The Crowns Vengeance

by Andrew Clawson

  One artifact remained in the box. Gloved fingers gently gripped the surprisingly sturdy paper as she unfolded this last letter.

  What Erika saw took the breath from her chest.

  Chapter 3

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  A forearm wrapped across his throat. Parker struggled for air, spots flashing in front of his eyes as his brain shouted for oxygen.

  Suddenly the pressure vanished. He gasped, his head light, chest on fire.

  “That’s how quickly you’ll be out if your air supply is cut off.”

  Behind him, the instructor stood, arms gesturing to the mat on which Parker sat.

  “Chase is a strong guy, tougher than most. Look how quickly he went down without air. If you can’t breathe, you’re done.”

  As he spoke, the black-belt-clad Krav Maga instructor put out a hand, which Parker used to haul himself off the mat. All around, students young and old soaked in the knowledge, aware that one day it could save their lives.

  Inside this brand new gymnasium, martial arts instruction was dispensed daily to practitioners of all levels. Two sparring areas with padded floors and walls flanked a full-sized boxing ring, the centerpiece of a vast training area replete with heavy and speed bags, weight benches and squat racks. Farther away a climbing wall was visible, along with an aerobics studio and even a lap pool. A red sun cast its final rays through floor-to-ceiling glass windows that fronted the complex.

  Parker shook his head to clear the cobwebs. He’d been coming here for several years now, fully hooked on the adrenaline rush this art form provided, as well as the subtle movements it demanded. Originally developed by Israeli Special Forces, Krav Maga was not only an intense workout, it could be a lifesaver.

  Years of lifting weights had grown tedious, but Parker had no alternative outlet into which he could channel his competitive spirit. His entire life had been spent on a playing field, and it was on the gridiron that he’d found the most success. Football had paid his way through school, his athletic prowess earning him a full-ride Division I scholarship. After hanging up his cleats, he’d found that Krav Maga relieved the stress of his pressure-packed job, so every jab Parker threw contained a fury born from a disdain for his more difficult clients.

  “All right, everyone pair off and practice a chokehold escape. Chase, you’re with me.”

  Parker had picked up the martial art rapidly. Recognizing this, the instructor had taken Parker under his wing, challenging him daily to better his skills, never letting him leave without dishing out a reminder that as good as he was, a long road lay ahead.

  An hour later, Parker was bruised, battered, and thoroughly pleased. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he headed to the locker room.

  Darkness had fallen by the time he’d showered and made it home, a pile of letters greeting him on the front doorstep. Parker scanned his investment account statements, most doing surprisingly well. The past few months had been kind to him. Not enough to retire, but he couldn’t complain.

  Before he could even grab a beer, his phone vibrated.

  Work never really stopped. It only took a lunch break.

  “Parker Chase.”

  A familiar voice taunted him. “How’s the slowest safety to ever step on the field doing?”

  “Still faster than you.”

  The caller chuckled. “How are you, old buddy?”

  Parker had met Ben Flood in college, and they’d remained close friends ever since. Both studied finance, and they’d quickly bonded over a shared love of sports, beer, and pretty women. Ben had taken a job in Boston after graduation, a position similar to the wealth management that Parker now practiced.

  “Just fine. Getting older, though. How are you?” Parker asked.

  “Same here. You know the drill. Anyway, I wanted to see if you’re still going to be up here next week?”

  Parker’s office had dealings with Ben’s firm, so Parker jumped at any chance to travel to Beantown for work. It didn’t hurt that Flood’s employer was one of the largest financial service providers in the city and always provided great seats to a game, free of charge.

  “Wouldn’t miss it. I hope that famous Aldrich Securities expense account hasn’t run dry.”

  “It took some work, but I secured two seats in the company box at Fenway.”

  Fenway Park was where the Boston Red Sox played, an iconic baseball stadium that was on every fan’s bucket list.

  “You’re the man. Can’t wait.”

  They chatted for a few minutes before hanging up. Parker was excited to see a game at Fenway and spend some time with Ben. With a beer in hand and some leftover pizza on the table, he flicked on the television.

  A scene of terror filled the screen.

  Beneath a hollow-eyed reporter who shouted frantically into the camera, a rolling text bar flashed the same words over and over.

  British Chancellor of the Exchequer Assassinated.

  Parker’s beer stopped halfway to his mouth, forgotten. The somber voice of the reporter broke through.

  “Less than an hour ago, Sir Roland Francis Sutton was found in his office with a single bullet wound to the head. He was rushed to the hospital, only to be pronounced dead on arrival. As you can see from the chaos behind me at number eleven”-she turned and indicated a building Parker assumed was on Downing Street-“authorities are only just beginning their investigation.”

  Who would want to kill the Treasurer of Great Britain?

  “Sir Roland was appointed to the chancellor’s post only ten months ago. He was somewhat of a surprise choice, tapped for the post ahead of the presumptive nominee, junior minister Colin Moore.”

  Parker vaguely recalled hearing about the minor controversy.

  “We don’t have much information at this point, but we’re being told the chancellor was shot while standing in front of the broken third-story window to my rear. As you can see behind me, Scotland Yard’s forensics teams are currently inspecting the buildings exterior. Across from us”-the cameraman swiveled around to a structure across the street-“we can see a team of investigators on the rooftop of a second building, situated across the way from Number Eleven Downing Street. From what we know right now, this particular office is utilized by the Ministry of Finance, though details are scant as to its purpose.”

  The frazzled reporter came back into view.

  “The prime minister is set to make a statement within the hour.”

  As she repeated the same details over and over, Parker set his beer down. Why would anyone want to kill the British treasurer? Parker, better than most, knew that few things upset people more than money, but this Roland guy would have had little impact on the day-to-day finances of the average citizen. It didn’t make sense for an angry person to come after the head of the country’s finances. That would be like shooting Bill Gates because your computer kept crashing.

  And weren’t government ministers well protected? You’d think that anyone who worked on Downing Street, which he knew was also home to England’s prime minister, would be well protected. Snipers on rooftops, cameras everywhere, basically an army of security working round-the-clock.

  Apparently the only sniper around had been one of the bad guys.

  Parker stared at the screen as he ate, trying to figure out all the angles. Who would want to do this?

  And not only who, but why?

  Chapter 4

  London, England

  Next door to the murder scene, the prime minister of the United Kingdom stepped into his office. The media horde standing outside had been avoided, leaving him to deal with the only slightly less numerous gathering within Number Ten Downing.

  Over a dozen people lined the hallway outside his door, each of them waiting for a moment of his time. Thirty minutes ago he’d been on the golf course, happily launching drives into the woods, when his security detail had received word of the assassination. Within minutes a helicopter settled onto the pristine fairway to whisk him into the heart of London.
>
  “I will speak with everyone in five minutes. Please wait out here.”

  His deeply stained walnut door slid noiselessly shut, finally affording a sense of privacy. As he massaged his eyes with the flat of his palms, the Right Honorable Donald Duncan, prime minister of the United Kingdom, First Lord of the Treasury, and Minister for the Civil Service, wondered what the hell was going on.

  His good friend was dead, shot in one of the most secure places in the country. The area was literally crawling with security personnel at all hours, so the thought that a lone sniper could access a nearby rooftop, shoot a government minister and vanish had everyone on edge.

  Duncan gave an inadvertent glance at his office windows. Despite the manufacturer’s claims they were bullet-resistant, this apparently didn’t extend to armor-piercing rounds. He’d seen a photo of poor Roland’s corpse, head shattered like a dropped pumpkin. However, now was not the time for grief. A country was in disarray, desperate for answers. It was his job to find them.

  The prime minister set his angular, clean-shaven jaw. Weakness was not an option.

  “Secretary White, please come inside.”

  The Right Honorable Bradley White, secretary of state for defense, hurried through the door. Clasped in both hands was a depressingly thin file that contained everything they knew about the murder so far.

  “Bradley, please have a seat.”

  The tall, slender man sat down across from Duncan, his erect posture giving him the appearance of a worried stork.

  “What do we know?”

  The harried secretary laid the folder on Duncan’s desk and removed a single sheet.

  “Approximately one hour ago, Sir Roland was shot while standing in front of a closed office window facing south. A single bullet was fired through the window, entering Roland’s skull just below his right eye. The round was a .338 cartridge, fired at a range of less than one hundred meters. From such a close distance, the round is capable of piercing the bullet-resistant glass installed in Sir Roland’s office. He was killed instantly.”

  “Do we have any idea who shot him?” the Prime Minister asked.

  “To be frank, sir, we haven’t the foggiest. The man must be a damn ghost. Surveillance footage doesn’t show anyone traversing the courtyard around the building from which the shot was fired. The first time we see anything is when the shot is fired.”

  Duncan’s face burned.

  “Are you telling me this man is invisible?”

  “Not exactly, sir, but we don’t have any idea what he looks like.”

  Secretary White slipped the glasses from his pointed nose.

  “Right now, our best guess is the shooter fired from a ventilation duct on the roof across from Sir Roland’s office. It’s hard to tell, but several cameras captured what we believe to be a muzzle flash coming from the duct.”

  “How could he have accessed that duct? Bloody hell, that’s a treasury building. You can’t just walk in and out, much less without being caught on camera.”

  Minister White’s eyes remained downcast as he spoke.

  “That’s just it, sir. We reviewed all the footage from the past hour, and not a single person is seen heading toward either the roof or entering any maintenance rooms, the only places from which one could access said ducts.” His shoulders rose slightly. “I know it doesn’t make sense, sir, but it’s simply the truth.”

  There was no need to berate Bradley. He was a good man, intelligent and hardworking. If he said there was no footage of the shooter, there wasn’t.

  Duncan ran one weathered hand through his salt and pepper hair.

  “This is a tough spot we’re in, no? All right, talk to your security teams and get an update. I have to make a statement before the rumor mill runs amok. I want an update in thirty minutes. And send Mr. Moore in, please.”

  White hurried from the room. Before the door clicked shut, Colin Moore stepped inside. As chief secretary to the Treasury, Colin Moore was third in the Treasury Department’s hierarchy, after the prime minister and the recently deceased chancellor of the exchequer. He was what some people would refer to as a “proper Brit.” With his meticulously coiffed hair, perfectly tailored suit and bespoke leather shoes, he oozed gentility and class. Educated at Eton, he was part of the good old boys network that ran through English politics-and had been the presumed heir to the chancellor’s position.

  When Donald had elevated Roland Sutton to chancellor of the exchequer less than year ago, it had registered as a mild surprise in financial circles. A few eyebrows were raised, but for the most part, the matter was soon forgotten. Donald worried, however, that Colin Moore may have a chip on his shoulder. In light of today’s events, Duncan felt it best to keep Moore on board with all developments, as he was the logical choice to replace the murdered Sutton.

  “Colin, please have a seat.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Colin inclined his head in appreciation. If he harbored a grudge, it was well hidden behind a curtain of platitudes.

  “We have a sticky situation here. Bradley just informed me the assassin evaded our security cameras and is nowhere to be found. They have no idea who this fellow is or where he went.”

  Moore’s gray eyes met his, concern evident in their icy reflection. The man’s stark features betrayed no angst, high cheekbones framing a thin nose that Duncan always felt was raised ever so slightly.

  “That is terrible, sir. We must find the bastard and make him pay.”

  Duncan ran a second hand through his hair, which seemed to grow sparser with each passing day. He had little doubt this job would rob him of every last strand.

  “Though it feels coarse, we must look to the future. I’m to make a statement in a few minutes, and one of the issues I’d like to address is Sir Roland’s office.”

  Try as he may, Duncan failed to note even a glimpse of reaction. Colin Moore would have been one hell of a poker player.

  “I can only imagine the panic people are feeling right now. We need to stop that, and to do so we must restore order. The government is larger than one man, and the last thing I’m going to do is let these bastards win. If we give in to our fear, then they have succeeded.”

  Moore inclined his head ever so slightly.

  “I’m going to announce that you are replacing Sir Roland as chancellor of the exchequer, effective immediately. I trust you will accept this post?”

  Moore sat frozen, unblinking. After a few moments silence, he answered.

  “My heart is heavy with grief, but you are correct as always, sir. We must show the citizens that we will not cower in the face of evil. I will accept this honor. For queen and country.”

  “That’s the spirit. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a speech to cobble together.”

  Colin Moore rose, shook Duncan’s extended hand. As he walked from the room, back ramrod straight, Duncan couldn’t help but wonder what went through the man’s head.

  He said all the right things, was unfailingly polite, but the fact was he always came across as acting slightly above everyone around him, Donald Duncan included. Duncan was familiar with the aristocratic set, having come from a family blessed with both title and money, but he never considered himself to be better than anyone.

  Hard work and diligent preparation were the currency of success in his mind, and despite having no evidence to support the notion, Duncan always felt Colin Moore didn’t share those beliefs.

  His gaze fell to the blank computer monitor on his desk, and the prime minister focused on the task of calming an embattled nation.

  Chapter 5

  French Riviera

  Saint-Tropez, France

  A gentle breeze drifted over light blue water to send soft ripples across the glassy surface. Afternoon sunlight sparkled on the Mediterranean as seagulls floated toward the white sandy beach on which sun-worshipping tourists sipped from crystal glasses.

  Anchored at an adjacent marina was a veritable armada of luxury yachts. In a town known
the world over as a destination for the rich and famous, there was no such thing as a modest boat.

  Fully half the anchored yachts measured one hundred feet in length, with many approaching twice that. Full-time crews bustled about on deck, cleaning, stocking, shining and serving. In addition to the beautiful crafts berthed dockside, several of the floating castles were at sea, anchored just off shore, their wealthy owners enjoying the trappings of moneyed life. However, even among this treasure trove of seafaring toys, one stood out.

  Two hundred fifty feet from stem to stern, this shining vessel was painted a deep black, protected by a coat of reflective sealant. She had four decks above water, one below, and boasted a helicopter pad in addition to an array of smaller watercraft that included jet skis, landing boats, and a two-man mini-submarine.

  These were only the visible accoutrements, however, as the black-painted hull covered armor plating and a guided missile defense system, custom built in Germany. Intruder detection devices covered the entire craft and surrounding water, and bulletproof windows and doors were standard should any invader manage to board the ship.

  Below the waterline, the engine room housed twin Rolls-Royce diesel behemoths capable of propelling the boat at over twenty-five knots.

  Even at anchor, the magnificent craft outshined each surrounding vessel with its uncompromising size and elegant construction. Every pair of eyes on the beach and water had stolen a glance, envy in all, and not just for the status it brought. There were other things of beauty than just the boat to take in.

  Two extremely gorgeous and completely nude fashion models lay on the sun deck. It would get cold at night, and they took advantage of the early afternoon heat to bronze their flawless skin.