Battle Storm (The Battle Series Book 2)

by Mark Romang

  Bertrand motioned for Castellanos to sit back down. “Don’t be so hasty, Nikko. I have two things for you to consider before you proceed with the operation.”

  Castellanos sank back down onto his chair.

  “I will need to share my discovery with my superiors.”

  “Give me 48 hours, Pierre. It’s all I ask.”

  Bertrand shook his head. “36 hours. That’s all I can give you.”

  “Very well, but can you make it starting at midnight tonight? That will give me roughly another twelve hours.”

  Bertrand rolled his eyes. “Fine, I will not be unreasonable since you always compensate me so generously.”

  “I have not forgotten how I agreed to give you five percent of my fee. I will keep my word,” Castellanos promised. “Now what is the second thing I need to consider?”

  Bertrand nodded. “Andrew Maddix and Sara Kendall have been together now for five years. It is entirely possible they have a child together. Are you prepared to make the child an orphan?” he whispered.

  Castellanos leaned forward so as only Bertrand could hear him. “The child will still have its mother. Henrik backed off his initial demand. He only requires that I cut out Sara Kendall’s tongue,” he replied softly.

  Bertrand gasped. “Why would he ask you to do such a heinous thing?”

  Castellanos shrugged. “I told Henrik that I don’t kill women or children. So he offered to pay me the full amount of 14 million dollars if I cut out her tongue. He said Miss Kendall won’t be able to proselytize without her tongue.”

  “And you agreed?”

  Castellanos nodded. “I agreed.”

  Chapter 5

  Stockholm, Sweden—the next day

  In a city tired of winter, a gleaming sun kissed Stockholm and gave her people a foretaste of warm spring days. Residents filled the parks and waterfront jogging paths en masse. Henrik Skymolt sat on a bench in the Karlaplan—a park-plaza near Ostermalm, considered the wealthiest district in Stockholm.

  Nikko Castellanos sat next to Skymolt on the park bench. A pond with a fountain provided a peaceful setting conducive to introspection. Oak trees, still clinging to last summer’s leaves surrounded the Karlaplan and whispered in the breeze. “Why are we not meeting on your yacht as we always do, Henrik?” Castellanos asked.

  “It’s back in the shipyard being refitted.”

  “Are you having problems with it?” Castellanos always found himself in a state of amazement whenever on board Skymolt’s jaw-dropping mega-yacht. The Nobiskrug yacht had a swimming pool, a tennis court, a movie cinema, a gourmet kitchen, workout facilities, a helipad, and several elegant staterooms. The yacht cost well over 100 million dollars to build.

  “No problems with the yacht, Nikko. Someone just took delivery of a more expensive yacht than mine. So I took immediate action.” Although he was rumored to be quite old, Skymolt didn’t look much older than a middle-aged man, a very hip looking middle-aged man with floppy blonde hair. He stood six-foot-eight, and though he spent much time on the water when not closing on land deals, wrinkles remained invisible on his face or hands. Some insisted Skymolt had found the fountain of youth. If he had, the multi-billionaire wasn’t sharing its location.

  Castellanos shrugged his shoulders. Underneath his fleece pullover his lean muscles rippled. “We should be safe here if we talk in low tones.”

  Skymolt nodded his head agreeably. Cobalt eyes peered out from behind blonde locks and bore into Castellanos. “Nikko, it’s been five years since I gave you your current assignment. And so far you have made little if any progress. Do I need to find someone else for the job?”

  “No, sir, I am your man, you can be sure of this. And today I finally have good news to tell you. I have a very promising lead. I think I know where Andrew Maddix and Sara Kendall are living.”

  “Excellent. Do tell,” Skymolt urged.

  “They’re living on the North Island of New Zealand, somewhere near New Plymouth.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Pierre Bertrand uncovered some medical records belonging to a man named Adam Thorn. He’s the same age as Maddix, and he’s an amputee. A prosthetist in New Plymouth recently ordered Thorn a new prosthetic, the same type Maddix uses. Also, we believe Caleb Brennan, an old SEAL instructor of Maddix, helped the couple disappear. Brennan has a personal jet. We have a flight report that says Brennan’s jet touched down in New Plymouth one day after Andrew Maddix and Sara Kendall disappeared.”

  “I knew Pierre would help you. His detective skills are top-drawer. But he is not a field man. You, on the other hand, Nikko, are just the man to take out Maddix. You don’t even flinch when taking a person’s life.”

  Castellanos noticed for the first time a toy speedboat floating not far away in the pond. A man stood twenty yards to the east on the pond bank and held a remote control box in his hands. The man cursed and shook the controller angrily. The toy speedboat all at once sputtered to life and roared away behind the fountain. Castellanos turned and faced Skymolt. “You make me sound like a sociopath. I kill for money, not pleasure, Henrik.”

  Skymolt smiled. Perfect white teeth flashed at Castellanos. “Come now, Nikko, you are being too sensitive. I only meant to offer up a compliment.”

  Castellanos looked over at Skymolt’s goons standing a few feet away. Their breath billowed in the cold air like cigarette butts smoldering in an ash tray. The bodyguards went wherever the wealthy Swede went. Both goons were as tall as Skymolt yet much thicker. Castellanos excelled at hand-to-hand combat, having studied the martial arts since childhood, yet the two bodyguards sent chills racing up his back. The blonde brutes looked like they could snap him in two. “Pierre brought up a good point we need to consider, Henrik.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Andrew Maddix and Sara Kendall have been together for five years now. It’s possible they may have a child together.”

  “And your point is?”

  “I’m not the sociopath you think I am. I cannot kill a parent in front of their child. I’m not in the orphan-making business.”

  “Perhaps instead of sniping or a close-quarters gun battle, you should consider other means. Maybe a house fire or carbon monoxide poisoning that will take out all three at once and look like an accident is more in order.”

  “I only agreed to eliminate Maddix and cut out Sara Kendall’s tongue. That was our agreement.”

  Skymolt’s flawless face turned crimson. He clamped a hand on Castellanos’s knee. The power in Skymolt’s grip sent a shockwave through Castellanos. “I’ve already paid you seven million dollars, half the amount we agreed to. My patience is wearing thin. I need to see results, Nikko.”

  The toy speedboat sputtered around the fountain and stopped nearby. Castellanos watched the man tromp over to the bank and fish the boat out. He turned back to Skymolt and matched the Swede’s angry gaze. “I’m taking the first plane I can catch to New Zealand. With any luck I will finish the job in three days or less.”

  “Don’t fly commercial. I will arrange my jet to fly you down. You will save time and you can have your weapons on board,” Skymolt offered.

  “That will expedite the mission, Henrik. Thank you.”

  “Do not fail, Nikko,” Skymolt warned. He looked over at his bodyguards, and then allowed his cobalt eyes to rest on Castellanos. “It will not be good for you. I cannot promise your safety if you fail.”

  ****

  Inside his room at the Adlon Hotel in Stockholm, Coleton Webb pulled his satellite phone from his suitcase. He punched in Caleb Brennan’s number on the bulky handset and waited for the connection to go through. Webb paced back and forth near the bed. He looked over at the toy speedboat sitting on the bed next to his suitcase. He was confident the information he recorded earlier this morning via the tiny parabolic microphone and hidden video camera mounted on the boat was straightforward and unmistakably clear.

  Danger hunted his old SEAL buddy like a cat stalking a mouse
. Henrik Skymolt—the ultra-wealthy land baron wanted Andrew Maddix and Sara Kendall dead in the worst way, and didn’t care how much he had to pay Nikko Castellanos to do it.

  “This is Brennan.”

  “The package is in danger of falling into the wrong hands. Our rivals have tracked it down, pinpointed its location to a close proximity. They’re flying south to terminate it. I’m following them in hopes I can intercept the package.”

  “Where are the rivals landing?”

  “The place of pilgrims,” Webb answered, referring to New Plymouth, New Zealand.

  “Do you need help?” Caleb Brennan asked.

  “Not at the moment. I’ll let you know if I do.”

  “Okay. Keep me posted.”

  “I will,” Webb killed the connection. He looked at his Glock lying inside his suitcase and shook his head. It was a fine gun, but he would have to dump it somewhere. He couldn’t carry it onto a commercial flight without raising eyebrows. And unless he could acquire a firearm in New Zealand, he would have to take down Nikko Castellanos with his bare hands. A few years ago he would’ve thought nothing of it. But now he was a sloppy drunk. His skills had eroded. If he were to have any chance at success he needed providential assistance. And he needed it in bunches.

  Lord, I hope you’re listening. I know I’ve wasted my life up to this point. I let alcohol become my master. But please help me find a way to take down Castellanos without killing him, Webb prayed silently. If I fail, Andrew and Sara will die.

  Chapter 6

  Wickam Sheep Station—Highway 43

  The narrow highway stretched for 150 kilometers, slithering up and down steep hillsides and around sharp switchbacks. The road is called the Forgotten World Highway for good reason. Some of the most isolated countryside in New Zealand, a land already infamous for isolation, existed here.

  A few deserted villages clung weakly to the highway. Once booming towns that housed railway and road workers, they were now only dying testaments to more prosperous times. A handful of sheep and dairy farmers still eked out a living in the lush green hill country, running large herds on huge acreages. But other than a few cars driven by tourists or an occasional bicyclist struggling to climb the hills, the only sounds one might hear all day were bleating sheep and mooing cattle.

  Adam Thorn liked it this way. The man formerly known as Andrew Maddix craved isolation, not because he was socially challenged, but because he was an international fugitive, falsely accused of killing three men in Southwestern Utah.

  Inside the shearing shed, Thorn balanced a Romney lamb on its haunches and sheared off its summer wool, working fast with practiced skill. He’d been at it all day, and the end was finally in sight. After nearly two days of shearing, only two more lambs remained to be shorn.

  Thorn kept at it, pushing through the tedium, aware of a towheaded boy sitting on a nearby stock gate, watching his every move. Spencer Thorn, all five years of him, considered himself an expert at sheep farming.

  “You missed a spot, Dad. Right under her front leg on her belly,” Spencer said.

  Thorn looked up at his son and smiled. “Good eye, Spence. I’ll get to it, don’t worry.” Thorn finished shearing the lamb’s back and then guided the shearing machine tool back to the spot he missed. “Have you eaten dinner yet, Spencer?”

  Spencer frowned. “Yes, mom and I already ate. She’s keeping your plate warm.”

  Thorn released the finished lamb through a chute in the floor. “What did you have? You don’t seem very thrilled about it.”

  “We had mutton burgers again.”

  “I thought you love mutton burgers.”

  “I did. I’m tired of them now. All we ever have is lamb meat.”

  Thorn laughed and tousled his son’s hair. Evening sunbeams flooded the shed’s interior and reflected off Spencer’s blonde hair, making his head glow. “Well, we do live on a sheep station. So eating lots of lamb is to be expected, Spence.”

  Another farmhand brought the last lamb onto the shearing board. “Can I shear the last one, Dad?”

  Thorn hesitated. He was hungry and tired and wanted to finish the day’s work. But he hated saying no all the time to Spencer’s requests. “Sure, but I’m holding the lamb.”

  A toothy grin erupted on Spencer’s face. Cool. Thanks, Dad.”

  Thorn grabbed the sheep’s head and neck and pushed down, flipping it gently onto its side. He pinned the lamb still by placing his knee onto its neck. “Okay, son, get shearing. Just be careful around its neck and hamstrings.”

  Spencer grabbed the shearing machine’s handset and started cutting wool, going from the shoulders down toward the rump.

  Thorn twisted the lamb onto its back so its stomach could be sheared. “Take your time, Spencer. Nice and easy does it.” Pride swelled in Thorn. He felt so blessed. He couldn’t imagine life without Spencer or his wife Emily, formerly Sara Kendall. But he knew this backbreaking yet peaceful life on a 10,000 acre sheep station could tumble down at any moment. Smart people were looking for them. And they would never stop looking until they found them. Some day Spencer would see his mom and dad arrested. And he wondered what his son would think of them then. He imagined Spencer would first feel shock, followed by disbelief, and eventually anger and humiliation at learning his mom and dad were lawbreakers.

  Thorn chased the despairing thoughts from his mind. “Good job, buddy. You’re quite the sheep shearer,” he said. “I’ll take it from here. Run along and tell your mom I’m coming to the house.”

  Spencer proudly handed the shearing tool to Thorn and ran out the shed and toward the house. Thorn tidied up the mostly shorn lamb and slid the ram down the chute to a waiting farmhand. A roustabout came and gathered the fleece to take to the wool table. Thorn spent a few minutes cleaning the cutters and combs of the shearing machine. He then hung up the handset on a nearby hook and left the shearing shed. An Australian cattle dog named Billy tagged along behind him.

  Thorn walked past the main house toward a small white cottage sitting roughly two-hundred yards away. All the buildings of the sheep station sat in a picturesque valley surrounded by steep pastures on all sides. The two bedroom cottage he shared with his wife and son was anything but fancy. But it was comfortable and luxurious compared to the lava tube cave he and Emily lived in for five months when they first arrived in New Zealand, when the manhunt raged at its most intense state.

  Caleb Brennan, one of his old SEAL instructors had helped them escape America. Brennan told them about the cave and gave them its location. Those first five months seemed to stretch for a decade. They lived underground like gophers, coming out mostly at night. And when they needed supplies one would make the long trek to town while the other stayed back. After the five months elapsed, Thorn deemed it safe to integrate into New Zealand society and look for work.

  George Wickam proved to be a godsend. He took Thorn on as an untested farmhand. Thorn quickly proved his worth, outworking Wickam and all the other farmhands. Wickam hired him on permanently and allowed him and Emily to move into the cottage. They weren’t married then but had been living platonically. Soon after moving onto the sheep station they married in Stratford, the ceremony performed by a marriage celebrant.

  Thorn stepped up onto the cottage porch. He pulled off his boots and entered the house. Pleasant aromas teased his nose. Fried mutton and fresh homemade bread made his stomach growl. Emily stood at the kitchen sink and washed the supper dishes. He wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her. “It smells incredible in here, babe.”

  “Your food is getting cold, Adam. You better sit down and eat.”

  Thorn sat down at a dining table just off the kitchen. He removed aluminum foil from his plate and said a quick prayer for the food. Emily sat down next to him, her hands wrapped around a coffee cup. Thorn took a big bite of the mutton burger and chewed contentedly. Farm work always left him famished. As he ate he looked up and noticed a worried look creasing Emily’s brow, a look he hadn’t seen in a wh
ile. “Is something troubling you?” he asked.

  Emily nodded her head and pushed back a stray bang. “The world,” she replied. “Israel is pounding Iran with airstrikes in retaliation for the bombing at the Knesset building. Arab countries, as well as Egypt, are rallying around Iran and threatening to form a coalition to make war on Israel. And America is condemning Israel for the airstrikes and suggesting the U.N. Security Council approve sanctions against them.”

  “You should stop reading the newspapers, babe; it’s always going to be bad news.”

  “I know, but it just seems like we’re closer than ever to being in the end times. Maybe we already are for that matter. And I worry about Spencer.” Emily touched his hand. “I think Spencer has reached the age of accountability. He knows when he’s done wrong. He even apologizes to me for disobeying without prompting.”

  “We’re lucky Spencer is such a great kid. Most parents aren’t so fortunate,” Thorn said before taking another bite of his mutton burger.

  Emily sighed. Her green eyes locked onto him. “Adam, you’re not getting where I’m going with this. Spencer has never confessed his sins and asked Jesus into his heart. So if the Rapture would happen right now or tomorrow or anytime soon, he’d become an orphan. The thought of that is killing me.”

  Thorn tugged at his beard as he chewed his food. “I can see where that would bother you. It troubles me too. I’ll talk to Spencer about what it means to be a believer at bedtime. But we can’t force him to do it. He has to make the decision himself to follow the Lord.”

  “I know it has to be Spencer’s personal decision. But it’s our job as parents to lead him in that direction.”

  Thorn squeezed his wife’s hand. “We’ll do our part. And eventually Spencer will do his.”