Crown of Serpents

by Michael Karpovage

  But then in an adrenaline-filled rage, as if some Seneca warrior spirit from a past life had taken his mind over, Jake ended up scalping the two dead bodies. He had even let loose a war whoop during the act.

  As he was about to render the same atrocity on the unconscious fighter the spirit who possessed him exited his body. Jake spared the wounded prisoner and dragged him out with the knife to his throat. He then collapsed in a fellow 10th Mountain soldier’s arms not knowing he had sustained a severe cut in his side from the knife fight. That wound would lead to his first Purple Heart.

  It was learned later that the prisoner Jake spared was identified as an al-Qaeda American traitor. Ultimately, the turncoat divulged key intelligence before being incarcerated in an American prison. For Jake’s actions that day and for leading the previous day’s rescue efforts he earned a Silver Star and legendary status within the ranks of the infantry. He was rewarded with a Special Forces assignment on a secret task force in the mountains to continue hunting al-Qaeda. The nicknames soon followed — honorable names associated with his scalping and the war whoops that were overheard by his men.

  For Jake though, that dark moment of possession struck fear into him. The loss of reason while watching someone else act inside your body shook him to the core. To have some other soul inside your head, some other voice that took over your actions, was like, well—

  “Insanity,” he said out loud.

  It was a feeling he had wrestled with every day to keep from reliving again. He disciplined himself and had turned into the cold-blooded, calm and collective intellectual killer the Army most desired. Afterward, he killed the enemy often enough in both Afghanistan and Iraq and had not felt that same possession or loss of control again, albeit he killed at a distance and never up close as he did in that basement.

  But now, in light of the supposed power behind Atotarho’s crown and those who would go to any length to get it, Jake knew if he let that relic fall into the wrong hands there would be much chaos sown in people’s minds. He had tasted that feeling of possession and it had left him utterly hopeless. To have a man of Nero’s character use it for gain was something he could not let happen.

  He looked at the clock. 6:15 A.M. He closed his eyes and let sleep finally overtake him.

  19

  Same time. The Scalp Room.

  IN A BLUR, Nero reached across the table and backhand smacked his trusted contractor across the face. The sound of flesh being whacked reverberated inside of the stone chamber.

  Kantiio touched his lip, exposing blood on his finger. “Goddamn Alex, what the hell was that for? You losing your mind or something?”

  “For failing me you lazy fat piece of shit! For allowing this thief to steal the rifle first and finding what was inside of this plug.” He pointed to the concealed shaft in the rifle. “Now you tell me everything that happened and then I’ll decide what to do with you. I want to know about the shots fired outside the room.”

  Kantiio had to let the entire story out now and hope for the best. He knew firsthand of Nero’s ruthlessness if crossed. “They surprised me,” he said in a shaking voice. “I just popped the thief in the head and scalped him and then was searching his room for other shit that might benefit you when I heard a car door slam. I looked in the parking lot and saw an undercover cop drawing her weapon, and some Army dude coming up with her. I knew they had to be after that rifle. Hell, the thief was like the only person in the damn motel—”

  “Wait a second,” Nero interjected. “An Army dude?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Listen, this was a botched op from the beginning. They had to be after the thief is all I can figure. So I ran out of the room and popped the bitch cop twice. She went down. Couldn’t get a shot off at the soldier. Then I got the hell out of there. I drove nonstop to get here. That’s it. That’s the whole truth.”

  Nero dipped his chin and leaned both arms on the table. He shook his head slowly.

  “So, you killed a cop?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time, right? Listen, nothing will come back to you, sir.” Kantiio tried to keep his voice steady. “I did as you ordered. I retrieved the rifle as asked. I didn’t know anything about that secret plug or anything inside of it. You also said if anyone gets in my way take care of ‘em. So I did.”

  Nero extracted a gold butane lighter from his breast pocket and nonchalantly reached for his cigar. He relit it and coughed. He inhaled then blew a patch of smoke into his contractor’s face. Kantiio’s eyes fluttered. Nero coughed again then said, “You broke procedure by not communicating with me when the thief initially interfered at the library. Your actions thereafter botched the job.”

  “But I got the rifle like you asked didn’t I?”

  “Why did you wait until what, fours hours later, to dispatch him?”

  “He was on the road the whole time,” pleaded the contractor. “Stopped once and pulled over on the shoulder like I said. I couldn’t do the mark since we were in public. I couldn’t risk being seen. So, I waited until dark. Pulled a recon on his motel room for a few hours and then faked him at his room door, told him that I was the night shift manager and his car had been broken into.”

  Nero let out a disdainful laugh. “Wait a minute. You pulled recon for a few hours?”

  “Sir, I have to be thorough.”

  Rousseau interrupted. “Ask him if he fell asleep.”

  “Is that true?” Nero demanded. “Is it?”

  “Ah, yes, sir. It is. I did sleep a little bit.” Kantiio glanced at the thug who just signed his death warrant. Rousseau smirked back.

  Nero cut in, his deep voice like a rough saw. “We all know you have problems staying awake. That is why you allowed the thief to steal the rifle first. That is why you took a few hours to recon the motel. I bet you literally fell asleep at the wheel and botched everything up. You have twisted the path of my destiny because of your incompetence. There was a note hidden inside that plug which held a key to a great legacy from my ancestor.” Nero sucked hard on his expensive cigar and blew more smoke on his contractor.

  Kantiio tried to speak. Nero raised his hand. “Silence! I put my trust in you to pull off a simple job. I compensate you well. Have for many years. You are allowed any pleasure you desire. I don’t pay you to take a nap while performing a mission. This is unacceptable. And this,” Nero pulled out a pistol from his side pocket and pointed it at the contractor’s forehead. “This is my judgment.”

  Kantiio flinched. Sweat trickled down his neck and he couldn’t catch his breath. He closed his eyes. But Nero didn’t pull the trigger.

  “For failing me, here’s your choice,” Nero rasped. “You may run the gauntlet and have a chance at redemption should you survive. Or take the easy way out by telling me to pull this trigger right now. What’ll it be Ray? What’ll it be?”

  Kantiio’s lips parted, but no words formed.

  “Make a decision or I will!” The pistol inched closer.

  “The gauntlet,” whispered Kantiio. “The gauntlet. I’ll run the gauntlet.”

  Nero smiled, lowering his weapon. “Ahh, this will be fun.” He snapped his fingers and his two bodyguards pointed pistols at the back of Kantiio’s head in case he tried to escape. “Rousseau, call in all the men, pick four who you want to fight, then I want you to face him in the end. Five running the gauntlet total. We’ll do this right here, nice and private so no one hears a thing.”

  Nero grabbed his cigar and retook his seat at his throne. He left his cell phone on the table. On the other end, Stanton was bent over her own cell phone with a mini-tape recorder.

  Within minutes, several more Neo-Iroquois thugs arrived at the Scalp Room. Totaling eight of Nero’s security detail, they stood at attention awaiting orders. Rousseau picked his four toughest and had them shed their coats and shirts. They gave their weapons to the remaining guards who stationed themselves at various points in the room. Rousseau too stripped off his shirt, revealing a wide array of prison tattoos across his broad ch
est and arms. He took a position in front of the table where the rifle and cell phone lay. He faced the other end of the room and Kantiio.

  The condemned man had stripped to the waist, his back to the guarded entrance. He knelt with closed eyes, mumbling a prayer.

  Nero stood up from his throne, plucked an eagle’s feather from the highest point of his chair back, and bellowed to his failed contractor. “Should you make it through the gauntlet and grab this feather, you will then face final judgment by me. I will decide to keep you on or put you down. There will be five one-on-one fights to the death, lasting no longer than one-minute each. I keep the time. I will add time if I feel you are stalling. If you last the entire minute, knock out, or kill each opponent, you may advance to the next round when you are ready. Understood?”

  “Yes,” yelled Kantiio. He stood up and took a step forward. He became a raging bull.

  Nero held up the feather, checked his diamond and gold wrist-watch, then lowered the feather. “Begin!”

  Kantiio’s first opponent was Nero’s top driver, a former New York City steel worker, a Mohawk named Mr. Kay. He had large Popeye-like forearms and a barrel chest. After a quick stare down they locked arms and grappled each other to the ground. Kantiio bit him on the bicep. Kay screamed, losing his grip. Kantiio then executed a close quarter pummeling with several elbow smashes upon the Mohawk’s nose and cheeks until he was unconscious. He then stood up, glistening with sweat.

  “Shit. That was easy.” Breathing hard but still full of fury, he motioned for the next opponent. “Come on Jasper. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Mr. Jasper, an Oneida, had been a former pit boss at the Turning Stone Casino near Syracuse. Kantiio cursed at him and lunged forward. The younger man stepped aside planting a fist in his opponent’s ribcage. Jasper then kicked the back of the Kantiio’s knee out, dropping him. Another kick was aimed at the ribs but Kantiio caught it and pulled him down.

  Pouncing on his prey, Kantiio choked his opponent, almost crushing his throat. The move didn’t last long as he was jabbed in the eyes. Kantiio threw an elbow but missed, smashing it on the floor. He grimaced in pain and collapsed onto his opponent. Jasper couldn’t get out from underneath the larger man. He threw several weak fists catching Kantiio in the side of the head. He then kneed the larger man in the groin with better effect.

  Kantiio rolled off in dire pain. Bolting upright, Jasper finally landed his kick to the ribs, same spot as the earlier punch. Kantiio issued a guttural scream.

  Nero whistled that time was up.

  Jasper moped away, hands to his throat.

  Kantiio lay on his side, panting hard. He took a full minute to recuperate and managed to get to his hands and knees. He looked up at the next guy, an Indian from the Seneca Allegheny reservation.

  Mr. George was wiry-muscled and fast. Kantiio faked injury and waited until the Seneca moved in first. Springing into action, Kantiio drove his head into the guy’s face, knocking him backward. Blood ran down George’s nose. Surprised at the blow and wiping the red smear from his face, George curled his lips and faced his foe. Both took a boxer’s stance holding fists high, waiting for the other to bring it on.

  The bloody Seneca yelled a war whoop and swung first with an uppercut. He missed. Kantiio kneed him hard in the groin, dropping him. He stomped the guy’s face five times until Nero whistled again. The Seneca was motionless. He looked dead, his face crushed in. Bright red blood oozed from his nose and mouth. He slowly groaned back to life and was helped away by the other security guards.

  Kantiio’s fourth opponent was a former Cayuga Nation drug dealer, Mr. Makowa. He took a breath and stared Makowa down as they circled each other. He needed to buy time to regain his strength. He spit blood and taunted his new opponent until Nero shouted, “Fight or get the bullet.”

  Makowa went in first and slammed the contractor in the gut like a bat against a slab of meat. Kantiio doubled over. Makowa then kneed him in the face catching him high on the brow. A cut formed and sprang a leak. Kantiio dropped to his knees with a grunt. Another kick was blocked. Makowa then landed a punch to Kantiio’s skull, breaking his knuckle in the process.

  Kantiio collapsed on his back. Makowa held his hand in pain but shook it off as he saw his opponent start to rise. A stomp on his stomach took what little breath Kantiio had left.

  Nero whistled.

  Kantiio rolled back and forth holding his stomach. He mouthed the air like a fish out of water, not making a sound. Then finally a large inhalation of air gave way followed by coughing and groaning. Makowa spit on him.

  “Get up,” Nero barked.

  One man left. It was Nero’s top thug, the half Mohawk, half Quebecker Mr. Kenny Rousseau. He walked up to Kantiio. “Whenever you’re ready you gold-toothed mother fucking Mouth.”

  “Fuck. You. Frenchy,” spat Kantiio between breaths.

  Rousseau flipped his long black braided ponytail from his shoulder and held up stiff extended hands in a martial arts pose. “Get up,” ordered Rousseau again. “I’ve been wanting to do this to you for years.”

  “Ray Kantiio,” interjected Nero. “One more opponent left. Get through him you get the eagle feather and my final judgment.”

  Kantiio managed to stand, although swaying like a drunk. His inflamed skin was bright red. Blood smeared his body and dripped from his brow, nose, and mouth. His elbow was fractured at the tip and several broken ribs stifled his breathing. His fists were bloody and disfigured.

  Rousseau knew he had him. He wound his arm all the way back for a full force roundhouse to finish the contractor off. Kantiio just stood, watching it come. At the point of facial impact, Kantiio blocked the blow with his forearm in a bone-jarring crunch. With his other hand he plunged two fingers into Rousseau’s eyes.

  A scream announced he had hit his mark.

  He grabbed Rousseau’s ponytail and pulled as hard as he could, swinging the enforcer around and slamming him into the corner of the stone viewing table. Rousseau dropped at Nero’s polished dress shoes.

  Nero’s mouth was agape.

  Kantiio reached for the eagle feather and was just about to snatch it out of Nero’s hand when his body fell out from under him. Rousseau had kicked out his legs. Kantiio hit the tile floor hard on his back. Rousseau sprang to his feet, blood pouring from an open cut on his forehead.

  Rousseau stomped Kantiio’s gut, blowing air out of his lungs for the second time. The contractor’s eyes rolled toward the back of his head. Rousseau watched Kantiio squirm but an upward fist slammed Rousseau directly in the testicles. His knees buckled and he joined Kantiio on the floor, both men moaning and gasping for air.

  Finally the doomed contractor inhaled. “Mercy Alex. Show me mercy,” he grunted as he rose to a seated position. Rousseau was already on his hands and knees and snatched Kantiio by his hair, bending his head backward. He collapsed back against the floor. His head bounced. He saw stars. “Mercy. Please Alex,” Kantiio pleaded again in a pain-filled whisper.

  Nero approached and towered over him. He looked at his watch. “Ten seconds.” He held his thumb out horizontally in anticipated judgment — the man’s fate in his hands — just as the brutal Emperor Nero had done centuries ago. He let the clock run out.

  “Please,” Kantiio moaned. “I beg you.”

  Rousseau stood up.

  “You have shown great bravery, Ray Kantiio,” announced Nero. “For this I will have mercy on your soul. Your scalp shall not grace my wall. But for failing me in my ultimate quest your body will pay the price!”

  Thumbs down.

  Kantiio couldn’t react in time. Rousseau dropped his whole body, his weight positioned into three stiffly extended fingers aimed at the contractor’s throat. The aim was true. He drove his fingers through flesh, crushing the larynx. Kantiio’s eyes bulged. He squirmed on the ground and clutched at his throat with a gurgling sound.

  “Time’s up,” quipped Nero.

  Thirty more excruciating seconds of grotesque spasms
and Ray The Mouth Kantiio’s body froze. Nero walked up with the eagle’s feather and released it over his head as his contractor’s eyes glazed over.

  “He’s gone,” Rousseau noted.

  “Put him in his Lincoln and send it to the bottom of the reservoir,” ordered Nero.

  His cell phone disconnected.

  20

  Wednesday morning. Strathallan Hotel.

  A KNOCK AT his hotel door, a glance through the guest spy hole, and Jake allowed his uncle to enter. He gave him a nod, held up a finger to keep quiet, and resumed his cell phone conversation with MHI.

  “Sir, listen, all I’m saying is we still stick with the original mission. We don’t falter because of what happened to Ashland. Finding that keg before Nero does will be a coup for MHI. It’ll expose that he was behind Ashland’s murder. I know it.”

  Joe perked up. He moved closer to Jake to eavesdrop on the conversation.

  “Do you have any hard evidence to back up your theory that Nero is behind all of this?” asked Dr. Paul Jacobson in a raised voice on the other end of the line.

  His voice was so loud Jake had to pull his cell phone away from his ear. Joe raised his eyebrows wondering what was going on.

  Jacobson wouldn’t let up. “Other than what the state police told you about this Kantiio guy serving time with Nero many years back, you’ve just got speculation to go on, don’t you?”