The Crowns Vengeance

by Andrew Clawson

  Twenty-five Louisburg Square was owned by one Jonathan Smith. Mr. Smith listed this as his secondary residence, with a PO Box as the forwarding address. Despite the best efforts of Nick’s team, they had been unable to locate Mr. Smith. Apparently, he had purchased the home two decades ago and had since vanished. No other homes were listed in his name, no helpful tax records, no government identifications ever issued other than a passport which had never been used.

  The property taxes were paid every year by a corporation based in Switzerland, and even Parker realized the futility in trying to get information from the Swiss.

  Four-story red-brick homes surrounded him on every side. Wooden shutters, all painted a uniform black, framed the numerous windows fronting every structure. From within most buildings, light could be seen, electric illumination that lent a warmth to the area, a sense of hominess and tranquility among the opulence.

  Except for the house, which he now faced. Every window was dark, ominous.

  A shrill screeching filled the air. Parker jumped, searching all around. What was it?

  Through the thudding heartbeat that filled his ears, he realized it was a cell phone ringing.

  But he didn’t have one.

  On the ground, sitting on the first step that led into his targeted house, a glimmer of light. Leaning in, he realized that a smartphone had been placed on the step, facedown. He hadn’t seen it in the darkness. When he saw the touch screen, his lungs froze.

  Instead of displaying a phone number across the top, there was a sentence.

  Answer the call.

  His thumb touched the screen. “Hello?”

  “Come inside, Mr. Chase. The door is open.”

  The line went dead. With no other choice, he walked up the stairs.

  White marble framed a sleek black door. The knob turned easily in his grasp.

  It was pitch black inside the home, his vision limited to a few feet inside the frame. The yellow gaslight behind him reflected off a polished wooden floor, casting a lone shadow into the gloomy depths. From out of the darkness, an unfamiliar voice spoke in clipped tones.

  “Take three steps forward. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Parker obeyed, the door sliding closed on noiseless hinges. He blinked rapidly, desperately trying to adjust to the dark interior.

  “Do you have what we requested?” The same voice, now to his left. A soft squeaking sound, like rubber-soled shoes on hardwood floors, came from his right.

  “In the bag.” Parker tapped the leather satchel for emphasis.

  “Are you armed?”

  “No.”

  “Hold your arms straight up in the air. If you make any sudden moves, you die.”

  Parker obeyed, arms skyward. A pair of gloved hands appeared from the darkness, rapidly patting him down. Suddenly a brilliant white light flashed in his eyes, blinding him.

  “Stand still.”

  The hands flipped open his bag for a moment, while Parker was still seeing stars. Before he could react, the bag was closed.

  “So far, so good. Continue this way, and don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

  He didn’t believe them for a second.

  “Where’s Erika? I want to see her.”

  “In due time, Mr. Chase. For now, follow us.”

  Several seconds later, a penlight snapped to life behind him, washing soft luminescence on his surroundings which allowed Parker to make out the home’s elegant interior. Polished wood framed every wall, the plaster surfaces painted white. He was immediately struck by the lack of ornamentation. There was not a single picture, rug, or lamp visible. Nothing to indicate that anyone lived here. The word that sprang to mind was sterile.

  “Follow your guide, Mr. Chase. I don’t have to tell you what will happen if you attempt anything foolish.” The hard barrel of a gun jabbed into his ribcage, the message clear.

  Ahead, a man of about his size appeared. Rather, the rear of a man appeared. Clad in dark clothes, with thick black boots underneath his cargo pants, he never turned to face Parker. He spied night vision goggles draped around the man’s neck. To Parker’s rear, at least one man held the light, a pistol in his grasp. He was surrounded.

  “Move.” The leading guide disappeared, and Parker hurried to catch up.

  He needed to keep Nick in the loop, and the only way to do that was to talk.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Shut up. No more questions.”

  The pistol jammed into his back once more.

  In the darkness, Parker’s senses took on a heightened state, compensating for his lack of sight. With his shadow being thrown forward by the backlighting, he could see little save the areas immediately around him.

  The old wooden floors didn’t creak as they walked. Whoever really owned this house had taken care of it. Still, down the hallway, which seemed to lead on forever, he failed to spy a single personal touch. It appeared the home was uninhabited.

  Why would they bring him to an empty house? Especially one with neighbors all around. It didn’t make sense.

  “Stop.” The lead guide reached to his left, hand disappearing into the inky black void outside the penlights reach. A soft creaking noise indicated a door had opened.

  “Go left. Down the stairs.”

  Wooden handrails descending into the blackness, uncarpeted steps beneath his feet. As his lead guide descended, Parker spotted what appeared to be a stubby machine gun strapped across the mans chest, not unlike the weapons Nick and his team carried. These guys were definitely not your average thugs. Military-grade assault weapons meant two things, neither of which made Parker feel any better. The men were deadly serious, and money was not an issue.

  Once they hit solid ground, he suddenly realized Nick had never said anything about the tracking devices’ limitations. These things had better work underground.

  Cement floor stretched unbroken on all sides. It was as though the steps descended into the middle of a wide-open area, an expansive underground pasture.

  “Get moving.” The gun barrel again. Parker hurried to catch up with the leader, who had made a sharp right. Parker ran through a mental image of the ground floor above. This path would take them toward the rear of the property, which he had been told contained a small, fenced-in yard.

  A door soon appeared, painted the obligatory black, a sharp contrast with the white concrete walls. Through the doorway, and then a musty smell filled his nose. Amazingly, the passageway into which they stepped was not a storm entrance. Instead, it appeared to stretch to infinity, damp air replete with earthy overtones the only indication they were underground.

  Parker continued forward, counting his steps. One hundred thirty later, they arrived at an identical black door, never once passing underneath any type of opening or skylight. At roughly three feet per step, they had traveled almost four hundred feet from the rear edge of the structure he’d entered. Which meant he was no longer on the same property. Nick and his team were now watching an empty house.

  He really hoped the tracking devices were working.

  Through the door at the end of the tunnel, Parker found himself in a basement identical to the one they’d just left. White walls and a bare concrete floor led to a staircase, at the top of which was an equally empty, unfurnished home. The unbroken march halted abruptly at the front door of the new house, and the flashlight went out.

  Once again plunged into darkness, Parker could see little except for hazy outline of the doorway he faced.

  “Hold still, Mr. Chase. I’m going to put a bag over your head.” A coarse sack slid over his eyes and settled loosely on his shoulders. With one hand guiding him, Parker heard the front door slide open, and a rush of warm air flooded into the empty home.

  “Move forward. There will be one step onto the porch, then five to the street.”

  The directions were precise, but Parker walked clumsily, stumbling over the top step and buying a few precious seconds. An iron hand steadied his course
. While they walked, his ears strained for any sound, any way to identify what was happening.

  The rumble of an idling car engine was all that he heard. No voices, no stereos playing music or cars passing by.

  What sounded like a car door clicked open, and a hand guided his head down.

  “Into the car.”

  Plush leather greeted his backside, high enough from the ground to tell him this was another sport utility vehicle. Parker would bet his last dollar he could guess the make and color.

  He was guided across the smooth leather to the far seat, which he assumed was behind the driver. As soon as the door closed, Parker was thrown into the cushioned backrest, the engine roaring. During the ride, not a word was spoken. On the rare occasion the vehicle would stop, he didn’t hear a thing outside. No other traffic, no passing pedestrians or police sirens.

  The engine’s roar was mind-numbing, and it was a shock when the car jerked to a halt. His door opened, and a monstrous wind assaulted his body. The sound of a helicopter rotor turning was unmistakable.

  For the second time that night, Parker boarded one of the flying contraptions. This time, however, he was half shoved and half stumbled on the monstrous bird, which promptly lifted off. Without a headset, all he could hear was the whirring blade that chopped through the air overhead, his senses thrown into disarray.

  After an interminable ride, Parker’s stomach rose into his throat as the bird descended. Head pushed low, he stumbled from the passenger area, completely disoriented. Unlike earlier, when high winds had buffeted his body atop the Federal Reserve Bank, there was no wind and precious little sound upon his exit.

  Several pairs of footsteps joined his on a brief walk, before all sounds of the outside world vanished as they passed through a doorway. How large, or to where it led, he had no idea.

  A twisting and turning course took him through whatever structure they’d entered. His only clue about the area lay beneath his feet, and he alternately felt thick carpet or slick, hard floors.

  “Stop.”

  Clasped to his shoulder, the hand that had guided him here now shoved a leather bag against his chest and then whipped the black bag from his head. Bright lights assaulted his eyes, and he clenched them shut to avoid the painful glare, his satchel clutched in both arms.

  “Welcome, Mr. Chase. I’m so glad you could join us.” A new voice, directly in front of him. One eye cracked open, and he found himself staring at a man he’d never met, but who he knew intimately.

  Spencer Drake.

  Chapter 50

  “I do hope your journey was comfortable.”

  Drake removed his hands from charcoal gray suit pockets, absentmindedly touching his slick hair. Across from him, surrounded by Tom Becker’s men, Parker Chase glared at him with undisguised hatred.

  “Where is Erika?”

  When Parker spoke, Drake saw the surprisingly muscular man’s eyes flash with angst. Drake had specifically chosen this meeting place to maximize Parker’s discomfort.

  Five minutes ago Drake’s personal helicopter had landed on his helipad, located on the roof of his home in Weston, a suburb fifteen miles from downtown Boston. They were in the main building of his compound, which sprawled over nearly a hundred acres. Vast rows of hedges and trees lined the estate, offering the privacy he required, free from any prying eyes.

  “I trust you have everything we asked for?”

  Parker tapped the bag once, but made no move to open it. “I want to see her.”

  A reasonable request.

  “As you wish.”

  He nodded toward Becker, who disappeared down a hallway. While they waited, Drake watched Parker study his surroundings.

  They were standing in one of the home’s reception areas. A vaulted ceiling soared thirty feet overhead, tinted glass windows comprising one entire wall, the view of suburban Boston breathtaking. A double stairway behind Spencer led up to the second level of his home, which overlooked the floor on which they now stood. Above that, a third level was visible, partially obscured behind a low wall that lined the top-floor balcony. Various original works of British art graced the walls, the centerpiece of which was an original painting of Sir Winston Churchill, one of the few men whom Drake considered a peer.

  Two sets of footsteps echoed from the nearby hallway.

  Clad in the same clothes in which she had been abducted, Dr. Erika Carr walked into the room, one of Drake’s men following closely behind.

  Even after all she’d been through, Drake had to admit she was stunning.

  “Are you all right?”

  Chase made no move to reach for her, holding his ground. She didn’t respond at first, and Spencer found her eyes locked on him, loathing in each.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Chase stood rigidly still, one hand on the leather satchel around his shoulder.

  “Satisfied, Mr. Chase?”

  The intensity on Parker’s face was unlike anything Drake had ever seen. Palpable rage fixed on him like a laser, a scarcely controlled sense of violence emanating from the man.

  “Before I give you this bag, you’re going to let her go.”

  Spencer was glad there was a guard on either side of Parker. He was slightly worried that Chase might take a run at him, and he had no inclination to have his teeth knocked out.

  “You are not in a position to make any demands.”

  Even with the three armed men to his rear, Spencer took a step back. No need to give Chase any incentive.

  “However, as a show of good faith, I’ll agree.”

  Was Chase really this stupid? Drake and Stirling had discussed their move hours earlier, after finalizing their plans for fleeing the country, personal fortunes intact. Two days ago, after learning that his grandfather’s telegram had been accessed by the CIA, Nigel had quietly obtained fifty million dollars worth of oil futures forecasting a sudden drop in the price of a barrel, the exact opposite of what Spencer had been purchasing. His transaction had barely been processed when Sheik bin Khan dropped a bomb on the market with his announcement that OPEC would double exports beginning today, and within twelve hours his investment had yielded a tenfold return.

  Half a billion dollars wealthier, Nigel’s plane was going wheels up in the morning, and Spencer Drake would be on board. On paper, the Securities Exchange Commission would be able to pinpoint almost a billion dollar loss in his personal fortune. Drake expected that in the immediate fallout following this financial disaster he would be vilified by the American public, along with every other CEO who used their clients’ money to recklessly gamble on the market. The inevitable finger-pointing would ensue, and he doubted that the average American would ever learn that Spencer Drake had orchestrated the increased trading in oil futures. They would paint every participant with a broad stroke, and he would go down in history as only one member of an extensive rogue’s gallery of entitled villains.

  A small price to pay for ensuring the United States was appropriately humbled.

  “Please escort Dr. Carr from the grounds.”

  One of Becker’s men gestured for her to follow him out of the room. The guard had been instructed to take Erika to a nearby room and wait. Parker Chase was in for a surprise later this evening. Drake was going to shoot her while he watched. The thought sent a tingle of anticipation up his spine.

  Erika ignored the man. “No. I’m not leaving without Parker.”

  “It’s all right,” Parker responded in an even tone. “I’ll be fine, and I’ll see you soon.”

  Chase turned to face Spencer, that unsettling fury still lighting his face.

  “Whoever the hell you are, if you or any of these bastards hurt her, I will kill you.”

  “Mr. Chase, I’m a man of my word. I will not harm her.”

  “How is she going to get home? I came here in a helicopter, in case you forgot. I have no idea where we are.”

  “You are less than fifteen miles from Boston. After we conclude our business, I promise you will
be reunited and will be free to go wherever you please.”

  “Parker, he’s lying. I don’t trust—”

  “Erika.” Chase held up one hand, his eyes never leaving Drake’s face. “We don’t have a choice. Do what he says.”

  This was going to be easier than he’d imagined. So much for Parker Chase putting up a fight. Without another word, Erika was led down the hallway, a pistol trained on her back.

  “Now that she’s cared for, would you be so kind as to hand over your bag?”

  Chase handed the brown leather bag to Tom Becker, who inventoried the contents.

  “It’s all here, sir.”

  “All three letters and both computers? Excellent. One question, Mr. Chase. How do I know you didn’t make any copies for safekeeping?”

  “Are you crazy? Do you think I wanted any of this?” His arms spread wide, indicating the four armed men.

  “Erika was simply doing her job, and she happened to find that letter from Revere. How was she supposed to know it was there?”

  Which raised an interesting question. “I never did learn where she located the document.”

  “It was in a box of Alexander Hamilton’s correspondence that she was studying,” Parker explained. “There was a book in there, and apparently this letter was hidden underneath the cover. I guess the binding just came loose over the centuries and when she opened it, this letter fell out.”

  How amazing. Hamilton had hidden the letter hundreds of years ago, and for some reason, never acted on the intelligence. He would probably never know why this information fell through the cracks. The vagaries of fate could be whimsical indeed.

  “Fascinating. I suppose I’ll just have to trust that you wouldn’t be so foolish as to cross me.”

  “Who the hell are you, anyway? Why are you so interested in these letters?”