The Kip Keene Box Set: Books 1, 2 & 3

by Nicholas Erik

  “Too bad he’s not here.” This was why she had only finished second in her class. A tendency for insubordination, the instructors called it. “We’re doing it today. You and me.”

  “Me?”

  “Here,” Strike said, and strolled back over to the desk. She found a pen amidst the rubble and scribbled her cell phone number down. “We’re partners now.”

  “Partners?”

  “You feed me his whereabouts, I track him down, everyone wins. Except him. He loses.”

  She left the room before Freddy had a chance to protest.

  Keene walked into his comfortable apartment—not posh, or worth millions, but nice enough—and rifled through his cabinets. He came upon an empty bottle of Vicodin, the one he’d gotten as a favor for helping a local doctor out of an uncomfortable jam.

  He’d already soured on extravagance, despite the almost limitless potential he had to build wealth. He only dealt with people like Ruslan for the rush.

  Or maybe the human contact.

  Keene chucked the useless container over his shoulder and kept searching before settling on aspirin. Four white pills and a half gallon of water later, he was sprawled out on the couch, shoes off, drifting in and out of sleep.

  The coat was stifling him, so he ripped it off and threw it across the room. He rolled over, and the diamond fell from his pocket, tumbling off the couch to the ground. The noise reminded him that, if he didn’t want to disappear again—like that first gig he’d blown for a Mexican drug lord who still had a sizable bounty on his head—he’d better call Ruslan.

  Then again, if he did have to move on, it wasn’t like there was much here for him. With his headache persisting, Keene decided he’d text Ruslan anyway and do a final sweep of the premises. There had to be something stronger around than aspirin.

  Keene got off the couch and did a double-take at the apartment’s open door. Man, he must’ve been pretty wasted when he came in earlier. He checked the clock. That was only fifteen minutes ago. At least Ruslan wouldn’t be that pissed off—

  “Don’t move,” a voice in Keene’s ear said, and for some reason he listened. By the time he figured that he should run or fight—or do anything at all—a pair of steely handcuffs were clipped to his wrists, and someone was pushing him on the couch. “Sit.”

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  The person in charge of the proceedings gave him a hard kick, and Keene tumbled onto the leather. “Looks like you don’t have much of a choice.”

  Keene sized up his intruder. Blonde, reasonable height, but not too far in either direction. That was one of the good things about this place. Plenty of blondes. Nowhere near extinct, unlike in the past, where they were scarcer than unicorns. Her hair was bright, catching glints of sunlight from the large bay windows overlooking the city.

  And she had one of those tans, a vacation tan, not a regular one, because right where her collared blouse was untucked, there was this little flash of pale white around her midriff. Keene grinned, thinking about her out on the beach, half-naked. That’d be a lot better.

  The snug leather jacket and boots were a nice touch.

  Keene’s eyes flitted towards her hands and wrist. Cheap watch, no ring. Career lady. That meant serious. The tattoo spiraling up from her wrist, though, that was a wild card.

  But by the gun she had pointed in his face, it was still easy to see that she was some sort of cop.

  He dug his cuffed hands through the couch, working them towards the multi-tool. Shame he’d have to knock someone so pretty out. Hope she wouldn’t hit her head on the way down.

  “No wonder you’re not married,” Keene said. “You do this to every guy you meet?”

  Her face flushed, the crimson seeping through her tan. “I’m not married because—”

  “Honey, let me tell you something,” Keene said while his fingers worked the multi-tool out of his pocket, into his palm. Now he just needed her to sit down next to him. Or lay into him. Either would work. Just get her close. “It isn’t the job.”

  Her short, unpainted nails dug into the grip. “Don’t call me honey,” she said. “I’m not married because I’m not that old.”

  Keene peered at her, and decided that yeah, she wasn’t old at all. Not any older than him, at least, although his lifestyle was beginning to take its toll. He could’ve sworn he’d seen a gray hair the other day.

  “You have to identify yourself,” Keene said. “Isn’t that some sort of law?”

  “I can do whatever I want,” the woman said, but her tone indicated she didn’t mean it. A few awkward seconds of silence passed. “I’m Sam Strike.”

  “Hell of a name,” Keene said. “What’s this about, anyway?” Keene tried to think about what he’d done that would warrant attention. “If this is about that misunderstanding at the club, I’m all paid up.”

  “This is about the Gentleman Thief,” she said. A glint of triumph spread into her wide, bright brown eyes, but it soon faded when Keene didn’t react. “Take a look.”

  One hand on her gun—and both eyes still on Keene—she fished into her jacket’s pocket and extracted a folded glossy photo. Much to his dismay, Strike didn’t bring it over, just flung it in his direction, the paper fluttering through the air before it settled on the couch.

  “A little tied up over here,” Keene said. “In case you didn’t remember.” He nodded towards his cuffed hands, which were still hidden underneath him.

  Strike took a step back, her boot scraping against the hardwood. “It’s almost like you have a surprise waiting for me.”

  “You wouldn’t know the half of it,” Keene said. She blushed again at his casual flirting. After six months and an interrogation, he was regaining his imaginary mojo. Maybe it was the damn coat that had been screwing him all along.

  “Let’s see it.”

  “On the first date? Well, okay—”

  “Your hands, smart ass. Slow.”

  Keene took his empty hands out slow, turning around so that she could see them. He gave her a bewildered shrug. “See?”

  “Get up.”

  “What?” Keene’s confident smile dropped. He hadn’t had time to push the multi-tool back between the cushions. “I’m comfortable here, to be honest.”

  “Move,” she said. “Or I shoot.”

  “I doubt that—” Keene dove off the couch as a bullet crashed into the masonry somewhere around where his head used to be. The multi-tool skittered across the room, right to Strike’s feet.

  “Nothing?” She picked up the square-shaped object and rubbed its bumpy surface.

  “I was sitting right there,” Keene said. He checked his body for bullet holes before popping to his feet. “Right there.”

  “Don’t worry. I have a license.” She holstered her gun and dropped the multi-tool into her jacket pocket. Keene’s eyes and heart fell as he watched his last chance of freedom disappear.

  Then she extracted a leather badge holster, shoving it in Keene’s face.

  “Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he read aloud, noting that her photo made her look almost normal. Must’ve toned down the crazy for picture day. “I hear you can get those on eBay.”

  “You’ll be dropping the bullshit soon enough.” Strike walked over to the couch and picked up the folded photo. With deliberate theatrics Keene could have done well without, she snapped the printout open and dangled it in front of his face.

  “I’m not seeing it.” It was a photo of a man in torn jeans, a strange T-shirt and a coat heading out the door of a bank. Definitely should have erased the camera footage last night.

  And this morning.

  “Thing is, no one seems to have a shirt quite like yours. My friend in the tech department confirmed it through pattern recognition.”

  “That’s cute,” Keene said. “She has time for friends.”

&
nbsp; “Interesting thing about facial recognition software is, it’s really just a big pattern recognition machine.”

  “Fascinating,” Keene said, his stomach turning a little. He had to stop doing jobs wasted or off the cuff. The jails here didn’t appeal to him. “I’m waiting for the part where I’m involved.”

  His thoughts shifted to less savory escape options. Would the lady cop die if he threw her out the window? It was only about twenty feet. Still, that was probably going to be fatal. He wasn’t sure if that was morally tenable.

  Keene’s mind ran through his choices as he nodded along with her words, hearing none of them until Strike said, “But everything goes away if you tell me one thing.”

  Whatever she wanted to know, Keene doubted there was a deal to be made. Eschewing better judgment—or any judgment at all—he dropped his shoulder and lunged forward, sending Strike crashing to the ground. The multi-tool fell from her pocket, into the kitchen, and another object—the diamond he needed to give Ruslan—tumbled off into the corner.

  He hadn’t even noticed it was missing.

  Keene ignored that and flopped along the floor towards the multi-tool. He would grab it with his teeth, smash his face into it, anything to trigger it. His knees scraped across the linoleum tile, and he’d almost reached it when the cool tip of a pistol planted itself in the back of his head.

  “Want to see if I’ll shoot?”

  “I think I know the answer.” He turned around slow to make sure her trigger finger didn’t get skittish, and shrugged. “I had to try.”

  “Oh, I know.” Strike wiped a faint wisp of blood from the edge of her mouth. “You’re fast.”

  “Not fast enough.”

  “Second in my class at Quantico. Comes in handy sometimes.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “You serious?”

  “I’m not from around here,” Keene said. “What’s with the ink?”

  Strike looked down at the edge of her shirt, where the hint of a serpent’s head peeked out. She tugged her shirt sleeve down, and the tattoo disappeared from sight. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  “I mean, I could do without knowing.”

  “I can’t.” She pushed herself from the ground with her free hand and looked down at Keene, who was lounging on the floor. Taking a moment to gather up the contraband she’d lifted from Keene, she then said, “What’s your shirt say?”

  “It’s, uh, it’s kind of hard to explain—”

  “Try,” Strike said, and nudged him in the thigh with her pistol. “I’ll wait.”

  “It’s a reference to this obscure band who played themselves on this cult television show,” Keene said, words failing him. “You wouldn’t get it.” He scratched his head and eyed the gun. She was the first person who’d ever asked what it meant.

  “You can read the language on your shirt?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Keene said, convinced she was screwing with him. “I can read it.”

  “Looks like you’ll be working for me, then.”

  “You want me to pull a job for you?” A sly smile spread across Keene’s lips. This Strike character wasn’t as severe as she looked. The two of them, they could play ball.

  “Just do a little translating work.”

  “What does the Bureau think about that?”

  “You’re a ghost, a myth. You don’t really exist.”

  There was a vague threat in the words that Keene didn’t appreciate.

  Strike got up from the couch to stare out the window. Keene considered trying to slip out the open front door, but decided that he was already on two strikes, and a third would see him headed to the morgue. Better to play translator.

  “In the car,” Strike said. She turned around, and Keene thought he saw the faintest hint of a tear in her eye. Strike gestured for him to lead the way, while she kept an eye on his backside for any more strange movements or gambits.

  “What’s this about, anyway?”

  “My father was killed last week,” Strike replied. “And you’re going to tell me why.”

  4 | Maps

  The residence in which Kip Keene found himself wasn’t quite what he’d expected for a low-level government employee. The five-story row home was as wide as two normal-sized properties.

  Strike led Keene up the stairs, past a stunning array of artwork from every historical period. A Roman centurion’s helmet sat on the second floor landing; a Mongol warrior’s curved scimitar at the third. Relics from Mesoamerican civilizations long since disappeared dotted the walls on the approach to the top-floor study.

  But when Keene entered the vast study, which took up the majority of the floor with one open room, he saw that these other artifacts were just hobbies, random curiosities. For he now looked upon the largest collection of Incan objects he’d ever seen.

  Not that he was a purveyor of museums. Strike told him as such, when she flicked on the lights.

  “Largest private collection in the world,” Strike said. “Save the Bingham jokes.”

  “Who the hell is Bingham?”

  She raised an eyebrow, like she couldn’t believe him. Then they stepped over to a series of glass cases near the opposing bookshelves.

  “Who let all the books in here?” He pointed at the bookshelf which stretched the length of the room. “It doesn’t work with the Incan aesthetic.”

  His attempt at humor received no reaction. Strike slapped a newspaper, dated some six days prior, on top of the glass. “Read.”

  “Prominent U.S. Senator found murdered in South America.” So that was who paid the bills around here. By the looks of it, Strike’s father had either looted the Smithsonian or bought them out.

  “Keep reading.”

  Keene skimmed the article, randomly mumbling words aloud until he got near the end. “Senator Strike was visiting Peru to purchase a mysterious unnamed artifact. Experts suggest it may be the holy grail of Incan relics. Its existence, however, has yet to be confirmed.”

  “When I got there, it was gone,” Strike said.

  “The artifact?” Keene folded the paper up and tried to choose his next words with care. “You sure it even exists?”

  Incorrect. Strike flew into his face, within an inch of his nose. “Call my father a liar.”

  Keene could see her index finger rubbing against the side of her holster. “That’s all right.” He put his hands up to show that he conceded the point. “So what am I here for?”

  “The maps,” Strike said, and flung the newspaper from the top of the glass case. Keene’s gaze dropped to the familiar symbols, vestiges of his own civilization, at the bottom of the maps within.

  “They came like this?” Keene said. He pored over the yellowed pages.

  “You think I drew them myself?” Strike said as she withdrew from his shoulder, giving him some room to operate.

  “No idea,” Keene said, and turned to face Strike. “Don’t you have work?” He gestured towards the gun, which she’d since redrawn, indicating that she could put it down. The study had one door, and she was now standing in it. Keene didn’t have plans of going anywhere.

  The maps held mysteries worth sticking around for.

  “Special circumstances.” She lowered the gun, but still kept it by her side.

  “Lucky me.”

  Strike’s phone rang before she could respond. She took a quick glance at the screen, and her eyebrows rose. “Work,” she said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  In her haste to leave, a note fluttered out of her jacket pocket, landing on the hardwood.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Keene said, looking down at the blinking tracker now adorning his ankle—Strike had been kind enough to clip it on before the ride over—then back at the crumpled piece of paper.

  Strike closed and locked the door to the study. Keene heard her wedge a c
hair against the knob, to further stymie any escape attempts. He walked over and plucked the paper from the floor, expecting a receipt or to-do list. His breath caught in his throat for just a moment.

  Damn.

  “No wonder someone has trust issues,” Keene said, now alone. He shifted his attention back to the five maps before him, his eyes passing over the series.

  “Cusco, Chimor, Pachacamac, Quito.” For the most part, they were standard pieces of cartography, if impeccably drawn, each line and detail crisp and precise. All drawn by the same measured hand. The locations stretched up and down the South American coast.

  He returned to the first map, less exact than the others. It, too, shared stylistic characteristics, meaning it shared the same cartographer. But in contrast to its brethren, which sacrificed creative flair for precision, this one was almost mystical, mythological in its presentation, the accuracy ceding control to pure illustration. The lines were fuzzy, and birds roamed above the hilly depiction of the city. No context was given for where it was located in the empire.

  “Vilcabamba, July 1572.” Next to the annotation was an additional descriptor. “The Lost City.”

  But even this wasn’t the most perplexing piece of information present.

  In the center of the city, at its heart, a tiny elephant sat amidst the buildings.

  Amongst the black lines, it had the distinct honor of receiving color treatment. A rich green hue, the color of well-kept grass.

  Or emeralds.

  Strike fought him hard on every point when she returned from her phone call, saying he was full of shit, but Keene held firm.

  “It says what it says,” Keene said. “I have no reason to lie.” Keene hadn’t bothered to divulge that the language on the bottom of the maps was over 200,000 years old.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Whenever someone says that—”

  “Spare me the reverse psychology. You asked, I delivered.”

  “So it’s really out there.” It was a statement that was half-question.

  Keene wanted to say what, the artifact, but something told him that returning to that particular well would be folly.