by David Beers
The pain in Christian’s wrist subsided significantly when the knife entered his side. Luke stuck it deep and then dragged it upward, from the top of his hip to the bottom of his rib cage.
Christian felt Luke pull the knife out, and then his face seemed to burst. Pain indescribable ripped through his head, and he felt hot blood running down his cheek.
“See you soon, Christian.”
Gray preceded black, and then Christian didn’t even know pain.
CHAPTER 11
T he dead were removed from the house one by one. Of course, they took the living first. Waverly stood over it all, watching everything and asking questions of himself for which there were no answers.
He watched the stretcher wheel Tommy to the ambulance. Tommy didn’t even look at him as he passed. Waverly watched the medics attend to Christian in the kitchen, trying their best to close the wounds and stabilize him. A knife handle stuck out from his face, the blade dug deep inside his head. Finally, Waverly watched them wheel his second FBI agent out on a stretcher.
Christian was unconscious, and Waverly stared in silence.
He went back into the house and gazed at the living room. Four bodies. There was no need to search for the perpetrator.
Luke Titan had called it in himself. Called Waverly, in fact.
“Director, it’s Luke Titan.”
“I was just about to call you. I tried Tommy, but got nothing. Same with Christian.”
“That’s understandable. They’re both tremendously injured. I don’t think Tommy will die, but Christian might.”
“What are you talking about?” Waverly had asked.
“I stabbed Tommy in the neck, paralyzing him. Then I gutted Christian’s side before shoving the knife in his face. He’s bleeding quite heavily.”
Waverly was stunned, unable to speak.
“They’re all at Christy Mackenrow’s house. You should have the address, or one of your underlings will. I’m heading out, Director Waverly. I do think we’ll meet again, though. There’s that to look forward to, at least.”
The phone line had gone dead. Waverly usually acted quickly on new information, but not then. He didn’t pull the phone from his ear, but only sat on the FBI’s private jet, staring at the area before him.
It took Waverly a solid minute to realize he still hadn’t put down his phone.
When he came to his senses, he issued an all points bulletin for Luke Titan. He landed in Atlanta and came first to the house, wanting to see the truth for himself. A press conference was scheduled within the hour, and it would run on every news network for the next two days, hopefully longer.
More information was coming in. Ten minutes ago agents broke down a locked door in Ted Hinson’s house. Two women were alive, chained to a wall. Others were chained as well, but they were dead. The women were in shock, unable to talk, but that was very distant on Waverly’s mind. He was looking at the person who committed those crimes, slumped dead against the fireplace.
No, coldly, he wasn’t as concerned about those victims.
There was much to do, but Waverly couldn’t pull himself from the house—the disaster—surrounding him. He didn’t understand what he saw, how any of it happened, or why.
The dead are everywhere, he thought, and it occurred under your watch.
He looked away from the bloody living room and walked out onto the stoop. Agents passed by him, saying nothing, both his presence and the body count keeping them silent.
Luke Titan did this. Luke Titan paralyzed one partner, and may have killed another. The medics said Christian was in critical condition, and when Waverly pressed, they put his survival at fifty percent.
He had to find Luke before the man left the country.
CHAPTER 12
C hristian was in a coma for a week and a half, before finally regaining consciousness. The doctors let his mother and Veronica visit, but only for a few minutes.
“We haven’t left and we’re not going to,” Veronica had said. His mother couldn’t talk, but only cried and touched him gently.
Nurses rushed them out and Christian had fallen asleep.
He had dreamed then. Christian and Luke were in a car, a convertible. The top was down and they were rolling along an empty stretch of highway somewhere out west. The desert surrounded them, with tan rock mountains in the distance. The wind filled the car, tossing their hair constantly.
Luke was smiling and he looked over at Christian. His eyes were alive, full of excitement. Christian glanced at the speedometer and saw they were close to 150.
“We’re going to have fun, Christian. So very much fun.”
Christian only turned his head and looked forward.
If he dreamed anything else, he didn’t remember. When he woke, his doctor was in front of him.
“We’re loosening the wires on your face. You’ll be able to open your jaw just enough to form words, but only if you agree to us doing this. We don’t think it’s in your best interest, but ….” The doctor shook his head and looked at his feet. “Your boss is insisting that he be able to interview you. The man is … persistent, to say the least.”
Christian agreed to loosen the wiring. Christian wanted to speak with his mother and Veronica first, before Waverly.
“I keep ending up here,” Christian mumbled. It was the first time he’d spoken in two weeks, though he came out of his coma a few days ago.
His mother stood to the side of Christian’s hospital bed, tears streaming down her face. Veronica was on the other side, crying as well. Happiness and sadness filled both of them. Christian hadn’t requested a mirror to see his face since waking; he didn’t need one. The sympathy and pain in his mother’s eyes showed him everything.
He’d been given no information since awakening, and when he tried to motion for paper, his nurses told him to rest. Then, they gave him more sedatives. So while not in a coma, he hadn’t exactly been conscious.
“Tommy?” he whispered to the two women, hoping he didn’t have to say more. His head felt as if all its flesh and bone had been rubbed for hours with sandpaper. Speaking made it feel like the sandpaper was back, and spunky.
“He’s alive,” Veronica said.
His mother squeezed his hand. Christian pushed her away, and twirled two fingers in a forward circular motion. Go on.
“He’s paralyzed. He was cleared for visitors two days ago but he won’t see anyone.”
Christian twirled his fingers again. There was more, and she was holding it from him. “Recovery?” he managed to say.
“The doctors told us there would be some, but he’ll never walk again.” Tears filled Veronica’s eyes and she choked out the next sentence, though she didn’t look away. “He’ll be a quadriplegic, Christian. He may never speak again.”
Christian closed his eyes and let his head fall deeper into the pillow.
“Waverly,” he whispered.
Both kissed his unbroken hand, Veronica moving around the bed to do so. They left and the Director walked in a few minutes later.
The two stared at each other for half a minute, and Christian saw no sympathy or sadness in the man. He saw rage. Determination.
“The doctors don’t want you speaking. There’s a risk you won’t fully heal, and I want you to understand that up front, though I’m sure they’ve told you. I pushed them until they agreed to ask, and the fact that I’m here shows you allowed them to loosen the contraption on your head. If you want to wait, tell me, and I’ll leave. I won’t be responsible for more damage to you.”
“Do you … want … to wait?” Christian asked. Tears formed in his eyes at the pain from speaking.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Let’s … talk, then,” Christian said.
Waverly pulled a chair up to the bed and took out a spiral notebook. He opened it to the first page, then grabbed a pen from his shirt pocket. “Take your time. I’ll go as long you can, then you rest. I’ll wait in the lobby. I’m not leaving the hospital, th
ough, until you tell me you’re done. If that takes a month, so be it. I want the whole story.”
Christian nodded and slowly started talking.
You’re halfway to finishing Luke’s madness! Find out what happens next in The General!
FOR CHRISTIAN WINDSOR
A ddress:
Emory University Hospital
Atlanta, GA 30322
RECIPIENT:
Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Christian Windsor
DEAR CHRISTIAN,
I’VE READ that you survived, and I must admit, that surprised me. To me, you were always a boy. Never a man. Perhaps your survival earns you that honor. I will no longer think of you as a boy, but as a man. Do you find some solace in that?
I wonder if Tommy is happy with what I did for him? Sure, his fiancée is dead (unfortunately, I couldn’t attend her funeral), but he is still alive. That should certainly be considered a blessing. Do you think he’ll ever speak again? I must say, the insertion into his neck was very good; I don’t take pride in many of my accomplishments (to whom much is given, much is expected), but I do in that bit of work. A millimeter difference and he would have died. Instead, he has his life.
Waverly is doing his best to make things hard for me. That is a man possessed. I haven’t spoken to him again, nor written him, but I imagine he wants to look me in the eye before he kills me. Or jails me. Please send him my regards, and tell him I will one day grant him that opportunity.
I wonder, Christian, is it winter where you are? I cannot imagine that you’re seeing spring flowers bloom. I don’t imagine you’ll ever see them again, though, you might think killing me will birth a single rose. I promise, it won’t.
Will you come for me, Christian? Will you come to do what you should have done in the kitchen?
I sacrificed a lot to create you. Think of it—multiple careers, all landing me in the upper echelon of my colleagues. I would, without doubt, have landed there at the FBI, too. I gave it all up, though. For you. To ensure that you reached an endless winter.
I’m not done, Christian. In fact, I think I may just be starting. With sacrifice comes reward, and mine shall be great. Purpose drives me and it always has. Now that you know my purpose, you may be able to anticipate some of my coming actions. Or, perhaps you’re right, and I’m insane. In that case, lunatics are notoriously unpredictable. If I were you, I would hope my purpose isn’t crazy, but rational. It’ll make catching me much easier.
Like I told you in the house, I’ll see you soon.
I’ll see all of you soon.
YOURS,
Luke Titan, MD, PhD, Special Agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigations, Top Ten of America’s Most Wanted
Continue on to read The General!
THE GENERAL
For Heather Cowan. You and I both know the tremendous effort it took to edit this book. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
PROLOGUE
T he sun shone down with such ferocity that it seemed to be taking revenge on the small Venezuelan town for some slight that no one could quite remember. At one in the afternoon, the streets were nearly empty because the people simply couldn’t handle the heat. Even the dogs knew it was smarter to seek shade than to venture out looking for scraps.
Christian Windsor sat in the back of an unmarked van, sweat soaking through his shirt. He kept having to wipe his forehead, and had already downed two bottles of water in the past hour. The van’s air conditioning couldn’t keep up.
There were four vans in total, two on the block opposite of Christian’s, and another sitting in front of him. He wondered if it was too many, but the local authorities had promised that the vans were nothing out of the ordinary. They all looked worn out, Christian’s almost broken. He had stared out the front window as they drove, and saw the Venezuelan police hadn’t been exaggerating—destroyed vans littered the city.
Christian didn’t know for certain that Luke Titan was less than five hundred yards from him, but the probability was high. Christian had done something similar to this three other times in the past eighteen months, and each time he’d come up empty handed. In all three instances, Christian had been right that Luke Titan was there … only wrong on his timing.
Not now, though. Luke’s here and you’re going to get him.
“How much longer?” he asked.
Six people sat in the back of the van, with a driver and passenger up front. The people in front wore overalls, looking like painters. Those in the back wore heavy, bullet-proof armor; all had multiple guns holstered to their bodies. Each held an automatic weapon on their lap, and none of the men appeared to have a single ounce of fat on them.
“Ten minutes,” the man to Christian’s right said.
He didn’t know these people. They weren’t with the FBI, but from other federal departments. Most likely the CIA, though Christian didn’t concern himself with that. How these people arrived here and where they came from was FBI Director Alan Waverly’s job.
Christian’s job was to capture Luke Titan.
The operation teams had ceased demanding that Christian remain in the States while their missions took place. Waverly had done a good job stating Christian’s case and refusing their sidelining of Christian. He would be there when they either cuffed or killed Luke.
Christian used the towel on his lap to wipe sweat from his brow. He wore the same gear as those around him, though they hadn’t equipped him with anything automatic. His pistol was strapped to his side; he’d practiced enough over the last year to pass as a decent shot.
“Bravo Team, come in, over.” The walkie-talkie (there was a technical name for this, of course, but Christian couldn’t have cared less) sprang to life on Christian’s right.
“Bravo Team here, over,” the man holding the walkie-talkie said.
“We have eyes on the target. He’s crossing the street and heading to home base.”
Christian stared at the bearded man next to him, desperately wanting to hear the words that would set the troops loose. The man didn’t return his look.
“Copy. Distance? Over.”
“Twenty feet, over.”
The van pulled away from the curb, the person driving knowing the plan of attack.
Christian watched out the front window as they took a right.
And then he saw Luke.
He was wearing shorts and a light blue linen shirt. Flip-flops adorned his feet.
The van sped up and didn’t pause for the curb, but jumped right onto it, causing everyone inside to bounce atop their benches. Christian saw the other three vans moving in as well, flying across the street and jumping onto the apartment building’s brown lawn.
“Subdue target at all costs,” the man to his right said into the walkie-talkie.
The van slammed to a stop and Christian watched as everyone emptied out, each agent holding their automatic weapon at eye level.
Christian stood as the last man jumped out, intent on following just as quickly, yet he paused and glanced out the front window. Luke had turned around and was watching the men dispersing from the vans. His hands weren’t raised, and even from Christian’s current distance, he could see the smile on his ex-partner’s face.
Luke’s eyes scanned his surroundings and somehow—despite the thirty men beginning to surround him—found Christian. He raised his hand and gave a slight wave.
Christian jumped from the van and rounded its corner. His pistol was at eye level, and he immediately focused it on Luke.
“Christian,” his ex-partner called across the dead lawn, “if I didn’t know better, I would think you miss me. You seem to be constantly trying to find me.”
“KNEEL THE FUCK DOWN!”
Christian didn’t know who screamed at Luke; he wouldn’t take his eyes off the fugitive to figure it out, either. In a year and a half, they had never been this close to him. This was the first time Christian had laid eyes on the man outside of video recordings—the first time since Luk
e gutted him and stabbed him through the face.
“Christian, why are you doing this to yourself?” Luke asked. He hadn’t knelt nor made any other movement. “I told you I would come for you, didn’t I? I said I’d see you soon, see all of you soon. Why are you inviting me before the time is right?”
“GET THE FUCK DOWN!” someone else screamed.
Christian wouldn’t have believed it if he wasn’t there. Had someone told him what happened, he would have thought it myth, something to build up Luke’s legacy. Christian was there, though, and neither his eyes nor mind lied to him.
Someone was moving in on Luke’s right, perhaps the person that just screamed at him.
Luke’s face flashed to him, though the rest of his body remained toward Christian. The fully armored man holding the automatic weapon stopped dead in his tracks. The entire group was closing in on Luke, encircling and ensnaring him, but that man stopped moving forward once caught in Luke’s stare. He paused, even as the rest of the group continued tightening the noose.
Luke looked back to Christian.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Have it your way.”
Christian was twenty yards out from where Luke stood, while the rest of the team was maybe five yards away. Luke took a step back and raised his hands in the air.
“DO NOT MOVE! DON’T FUCKING TAKE ANOTHER STEP!”
“I’m not resisting,” Luke said, moving back another step.
Christian’s body was entranced by Luke’s stare, but his mind wasn’t. It saw what was happening even as no one else did. He was retreating, but there wasn’t anywhere for him to go. There was another reason for it.
“NO!” Christian shouted, just as Luke’s foot reached the stoop to his apartment. “GET BACK!”
The armed men heard Christian and paused briefly, a few even looking over their shoulders. Luke stepped fully onto the stoop. Other men started screaming now, Christian having set off some sort of panic in them. They yelled at Luke to get down, to surrender, to do everything except what the fuck he was doing.
