The Monarch

by Jack Soren

  “What?” Emily said without taking her eyes off Raiden’s device.

  “He’s passing us. If he sees you he’ll recognize you for sure.”

  “I’ve got the signal back,” Emily said, seeming to ignore him. She was too focused. As the front bumper of the green Ford started to pass them, Lew reached out and grabbed Emily, pulling her down so she was out of sight, more than a little aware that her head was now in his lap. Once the agent had passed them, he pulled in behind the Ford and let her up.

  “Sorry,” Lew said with a grin.

  “I . . . That was . . . um . . .” Emily looked back at the device. “Signal lock!”

  “Do we have the data yet? This traffic is getting hairy.” Lew pulled up tight to the green Ford’s bumper to keep another car from cutting in between them. He ignored the flurry of honks and birds flipped at him. Then the pair of cars came up on a traffic light that had turned yellow. “Finally,” Lew said. He pressed the brake but saw the green Ford accelerate.

  “He’s running it!” Emily said.

  “Hang on,” Lew said, punching the accelerator. He stayed within thirty feet of their target, but there was enough space that the light had turned red and cross traffic had already entered the intersection. Horns blared as he spun the wheel, fishtailing out of the way of an approaching taxi. Then he spun the wheel back the other way and nudged an SUV with his side of the car, but he kept going. Incredibly they made it through the intersection.

  “Man, that was—­”

  “Stop!” Emily yelled over him.

  Lew didn’t realize she wasn’t shouting at him until the truck hit them broadside. His head smacked against the window and he felt the side of the car buckling in around him. Then everything went white.

  Lew opened his eyes what he thought was a few seconds later, a high-­pitched whine in his ears.

  “Emily,” he managed, shaking the fuzz out of his brain. But when he looked beside him he saw he was alone in the car. Emily and the tracking device were gone, the passenger door still open. The view of approaching pedestrians was hard to see through, but he could tell the green Ford was long gone too.

  His door wouldn’t be opening without the Jaws of Life. He tried to climb out the other way, but his leg was wedged against the steering column. He could taste blood in his mouth. He’d bit the inside of his cheek in the crash. As his head cleared, he realized the wailing wasn’t in his head at all, but was the sound of the approaching ambulance. Exhausted, Lew just wanted to sleep. Maybe a ride in an ambulance wasn’t such a bad idea?

  “Lew! Help!”

  The sound of Emily’s voice snapped him out of his funk. He squinted through the windshield and saw someone dragging her toward a pickup truck parked across the street. A pickup truck with a bashed-­in bumper.

  Adrenaline shot through Lew’s nerves. He pulled harder but his leg was stuck fast. He grunted and smashed the steering wheel. It moved but just a bit. Realizing he couldn’t pull his leg out, he instead pushed sideways on the steering column, pulling it aside at the same time. When it started to move he got his other foot up against the wrecked door for leverage and shoved. He’d free himself or break his leg. Either way, he wasn’t going to just sit here and watch that bastard take Emily.

  After what seemed like forever, something snapped. It was the steering column. Lew pulled and wrenched himself free, scrambling out of the open passenger door. He fell on the pavement, but got back up, and ran with only a slight limp toward the pickup truck, pushing onlookers’ hands off him. He’d almost made it when the pickup truck’s brake lights flickered. Wheels spun as it fishtailed away, knocking several pedestrians down as it went.

  And then she was gone. He’d failed her. And he’d failed Jonathan.

  Lew ran, knowing the only thing he could save now was his freedom.

  37

  Tartaruga Island

  3:00 P.M. Local Time

  EVERY INSTINCT HE had told him not to eat or drink. The plateware or silverware could be compromised. Jonathan didn’t listen to any of it, or rather, Jonathan’s stomach didn’t. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten and if he was about to pull a job—­alone, at that—­he was going to need all the sustenance he could get his hands on. And what sustenance.

  Green asparagus and purple artichokes surrounded presentations of roasted blue lobster, chicken fricassee, and sea spider crab. Several bottles of Penfolds Grange, 1951, dotted the table.

  The dining room was just as impressive. A vaulted ceiling surrounded an ornately complex crystal chandelier hanging over the dark wood of the dining table. Matching teak sideboards lined both sides of the room, each covered with silver platters, those in turn covered with detailed engraved silver lids. Paintings from the Baroque period hung on the walls, and light chamber music emanated from recessed speakers in the ceiling. There were ten chairs placed around the table, but only three place settings. One of them was vacant.

  The dining room was nestled on the third level of the complex. Hunger aside, it was difficult for Jonathan to concentrate knowing Natalie was just a few rooms away, but he wasn’t supposed to know that. Lara, at the opposite end of the table, hadn’t said more than a few words to him beyond that something was delaying Nathan and he would join them when he could. Jonathan wanted to ask where Sophia was and if Natalie was being fed as luxuriously, but doubted he would get a useful answer.

  If he could get some more time with Sophia, he was pretty sure he could turn the tables on this whole situation.

  Jonathan cleaned off his second plateful, drank a third glass of wine, and then leaned back with a satisfied sigh. What he saw next almost sent him toppling back in his chair onto the ornate carpeting on the floor.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hall. I hope my absence . . . ah, I see you went ahead without me. Good. You’re going to need your strength,” Nathan said. And not out of an electronic box. In fact, his wheelchair was nowhere to be seen. He stood in the doorway in a tuxedo, the jacket unbuttoned and open. He had one hand in his pocket, while he held a cigar in the other. “I trust the smoke won’t bother you. I ate earlier and I just couldn’t resist my Cubans. Old habits and all.”

  Jonathan realized his mouth was open. He closed it as his host, obviously jacked up on Sophia’s serum, entered and sat next to him.

  “Uh, yes. I mean, it was very good. Top notch,” Jonathan said, unable to take his eyes off Nathan. It was like he was meeting him for the first time. “But I was wondering where—­”

  “Sophia and your daughter are having an equally satisfying supper. Trust me. I just thought it might be better if we discussed business without having to make a lot of explanations. I believe your daughter is unaware of your . . . past. Is this not so?”

  Jonathan nodded, wondering how he’d come by that little tidbit of information.

  “Yet something else we have in common,” Nathan said as Lara dropped her silverware on her mostly empty plate and got up from the table.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Lara said, practically gritting her teeth.

  “I was hoping you’d stay for the briefing, Lara. You could help—­”

  “I have things to attend to, Father,” Lara said. She tossed her napkin down and marched out of the dining room. Jonathan wondered if that woman was ever happy, though he had to admit he was glad she was gone.

  “Children,” Nathan said, though Jonathan could see by Nathan’s face—­now that it was animated and not lolling to the side—­that he was not pleased with his daughter’s behavior. “Enjoy young Miss Hall’s preteen years while you can. They go so quickly. But on to business.”

  Nathan got up and poured himself a snifter of brandy from a collection of bottles on one of the sideboards. He held the bottle up, offering Jonathan a drink. Jonathan shook his head and declined.

  “Probably best,” Nathan said. He took a long sniff of the liquid, swirling it in the
glass as he held it in his palm. “As you know, Canton George is a collector.”

  Jonathan nodded, nervous. How much information does he have?

  “What you probably don’t know is that Canton and I used to be business partners. In fact, there was a time when we were the best of friends. I won’t bore you with the drama, but that time has passed. We’ve spent the last twenty years trying to put each other out of business. And I’m not too humble to tell you that I was achieving that goal before my condition flared up.” He tilted the snifter back and sipped his drink. Afterward he closed his eyes and almost groaned in ecstasy. This was a man who enjoyed all the experiences life had to offer. Jonathan thought the wheelchair was probably an experience he could have done without.

  “What’s the target?” Jonathan asked. He was worried, but not just about Natalie’s safety. If Nathan came after The Monarch because of his history with Canton George, Nathan was going to expect him to know things that he didn’t. Lew hadn’t shared much of anything about the job, except that it had not gone well. Jonathan had always assumed that meant nothing had been stolen.

  “Part of his collection. I’m afraid I can’t tell you what it is, yet, for reasons that will become obvious in time, but rest assured Canton has something that belongs to me. And I want it back.” That didn’t make sense to Jonathan. If Nathan and George were rivals—­enemies, even—­how did Nathan even know about a theft George would have certainly wanted to keep quiet? With so many unanswered questions, Jonathan was starting to blame himself for not probing Lew harder about the botched job.

  “How am I supposed to steal something when I don’t know what it is?”

  “His items are catalogued and labeled. Have you forgotten? Item CS–231 is what you’ll be stealing.”

  Damn it! Have to be more careful.

  “How big is it?” Jonathan asked.

  “About the size of a hatbox. Like so,” Nathan said, showing Jonathan the general dimensions with his hands.

  “Okay, what’s his security like?” Jonathan caught his mistake a second too late. “It’s been a while and ­people tend to beef up security after a robbery,” he said, trying to cover his slipup. It seemed to work.

  “Minimal, same as before. Living in the middle of nowhere like he does, he doesn’t think he needs much in the way of security. Maybe four or five guards on the grounds and a mediocre security system.”

  “When do we go?” Jonathan asked wanting to end this little exchange before he made a mistake he couldn’t cover.

  “Tonight. I know that doesn’t give you much time to prepare, but the timing is unavoidable and I’m hoping your previous venture there will make up for it.”

  “I’m going to need some equipment.”

  “I’ll have Lara get you whatever you need. We anticipated your requests and should have everything on hand,” Nathan said.

  “What about transportation? Not just to Australia, but in and out of the area?” Jonathan asked. It was his first blatant attempt to find out where exactly he was. Or, at least, to find out where he wasn’t.

  “We’ve got that covered, as well. And let me save you some time, we’re in the Indian Ocean, a few hundred kilometers east of Africa,” Nathan said, apparently seeing right through Jonathan’s ruse. Jonathan nodded.

  Why’s he being so forthcoming? Jonathan wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to that question, but he figured he’d better strike again while the gate was open.

  “All right,” Jonathan said, rising and pouring himself a coffee from the sideboard behind him. “Cards on the table. What’s with all the fake cordiality?” He sipped the coffee. It was about the best cup of coffee to ever touch his lips—­dark, rich, and not too bitter.

  “I’m sorry? What makes you think—­”

  “Let’s not fuck around, Kring. You killed ­people in New York to find me. A lot of ­people. Near as I can figure, it cost you millions. You kidnapped my daughter to force me to help you. And to top it all off, you decide to give me a tour and have dinner with me? What the fuck are we waiting for?” Jonathan was trying to shock Nathan into dropping his facade, but he was also letting out some of his pent-­up anxiety.

  Nathan pursed his lips and stared. Jonathan felt like a bug under a microscope, Nathan’s cold stare pulling him apart, layer by layer. He stood his ground and stared back, fighting the chill that wanted to race up his spine.

  “Fine,” Nathan finally said. “Let’s clear the air. First off, I had no intention of killing anyone with that explosion. It was supposed to be a simple diversion. ­People I trusted let me down.”

  “What about the others? The ones that put The Monarch into the spotlight to draw me out? Those were no accidents.”

  “No, they weren’t. Sacrifices had to be made. For the greater good.”

  “The greater good being your revenge on Canton George,” Jonathan said.

  “No. The item you’re stealing is not just part of Canton’s collection. It’s the only thing that can save my life.”

  “That’s the greater good? You justify killing those ­people to save yourself? Because you’re worth more than them?”

  Nathan’s solemn facade slipped away and he was suddenly laughing a deep, hearty laugh. But it was a laugh relegated to just his mouth and chest. His eyes didn’t crinkle up with joy. Instead, they looked panicked and helpless.

  “Again, my apologies,” Nathan said when his laughter subsided. “My disease has a disconcerting symptom of inappropriate laughter. It would appear my mobile and lucid state is about to leave me.” Nathan made his way to the far end of the room, seeming to have trouble making his legs obey him, and pressed a call button on the wall.

  “How can item CS–231 save your life? What is it?” Jonathan asked quickly since Nathan looked like he was going to collapse.

  “My plans need to change,” Nathan said, slumping into a chair. “You’ll be leaving shortly. Good luck to you, Mr. Hall. Remember what’s at stake. Both for me and for you.”

  The door to the dining room opened and Lara and several security guards flowed in, two of them grabbing Jonathan by the arms and holding him while the others ran to Nathan’s side.

  “Now just wait a—­” Jonathan didn’t get to finish. Lara stormed in and roughly pulled a black cloth bag over his head.

  Then she put her lips to his ear.

  “Fail him and I’ll personally cut her heart out.”

  38

  Pioneer Electronics

  New York City

  9:00 A.M. Local Time

  LEW DIDN’T HAVE many options. In fact, near as he could figure, all he had was option. And even that was a long shot. Jonathan was gone. Lew’s only link to him was Emily. Emily was gone. Both of them had been taken right from under his nose. But if Emily could track someone with her phone, then maybe—­just maybe—­she could be tracked too.

  Everything had been going well. Raiden Pioneer’s shop was open and no one else was around. Lew thought he was finally catching a break, as he explained the situation to Raiden in his shop bathed in the early morning sun streaming through the dirty windows. But when Raiden came out from behind the cash register he didn’t have a phone in his hand. He had a gun.

  And it was pointed at Lew’s heart.

  “Put the gun away,” Lew said, raising his hands. Raiden Pioneer’s glare and unshaking gun hand told Lew this wasn’t the first time the unassuming man had held a weapon. He was also pretty sure Raiden wouldn’t have a problem pulling the trigger if Lew cornered him.

  “In the back,” Raiden said, wiggling the gun toward the curtain that separated the front of the store from his workshop. Raiden circled around behind him, staying at least six feet away, and locked the store’s front door and turning over the “Open” sign.

  This guy’s no amateur. Generally ­people who were new to holding guns on other ­people used their television-­acqu
ired training and always stood close enough to press the weapon into their target’s back. That invariably made it easy to overpower them, especially if you had close combat skills.

  “Look, Hopalong, all I want to do is help Emily. She’s in trouble and I need your help to—­”

  A colon-­twisting snick echoed in the little store as Raiden cocked the gun’s hammer.

  “I don’t know what you’ve done with Emily or why you’re here, but I’m turning you in,” Raiden said.

  “Turning me in? For what?”

  “For mass murder.” Lew’s eyes narrowed.

  “What are you talking about?” Lew asked, afraid of the answer.

  “It’s been on the news for the past hour. A tourist came forward and turned a video of the Federal Plaza disaster in to the police when he couldn’t sell it to the news stations. He didn’t film the explosion, but he got a great shot of someone jumping onto a limousine and smashing the window as he ran from the scene. Someone wearing a duster. It wasn’t hard for me to guess who it was after meeting you earlier. Your description is on every channel now. And I’ll bet there’s a nice reward involved.”

  My duster? They didn’t have my face or name. That’s something.

  Lew was doubly glad he hadn’t waited around at the accident for the cops to show up. But time was ticking and Emily’s kidnapper could be anywhere by now, never mind where the hell Jonathan was. This suspicious little opportunist was his only hope. Though he wasn’t going to get anywhere as long as Raiden had that gun.

  “Things aren’t always how they look,” Lew said, taking a tentative step forward.

  “That’s far enough,” Raiden said, seeing his idea plainly. “In the back!” Raiden waved his gun toward the curtain that led to the back of his shop.

  Lew hesitated, but knew he had little choice. He turned around and stepped toward the curtain, his hands in the air.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Lew said.

  “Let me worry about—­”