“Doesn’t matter,” he said calmly, his knuckly hands folded in front of him. “I want to stay clear-headed.”
Jones shrugged and sipped his whiskey. This was the good stuff. He loved the burn left in his throat as the precious drops slid down. With a contented sigh, he glanced around the ornate library that held hundreds of valuable first editions of famous works. Along the far wall stood a series of exquisite sculptures on pedestals. The cleverly positioned spotlighting made the figures look alive.
Jones understood little about culture, but he enjoyed being in this room. Hell, he liked being anywhere in Magnus von Silverstråle’s apartment. The place was gigantic, beautiful, and private. And it suited his client well. Jones had only worked for him for two months, but he’d quickly come to like this assignment—which was simply to protect the man. Magnus was an extremely powerful business executive who had taken over his father’s life’s work. The late Leopold von Silverstråle had birthed and expertly shaped Gripen Defense; Magnus had expanded it into a global defense enterprise with an annual turnover of billions of dollars.
Jones downed the last of his whiskey and set the glass down on a round marble table. He glanced out through the massive windows framed by grandiose arches. Light rain pattered against the panes, making them sparkle. On the street below, a set of headlights pushed through the darkness and vanished. A shadow moved on the wall to Jones’ right, and something flickered in the corner of his eye. He flinched.
Shadows. Shadows hung outside the windows facing the alley.
Jones pointed to them and was about to shout a warning when everything around them exploded into chaos. There was a deafening bang, and all three windows shattered. The shadows that had been outside swung through the windows, landed on the floor, rolled, and stood. Jones flew up from his chair just as more men in black rushed into the room from the hall.
Where did they come from?
Jones’ body gave over to instinct as he stepped forward and measured a blow to the nearest intruder. But the man skated aside, and instead of the man’s chin, Jones hit only air. Stumbling forward, he nearly crashed to the floor. Martin shouted something, but he didn’t know what. A black-clad man appeared to his right, aimed his weapon at Jones’ leg, and pulled the trigger.
The weapon coughed, and Jones jerked as the bullet penetrated his calf. There was no pain, but he staggered and fell. “No!” he roared.
Another attacker appeared and stood before Jones. He was big—not nearly as colossal as Jones was, but he was a close second. He, like the others, was wearing all black, and a combat helmet covered his face. Jones supposed this was the leader.
Martin was dragged over and pushed down onto his knees next to Jones in front of the tall man.
“Gentlemen,” said Raynard de Cryx after pulling off his helmet, “resistance won’t do you any good. Where’s the third guard?”
Jones and Martin glanced at each other but said nothing. Their captor smiled at them joylessly, highlighting a jagged scar along his cheek.
“Come now. This is no time for secrets. My name is Raynard. Your names are Jones and Martin, right?”
A bead of sweat ran down Jones’ forehead. The man standing in front of him was a pro.
Raynard stepped closer. “Where’s the third guard?” he repeated. “Where’s Miguel?”
Jones clenched his jaw, then nodded toward the hallway. “In the kitchen.”
Raynard signaled to two of his men, who raised their weapons and moved into the hallway. A minute passed, and all the while, Raynard stared calmly at Jones. A shout came from the hall, followed by an answer. There was a shot. Then a thud. Then silence.
Raynard’s troops returned, and a smile spread across Raynard’s face.
“So, gentlemen,” he said to the captive guards. “Now you know we mean business.”
Martin froze. “What do you want?” he spat.
Raynard made a sign to two of his men standing ready on the other side of the room, then replied, “It’s not you that we want—more your employer.”
“Why?” Martin asked, eyes narrowed.
Raynard chuckled, “That, my dear Martin, you don’t need to concern yourself with.”
From behind, strong hands lifted Jones and Martin and led them down the hall and into the study. A giant, crescent-shaped desk—much too big to be practical, Raynard thought—stood in the middle of the cavernous room. Floor-to-ceiling paintings covered the walls. Raynard walked over to the desk and clapped his hands.
“Tell me, gentlemen. Where’s the safe?”
Martin shrugged. “Why would we tell you that?”
Raynard raised a single eyebrow and replied, “Because I’ll kill you if you don’t.”
A few seconds passed. Jones stood quietly, trying, with Martin’s help, to stay upright. Martin glared darkly at Raynard.
“Gentlemen, I won’t ask again.”
Martin snorted. “You idiot,” his voice creaked, sending shivers down the spines of the men nearest him, “if you know everything about us, you also know where the safe is.”
Raynard’s eyes twinkled. “That’s true, I know. What I don’t know is the code that’s changed every day. This part is a warm-up, just for you and I to establish a relationship.”
Jones nodded toward a life-size painting of the Virgin Mary—The Madonna del Granduca by Raphael, Raynard knew. He’d always hated that one. “Password is ‘Northern Lights’”
Raynard clasped his hands. “Excellent.”
Jules and another soldier named Meyer approached the artwork. Raynard walked around the desk, reached under it, and pressed a hidden button. When he did, the Madonna slid to the side and exposed a highly polished, round metal hatch in the wall.
“You’re up,” Raynard said to Meyer.
The small, bespectacled man approached the metal door and removed his backpack. He retrieved a black box, which he held against the pressure-sensitive plate on one side of the hatch. It buzzed faintly, and then a female voice spoke from hidden speakers.
“Greetings, Magnus. Please provide today’s password.”
Raynard nodded, and Meyer lifted a small microphone that converted his voice to Magnus’.
“Northern Lights.”
The pleasant voice responded immediately. “Thank you.”
There was a light click from the metal door. The men made way as Raynard approached it, swung the door up, and peeked inside.
“Mission completed,” he whispered as he reached in and pulled out a large, dark box with a handle on one end.
Jones and Martin watched as the group of intruders filed out of the room, Raynard bringing up the rear. Jones shifted his weight and grimaced in pain. “Hey, what about us?”
Raynard stopped, grinned, and pulled a handgun from a holster at his waist. He turned and said, “Thanks for reminding me, Jones. That was considerate of you.”
Four muffled shots filled the study. Raynard chuckled as he exited the apartment with his crew and faded into the night.
***
Heat. Everywhere there was unceasing heat. It chased after him, and he ran as fast as he could. Magnus von Silverstråle stumbled down the mountain, landed on the hard ground, and slipped, tearing bloody gashes in his skin. Still, he went faster. He glanced back and joked to the left, avoiding a giant boulder tumbling behind him. The volcano at the top of the mountain heaved like a living being. It snorted and hissed ominously as clouds of super-heated gas welled up inside it.
Magnus ran on, feeling a budding nub of hope as he tore further and further down from the mouth of the volcano. A second later, the volcano thundered, and the top of it exploded in an immense sea of fire.
The shock wave hit him like an iron hammer, and he plummeted to the ground. The air in his lungs was knocked out, and he gasped for breath. Staggering to his feet, Magnus stared at the infernal top. His eyes widened as the pyroclastic cloud rushed down and swept him into darkness.
A woman’s voice penetrated the pitch-black space.
“Magnus! For God’s sake, wake up!”
He opened his eyes and met Veronica’s gaze. Sweat trickled down his forehead, and he sat up, confused. He pulled his hand over his drenched face. Next to him, Veronica sat and held his arm. She placed a hand on his forehead.
“Another nightmare?” she asked. Her tone was a soothing melody. Her thick accent made her seem exotic, and her cinnamon skin and almond-shaped eyes cemented the trait in Magnus’ mind.
He nodded, closing his eyes again. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths to gain some control over his body. It trembled as adrenaline flowed through him.
“Yes,” he said. “The same as before.”
Veronica pulled closer to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Poor thing.”
Magnus inwardly recoiled. He didn’t want to be felt sorry for—he hated feeling weak, especially in front of his mistress.
“It’s okay. I’ve been through it before.”
“I know.”
He pulled back the blanket and glanced at the alarm clock on his nightstand. Half-past two. His head flopped down on the pillow again and he swore under his breath. He’d gotten less than two hours of sleep. This was to be an important day—he had to be rested when he went to meet the press in Oslo in the afternoon. Today is when Magnus would go from being a European power player to a global power figure. Nothing was to go wrong; too much was at stake.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. Veronica reached for him.
“Come back.”
“No,” he said.
“Why?”
He sighed and stared out the window at the sleeping, moonlit world. “Because.” Magnus reached for the bathrobe hanging on the bedpost. He wrapped it around himself and tightened the belt, then ran a hand through his dark, curly hair.
“I’m making some tea,” he said and started for the door.
Veronica smiled. “Do you want company?”
He shook his head and left the room without another word. The air was fresh out in the hall, unlike the heavy, sweaty air inside the bedroom.
He put a hand to his head. “Shit,” he muttered. This was the third time in the last week that he’d had the same dream. Thinking of it again, he shivered. He needed to deal with this as quickly as possible. But not now—too much was in the balance at the moment.
In less than twelve hours, as chairman of the board at Gripen Defense, he would complete the company's merger with Stillwater-TTEM, one of the ten largest European defense groups. Magnus had been working on the deal for a year, and now it was finally going to happen. When the merger was complete, they would become the third-largest defense group in the northern hemisphere.
He headed down to the kitchen, put on the kettle, and opened the box of teabags. When the kettle just started to whistle, he poured the steaming water into the cup and sat down at the kitchen table. With another perturbed sigh, he looked out over the dark waters of the Oresund.
They were just outside Hornbeak, at the top of Zealand. Magnus had bought the house less than a year earlier for Veronica. After the divorce three years ago, he’d gone through scores of single-use lovers. It had only been when he’d met Veronica that he’d found a taste of what he had truly been looking for.
He took a sip of tea, then turned when he heard footsteps out in the hallway. In the kitchen doorway stood Veronica, wearing a light floral kimono that wrapped tightly around her perfect body.
“Feeling any better?” she asked.
Magnus tipped his head back and drank the last of the tea. “I feel fine,” he answered. “It was just a dream.”
Veronica came closer and stood behind him. She stroked his hair lightly, and he closed his eyes as a sense of calm washed over him. Her fingers, soft and gentle, moved over his scalp like angels. He let out a light, contented groan and sunk lower into the chair.
“Are you falling asleep?” Veronica chuckled.
He opened his eyes again and turned toward her. Taking her hand, Magnus pulled her around to him and kissed her. Oh, those lips. Even in the middle of the night, her lips tasted delicious. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that this woman would be his next wife.
After the merger.
Everything was hanging on this; nothing could go wrong. Magnus pulled Veronica closer. She breathed sweetly in his ear, and her curly auburn hair swayed over her shoulder. He held her like that in silence until his phone rang moments later, and he flinched. The phone was in the bedroom, but thanks to the smart home technology he’d installed, it sounded in the kitchen, too. Magnus stood up so fast that Veronica stumbled backward.
“What the––?” he said as he pushed her away. He maneuvered around the kitchen table and ran toward the bedroom.
“Magnus, what are you doing?” Veronica shouted. “It’s just your phone.”
But he didn’t listen. This ringtone was an emergency signal that was only to be used in extremely urgent situations. The tone was assigned only to emergency-use numbers, and his staff knew it. If they called now, in the middle of the night, it was certainly not good news.
Magnus rushed into the bedroom, skirted around the bed to the side table, and got hold of the phone.
“Yes?”
A rough voice replied, “I’m sorry . . . I’m shot. Magnus, can you hear me?”
Magnus froze. It was Brock Jones, an American he’d hired for his security detail. He, Martin Kemp, and Miguel Suarez were stationed for the night in his apartment in Copenhagen.
“Jones?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m sorry—I couldn’t stop them. Martin and Miguel are dead. And I’ve been shot.”
A white wave of horror slid through Magnus’ head. Jones continued, his voice sounding strained.
“They were professionals. They came in through the windows and the front door. I couldn’t stop them.”
“Stop them from what?”
His question was met by a silence broken only by labored, pained breathing.
“Stop them from what, Jones?”
“They broke open the safe,” Jones spat out. “Listen, I need to call an ambulance. I don’t think I’m going to make it.”
Jones rambled on for a minute longer, but Magnus didn’t hear anything else he said. This was a disaster. The object in his safe was—under no circumstances—to fall into the wrong hands.
Magnus clenched his fist around a clump of his hair. “Goddammit!” The word came out high-pitched and whiny. But this was bad. It could mean the end of his career. Magnus bit his lip and cursed himself for keeping the thing all these years.
Jones was still babbling in his ear.
“Quiet!” Magnus roared. Jones immediately fell silent.
Magnus’ brain rushed, and he squeezed his eyes shut to stop the room from its cloudy pulsing. He had to get help—not just the ordinary police but specialists who were used to this kind of thing. Whatever the cost, the contents of his safe needed to be retrieved. As he sat there, thoughts swirling like a summer tornado, a name popped into his head.
Madeleine Singh.
Madeleine was the head of Novus, a company based in Malmö. A plan began to form in Magnus’ head, and his vision cleared as panic began to subside. He took a deep breath.
“Why did they let you live?” he asked Jones.
Jones drew another strained breath, coughed, and then gathered himself and replied, “Their leader told me I needed to live so I could tell you.”
Magnus gritted his teeth and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Jones, after we hang up, call the police. Got it? Cooperate with them.”
“What are you going to do?” Jones asked.
Magnus clenched his teeth together even more tightly. “Don’t worry about it,” he hissed. “Just call the police and an ambulance as soon as we hang up.”
“Right. Okay.”
Magnus hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed behind him. From the doorway, Veronica took a few steps toward him.
“What happening?” she asked
.
He held up his hand. “Not now. There’s something I have to take care of.”
She stopped mid-step and cast her eyes to the floor, licking and pursing her lips. Magnus, in another world entirely, picked up his phone again and scrolled through the contact list. When he found Madeleine Singh’s name, he tapped it.
***
If only one could stop time. Hugo Xavier wished it now as he pulled Lita closer to him. Her long, dark hair swooped forward as he did, and he relished the scent—a sensuous mix of honey and vanilla. The warmth of her body penetrated the thin blanket between them, and the thought occurred to him that if there were any genuinely perfect moments in life, this was one of them.
They were aboard their older-model yacht, a Royal Cruiser 34 named Athena. For the moment, the boat was anchored in a Copenhagen port. Athena was small but perfectly adequate for the couple and their newborn daughter, Elektra. She slept silently beside their bed in a bassinet.
Hugo dozed, savoring the peaceful breaths coming from his two favorite women as they slept. God, it had been a wonderful week. He and his little family had gone for two days of sailing along the Swedish west coast, crossing over to Denmark and then making their way back down to Copenhagen. Now, in a few hours, they would be home in Malmö.
Lifting his wrist, Hugo glanced at his watch. It was a little before three—too early to get up. He closed his eyes again and tried to drift off again. Far away, sirens passed briefly and disappeared. The boat’s soft rocking relaxed him, and he’d almost fallen asleep when he heard the vibrating of his phone. He’d left it in his jeans pocket, which sat heaped next to the door of the sleeping cabin.
Hugo pulled his arm from around Lita, who shifted in her sleep but didn’t wake up—she was the deepest, most determined sleeper he’d ever known. It was a feature Hugo was quite jealous of; every little thing seemed to jolt his brain awake. Crawling out of bed, he pulled the phone out of the pocket, then ducked as he left the sleeping cabin.
After he’d closed the thin door behind him, he cleared his throat and answered the call. “Hugo.”
The Hugo Xavier Series: Book 1-3 Page 24
