The Plantation paj-1

by Chris Kuzneski

  Blount shook his head. “Jon, I couldn’t. Seriously.”

  “Hey,” Jones added, “that’s not all. We have one more surprise for you, something that’s more valuable than money.”

  “Guys, enough with the gifts.”

  “Hang on,” Payne insisted. “You’ll really like this one. We saved the best for last.”

  Then, with his typical flash of showmanship, Payne threw the door aside to reveal the most attractive woman Blount had ever seen.

  Dark brown hair. Dark brown eyes. Unbelievable figure. Simply dazzling.

  She stood there for several seconds, speechless, unsure of what to do next. Finally, with her composure regained, she grabbed Payne’s arm and glided across the room to meet the family member she’d never even known she had.

  “Bennie,” Payne said with a lump in his throat, “I’d like to introduce you to someone who’s very special to me. This is your cousin Ariane.”

  Author’s Note

  While conducting my research for this novel, I read hundreds of journal entries that detailed the ungodly horrors that occurred on many nineteenth-century plantations. And

  not

  just the accounts of ex-slaves. In order to keep my research as balanced as possible, I studied just as many narratives from slave owners as I did from the slaves themselves. And do you know what? I’m glad I did, because it wasn’t until I read the firsthand accounts of these brutal men that I started to understand how malicious and sadistic some of them really were.

  Sure, it was unsettling to read about the sting of a bullwhip from a slave’s point of view, but not nearly as disturbing as the words of one overseer who described the process of whipping his workers in near-orgasmic terms. “The delicious crack of leather on flesh fills my hand with delight and sends my body a shiver.”

  Chilling, indeed.

  It was those types of quotes that convinced me to include the graphic sequences that I did, scenes that are so full of carnage and torture (the Devil’s Box, the Listening Post, etc.) that some readers have complained to me about nightmares. Well, I’m sorry for your loss of sleep. But if I didn’t stress the gore and bloodshed of plantation life, then I would have been the one losing sleep. Because my story would have been less than accurate.

  And now a special excerpt

  from Chris Kuzneski’s

  THE LOST THRONE

  Coming soon in hardcover from

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons!

  PROLOGUE

  Christmas Day 1890

  Piazza della Santa Carità

  Naples, Italy

  THE greatest secret of ancient Greece was silenced by a death in Italy.

  Not a shooting or a stabbing or a murder of any kind-although dozens of those would occur later-but a good old-fashioned death. One minute the man was strolling across the Piazza della Santa Carità, pondering the significance of his discovery; the next, he was sprawled on his stomach in the middle of the cold square. People rushed to his side, hoping to help him to his feet, but one look at his gaunt face told them that he needed medical attention.

  Two policemen on horseback were flagged down, and they rushed him to the closest hospital, where he slipped in and out of consciousness for the next hour. They asked him his name, but he couldn’t answer. His condition had stolen his ability to speak.

  The man wore a fancy suit and overcoat, both of which revealed his status. His hair was thin and gray, suggesting a man in his sixties. A bushy mustache covered his upper lip.

  Doctors probed his clothes, searching for identification, but found nothing of value. No papers. No wallet. No money. If they had only looked closer, they might have noticed the secret pocket sewn into the lining of his coat, and the mystery would have ended there. But as hospital policy dictated, no identification meant no treatment. Not even on Christmas morning.

  With few options, the police took him to the local station house, an ancient building made of brick and stone that would shelter him from the bitter winds of the Tyrrhenian Sea. They fed him broth and let him rest on a cot in an open cell, hoping he would regain his voice.

  In time, he regained several.

  Starting with a whisper that barely rose above the level of his breath, the sound slowly increased, building to a crescendo that could be heard by the two officers in the next room. They hurried down the corridor, expecting to find the stranger fully awake and willing to answer their questions. Instead they saw a man in a semicatatonic state who was babbling in his sleep.

  His eyes were closed and his body was rigid, yet his lips were forming words.

  One of the officers made the sign of the cross and said a short prayer while the other ran for a pencil and paper. When he returned, he pulled a chair up to the cot and tried to take notes in a small journal. Maybe they’d get an address. Or if they were really lucky, maybe even a name. But they got none of those things. In fact, all they got was more confused.

  The first words spoken were German. Then French. Then Portuguese. Before long he was mixing several languages in the same sentence. Dutch followed by Spanish and Latin. English layered with Greek and Russian. Every once in a while he said something in Italian, but the words were so random and his accent so thick that they made little sense. Still, the officer transcribed everything he could and before long he noticed some repetition. One word seemed to be repeated over and over. Not only in Italian but in other languages as well.

  Il trono. Le trône. El trono.

  The throne.

  This went on for several minutes. Language after language from one man’s mouth. Like the devil speaking in tongues. Then, just as quickly as it started, it stopped.

  No more words. No more clues.

  The man would never speak again.

  Two days later, after he had been identified, newspapers around the globe reported his death. Yet there was no mention of his strange behavior. Nothing about his ramblings or the throne he kept describing. Instead, reporters focused on the colorful details of his life-his wealth, his accomplishments, his discoveries. All the things that made him famous.

  Of course, if they had known the truth about his final days, what he had finally found after years of searching, they would have written a much different story.

  One of fire, deception, and ancient gold.

  One that wouldn’t have an ending for two more centuries.

  CHAPTER 1

  Present day

  Saturday, May 17th

  Metéora, Greece

  THE monk felt the wind on his face as he plummeted to his death, a journey that started with a scream and ended with a thud.

  Moments before, he had been standing near the railing of the Moni Agia Triada, the Monastery of the Holy Trinity. It was one of six monasteries perched on natural rock pillars near the Pindus Mountains in central Greece. Known for their breathtaking architecture, the monasteries had been built two thousand feet in the air with one purpose in mind: protection.

  But on this night, their sanctity was breached.

  The intruders had crossed the valley and climbed the hillside with silent precision. They carried no guns or artillery, preferring the weapons of their ancestors. Swords stored in scabbards were strapped to their backs. Daggers in leather sheaths hung from their hips. Bronze helmets covered their entire heads except for their eyes and mouths.

  Centuries ago the final leg of their mission would have been far more treacherous, requiring chisels and ropes to scale the rock face. But that was no longer the case-not since 140 steps had been carved into the sandstone, leading to the entrance of Holy Trinity. Its front gate was ten feet high and made of thick wood, yet they breached it easily and slipped inside, spreading through the compound like a deadly plague.

  The first to die was the lookout who, instead of doing his job, had been staring at the twinkling lights of Kalampáka, the small city that rested at the base of the plateau. Sadly, it was the last mistake he ever made. No questions were asked, no quarter was given. One minute he was ponderi
ng the meaning of life, the next his life was over.

  No bullets. No blades. Just gravity and the rocks below.

  One of the monks inside the church heard his scream and tried to warn the others, but before he could, the intruders burst through both doors. Brandishing their swords, they forced all the monks into the center of the room, where the holy men were frisked and their hands were tied.

  Seven monks in total. A mixture of young and old.

  Just as the intruders had expected.

  For the next few minutes, the monks sat in silence on the hard wooden pews. Some of them closed their eyes and prayed to God for divine intervention. Others seemed reconciled to their fate. They knew the risks when they accepted this duty, what their brotherhood had endured and protected for centuries.

  They were the keepers of the book. The chosen ones.

  And soon they would be forced to die.

  With the coldness of an executioner, the leader of the soldiers strode into the church. At first glance he looked like a moving work of art: muscle stacked upon muscle in statuesque perfection, a gleaming blade in his grasp. Unlike the others who had entered before him, his helmet was topped with a plume of red horsehair, a crest that signified his rank.

  To the monks, he was the face of death.

  Without saying a word, he nodded to his men. They sprang into action, grabbing one of the monks and dragging him toward the stone altar. Orthodox tradition prevented the brethren from trimming their facial hair after receiving tonsure-a symbolic shaving of their heads-so his beard was long and gray, draping the front of his black cassock like a hairy bib.

  “What do you want from us?” cried the monk as he was shoved to his knees. “We have done nothing wrong!”

  The leader stepped forward. “You know why I’m here. I want the book.”

  “What book? I know nothing about a book!”

  “Then you are no use to me.”

  He punctuated his statement with a flick of his sword, separating the monk’s head from his body. For a split second the monk’s body didn’t move, somehow remaining upright as if no violence had occurred. Then suddenly it slumped forward, spilling its contents onto the floor.

  Head on the left. Body on the right. Blood everywhere.

  The monks gasped at the sight.

  “Bring me another,” the leader ordered. “One who wants to live.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Sunday, May 18th

  St. Petersburg, Florida

  THE phone rang in the middle of the night, sometime between last call and breakfast. The time of night reserved for two things: emergencies and wrong numbers.

  Jonathon Payne hoped it was the latter.

  He rolled over in the hotel bed and reached for the nightstand, knocking something to the floor in his dark room. He had no idea what it was and wasn’t curious enough to find out. Still feeling the effects of his sleeping pill, he knew if he turned on a light he would be awake until dawn. Of that he was certain. He had always been a problem sleeper, an issue that had started long before his career in the military and had only gotten worse after.

  Then again, years of combat can do that to a person.

  And he had seen more than most.

  Payne used to lead the MANIACs, an elite special forces unit composed of the top soldiers from the Marines, Army, Navy, Intelligence, Air Force, and Coast Guard. Whether it was personnel recovery, unconventional warfare, or counter-guerrilla sabotage, the MANIACs were the best of the best. The boogeymen that no one talked about. The government’s secret weapon.

  Yet on this night, Payne wanted no part of his former life.

  He just wanted to get some sleep.

  “Hello?” he mumbled into the hotel phone, expecting the worst.

  A dial tone greeted him. It was soft and steady like radio static.

  “Hello?” he repeated.

  But the buzzing continued. As if no one had even called. As if he had imagined everything.

  Payne grunted and hung up the phone, glad he could roll over and go back to sleep without anything to worry about. Thrilled it wasn’t an emergency. He’d had too many of those when he was in the service. Hundreds of nights interrupted by news. Updates that were rarely positive.

  So in his world, wrong numbers were a good thing. About the best thing possible.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case here.

  SEVERAL hours later Payne opened the hotel curtains and stepped onto his private veranda at the Renaissance Vinoy in downtown St. Petersburg. Painted flamingo pink and recently restored to its former glory, the resort was a stunning example of 1920s Mediterranean Revival architecture. The type of grand hotel that used to be found all over Florida yet was quickly becoming extinct in the age of Disneyfication.

  The bright sunlight warmed his face and the sea breeze filled his lungs as he stared at the tropical waters of Tampa Bay, less than ten miles from many of the best beaches in America. Where the sand was white and the water was turquoise. Where dolphins frolicked in the surf. Born and raised in Pittsburgh, Payne rarely got to see dolphins in his hometown-only when he went to the aquarium or when the Miami Dolphins played the Steelers at Heinz Field.

  In many ways, Payne looked like an NFL player. He was 6’4”, weighed 240 pounds, and was in remarkable shape for a man in his late thirties. Light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a world-class smile. His only physical flaws were the bullet holes and scars that decorated his body. Although he didn’t view them as flaws. More like medals of honor because each one stood for something.

  Of course, he couldn’t tell their stories to most people because the details were classified, but all of the scars meant something to him. Like secret tattoos that no one knew about.

  The droning of a small aircraft caught Payne’s attention, and he watched it glide across the azure sky and touch down at Albert Whitted Airport, a two-runway facility on the scenic waterfront, a few blocks away. It was the type of airfield that handled banner towing and sightseeing tours. Not large commuter jets. And certainly not the tactical fighters that he had observed during the last forty-eight hours. They required a lot more asphalt and much better pilots.

  Every few months Payne visited U.S. military installations around the globe with his best friend and former MANIAC, David Jones. They were briefed on the latest equipment, and they offered their opinions to top brass on everything from training to tactics. Even though both soldiers were retired from active duty, they were still considered valuable assets by the Pentagon.

  Part expert, part legend.

  Their latest trip had brought them to Florida, where Mac-Dill Air Force Base occupied a large peninsula in the middle of Tampa Bay-eight miles south of downtown Tampa and nine miles east of St. Petersburg. All things considered, it wasn’t a bad place to be stationed. Or to visit. Which is why Payne and Jones always looked forward to their next consulting trip.

  They picked the destination and the military picked up the tab.

  “Hey!” called a voice from below. “You finally awake?”

  Payne glanced down and saw David Jones standing on the sidewalk, staring up at him. Jones was 5’9” and roughly forty pounds lighter than Payne. He had light brown skin, short black hair, and a thin nose that held his stylish sunglasses in place. Sadly, the rest of his outfit wasn’t nearly as fashionable: a green floral shirt, torn khaki cargo shorts, and a pair of flip-flops.

  “I’m starving,” Jones said. “You want to get some chow?”

  “With you? Not if you’re wearing

  that

  .”

  “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

  “Honestly? It looks like Hawaiian camouflage.”

  Jones frowned, trying to think of a retort. “Yeah, well . . .”

  “Well, what?”

  “Maybe I’m looking to get

  leid

  .”

  Payne laughed. It wasn’t a bad comeback for a Sunday morning. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  TEN


  minutes later the duo was walking along Bayshore Drive. The temperature was in the mid-seventies with low humidity. Gentle waves lapped against the stone wall that lined the harbor while palm trees swayed in the breeze. Payne wore a golf shirt and shorts, an outfit considered dressy in Florida, where many people wore T-shirts or no shirts at all.

  As they turned onto Second Avenue NE toward the St. Petersburg Pier, Payne and Jones spotted a parked trolley-bus called the Looper. It was light blue and filled with tourists who were taking pictures of a tiny brick building with a red-tiled roof. A senior citizen tour guide, wearing a beige Panama hat and speaking with a Southern drawl, explained the building’s significance over the trolley’s loudspeaker system. They stopped to listen to his tale.

  “You are looking at the fanciest public restroom in America, affectionately known as Little St. Mary’s. Built in 1927 by Henry Taylor, it is a scaled-down replica of St. Mary Our Lady of Grace, the gorgeous church he built on Fourth Street that we’ll be seeing soon. Both buildings are typical of the Romanesque Revival style, featuring several colors of brick, arched windows, and topped with a copper cupola. This one’s approximately twenty feet high and fifty feet wide.”

  Cameras clicked as the tour guide continued.

  “As the legend goes, the local diocese offered Taylor a large sum of money to build the octagonal church that he finished in 1925. However, for reasons unknown, they chose not to pay him the full amount. Realizing that he couldn’t win a fight with the church, he opted to get revenge instead. At that time the city was taking bids to build a comfort station, a fancy term for bathroom, somewhere near the waterfront. Taylor made a ridiculously low bid, guaranteeing that he would get the project. From there, he used leftover materials from the church site and built the replica that you see before you, filling it with toilets instead of pews.”