition didn’t die as one grew older. For him to have accepted such a large amount of money, would have been akin to selling his own soul.

  Luke actually liked that the man had held firm. His soul wasn’t for
sale. Neither was Luke’s.

  He was leaving tomorrow, heading back to Georgia, back to the world he left years ago. Christian had been relentless, and that was something else Luke liked. Christian wanted to catch Luke above all else, to murder him even.

  Luke hadn’t been ready to return, but Christian was yet again forcing his hand—much as it had back in Mackenrow’s house. The Lover’s ex-wife’s house. Luke hadn’t wanted things to happen the way they unfolded; there were plans that should have taken place. They didn’t, though, because Christian had been too fast, at least mentally.

  And now, he was proving too fast yet again. Forcing Luke to act before he was ready.

  No matter. He would go back to the States. Back to Georgia. Back to Tommy and Christian. He would bring them what they so desperately wanted.

  CHAPTER 4

  C harles watched the man step from his car, though Charles couldn’t be seen from his vantage point inside the warehouse. He had fifty men here today, all of them armed with automatics. It was overkill, and he knew it, but he didn’t care. The man standing in the middle of the parking lot had left Charles feeling uncomfortable, and worse, Charles hadn’t been able to find out a damned thing about him.

  The man was a ghost, if he existed at all. Perhaps the person Charles now looked at was simply lost, pulling into an old warehouse and planning on stretching his legs before heading out. That made as much sense as the calm man on the phone actually showing up.

  Charles had used all his considerable power to try and figure out who he was dealing with, but he learned nothing. Not until this very moment, as the man stood beneath the hot summer sun. He wore a baseball cap (Atlanta Braves), sunglasses, and a closely cropped beard. He was dressed in blue jeans and a button down shirt, which was tucked in.

  The man was thin, but Charles’s eyes were sharp, and he could see the muscle lying beneath the shirt. Charles didn’t give one fuck about muscles—not when he had fifty AR-15s pointing at the man right now—but it was still good to know.