by Jack Soren
“Okay, here’s the plan . . .”
1:45 A.M.
“HOLY CRAP,” LEW said from his position on the hill looking down over the estate. The jungle ended in a cliff, spilling down onto several acres of flatland. George had rebuilt what Lew had destroyed, but rebuilt wasn’t the right word. Manifested better described what had taken the place of the large ranch-style home that had been there before. Now it looked like an English castle, complete with observatory dome on top. Huge floodlights illuminated the mansion and the grounds.
In the distance behind the mansion, Lew could see a tennis court and an in-ground pool complex, the outbuilding looking more like a health club or a temple than somewhere to stow wet bathing suits. To the left of the sports complex was a large grove of mature trees, somehow green on the flat, brown grass that surrounded them. The front of the property was alternating huge patches of grass and concrete, and while there were trees and retaining walls, the trees were decorative, shaped and sparse. With all the windows in the four-story face of the mansion, a surreptitious approach from the front would be almost impossible. The trees in the back were definitely the way to go.
Lew worked his way along the top of the cliff, looking for guards as he went. He hadn’t seen any, yet, but he couldn’t believe he was that lucky. Unless the message on the DVD meant all the guards were out in the jungle on the off chance Emily and Jonathan had decided to make a run for it. That would be bad. There’d be no telling how many there were, how they were armed, or when they would decide to come sauntering back to the house.
The plan was for Lew to take out any guards and then work his way into the house to get the drop on George and anyone inside. Jonathan and Emily, as requested, had walked up the road with Kring’s payment. But with a place this big, even once he got inside, it could take Lew an hour to find them. He was liking this plan less and less.
Twenty minutes later, Lew had worked his way around back and down into the grove of trees. When he reached the last tree, he was still fifty feet from the house, and as it turned out the back of the place had even more windows than the front. He’d have to take a chance.
Lew crouched and darted out of his cover, heading for the large granite staircase that sloped away from the house into the yard. It was the closest point, and it would get him onto the terrace that ran along the back of the house halfway up. Once inside, moving from the top down was preferred to trying to work his way up.
Lew made it to the stairs and crouched on the first few steps, his back to the solid granite railing, concealing him from anyone unless they happened to come down the stairs just then. He caught his breath, his nose tickling from the heavy scent of chlorine in the air, and then ascended the stairs in a crouch, his gun drawn.
Flattened against the back of the house, Lew peered around the edge of one of the huge, decorative windows. The inside of the house was just as still as the outside. He moved along to the closest of several doors. In the years since the incident at the previous house on this very site, Lew had made it his business to learn how to bypass alarms. At first, he’d tried it the way Jonathan would approach it. He’d studied alarm manuals and schematics until his head hurt—about a minute and a half—and realized if he was ever going to be successful at this, he’d have to do it his way. And so with that approach, he’d practiced and studied until he’d become a craftsman at his way. And that’s what he used here.
Lew raised his boot and stomped down on the bottom hinge of the door. Two stomps later the doorjamb cracked, releasing the hinge. He then pressed just above the height of the busted hinge on the center of the door with one hand, and slipped the fingers of his other hand under the bottom of the door and pulled—pulled hard. His damaged hands ached and throbbed but some grunting made that go away for the moment. The door was metal but hollow, thankfully, and a minute later the entire bottom third of the door was bent out high enough for him to crawl under.
Once inside—with no alarm sirens sounding—Lew brushed himself off and looked around. He was going to have to hurry now, before anyone noticed the L-shaped door sticking out onto the terrace.
He was in the kitchen, or at least a kitchen. It seemed too small for a house this large. He figured this must be a guest kitchen. Doorless entryways led off in several directions, but through them was more dark and quiet. Lew was more nervous than when he’d left Yazoo Penitentiary. Something was definitely off. To the left was a small spiral staircase leading upward. He continued his trek to the high ground and quietly ascended the wrought-iron Slinky.
Lew eased the door at the top of the stairs open and found himself in an empty ballroom larger than a high school gymnasium, the hardwood floor shining in the twilight beaming through several large bay windows. Three chandeliers hung from the ceiling and several glass doors displayed the house’s top level as empty and dark. He made his way to the far side and was about to open the door when he saw an alarm control panel on the wall. A green LED glowed on the panel. The alarm was off. Lew rolled his eyes.
When he opened the door, he heard muffled voices coming from below. Finally. He had started to feel like he was in a horror movie. The circular hallway wrapped around an empty, railing-lined space that looked down over the main floor. He looked over the edge, feeling a bit of vertigo from the eighty-foot drop, and listened. The voices seemed to be coming from a doorway one floor down. Slowing his pace, he eased his way down the stairs and peeked around the edge of the open doorway.
It was another two-story-high space, a wooden landing running all the way around three sides of the large, square space. Everything in here was shiny, caramel wood—the walls, the doors, the floor—everything. A single chandelier hung down in the center. Below was an equally wooded great room, a fireplace set into one wall and a large patterned carpet on the hardwood floor, various sofas, tables, and chairs scattered around it. On the far side of the room, the only way down was another spiral staircase, this one wooden like everything else. This was as close as Lew would get and stay out of sight.
He eased through the door in a crouch and peered down at the odd scene below. Jonathan and Emily were on their knees by the fireplace, their fingers laced behind their heads. The suitcase was on a coffee table, open and displaying the cash. Lew recognized Canton George, the short and thin black man in a khaki safari outfit standing beside the case. The first odd thing was that George too had his fingers laced behind his head. The second odd thing was the three bodies, dressed similarly to George, lying to the side. Lew could see a few smears of blood on the floor, and from their lack of movement, he assumed they were dead. The only other man in the room, also dressed in khaki, was holding a gun on George.
“Claude’s taking care of them, don’t you worry,” the armed man said. The news didn’t seem to console George much. It didn’t take a genius to see that one of George’s men—or maybe more, depending on who Claude was—were cashing in a little early retirement bond. Lew understood. Despite working in such a luxurious environment, furnishings were hard to pawn, especially when you had to haul them hundreds of miles to the pawnshop. A big case full of cash was another matter and obviously too tempting for them to turn down.
Lew knew the smart move would be to stand up and pop the lone thief now before Claude or anybody else showed up. But seeing Emily kneeling down there stopped him. He didn’t want her to see that side of him if he could avoid it. It was stupid and adolescent, but something inside wouldn’t let him shake the feeling. He’d have to find another way. Lew thought about going back into the ballroom and crossing the wires in the alarm panel, hoping he could set it off as a distraction, but the last time he did that here . . . no, that wouldn’t work.
“How can you do this, Dennis? I treated you like a brother!” George said.
“Shut up!” Dennis said, smacking George in the mouth with his pistol. George fell to his knees and held his bloodied mouth. Just then, another
man dressed in khakis came in from outside, a rifle slung over his shoulder. “Did you get them all?”
“Aye, mate. They’ll be ripped apart by morning,” the rifleman, obviously Claude, said. Lew figured he’d killed whoever else had been waiting in the jungle in case Emily and Jonathan had run, leaving the disposal of their bodies to the wilderness.
Now there were two targets. Things were getting complicated, and his reasons concerning Emily aside, jumping up and shooting was now out of the question.
“What about them?” Claude asked, nodding toward Jonathan and Emily. Lew knew that if they hadn’t been searched, Jonathan would still have access to a gun. Lew had put it in Emily’s pocket, hoping George would see her as less of a threat. But pulling it now would be a death sentence. Dennis turned his gun toward the kneeling pair, and Lew knew the time for sensibilities and contemplation was over. Out of ideas, he acted on instinct.
Lew crawled up the landing to a set of double doors that led to a sitting room. He opened them both carefully and went in. There was nothing he could use as a weapon, but that wasn’t why he’d gone in. He walked as far back as he could, tucked his gun into his waistband so it was snug, and then turned around and faced the open doors.
“Kill them,” he heard Dennis say from down below. Lew summoned his courage and with an emboldening shout, he took off. He ran as fast as he could, his thundering footsteps no doubt garnering the attention of everyone in the great room. When he was almost to the railing, he stomped both feet and dove over the railing into mid-air, howling like a maniac, his duster flapping in the air behind him.
“What the fuck!” Lew heard someone yell, but he was too busy to figure out who it was. Arcing down, he snagged the chandelier, ignoring the pain in his damaged hands, and swung toward the wall with his momentum, bullets zipping past him as he reached the swing’s apex. One of them cut through his collar and creased his shoulder. He kicked off the far wall, spinning around. The gunman’s eyes widened as he saw what was coming, but realized it too late. Lew kicked hard with his boot and caught Dennis under the chin, lifting him off the ground. He slammed to the floor, either out cold or dead, but now Lew was swinging the other way with his back to the room. He braced himself for the gunshot from Claude.
At least Jonny will be able to save Natalie.
The gunshot came and went, but Lew didn’t feel anything. As he swung back, he let go at the bottom of the arc and hit the ground in a crouch. He pulled his gun from his waistband and spun around to see if anything was coming at him, but all he saw was Claude lying on the floor, a hole in his forehead. Lew turned to thank Jonathan, but saw Emily holding the smoking gun, the reality of what she’d just done sinking in. Jonathan took the gun from her. Lew was surprised that, despite looking like her knees might buckle at any moment, she was holding her own. But they were so focused on Emily that they forgot about George.
Lew heard the gun’s slide pull back behind him. He turned in time to see that George had grabbed one of the dropped guns. He wasn’t coming at them, though. He turned toward the man he’d just called a brother, the man who had just hit him in the mouth, and returned the favor. Only George did it with three bullets into Dennis’s face. He probably would have fired more, but Jonathan came up from behind him and stripped the gun away.
George turned toward them, panting with what appeared to Lew to be anger. He wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of one hand, his eyes flicking back and forth among the intruders in his home. His glare finally came to rest on Lew.
“Who are you? How’d you get in my home?” George demanded.
“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Lew said. “Maybe you’d like Dennis and his buddy Claude, there, back. Have yourselves a little pistol-whipping party.”
“No, of course not,” George said, but Lew got the feeling his demeanor change was a show in reaction to his situation, not something he really felt. “My apologies. I think you can understand I’m not myself right now. Perhaps a reward, yes?”
These assholes, Lew thought. Always with the money.
“Sure,” Lew said. “How about three million euros?”
“Wait, how do you kno—”
“What about Kring?” Lew said. The phony smile fell from George’s face.
“Kring? How do you . . . wait, you’re with them?” Jonathan pressed the still hot barrel of the gun against George’s neck. “Ah!”
“The item you promised Kring. Or my friend here gets careless with the wiring again and burns this place to the ground,” Jonathan said.
“Your friend? But I thought you—”
“We’re just full of surprises,” Lew said, walking over beside Jonathan, though he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of this guy knowing it was just he who had taken out his last collection. Then he remembered the image of Emily kneeling with a gun to her head. Nope, he liked this just fine.
“Nice, by the way,” Jonathan said, motioning at the still swinging chandelier.
“Thanks. I think I may need to change my pants.”
2:50 A.M.
JONATHAN PACED BEFORE a massive oak desk, the automatic held slack at his side. George sat behind the desk, his hands flat on top as Jonathan had ordered after telling him to sit down. There was something odd about George’s left hand. It looked natural, but its sheen and lack of movement betrayed the disguise. Jonathan could see by the myriad of photographs hung around the room showing George on various hunting parties that the prosthesis was a fairly recent occurrence.
Following the decor of the great room upstairs, the office was also a cocoon of oak and teak. The air smelled of polish and wood. High up on all four walls were mounted heads of George’s kills. His hunting prizes, but Jonathan knew that, like other men he’d met over the years, George’s real treasures were not on display.
“How is she doing?” Jonathan asked Lew. He was seated on the love seat beside Emily, who hadn’t said much since the shooting. At least she didn’t look nauseous anymore. Lew held one of her hands between both of his, which seemed to be helping.
“She is still trying to keep her bloody lunch down,” Emily responded.
“Sorry,” Jonathan said.
“Hell, she’s doing better than me,” Lew said, stretching his neck. He reached under his collar, winced, and pulled slightly bloody fingers away. “Ain’t serious but hurts like a . . .” Lew stopped himself with a side glance to Emily. “Just hurts. We’ll both be better off once we get out of this freak show.”
Jonathan nodded. He’d never seen Lew affected by a woman like this. Lew had certainly had his share of dalliances, but his behavior and manner never faltered. In fact, it was usually magnified. Emily was special to him. And it seemed to be mutual.
“I hear that,” Jonathan said, offering Emily a slight smile. He turned back to the desk, rapping on it with the barrel of the gun. “Let’s go. The item. Now.”
“This desk was a gift from a British earl. It’s over three hundred years old,” George said to Jonathan, though he kept looking at Lew. Jonathan easily distinguished George’s South African accent, a smattering of lightly rolled r’s and hard consonants.
“Is that so?” Jonathan said. He raised the gun and fired a bullet into the wood, garnering George’s full attention. The South African shielded his eyes from the explosion of splinters. “The item!”
“Kak! You’re insane. How do I know you won’t kill me the second I give it to you?” George said, looking at the ruined corner of the desk. A darkness slid across his eyes and Jonathan knew if given the chance, George would kill them all without batting an eye, which of course had been the plan all along. This was not a man used to being told what to do.
“You don’t.”
“Give us the item or we’ll call the authorities and you can explain how you helped kidnap a little girl and launch a terrorist attack on New York,” Jonathan said, playing t
he only hand he had. If George played hardball, they’d have to find the vault themselves and break into it. That would take time. Lots of it. Time they didn’t have—time Natalie didn’t have.
“I had nothing to do with that. That was all Kring. All I did was tell him what I wanted. His methods were all his own. The man is diseased and unstable.”
“And you took advantage of it,” Jonathan said. “But he’s not just crazy, he’s motivated-crazy. You had something he wanted. Something he thinks can save his life. He created a phony serial killer to find The Monarch. Killed dozens of people in the process. All so he could hand The Monarch over to you. But no matter what Kring paid or gave you, I’m guessing you wouldn’t have given him what he wanted.”
George’s stoic mouth formed what might be a smile. Jonathan hated men like this. Men who thought their power and money made them invincible and godlike. No matter what they did, their hands would always stay clean. They were just the orchestrators, the manipulators. Men like this were why he and Lew had created The Monarch in the first place.
“You’re a monster,” Emily said. “You and Kring, both.”
“I say we kill him and get out of here,” Lew said, after whispering something to Emily.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Emily said. “Why don’t we call Kring and see what he’d be willing to offer for his friend, here. I’m guessing he’d pay even more than he has already. And I’ll bet there’s a pretty good chance he knows where you keep the item.”
Jonathan nodded, understanding their ruse. He picked the phone up off the desk and pretended to dial Kring.
“Wait,” George said. Jonathan kept dialing. “Ag, wait, goddamn it!” George slammed his hand down on the receiver.
“Change of heart?”
“If I show you my vault, I need assurances you’ll just take Kring’s item. Nothing more.”
Jonathan looked at Lew and Emily. Lew nodded and shrugged.