ESCANTA
Brooke Sivendra
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE – JAMES THOMAS
CHAPTER ONE – MAK ASHWOOD
CHAPTER TWO – JAMES THOMAS
CHAPTER THREE – MAK ASHWOOD
CHAPTER FOUR – JAMES THOMAS
CHAPTER FIVE – MAK ASHWOOD
CHAPTER SIX – JAMES THOMAS
CHAPTER SEVEN – MAK ASHWOOD
CHAPTER EIGHT – JAMES THOMAS
CHAPTER NINE – JAMES THOMAS
CHAPTER TEN – MAK ASHWOOD
CHAPTER ELEVEN – JAMES THOMAS
CHAPTER TWELVE – MAK ASHWOOD
CHAPTER THIRTEEN – JAMES THOMAS
CHAPTER FOURTEEN – MAK ASWHOOD
CHAPTER FIFTEEN – JAMES THOMAS
CHAPTER SIXTEEN – MAK ASHWOOD
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – JAMES THOMAS
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – MAK ASHWOOD
CHAPTER NINTEEN – JAMES THOMAS
CHAPTER TWENTY – MAK ASHWOOD
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE – JAMES THOMAS
HUNGRY FOR MORE?
ALSO BY BROOKE SIVENDRA
DID YOU ENJOY THIS BOOK?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEDICATION
AUTHOR ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
COPYRIGHT
PROLOGUE –
JAMES THOMAS
Every man has a purpose in life.
For some, it’s family.
For others, it’s high-powered careers, fast cars and beautiful women.
For James Thomas, it was to survive.
His hand was steady as he pushed the pistol into his new friend’s mouth.
“You’re not a fast learner, are you?” James said, the gaze of his black eyes gouging at the man’s soul.
Having pulled his friend out of the torture tank, the man now sat tied up to a metal chair and water dripped off his clothes, forming a puddle at his feet.
His victim responded with a string of words muffled by the Glock stuffed in his mouth. James withdrew the weapon, pressing it against the man’s temple instead.
“Say again,” James said.
The man panted, drawing in deep, heaving breaths. “Please, you don’t understand what they will do to me. These aren’t men, they’re animals. They have no conscience, no soul. The things they do to people…things you can’t possibly imagine. If I tell you, you have to protect me.”
James shook his head slowly. “I’m not making a deal. And believe me, if you don’t tell me, you will wish that they were punishing you instead. If you think you know me, think again—you have no idea what I’m capable of. Everything you have seen over the past few years—every piece of information you have collected about me—it is just a fragment of who I am. The life I live now is very different from my past, and I miss my old life—I miss terrorizing the fucked-up men of humanity. The monotony in my paper-pushing day job makes me hungry for action, and when an opportunity like this comes along,” James said, nodding his head to his guest, “I get to unleash my full set of skills. And you should understand that the torture tank was just a warm-up—I personally prefer body mutilation, and I’m very good at it. So think about this carefully, because you still have a choice. You can tell me who sent you, or I will take my scalpel to your head and peel back your face. Which is it going to be?”
The man closed his eyes, his teeth crunching against each other so violently James thought he heard one crack.
With his free hand, he pulled a knife from his back pocket and slammed it into the man’s thigh. He howled in agony.
“I’m running out of patience. Who sent you?” James’ voice was menacing, the kind of voice that ran shivers up your spine. A voice he’d perfected through thousands of interrogations.
The man cursed. “I don’t know his name. We call him Faber, but that’s it, that’s all I know.”
“You need to give me more information than that,” James said, holding a second knife over the man’s other thigh.
“The group, the organization…” The man’s voice cracked as tears dropped from his eyes. “It’s called Escanta. They have been hunting you for years. That’s all I know, I swear, I don’t know who’s in charge, who Faber reports to.”
James looked into the man’s pleading eyes.
“I believe you,” James said and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER ONE –
MAK ASHWOOD
Death is but an illusion, as you will soon see.
Mak’s hands trembled as she read the note. She looked up, alert, her pulse rapid as her eyes scanned her hotel room. Her skin prickled, like she was being watched, but there was no one there. She’d rushed in from breakfast to pick up her bags, when she’d found the scroll sitting atop the large bed. The words were written on delicate white paper, which was rolled up and secured with a red ribbon.
Her eyes scanned the room again but she was alone. How did the scroll get into her room? Was the hotel responsible for the breach? Or was it someone else?
She was working on a big case, and that meant potential enemies. Prosecuting the head of the mob for a triple murder definitely didn’t win you any friends.
Mak swallowed the lump in her throat, threw the scroll in her carry on and grabbed her bags. The room felt wrong now; the air felt cold and the energy was icky, like death itself had invaded and tainted every molecule.
Mak closed the door behind her and hurried to the elevator. She put on a brave face, in the event that someone was watching her. She had no doubt that scroll had been intended to rattle her, and she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing it had turned her blood to ice. When the elevator doors opened, she was grateful to see the carriage was crowded—there was safety in numbers—and she exhaled a shaky breath.
She had hired a personal bodyguard as the case had heated up and the trial was about to begin; however, they usually only accompanied her from her home to the office, or to the courthouse. She hadn’t thought it necessary to have her bodyguard accompany her on the short, unplanned trip.
Mak had received the telephone call last weekend—the parents of one of her best friends from high school had been killed in a car accident. Mak had dropped everything, even though she was preparing for the trial of her life, to fly to London and be with her friend for the funeral. It had been an exhausting and utterly draining forty-eight hours in London, but on the positive side she’d been able to spend some time with a friend that she hadn’t seen in four years, and such was life—it could be cruel, and it could be beautiful.
But maybe Mak should’ve brought security with her. Her friend’s family had a high profile in London and she’d known there would be security at the funeral, but maybe she had underestimated the risks. Or maybe this was just a harmless threat to rile her up? It was a successful stunt, if that had indeed been their objective.
The elevator doors opened and Mak wheeled her luggage to the express check-out box. She considered bringing the security breach to the hotel’s attention but if they questioned her for more than five minutes, which had to be expected, she would miss her flight back to New York. No, she would have her security guy deal with it—she was paying him enough, after all.
Mak used the time in the car to check her emails. Her eyes scanned over them and she spotted one from Maya, her sister, which would be far from urgent but she opened it anyway as a means to steady herself.
To: Makaela Ashwood
From: Maya Ashwood
Subject: Tonight
Mak,
I picked up your gown from the dry cleaner and dropped it off at your apartmen
t so that it’s ready for you when you get home from the airport. I’ll meet you at the party because I don’t want to be late. Can’t wait to have a champs!
XO
Mak smiled; she was looking forward to a night out. She needed a drink after the intensity of the last few days, and she needed a break from the reality of her career. It wasn’t a nine-to-five job, and it wasn’t a matter of just doing a good job—justice lay in her hands and grieving families depended on her success.
And she couldn’t wait to see Maya. Maya had always been her sidekick, even though they were just two of six siblings. They were very close, perhaps because of the small age difference of one year between them, but they were opposites in every other way. Mak’s natural blond hair and sea-blue eyes were in contrast to Maya’s brunette hair and brown eyes. Their personalities were also dichotomous—Maya had a bohemian flair and traveled the world for her interior design career, while Mak flirted with the ugly side of life as a criminal prosecutor. Regardless, their bond was tight and they had remained close despite Maya never being in one country for longer than a few weeks at a time.
Mak fired back a quick email response, thanking Maya for organizing her gown, and then turned her attention to more important matters. The time passed quickly but when she checked her watch she realized she’d been in the car much longer than she’d allowed for. As soon as the car pulled to a stop, Mak threw some cash at the driver and ran into the airport.
The final check-in call was being announced as Mak rushed up to the counter, skipping the queue and cursing London’s traffic. The window had been tight as it was, and the traffic had been gridlocked today.
“Where to, ma’am?” the lady greeted her.
“New York,” Mak said, handing over her passport.
The lady’s fingers typed quickly, rapidly entering data into the computer. “Just in the nick of time, ma’am,” she said, handing Mak her boarding pass.
“Thank you,” Mak said graciously.
Juggling her carry on and her handbag, she picked up her passport and boarding pass and made her way through the arduous security and toward the gate. She was the last to board.
“Have a great flight,” the gentleman said as he scanned her boarding pass.
Mak hurried onto the plane, her eyes running across the overhead compartments, scanning the numbers until she found her seat. 6A. Mak didn’t normally fly business class but given the long travel times, the short duration of the trip, and the fact that she needed to catch up on some work, she’d afforded herself the luxury and she didn’t regret it one bit—it was worth every damn penny.
Mak quickly pulled her laptop and cell phone from her carry on and stuffed her bags in the overhead cabinet. She paused when her skin tingled and she had that innate sense she was being watched again. She looked over her fellow passengers, stopping on a pair of mysterious, black eyes. Her heart lurched and stumbled over itself—there was something different about him: a sense of danger that even his handsome face couldn’t disguise. Was it a coincidence that he was on her flight? Or was he intentionally on her flight? How hard would it be to find out my flight details? Mak asked herself. Not very. Her eyes scanned over the other passengers but no one else seemed to be paying attention to either of them. She looked back to the mystery man and their eyes connected again. Oh shit, Mak thought.
“Excuse me, you need to take your seat now,” the airhostess said, pulling Mak’s attention from the man three rows behind her.
“Sorry, of course,” Mak said, sitting down. Her heart was pounding wildly again. Who is he? Mak stuffed her laptop into the chair storage and leaned forward, resting her face in her hands. First the scroll and now the man seated behind her—it was too much, and something definitely didn’t feel right.
“Excuse me, Miss, are you not feeling well?”
The airhostess was back again and the last thing Mak wanted was to create a scene. She responded quickly, “I’m fine, thank you, just tired.”
The airhostess gave her a beautiful smile. “Okay, please let me know if you need anything during the flight.”
Mak made a concerted effort to appear relaxed as she leaned back in her seat. Her nerves were frayed and she wanted to get off this flight but it was too late now. She had to try and relax, and think about an exit plan because she might be safe now, but what about when they disembarked the aircraft? Mak thought it through and could only come up with one plan: get to the waiting security car—fast.
Mak took several deep breaths, glad that her chair concealed her somewhat from the mysterious man. It could be nothing; she could be making it all up in her head. But if it was nothing, why was he looking at her like that? It wasn’t a look like he was hitting on her, definitely not. It was like she was a mystery to him, for which Mak had no logical explanation except that he might be involved in the security breach.
It doesn’t make sense, though, Mak thought. If someone wanted to hurt her, and they knew she was traveling on this flight, it would’ve been better to attempt something before she left London or once she arrived in New York. What good would it do to have someone follow her on the plane? If they knew her flight details, they knew where she was landing and it wasn’t like she was going to jump off the plane mid-flight.
The plane began to taxi toward the runway and Mak placed her hands on the armrests. She had a moderate fear of flying, and takeoff was her least favorite part of the experience. She closed her eyes, trying to calm her anxious mind, and let her head drop back against the headrest. But as the plane sped up, so did her anxiety. Her fingers wrapped around the armrests and she held her breath as the front wheels came up. Only once the plane had finished climbing did she pry her hands away and move them into her lap.
Wanting to distract herself, Mak pulled her laptop from the side compartment and fired it up. If there was one way she’d learned to deal with her aviation-related anxiety, other than taking a sleeping tablet, it was to work. She opened her email program and finished responding to those she hadn’t gotten to in the car.
Mak had made a name for herself quickly, taking on high-risk cases, and so far it was a strategy that had paid off—in terms of career success at least. State prosecutors earned peanuts compared to private lawyers, but Mak didn’t care so much about the money as long as she had enough to live comfortably in New York City.
But the case she was currently working on, the triple murder, was a difficult case and the odds were stacked against her. She had faith, though, and she believed in herself. She could do it. She had to—for the families of the victims, and to prevent a murderer from walking free and hurting another living soul.
Mak was just sending the last email when the mysterious man from 9C walked past her, toward the front of the plane. She raised her eyes just enough to observe him. He was tall, over six-foot—she guessed—and well built. He was not bulky like a bodybuilder, but he looked strong. And he walked with a confident ease—long, purposeful strides—but Mak couldn’t imagine where he was going other than the bathroom.
When he disappeared behind the curtain, Mak released the breath she had been subconsciously holding. He was certainly attractive and she noted she hadn’t been the only one watching him walk by. But it wasn’t just the olive skin, dark eyes and shaved head that made him mysterious. It was something else, something she couldn’t put her finger on. It was unsettling and again she wished she could get off the airplane before he returned to his seat. Far too late, Mak.
Mak’s email alert captured her focus once more and she was grateful for the distraction. She turned her eyes from the aisle and back to her screen. It was an email from her assistant, containing a routine update—certainly nothing sufficient to hold her attention at the present moment. It had taken her three hours of email to suppress the anxiety she’d felt upon boarding the plane, and within seconds the mystery-man had resurrected it.
Mak looked up at the restroom signs now and realized they were all green. If he wasn’t in the bathroom, where was he? And
what could he possibly be doing?
Five minutes passed and she felt his eyes before she heard him. Her blood spiked with adrenaline and when she looked up, he was looking directly at her. His expression was as unreadable as it had been the first time their eyes had locked. His eyes were like black, bottomless holes but the gaze they generated was commanding. Her chest constricted and she broke eye contact and looked down at her laptop.
As he passed her row she smelled a fine trace of cologne—a masculine, fresh note with a hint of cinnamon that, although faint, insulted her senses. Senses that were already heightened by the alert state of her mind. As least if he attacks me from behind I’ll know who it is, she thought.
Mak closed her eyes. Twice he had made eye contact with her, and twice he’d made no effort to hide it. Her state of unease made it more difficult to rationally analyze the situation and his behavior. She mentally profiled him, like she did for a witness or defendant, but she still couldn’t work him out. She was usually good at reading people, and that’s probably why she was good at what she did—she knew when the defendants were lying and when to push them. But she got nothing from him. Nothing.
The plane bounced unexpectedly and Mak grabbed the armrests. It quickly settled again and Mak said a quiet thank you—she did not need a bout of turbulence to send her over the edge. She released the in-flight television remote control from the chair and turned on the flight path.
Seven hours to go.
Mak questioned if she’d have had the same reaction to him if the scroll hadn’t already set off her nerves. Was her mind spinning so wildly out of control that she’d built it all up in her head? None of the other passengers seemed fazed by his presence. None of them were cowering in their seats as he walked past. Only her. But then she hadn’t seen him giving any of the other passengers the same look he gave her, either.
Her mind was like a centrifuge, spinning her thoughts around and around. She wished she had been seated in a row behind him so that she could watch him, keep tabs on him. If he was after her, she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
ESCANTA: A James Thomas Novel (The James Thomas Series Book 1) Page 1