The Somali Deception (Cameron Kincaid Book 2)

by Daniel Arthur Smith

  After thwarting assassins in the library of his restaurant Le Dragon Vert Cameron, a suave former Legionnaire, vows to escort a young woman and her guardian to safety. Cameron learns from the two the secret Cathari faith and of the Rex Mundi that believe the women are key to the long sought Cathari Treasure.

  Relentlessly pursued from the Le Dragon Vert in New York, through the streets of Boston, Montreal, Toronto, and Quebec, Cameron tires of fleeing. The Rex Mundi will ultimately wipe out the Cathari to get the treasure unless Cameron takes the battle to them, a confrontation to seal his fate or ensure the survival of the two women and a faith he does not fully understand.

  Go to The Cathari Treasure excerpt

  Purchase via Daniel’s website

  Agroland

  The New Supernatural Horror

  In a desolate desert, members of an isolated agricultural station discover a stranger, dehydrated, delirious, and near death from exposure. His weak frame is thin, desiccated. His blistered flesh is wooden, and in his madness, a faint raspy chant slips from his near lipless mouth, “So many, not enough. So many, not enough.”

  Go to Agroland excerpt

  Purchase via Daniel’s website

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  Excerpt from The Cathari Treasure

  Read on for an excerpt from the Cameron Kincaid Adventure

  THE CATHARI TREASURE

  * * * * *

  The Cathari Treasure

  Copyright © 2010 by Daniel Arthur Smith

  * * * * *

  Chapter 1

  New York Thursday 1905 hours

  The man leaning out of the bathroom door was flush faced, wide eyed, and locked onto Gerard.

  “Eh, there’s a guy in trouble in here,” he said. “I think he’s having a heart attack or somethin’.”

  Gerard was on his way to the front bar. He was a waiter, not a paramedic. Every table in the restaurant was full, he had an already pissed off private party waiting for him, and his focus was on getting their vermouth. “I’ll get the maître d’.”

  “I dunno,” the man said. He glanced back into the bathroom behind him. Slowly he shook his head. “This guy’s not looking so good.”

  Gerard sighed through his nose, took a step toward the door, and then stopped. He scanned the dining room. He needed to signal the maître d’. He spotted him across the room, facing the other direction.

  Gerard pursed his lips.

  “C’mon,” said the red-faced man. “I need some help here.”

  Gerard sucked in a lung full of air. The private party would have to wait.

  He reached up and pushed the door open wide and step passed the stranger.

  There was no one on the floor. “Where is he?” he asked.

  “In the last stall.”

  He slid his tray beside the folded linen hand towels and the basket of mints, and then walked to the handicap stall at the far end of the room. He pressed his hand against the closed door, and it swung open.

  With the exception of the toilet, and a large black duffel bag, the stall was empty.

  “There’s nobody in here,” said Gerard.

  “Sure there is,” said the man. He slapped Gerard on the back of the neck. Hard. For an instant, there was a stinging pain. Gerard reached up and awkwardly pulled at the large rectangular cloth the man had stuck there.

  “What the hell!”

  The pain quickly subsided to a dull numb. The skin of Gerard’s neck felt spongy against his fingertips, moved with the fabric as he tugged, and he could not feel to pinch to lift the edge of the sticky rectangle. He started to turn back, to leave the stall, but his legs gave way beneath him, and he sank into the stranger’s arms.

  He tried to speak, and then yell, anything, as the man walked him to the back of the stall. No sound came out, not even a gasp of air, at least not one he could feel. His throat was lost to him.

  “That microneedle patch is quick acting,” the man said as he eased Gerard onto the toilet. “A lot better than the transdermal patch.” He propped Gerard’s limp body into the corner and began to undress.

  Trapped behind his eyes, the side of his face flat against the cool tile wall, Gerard watched the man remove his blue blazer and hang it on the door hook.

  “The transdermal patches work like a nicotine patch,” the stranger continued, “slow release.”

  The man crouched in front of him and unzipped the duffel. He pulled out a clip-on bow tie, and then fastened it under the collar of his white shirt.

  “A real headache. The skin is a good barrier. You have to estimate when it will take effect.” His tie clipped, the man opened his hands, palms up, in the mimic of a scale. “You take into account on one hand how much a guy weighs, on the other how much he ate, monitor what he ate. I mean c’mon, if a guy just had lunch, you could forget it.”

  The man dropped his hands to his thighs and patted them twice.

  He smiled at Gerard, a long kind smile, and then sighed, stood up, took him by the shoulders, and eased him forward.

  “You know, once I had to follow a guy for three hours before he got queasy, the whole time tryin’ not to get noticed. On the subway, down Fifth and over to Sixth, every floor of Macy’s.” The man slid Gerard’s white waiters coat back from his shoulders and then pulled his arms from the sleeves. He shook his head. “I swear, I thought that guy was never gonna go down.” He gently rested Gerard back against the wall, this time straight back, and then adjusted his head to face him. The tile pressed flat against the patch on his neck, not cold, just there.

  “Now, these microneedles are almost instant, but you know that.”

  He gave Gerard a pat on the cheek.

  “That’s because these microneedles have a microchip. A microchip and a hundred and fifty little needles.” The man’s eyes lit up when he said this.

  The man had moved Gerard around so easily and there was nothing he could do to stop him.

  He watched the stranger slip on hiss coat. The jacket fit him perfectly. Gerard wondered how this man knew his coat would be the right size. Then something occurred to him. His mind had gone muddy, but he saw it now. With the coat on, the man looked like, him. The white shirt, bow tie, and black slacks, they all matched Gerard’s. The waiter’s coat was all that the man needed. He needed the unique embossed dragon logo to the left of the lapel.

  “These microneedles are a game changer. Altogether, I’ll be in and out of here in the time it would of taken for the transdermal to even kick in. Amazing technology.”

  He slipped out of the stall and returned with Gerard’s silver serving tray. He knelt down, removed a thermos and four tall shot glasses from the duffel, placed them on the tray, and left again. He came right back, patting down the front of the coat and the pockets of his slacks. He bit his upper lip, looked around the floor of the stall, and then peered at Gerard.

  “One more thing,” he said, he removed a long silver knife from his blazer, and then he knelt again, and brought out a white handkerchief from the duffel. He wadded the handkerchief into a ball, and then firmly pressed the white ball against the side of Gerard’s neck. The man lifted his other arm and slowly brought the dagger close.

  Gerard’s eyes were all that could scream.

  “Shhh,” said the man.

  Beneath where the man held the cloth, Gerard felt a pinch, and then his neck was warm, wet, and sticky.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 2

  New York

  Claude furrowed his brow.

  “Is there an issue?” asked Cameron.

  Claude drew his words out with a determined enunciation that exaggerated his already thick French accent, “I am glad to see you are back.”

  “I would have been here earlier. We had so many extra takes. Being a guest judge is a headache.”

  Claude rolled his eyes up from his cutting board, “The Food Network, they can not get enough of the Dragon Chef, eh?”

  “You call a place Le Dragon Vert, you
’re gonna get some flack.”

  “You love the attention. Besides, don’t worry. Everything is fine here.”

  Cameron knew better. Sure, Claude was glad to see him, yet at some point during the evening rush the chef was always distraught. Claude’s fickle dinner hour temperament was something Cameron took in stride. Each evening started with Claude focused on some true or imagined issue.

  By the time Cameron stepped into the kitchen, Claude had already begun to work himself into a fluster. Cameron picked up a towel from the counter to wipe the lens of his sunglasses and waited for his close friend’s complaint of the evening.

  “Well, I do not want to complain,” said Claude.

  Cameron nodded and smiled. Claude always started this way.

  “How is the house tonight?” asked Cameron.

  “The house is fine.”

  “Hmm.”

  Cameron held the lens of his sunglasses up to the light.

  “It’s the private party in the library,” said Claude. He lifted the knife from the cucumber he was slicing then pointed the blade in the direction of the library. “That woman has been hassling Gerard every time he goes near the table.”

  “Right, the vegans.” Cameron gave Claude a knowing glance, then grabbed a piece of the cut cucumber, and popped it into his mouth. “What’s their problem?”

  “No real problem. I have prepared a fabulous dinner for them, but,” Claude waved the knife in a circular motion, and then continued to slice the cucumber.

  “But what? Don’t leave me hangin’.”

  Claude raised the blade again, this time wagging the knife as he spoke, “She insists on coming back to the kitchen, and you know—”

  “—Don’t disturb the staff,” said Cameron, quickly adding, “especially during service.”

  “You understand perfectly. Can you please take care of it? And send Gerard back while you are at it, he is late. I have created this beautiful amuse-bouche. It is really lovely, split pea and totally vegan.”

  Centered on the silver tray in front of Claude a moss green liquid filled four ready-to-be-served shot glasses.

  “Certainly, where is Gerard?” asked Cameron.

  “I have not seen him. He must be stuck in the library with that woman.”

  “OK, let me talk to them. I want that party happy.” Cameron placed a hand on the chef’s back and leaned into his ear, “Ms. Lacroux is a favored guest. She is from the UN, she is French, and you know she only chooses to come here because of you.”

  Claude grunted and went back to the cucumbers again.

  Cameron went to the small corner office pleased he was still able to appease Claude’s ego. Appeasing his old friend was all that was needed each evening to keep the kitchen running smoothly and Cameron gladly took on the role.

  From behind the office door, Cameron took down the darkest of the three blazers he kept there on wooden hangers. He donned the jacket, adjusted his collar, and then preened himself in the small mirror tacked up on the post-it-note-covered corkboard. The haircut, the blazer, and the shirt were each part of the uniform that comprised his image, the image of a New York restaurateur. Adjusting to the image of restaurateur had taken sometime while the mindset of a uniform, a cover, was something Cameron was quite experienced in from his formative years. He often told himself he was pretending to be a restaurateur and gourmet celebrity. He often asked himself what the difference was, really.

  Cameron stepped out of the office, eyes fixed and pensive, and his mind ready to start the evening, ready for the guests in the dining room. Distant by nature, he expended a lot of energy to be “on,” particularly after an already long day.

  “Behind you,” said Cameron as he swiftly slipped past one of the line cooks toward the kitchen door.

  Cameron’s pace slowed to a relaxed gait upon entering the dining room.

  François was polishing rocks glasses behind the bar, his back to the dining room. Through the marbled mirror tiles above the liquor shelf, he monitored the front of the house. François was the first to notice the boss step out of the kitchen. He nodded as Cameron approached the bar. Cameron returned the nod and then leaned back on the edge of bar stool.

  “Bonsoir, François,” said Cameron. He slapped his hand on the bar.

  “Bonsoir monsieur,” François melodically sang out. François spun the rocks glass he was polishing upright in his hand then pivoted on his heel to Cameron.

  “The usual?” asked François.

  Cameron tapped the tips of his fingers twice on the bar.

  “The usual.”

  The young bartender pulled the fountain gun from the holster under the bar, sprayed a shot of seltzer into the rocks glass, tossed in a lemon slice, then set the glass in front of his boss.

  “Seltzer, no ice.”

  “Merçi,” said Cameron. Taking a slow sip of the seltzer, Cameron swiveled his stool to inspect the house. The restaurant was loud and full. Servers glided between tables and each other, trays held to their sides or above their heads, while patrons drinking aged scotch and vintage wines conversed between nibbles of quail egg and escargot.

  Cameron did not see Gerard.

  He walked to the end of the short bar to get a different vantage of the room. He quaffed the rest of his seltzer and then with two fingers fished out the slice of lemon and bit away some of the sour juice. He tossed the rind back into the empty rocks glass and then set the glass out of the way behind the bar.

  Cameron crossed the room toward the library but had to stop twice. Once to greet a guest’s relative visiting for the weekend and once to compliment another regular, an aging actress, recently returned from a spa vacation in Switzerland. His guests loved that he remembered their names.

  Cameron opened the library door. A tall black suit took up almost the entire doorframe. The young bodyguard’s firm jaw stayed closed as he took a step back to let Cameron into the room. Though a bodyguard rarely stood sentry at the door, Cameron was not fazed. Guests in the library most often preferred their bodyguards to sit at the bar and pretend to read while waiting for their celebrity clients to finish dinner. Cameron initially thought the young man standing expressionless by the door either did not read or was too green to know the appropriate time to give his clients some space. Once in the library, Cameron thought differently, in the far corner stood another tall man in a black suit. Older than the gatekeeper, the second bodyguard was positioned to see out the windowed sidewall.

  Cameron noticed that the bodyguards not only wore matching black suits, their tiepins also matched—emerald green, embossed with the same small design. Cameron deduced that tonight the bodyguards were not token. These black-suited men were professionals.

  At the table sat the woman from the UN, Ms. Lacroux, with her guests. The small group consisted of Ms. Lacroux and three others Cameron did not know: a man and two other women. The younger of the two women looked to be around eighteen, pretty, yet plain—noticeably plain, on-purpose plain.

  Gerard had his back to him and was serving.

  Cameron had found Gerard, yet something was not right.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 3

  New York

  Cameron was puzzled. How could Gerard have brought the amuse-bouche from the kitchen to the library without Cameron seeing him? Cameron approached the table. Gerard was serving the wrong amuse-bouche. The shot glasses Gerard was placing in front of the guests held an orange liquid that should have been green.

  Then the waiter spoke. “May I present a gift from the chef?”

  The waiter’s voice, his accent, was not Gerard’s.

  Cameron knew his staff well, and though this man has done his best to pass as Gerard, Cameron knew he was an imposter.

  Cameron’s eyes darted between the two bodyguards for a sign of suspicion. The two men were pillars. Cameron knew what to do.

  “Good evening everyone,” said Cameron. “Ms. Lacroux, if you could excuse us for a moment.”

  “Certainly, Mons
ieur Kincaid,” said Ms. Lacroux. To her guests she said, “This is the fine young man I was talking about, the Dragon Chef. He has graced us tonight.”

  Cameron shrugged his brow. “You are too kind.” Cameron casually sidled next to the imposter. The man wearing the white coat of a house waiter was no one he had seen before.

  Cameron gently and firmly grabbed hold of the waiter’s upper arm and whispered into his ear, “You should come with me. Let’s step out of the library.”

  Cool and calm, the waiter who was not a waiter stilled himself. His ruse was foiled. One of his arms was under the metal serving tray and the other, in Cameron’s firm grip, hovered above Ms. Lacroux and still held a shot glass.

  Without notice or hesitation, the imposter threw his whole body into motion at once. His knees bent while the arm Cameron was holding pulled away from Cameron’s grip in a downward direction so the imposter could fluidly push the tray in his other hand toward Cameron’s face. Cameron let go of the imposter, then raised both arms to block and then grab the tray from his assailant. The imposter let the tray go. Both arms now free, the imposter produced a dagger from his jacket and aimed the long thin blade past Cameron toward Ms. Lacroux.

  Before the assassin’s blade could connect with the dignitary’s throat, Cameron slammed the knife down with the serving tray.

  The assassin, arm pinned beneath the tray, flashed his eyes at Cameron.

  Cameron slipped his foot behind the man’s legs then thrust the tray back across his chest. The assassin flailed awkwardly as he fell, landing flat on his back.

  The bodyguard at the window lunged toward the table, gun quickly in hand from the inside of his jacket. From the door the younger mirror did the same. A pane in the window shattered and both bodyguards fell as bullets pierced their upper bodies. Cameron looked out the window to see a black Escalade at the curb. Out of the dark passenger window long slender fingers wrapped a silencer-capped pistol. The owner of the hand was hidden in the shadow of the Escalade. The only thing of color Cameron’s eyes were able to latch onto was a gold ring set with a large garnet on the second finger of the hand holding the gun.