He moved his hands down her legs. She shied away as he strayed from her hips to her thighs.
“Don’t move,” he warned.
Hawkeye felt thin lace between her legs as he searched beneath her summer dress. Isabella’s skin tingled beneath his touch.
“Wait, I — ” she began to say.
And then, abruptly, he was finished.
“Take her,” Hawkeye said.
Two of the armed men took Isabella by the arms and led her away from the cafe. Hawkeye retrieved a roll of Euros from his jacket pocket. He counted off five hundred and dropped them on the table.
“Enjoy your meals,” Hawkeye said to the few slack-jawed spectators still seated at the surrounding tables. Then he followed the Titan Global security officers as they escorted Isabella Cruz toward the helicopter. She turned her head to look back at Hawkeye.
“Nice to see you again, Hawkeye,” she said.
Hawkeye nodded.
“It’s been a while. Almost a year since the embassy project wrapped up in Baghdad,” he replied.
“You said you’d call.”
Hawkeye smiled. “I meant to.”
TWELVE HOURS BEFORE THE HALO JUMP,
OFF THE COAST OF ANDALUSIA, SPAIN
The stealth helicopter thumped its way over the Mediterranean, leaving the Andalusian skyline behind. Cruz sat in the second row of seats behind the cockpit, flanked by her burly escorts.
Cruz adjusted her headset and spoke into the mic.
“A bit overdramatic, no?” said Cruz. Her voice sounded hollow. It echoed in her ears.
“The ship is just a few miles offshore,” said Hawkeye. “We’ll be there in no time.”
“Ship?”
Hawkeye just gave her his trademark stare.
Cruz sighed, gazing out the window at the rolling surf below. In the distance, a freighter left behind a broad wake as it lumbered south. A dark storm loomed on the horizon, and large swells churned the surface of the sea.
“There she is,” said Hawkeye, pointing toward the horizon. “The Alamiranta.”
“It’s huge,” said Cruz.
“Nine hundred fifty-one feet. She began her life as a cruise ship, actually.”
Cruz stared at the floating monstrosity in amazement. At least eleven decks were visible above the waterline.
“A little big for a private yacht, isn’t it?” Cruz asked.
Hawkeye laughed. “Catherine Caine runs an international business empire. And she runs it largely from that ship. There are benefits to conducting business from a location outside the laws of sovereign nations.”
“A floating headquarters?”
“You could say that. Over two thousand Caine employees live and work aboard ship. Banking, oil and gas, commodities, and currency trading. Private military and intelligence services provided by Titan Global. The core of all of those operations is aboard the Alamiranta. She’s outfitted with state-of-the art technology and infrastructure. And all the amenities of a cruise ship. Caine takes good care of her people. A floating city in international waters.”
Cruz knew Catherine Caine by reputation, but had never actually met her even though Cruz worked as a project engineer for one of Caine’s defense contracting subsidiaries. The Caine family had made hundreds of millions of dollars in lucrative government contracts, rebuilding infrastructure in the Middle East and Afghanistan that had been destroyed by the U.S. military.
Three years ago, Demetrius Caine was nearly killed in a helicopter accident in Israel. Traumatic brain injury rendered him comatose, his prognosis uncertain. It was variously rumored that Demetrius was recovering in a secret life-extension facility in Switzerland, had been cryogenically frozen in a lab in Hong Kong, or was now hidden in a secret hospital in Spain built and staffed solely to attend to its single patient: Demetrius Caine.
It was also rumored that as long as Demetrius Caine continued to draw breath, assisted by machine or otherwise, Catherine retained control of their business empire.
The stealth helicopter silently thumped over the waves of the Mediterranean Sea toward the Alamiranta.
“We’re about five minutes out,” said the pilot.
Tank motioned for Hawkeye to join him on the jump seats at the rear of the helicopter, away from the rest of the group. Tank spoke into his headset microphone to Hawkeye on a private channel.
“Caine wanted me to brief you on Savage Bay. At least the general picture. That’s all I really know anyway at this point,” said Tank. “Savage Bay is the name of a deepwater cove on Es Vedra Island. It’s also the name of a secret installation hollowed out beneath the island’s central mountain ridge. A decommissioned submarine base.”
“A what?” Hawkeye deadpanned.
“Shut up. We’ve only got a few minutes. The Savage Bay complex was built and operated by the U.S. military under a secret treaty with Spain during the Cold War.”
“I can understand why they chose that location,” said Hawkeye. “It’s right near the Strait of Gibraltar. American submarines could guard and control the only entrance to the Mediterranean from the Atlantic Ocean.”
“And because the base was concealed underneath the island, submarines could covertly leave and return to Savage Bay through underwater entrances hidden beneath the sea,” said Tank. “They never had to surface, and the subs could come and go undetected. The Chinese and the Russians have similar submarine bases that are still in operation.”
“But the Savage Bay base was decommissioned?”
“In 1989,” said Tank. “That’s the year the Es Vedra Treaty between Spain and the U.S. expired. Negotiations to extend the treaty collapsed when Spain found out that America had been storing nuclear warheads at the base. That was a clear violation of the agreement.”
“Spain refused to renew the treaty?”
“They did. But the public never found out about any of it. The Spanish government kept everything quiet. No one wanted to take responsibility for turning a blind eye to the U.S military using Spain as a nuclear weapons depot.”
“What happened to the base?” asked Hawkeye.
“The U.S. stripped the facility and turned it back over to Spain. The Spanish government inherited an abandoned, and apparently useless, secret military installation.”
“And how did Caine get involved?”
“For years Savage Bay just sat there, mothballed. Two years ago, however, a private company leased the entire island from the Spanish government and converted the complex into a secret scientific research facility. Any guesses who brokered that deal?”
“Demetrius Caine.”
“Good guess. The biotechnology company Triad Genomics is one of the crown jewels in the Caine empire. Triad took over the Savage Bay complex and began classified research.”
“Makes sense,” said Hawkeye. “Secret location. Isolated. Military grade infrastructure already in place. And knowing Caine, she got a hell of a deal on the lease -- ”
Hawkeye was abruptly interrupted by the pilot’s voice over the COM system.
“Ladies and gentleman, we are now entering our final approach. I hope you’ve enjoyed the flight. On behalf of Titan Global, I’d like to welcome you to the Alamiranta and thank you for flying with us. Now get the hell out of my chopper so I can go do some real work.”
Chapter 4
OFF THE COAST OF ANDALUSIA, SPAIN
Cruz peered intently out the window. As the stealth helicopter neared the Alamiranta, the helipad on the top deck of the ship seemed to grow smaller and smaller. Rough seas rocked the ship, and the helipad swayed back and forth beneath them. Deckhands swarmed over the top deck, preparing the helipad for their arrival.
Cruz leaned forward to speak to the pilot.
“You’ve done this before, right?” she asked.
“Nope. First time for everything,” said the pilot with a straight face.
“What?”
“No worries,” he said. “Even Hawkeye could probably make this approach.”
&nb
sp; Hawkeye grinned. “Maybe next time. How about you take this one.”
The pilot maneuvered the stealth helicopter directly over the Alamiranta. He spoke into his headset to the deck crew below. The helipad seemed to be in constant motion as the helicopter lurched from side to side in the strong winds.
“Ready?” asked the pilot.
“I’m not so sure about this,” Cruz said. There was a cold knot in her stomach.
“Hold on to your lunch,” warned Hawkeye.
With a stomach-churning lurch, the stealth helicopter dropped like a stone toward the helipad. The pilot struggled with the controls as driving winds beat against the side of the helicopter.
“You can’t land in this!” Cruz yelled to the pilot.
A strong gust caught the helicopter, causing it to lean violently to one side. The helipad moved in the opposite direction as the Alamiranta reached the trough of a passing swell. The pilot clenched his teeth.
“Pull up!” Cruz yelled. “Pull up!”
Hawkeye smacked Cruz’s headset with the flat of his hand. The pilot gripped the stick with both hands and leaned to one side. Slowly, he forced the helicopter back toward the swaying helipad.
“He doesn’t intend to land,” said Hawkeye.
The pilot pulled back on the yoke and the helicopter dropped to within ten meters of the helipad. A burst of static thundered in their headsets.
“Now,” said the pilot.
Hawkeye unclipped his safety belt and pushed open the side door. The wind roared through the opening.
“Jump,” Hawkeye said calmly to Cruz.
“What?”
“Jump!” yelled Hawkeye. “We can’t land in these conditions!”
Cruz vehemently shook her head. “No way! We’re ten meters off the deck!”
“Just watch me,” he said calmly. Hawkeye stood at the edge of the opening. “Remember to flex your knees to take the impact,” he said.
Before Cruz could protest, Hawkeye jumped.
Cruz shot up from her seat and peered out the opening, holding onto the doorway with both hands.
Hawkeye dropped to the deck below, landing in a crouch. Deckhands darted forward and clipped a safety belt to his waist. Hawkeye turned and looked up toward the helicopter.
“Go!” he yelled to Cruz. “Your turn!”
Another gust of wind ripped through the opening. The helicopter jerked to one side. Cruz staggered and threw out a hand to brace herself.
Another burst of static crackled in Cruz’s headset.
“The man said jump,” ordered the pilot.
“This is crazy!” yelled Cruz.
The helicopter’s rotors thumped overhead. Cruz watched the helipad pitch back and forth beneath her feet. Her hair whipped against her cheeks in the wind. She could taste the salt spray in her mouth.
This is crazy.
Hawkeye grinned up at Cruz from the deck below. The helicopter again lurched to one side before righting itself in the fierce winds.
This is crazy.
Cruz jumped.
ELEVEN METERS ABOVE THE ALAMIRANTA
The rotors of the helicopter thumped above her head, and the wind whipped at her clothes as Cruz fell. She landed on the helipad with both feet and bent her knees to absorb the shock.
It didn’t help.
Cruz lost her balance and fell backward, landing hard on her backside on the deck. The Alamiranta’s deckhands rushed over and cinched a safety belt around her waist. It was attached to a safety cable that ran along the edge of the helipad.
Hawkeye signaled to the pilot, giving him a thumbs-up.
Cruz gave him the finger.
The pilot returned the gesture and the stealth helicopter lifted away from the deck, rising up into the sky.
Cruz raised a hand to Hawkeye, gesturing for his assistance to help her rise to her feet. Hawkeye sighed, reached down, gripped Cruz’s left hand, and pulled her up.
When Cruz had regained her footing, she squinted at Hawkeye. She balled up her right fist. Then she punched him square in the jaw as hard as she could.
Hawkeye’s head snapped back as the haymaker connected with the side of his face. It was like a frame-by-frame replay of the Zapruder film capturing the shot that killed JFK.
Back and to the right.
Back and to the right.
Hawkeye shuffle-stepped backward, but didn’t lose his footing. He glared at Cruz. Anger boiled in his eyes.
He took a deep breath.
“I’m going to give you that one,” he said, holding up a finger. “One.”
Hawkeye rubbed his jaw.
“But you do that again, I’ll lay you out. Understand?”
Cruz grinned at him. She just couldn’t help it.
“You should have seen the look on your face,” she said.
Hawkeye tried to maintain a hold on his angry expression, but it quickly crumbled. He smiled in spite of himself. He worked his jaw from side to side.
“Not a bad shot, actually.”
Cruz’s right hand was on fire. She hoped to God she hadn’t broken any bones.
“How’s the hand?” asked Hawkeye, as if sensing her thoughts.
“It hurts,” she said. “A lot.”
Cruz flexed her fingers and grimaced at the resulting pain.
“Come on, Rocky,” Hawkeye said. “The clock’s ticking. Let’s move.”
. . .
David Denton, known to most everyone by his nickname, Quiz, was fourteen years old when he first realized that his best friend was a dead man. In fact, Quiz’s closest friend had slumbered in a cold grave, six feet beneath the ground, for over six hundred years before Quiz first made his acquaintance.
As a child, Quiz was often left unattended within the sprawling family estate known as Whittington Manor. His grandmother, Mary Whittington, was the matriarch of the family, and she held firmly with the Victorian view that children should be seen and not heard. And to Grandmother Whittington, even being seen was not a particularly endearing trait for a child.
Ignored most of the time by the senior members of the Whittington clan and the cadre of servants who attended the family, Quiz was often left alone to derive his own entertainments. His first attempts at self-amusement were spectacularly unsuccessful. Following a series of pranks on the upstairs maid and an unfortunate incident with the family cat, Quiz’s grandmother presented him with a row of angry, reddish-purple welts on his backside courtesy of a thick leather belt. This punishment rendered the act of sitting most unpleasant for the better part of a week.
Quiz then wisely turned his attention to more solitary pursuits. By the time he was ten, Quiz was well on his way to reading every book on the north wall of his grandfather’s expansive library. It was a dusty, seldom-used study, and Quiz had free reign to enjoy its hidden treasures. From the few intelligible bits of speech Quiz was able pluck from the muffled adult conversations that leaked through his bedroom walls after dark, Quiz discerned that his grandfather apparently suffered from a malady of the mind. Grandmother Whittington kept her husband confined most of the time to a suite of rooms in the east wing of the manor.
For his own benefit, of course.
With Quiz’s grandfather absent, Quiz assumed ownership of his library by adverse possession. Having read more works of literature by age ten than most adults read in a lifetime, he had unwittingly given himself a first-rate classical education.
On Quiz’s fourteenth birthday, he discovered a worn copy of Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy on the top tier of the walnut bookshelves. Flipping through the pages, his mind was quickly captured by Dante's prose and the graphic illustrations sprinkled throughout the volume.
Quiz took the book to his hiding spot in a small closet beneath a stairway. There, in that dark place, Dante told him fantastic tales of his voyage to the underworld. By the questionable light of a fat candle, Quiz devoured the text of the epic poem, riding with Dante across the river Acheron in a boat piloted by Charon the Ferryman. Dante whisper
ed in his ear as they descended into the Nine Circles of Hell.
Dante had been Quiz’s constant companion since he first opened the pages of the Divine Comedy; he was a strong, invisible presence in Quiz’s life. He often hovered, unseen, behind his left shoulder. Sometimes he floated overhead, loitering in a quiet corner near the ceiling.
Usually, the dead poet just observed.
But sometimes Dante voiced an opinion, speaking softly in his native Tuscan dialect, directly in the center of Quiz’s mind.
Quiz was much older now, and perhaps wiser, than he was the day Dante Aligheiri became part of his waking reality. Grandmother Whittington passed on many years ago. Ironically, Quiz’s grandfather still haunts Whittington Manor, and is no longer confined to his rooms in the east wing. Quiz hasn't seen him in years.
Quiz sometimes misses his grandmother.
He’s not sure why.
Quiz lost others too. Others much more dear. Long before Catherine Caine assumed a maternal role in Quiz’s life, his biological parents were killed in a home invasion robbery. They departed this life when Quiz was only six.
Although years have passed, Dante still hovers near Quiz, still offering an occasional observation.
And so Quiz sat alone, on the anniversary of his parent’s death, in a crowd gathered at St. Patrick’s Chapel aboard the Alamiranta. He fidgeted in his seat, drawing a stern look from an older woman seated beside him.
Quiz’s suit jacket was hot.
The pew was hard and uncomfortable.
The odor of incense was unpleasant in his nose.
And Bishop O’Leary, presiding over the memorial mass, was speaking Latin.
Quiz hated Latin.
* Why are we here? *
Quiz ignored Dante's query spoken directly inside Quiz’s mind and instead cast restless glances around the chapel. Light passing through the stained-glass windows threw bands of color on the floor. In the pew in front of Quiz, a young boy twisted in his seat and peered over the back of the pew. His facial features bore the unmistakable signs of Down’s Syndrome.
Quiz retrieved a hymnal and opened it. Then he smiled at the boy in the next row. The boy grinned back.
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