“Then let’s get him formally charged and on trial,” Peter said.
“State or fed?” Dorran asked.
“State will be quicker,” Peter said to Jack. “If we get him convicted, the fed can wave off. Do you think your office can get a conviction?”
“Yeah, and I’ll make sure he hangs.”
Six months later, Jack was sitting in the viewing theater at Cronos Correctional Facility in upstate New York. Although the state had reinstituted the death penalty two years before, not a single execution had been carried out.
But this matter was different. Convicted after a three-week trail, Cristos waived his right to appeal, demanding that his sentence of death by injection be carried out immediately. Although the liberal left had cried out to spare his life, he spat in their faces and railed against anyone who stood in the way of his execution. Cristos did have a final request: he wished to speak to Jack Keeler alone.
Against the advice of all, against the advice of Peter, Carter Dorran, Mia, Frank and everyone else he trusted, Jack walked out of the viewing room and was escorted down to death row, which was in a dark, windowless basement.
There had been no one to come forth for Cristos, no family, no friends; in fact, not a single person in the world stood up and said they even knew the man. He requested no priest, rabbi, monk. In fact, like everything about him, no one knew if he even had a religion.
As vile a man as Jack thought him to be, as dangerous as this man without a soul was, everyone deserved a last request, a final statement before dying.
Jack entered the basement cell to find Cristos sitting on the bed, his legs and arms chained. He was dressed in a deep blue suit, no tie or belt, and wore a pair of black Gucci loafers, looking as if he was about to go out for a fancy dinner. While the condemned were usually put to death in their prison uniform, Cristos had asked and was granted the right to die in his favorite suit.
He made no move as Jack sat in the chair across from him, their eyes settling on each other. The silent moment held; each could hear the other’s breathing, the committer and the committed.
“How’s the weather today?” Cristos asked in his low, accented voice.
Jack was surprised at the question. “Sunny, clear, a warm fall day.”
Cristos nodded. “Did it occur to you what is happening here today?”
Jack said nothing, letting the condemned man say his last words.
“Jack, you accused me of murder, of ending lives, yet you are doing the same.”
“This is your sentence for the lives you have taken.”
“I asked you before, could you pull the trigger, Jack?”
Jack remained silent.
“I understand many years ago, your partner died and that you killed two people, children, I believe.”
Jack felt his heart fall in his chest.
“Were you condemned for that? Did anyone hold you accountable for their deaths?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Jack hated that he was explaining himself to this man.
“Was it more like collateral damage in doing your job?”
“The Bonsleys weren’t collateral damage.”
“Oh, yes, they were. In order to stop a very wicked man. Even you have to admit after learning about that general that he deserved to die, that his death saved countless others. I bet you would have loved to put him on trial in your courts after all of the murders he committed.”
“Is this how you wanted to spend your last moments? Imparting some kind of guilt?”
Cristos smiled, although his dark eyes stayed emotionless. “You should hold tightly to your family.”
“Is that a threat? Is somebody after my family?”
“No, Jack. I have spoken to no one. But sometimes we lose sight of what is precious to us.”
“Do you have family?”
Cristos paused. “I did.”
Jack didn’t respond. He had not thought of Cristos as anything but a murderer; his actions spoke nothing to the contrary. Jack wasn’t sure if he was being played or seeing a glimpse of the man’s soul.
“Is this what you wanted to see me about?
Cristos shook his head.
“What do you have to say, then?” Jack finally asked.
“Nothing is as it seems.” Cristos looked Jack directly in the eye and whispered, “Remember this, death is not always final, not always permanent; death is never the end.”
With Cristos’s words ringing in his ears, Jack watched through the plate-glass window as the man he had convicted of murder was strapped down to a black leather gurney. The room was small, covered with lime-green tiles and taken up by several medical monitors. Cristos’s Zenga suit jacket had been removed; the white sleeves on either arm were rolled up, exposing his thick forearms. Cristos lay on the gurney, staring straight up, his eyes focused elsewhere. There was no emotion on his face, no fear or anxiety in his body language. He appeared calm, as if awaiting a simple medical procedure.
Beside Jack in the viewing room, seated in the rows of chairs, were Peter Womack, Carter Dorran, the two grown children of the Bonsleys, members of a Pashir delegation who had flown in from Asia, and various members of the federal and state law-enforcement community. Not a word was spoken; a prayer-like silence had fallen over the room as if awaiting the start of some religious ceremony.
Within the execution chamber, two medical technicians entered and stood on either side of the gurney. Each swabbed Cristos’s arms, inserted a needle in a vein in each arm, and a saline drip commenced, ensuring a proper flow into Cristos’s system.
The lead technician, an overly tall and gaunt man, leaned over and unbuttoned, Cristos’s shirt, exposing his chest. And as the tech’s eyes fell on the condemned’s torso, so did every other eye in the room, and an almost collective gasp cried out. No one expected to see what Cristos had hidden under his fine suits, masked from the world. His burned and scarred skin was inhuman, like melted flesh from a horror film.
The technician quickly set back to work, affixing the heart monitor to Cristos’s mangled flesh, and checked the readout to ensure that it was working, surprised at the slow heartbeat of a man who was about to die.
At the subtle nod of his head, the two techs confirmed they were ready. They pressed a button on the wall and signaled the executioner.
In an adjacent room, unseen by all, sat a third technician before a console. The IV lines in Cristos’s arms ran into this room, terminating at a middle-aged man in a lab coat who sat at a coldly white, antiseptic desk. Before him were three syringes, each conspicuously labeled.
With a methodical nature, he picked up the first syringe, flicked his finger against the needle, and slipped it into the port in the IV line. The administered drug was sodium thiopental, a barbiturate and anesthetic agent.
Out in the execution room, Cristos’s eyes fell shut as the chemical flowed into his system, rendering him unconscious.
Back in the side room, the technician inserted the second syringe into the IV line. Pancuronium was a muscle relaxant that caused complete paralysis of the skeletal striated muscles, including the diaphragm and respiratory muscles, that would eventually cause death by asphyxiation if the third drug didn’t do its job.
And finally, the technician picked up the third syringe and injected it into the line. The potassium chloride acted quickly, and within two minutes, the heart monitor affixed to Cristos’s chest registered no heartbeat.
With little fanfare, before an audience of twenty including Jack Keeler, the medical examiner stepped into the room, read the monitor, laid his stethoscope to the deceased’s chest, and declared Nowaji Cristos dead.
CHAPTER 25
FRIDAY, 6:00 P. M
Jack sat parked at the North White Plains train station, the lot nearly empty on the Friday of a summer holiday weekend.
He and Mia had commuted from this station into Grand Central until a few years ago, when the demands of their jobs turned their schedules upside down and it became more
practical to drive into the city.
A black Suburban pulled to the curb beside Jack, and he recognized it at once as the car that had pulled him over on the bridge the night before, the car that had taken Mia away.
Two men emerged from the front of the vehicle, dressed casually in sport jackets and slacks. Jack caught a glimpse of the driver’s shoulder holster.
The driver turned and opened the rear door. A moment passed before Nowaji Cristos, sitting in the back of the car, turned and looked directly at Jack. Jack couldn’t believe his eyes as he watched the man he had convicted and seen executed less than a year before emerge from the Suburban. His black hair in a ponytail, wearing jeans and black boots, he reached back into the car, pulled out a dark blue sportcoat, and threw it on. The man took a few steps forward, approaching like a bird of prey, his black eyes focused on Jack as if ready to pounce on his next meal.
Jack slowly emerged from the Audi.
“So glad you can join our team.” Cristos’s deep voice was thick with contempt. “Aaron and Donal will be joining us. I believe you have already met.”
The two men glared at Jack. Indeed, he knew them from the bridge. Donal, the oversized man who had pummeled Jack senseless, throwing him back into his car and sending him over the bridge, and Aaron, the skinny redhead who had struck Mia so hard and knocked her to the ground. Jack stared back at Aaron until he finally averted his eyes. No matter how the next hour unfolded, Jack swore to himself, that man would pay for what he did.
“Two dead men working together,” Cristos said. “I told you death is not always permanent.”
“How?” Jack said. “I saw you die.”
Cristos smiled, taunting him. “You have a beautiful wife, Jack. You should see how she cried when she learned of your death.”
“You son of a bitch,” Jack said through clienched teeth. “How do I know she’s alive?”
Cristos pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “Get the woman. Put her on the phone.”
Cristos handed Jack the cell.
“Mia?” Jack quietly asked.
“Oh, my God.” Mia’s voice cracked with anguish and relief. “You’re alive?”
“Mia-”
Aaron reached for the phone, snatching it from Jack’s hand.
“No!” Jack yelled, trying to pull the phone back.
“Let him talk.” Cristos stepped forward and stilled Aaron’s hand. “It may be the last time they ever speak.”
Cristos gave the phone back to Jack, indicating that he should get into the Suburban.
Jack took the phone back and climbed in as Cristos shut the door behind him.
“Are you hurt?” Jack said, doing everything to keep his emotions from spilling out.
“No, don’t worry about me. You were shot. I saw you go over the bridge into the river… That bastard showed me the newspaper…”
“How many times have I told you not to believe everything you read in the paper? And remember, it said we were both dead. You and I don’t go down that easy.”
“The girls…?”
“They’re fine. I checked. Do you know where you are?”
“No idea. They drugged me. I woke up in this small room, no windows. I can hear the city noise, though.”
“I will find you.” Jack’s voice boiled with emotion. “If it’s the last thing I do, I will save you, I promise you.”
“Jack,” Mia said, “Those guys who jacked us last night were FBI.”
“I know. How deep do you think this goes?”
“Deeper than you can imagine. Jack, do not help them,” Mia pleaded.
“What choice do I have?”
“Jack… you have to stay alive for the girls, protect the girls… I’m already dead.”
“You’re not dead!” Jack yelled. “Don’t say that. You survive, whatever happens, do you hear me? You fight!”
Mia grew quiet. “Jack, you can’t let him get that box. You know he’ll kill us both once he gets it?”
“That’s why I have no intention of giving it to him. But Mia, you have to tell me what is inside.”
“Jack, I can’t.”
“I saw Jimmy. He told me about the prayer books, about some kind of drawing-”
“Where did you see Jimmy? I don’t understand-”
The car door opened. Cristos stood there, his hand out, wanting the phone. “We’ve got to go.”
“Jack, promise me something,” Mia pleaded. “Don’t look inside.”
“I love you, Mia.”
“I love you with all my heart, Jack. Please tell the girls I love-”
And the phone was snatched away, closed, and tucked back into Cristos’s pocket.
Jack felt powerless, manipulated by Cristos. “Do you have any intention of telling me what we are doing?”
“You’re going to lead us down to the evidence room of the Tombs,” Cristos said. “And you’re going to steal the evidence case.”
CHAPTER 26
SURESH
The boy was eight years old when his father gave him the small red leather book. It was a book provided only to those whose hearts were deemed pure, whose future would be one of devotion to their religion, their people, and the earth.
The book, used by the Cotis monks, contained pages filled with prayer, but through the simple act of wetting them, a blank page would be revealed, a secret tableau where one’s thoughts and words could be written and concealed as the paper dried. Informally called the Book of Souls, it was nicknamed so because its true heart was only known by its owner.
As the son of the high priest and ruler of Cotis, Suresh was blessed not only with pure blood but also with a mental and physical aptitude that the village had not seen in decades. He was mentored by scholars and holy men, warriors, philosophers, and poets who honed his mind, body, and spirit to form a young man who would one day take the place of his father as the ruler of Cotis.
As life moved on and the student attained enlightenment, then assumed the role of the high spiritual leader of Cotis, his writing evolved. No longer would it be of just the past but now of the present and the future.
Suresh grew into a powerful young man, strong, intelligent, with a supreme focus that allowed him to absorb his teachings and to excel at every discipline, be it hand-to-hand combat, weaponry, mathematics, spirituality, or philosophy.
But with his sharp, curious mind, Suresh realized that he needed to see the world beyond the confines of his family, their wealth, and the ancient kingdom of Cotis.
Against the entire Tietien council’s demands, Suresh chose to go on a pilgrimage, to see the world beyond their simple ways, beyond their forest home of temples and nature. His father begged him to stay, explaining that he had glimpsed his future and feared for him losing his spirit to the darkness of the outside world. But Suresh explained that if he was one day to rule, then he needed to do so with a global perspective, not one of isolation.
The open-air market was abuzz with life early in the morning on a cloudless day in the small town of Rashivia, just over the Cotis border in India. Sitting at the foot of the Parshia Mountains, the town was middle to lower class, except for the northeast section, where enormous lakeside homes were built for the wealthy who spent their summers away from the chaos of Delhi, Mumbai, and Calcutta. Vendors with pushcarts piled high with produce, dried meats, breads, clothing, spices, orchids, and tools filled the crumbling makeshift sidewalks and alleyways. Small shops with open windows and doors lined the dirt roads. Crowds of people swarmed about; the singsong voices of the merchants hawking their wares filled the air. Suresh walked among the sea of people, feeding off of the energy, feeling the vibrancy of life around him. He marveled at the diversity, at the differences between this part of the world and his home just a short distance away. He reveled in his new freedom, cherishing his escape from the ritual, from the routine that he now saw had stifled his understanding of the world.
Stepping under the woven tent of a produce merchant, Suresh flipped a coin to the hu
nched-over old man behind the cart and grabbed an apple. Taking a bite, savoring its sweetness, he looked out across the sea of people to see a young woman racing through the streets, her long, lithe legs seeming to make her float above the unpaved dirt road. Suresh watched as her long black hair drifted behind her, bouncing in rhythm to her every stride. Her face was pure and innocent, like a fresh orchid.
But he was shaken from the moment as he realized that she was on the run. Two men, large and equally fast, were ten strides back and closing. Without thought, Suresh charged from the bazaar, cutting through the aisles and past the merchants out into the open streets. People turned to watch, but their attention was distracted by the competing chaos.
The young woman led her pursuers down the road, kicking up a small dust storm with her long, quick strides. Suresh was ten paces back and closing when the woman cut down an alley bordered by two six-story decaying buildings, the two men right behind her.
Suresh rounded the corner to find that the trail to freedom was suddenly cut short by a high wall covered in razor wire.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the woman leaped onto a Dumpster, launching herself up onto the rusty fire escape that climbed the side of one of the brick buildings. Her hands caught the ladder, and she swung herself in a perfect arc, like an Olympic gymnast, forward, backward, gaining momentum.
But her long legs were her downfall. The first pursuer jumped and caught her by the ankles. She desperately clung, but his two-hundred-pound weight was too much. They both came crashing down to the filth-covered ground, the girl’s head hitting the pavement hard. She rolled around, dazed and confused, as blood began to blossom through her ink-black hair.
The second man grabbed her roughly by the neck, seeming to ignite a new fire within her, and she rolled up her fist and hit him squarely in the eye, kicking him hard in the stomach as she turned to run. But the first man was there, stumbling to his feet, reaching into his jacket, and pulling a stun gun. She dived to the right to avoid the two metal prongs, but it was too late as they jabbed her in the neck and ended her struggle.
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