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

by Nicholas Erik

  Who it was.

  “So we meet again,” Catarina called out across the empty plaza. Birds flitted away from the tops of the statues, as if wanting to clear out before the inevitable showdown. Keene stumbled forwards, towards the woman he had once loved. As he did, he noticed that her pockets bulged slightly. She had something gripped tight in one hand that he couldn’t see.

  “You have the cores.”

  “I’m leaving.” Catarina slowly unhooked the rifle from her back and pointed it towards Keene.

  “You’re going to shoot me again?”

  “Since the first shot wasn’t good enough.”

  Keene staggered forward, coughing. Spit dribbled from his mouth. Two hours? He hadn’t even gotten a quality forty-five minutes. Whenever he met Fox again, he’d have to bring that up. The way things were looking, though, that might be in the afterlife.

  Catarina aimed the rifle at him. Keene refused to stop.

  “You could just give me your keys now.”

  “You’ll have to kill me.”

  “So be it.” But the shot didn’t come. As Keene closed in, her finger stayed off the trigger.

  “You’re out of bullets.” The realization came with a slow, delirious laugh. How funny it was that she couldn’t shoot him, but he was still too weak to do anything. Unarmed and bleeding out, he still posed little threat.

  He made his way across the plaza until they stood face-to-face. He placed his hand on her shoulder. The surge of a thousand memories coursed through him, the nostalgia almost knocking him down.

  “You don’t have to go any more.”

  “I do.” But she seemed unsure, her resolve weakened. “I saved you. All those years—”

  “I know.” Keene looked into her eyes. “You’re cured. Free.”

  “Not of this place,” she said, her voice small, scared. “I have to go.”

  Keene dropped to his knees, unable to stand any longer. She hadn’t been driven crazy by the virus ravaging her brain. It’d been the loneliness of living all those centuries with her mind intact.

  Her fingers reached into his pocket and took out the keys. “Don’t…”

  He looked up at her, she down at him. As his vision faded, she reached down and kissed him on the forehead. “If only—”

  But her parting thoughts were cut short by the sharp report of a .22 pistol. No surprise registered in her eyes. The light simply vanished.

  The final thing Keene heard before everything went dark was Strike saying, “Crazy bitch.” He saw what was in Catarina’s hand fall through the air and roll gently away, down towards the statue.

  He closed his eyes before he heard the explosion.

  25 | No Way Home

  The open silver case lay on the hotel desk, displaying the two nano-fusion cores. Keene leaned over to inspect one, grimacing as the stitches in his abdomen pinched his skin.

  “Where’d you find the case?”

  “Did a little digging into your associate.”

  “You can stop calling her that.”

  “Found it in an apartment she rented outside Cusco.”

  “Good find. One of them is chipped.”

  “Yeah, turns out our nutty friend crafted a little homemade grenade. You didn’t hear it?”

  “I took a nap.”

  “Mixed all the gunpowder from her rifle rounds with a few shavings from the core,” Strike said. “Boom.”

  “And the Last City?”

  “The bomb went off near the entrance. Lost for good this time.”

  “So no one’s coming after the cores?”

  “The crazies? They’re buried under a thousand tons of rock.”

  “How’d you get out?”

  “We climbed a mountain of Incan gold.”

  “You don’t have to lie,” Keene said.

  “I’m not.”

  “The story is already ridiculous without that type of bullshit.”

  “Believe what you want,” Strike said.

  “So this is the Emerald Elephant?”

  “You gonna tell me what it is you know about these things?”

  “I can show you.” Keene’s eyes narrowed. He recalled the final shot, Catarina’s eyes going blank. “Was it worth it?”

  “Not every legend is true,” Strike said. She leaned up against the heavy door, arms crossed. Her phone rang. “I’ve gotta get this.”

  “Bureau?”

  But Strike was around the corner, inside the bathroom. Just the two of them in this massive hotel suite. After getting everyone to the hospital, Derek had returned to Franz. Lorelei, upon being discharged, had followed.

  Maybe that makes us even now.

  Keene strained to hear the conversation through the thick wood. No use.

  He walked away, his eye catching an unmarked envelope near the door. Bending down to reach it was a trial, but after a series of groans and curses, he had it in his fingers.

  It was unsealed. He unfurled the flap and withdrew the letter.

  In an elegant, familiar hand, the cryptic note said: We shall meet again at The Ruby Rattlesnake.

  Keene limped over to the door and undid the deadbolt. Looking both ways down the hall, he saw nothing. Except, maybe, in the distance, a trailing red dress disappearing around the corner.

  “What the hell are you looking at?”

  Keene let the door slam shut. “Nothing. Thought I heard a knock.” He rubbed his forehead, unsure what to do. Strike sat down on the bed. The phone slipped from her fingers.

  “Fired.”

  “What?”

  “Insubordination, unprofessional conduct, conducting an unauthorized investigation.”

  “So you’re saying I’m cleared?”

  “They’re not pressing charges,” Strike said. “Against me, against you. They want to forget we exist.”

  “Just like everyone else.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” Keene said. He nodded towards the fusion cores. “What about these?”

  “Weren’t you going to show me something?

  Keene felt the cogs whirring, a plan beginning to form. “I know just how to take care of everything.”

  Strike and Keene walked out the door of Franz’s house. The old man clutched the jeweled silver case.

  “You should take this.” Franz handed it to them after removing the precious pair of nano-fusion cores. “It might be valuable.” He winked. “Seeing as you’re both unemployed.”

  Keene shrugged. “Derek and Lorelei aren’t going to be pissed I didn’t destroy the cores? I swore.”

  “I hope I’m a trustworthy guardian.”

  “Thanks for the case.”

  “No,” Strike said. “Leave it.”

  “But…” The realities of life without lots of special perks and advanced technology were beginning to set in. The multi-tool was gone, buried amidst the wreckage of an ancient city. Continuing his life of crime, additionally, seemed to be a nonstarter. The Feds had given him a pass, of sorts, but if they saw him cavorting about in open, gleeful disdain, they’d probably bury him in the woods somewhere.

  “The lake is nice today,” Franz said. “Quiet.” He gazed out, past the two foreigners.

  “And the Maybelle?” Keene asked.

  “Ah, yes,” Franz said. “Derek and Lorelei are attending to her now.” He smiled and allowed the door to shut slowly. Goodbyes went unspoken. There would be a next time—or perhaps there wouldn’t be. Strike and Keene backed away from the door slowly before turning to face the shimmering blue lake.

  “200,000 years, huh? No wonder that chick was losing it.” Strike glanced at Keene. “You got some taste in women.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Strike flushed. “You’re not going to go all fruit loops on me, right? Try
to kill everyone and go home?”

  “I kind of like it here.”

  “So,” Strike said, putting on her sunglasses to shield her eyes from the beating sun, “I was thinking.”

  “That’s unusual.”

  Even beneath the shades, Keene could see her brow wrinkle. The next words came out testy, measured. “About the future.”

  “Didn’t know you felt so strongly about me.”

  “That we could work together.”

  His eyes focused on the water, he managed to say, “Interesting.”

  “That’s all you got?”

  “I didn’t prepare a speech.”

  “Yes or no.”

  “You going to tell me what the tattoo is about?”

  “You going to tell me how you rose from the dead in the jungle?”

  Everyone had secrets.

  Strike turned to face him, but Keene didn’t move. He knew the answer. It was why he was here, instead of high above the Earth, still running from everything.

  “Partners.” He held out his hand, and she gave it a quick shake. They stood watching the placid water of Laguna de Limpiopungo for a minute longer.

  Then they began the walk back over grass, sandy shore and muddy jungle to the waiting taxi.

  It was time to go home.

  END OF BOOK 1

  Book 2 - The Ruby Rattlesnake

  1 | Ruby Rattlesnakes

  The tall woman tore across the grated walkway with long, loping strides. Gunfire skittered at her heels, sending bursts of sparks into the air. Without turning around, she brought her pistol over her shoulder and fired twice. A hundred yards back, two bodies hit the ground. Thuds echoed off the cavernous ceiling, down the lengthy, narrow hallway.

  Commander Owens’ harsh and nasally voice tore across the bunker’s loudspeaker.

  “Subject 8, better known to her friends and colleagues as Rabbit, is trying to abandon our little project. All personnel are to halt their current activities and address this issue immediately.”

  How like him, to sound bored and detached—even while issuing a death sentence.

  Rabbit accelerated, quads straining, her eyelids narrowing to focus her gaze straight ahead. Calculations and contingencies flooded her mind. Backup would come from both ends of the long hall to trap her like a rat in a maze. The elevator—her only exit point—could open at any moment. Its doors, the stainless steel glittering with the promise of freedom, sat ten seconds from her current position at a dead sprint. Twelve and a half at her current rate of speed.

  She had to get there before the doors parted. Do that, and it was an easy shot—just stand behind one of the ionic columns flanking the elevator and fire point-blank, leaving no time for anyone inside to react. But if it opened while she was in the middle of the hall with no cover, her chances were less than fifty-fifty.

  Rabbit dropped her shoulders, hands positioned at her sides to streamline her form, pulse rising so fast it pounded in her ears. Leaving herself open was a gamble, dropping her chances of survival dramatically if the elevator showed early, but the risk was worth it. Especially if the reinforcements coming from her backside ratcheted up their pace.

  Not that the standard soldiers and grunts were liable to accelerate much, but getting caught in a crossfire shootout would definitely be game over. Owens had few qualms about friendly fire—he’d have the soldiers spray bullets from both ends until they put her down.

  Her escape put this whole operation at risk.

  Ding.

  Rabbit’s breath caught, her body reacting to the danger before her conscious mind understood she’d lost the gamble well short of her destination—and worse, was now totally exposed, without her pistol at optimal firing height.

  The doors spread open in a flash, the pair of men within seemingly materializing from the ether. From twenty yards she could smell the aftershave—Jacques de Fleur, pine and vanilla scented—and dry cleaner’s starch.

  Owens had sent the big guns. But no time to be flattered.

  Rabbit heard the tell-tale click of each man’s trigger finger pressing down. A bullet ripped through her right triceps, then another soared through the air and splintered into her collarbone.

  The pain almost sent her to the ground. She stumbled for a moment but didn’t fall, using the opportunity to toss her pistol from her ruined arm to the other. The slight dip in her gait made the rest of the automatic gunfire sail over her head as she raised the firearm. She felt a bullet rip through her cropped black hair, nipping off one of the spikes.

  Everything unfolded in slow motion, time segueing into a freeze frame flipbook—just like she’d been taught.

  Visualize the target, visualize the success.

  The lead spit at her, chunk, chunk, chunk, her own pistol returning fire with three rounds—a sloppy showing, but then, it was her off hand—and two confirmed kills.

  The empty bullet casings clattered against the metal grating at her feet with a faint ting.

  She hit the open elevator before the second guy had even crumpled all the way to the ground. Staring at her handiwork for a moment, Rabbit kicked his body into the hall so it wouldn’t block the door, then pressed the button for the lobby.

  The doors refused to budge, a light flashing red on a nearby card reader.

  Distant footsteps came from down the hall, far enough away that Rabbit couldn’t see who they belonged to. She looked down at the fallen guard still sharing the elevator with her, his head slumped to his chest. A lanyard hung from his neck.

  Rabbit yanked it free and swiped the card’s magnetic strip through the reader.

  Green. The doors shut.

  Right before they did, she could’ve sworn Owens was two hundred paces down the hall, gun raised out in front of his short, stocky frame.

  But she couldn’t be sure. Her vision swam, and unusual colors floated through her field of view. Rabbit reached into her pocket and took out a flat white tablet stamped RR. Her fingers returned to her pants, brushing against a stolen thumb drive. They were searching for more pills, but today’s dose was it.

  All they ever got. One a day. She was lucky she had that, given the recent rationing.

  The bitter pill landed on her tongue, then glided down her throat.

  The high-speed elevator rushed to the surface two stories at a time. Between ragged breaths, Rabbit rubbed her fingers against the thumb drive. In lieu of more tablets, it was a decent consolation prize, for it held the key to the Ruby Rattlesnake.

  But she couldn’t find it alone. Not with this much heat on her tail.

  Luckily, she knew just who to look for.

  The doors opened and she sprinted into the cool night, the sounds of the city blaring as she vanished into the darkness, leaving no trace of her existence behind other than a faint blood trail.

  2 | Seeing Red

  The supercomputer chimed, and Kip Keene leapt out of his chair to scamper across the room.

  “Relax,” Samantha Strike said. “Nothing to get excited about.”

  “It could be a job.” Keene’s eyes scanned the screen, searching for clues.

  “That’s an overdraft warning, dummy.”

  “Overdraft?”

  “It plays a little sound when you have a negative balance.” Strike closed the window, then navigated to the banking page again. Sure enough, the same chime played. Upon secondary consideration, Keene found that the sound wasn’t cheerful.

  More ornery, like a warning or a threat.

  Give us our goddamn money.

  “What sick bastard programmed that?” Keene slumped to the floor and hung his head, long black hair sweeping into his eyes. He rubbed his sharp jaw, groaning as he tried to think of a way to get any sort of business. It’d been like this for weeks, and the situation was getting critical.

  “Quit being such a wet blank
et.” Strike rose from the chair and kicked him in the ribs, the toe of her short leather boot digging right into the bone.

  Her bright brown eyes flashed with fiery indignation, like an owner reprimanding a misbehaving dog. Keene brushed her frustration off with a wave of his hand while he ground his teeth together from the pain.

  The prospect of going broke was taking its toll on their fledgling partnership.

  Keene and Strike were both on their own, although they had taken different paths to arrive at these particular circumstances. Tenuous relations with her deceased father—a US Senator—and millionaire mother, in conjunction with a dismissal from the FBI, had given Samantha Strike few other options than going into business with the space-faring Keene, who had arrived on Earth frozen in a cryogenic capsule, and, subsequently, had no prospects other than high-stakes thievery.

  Which, as a career, hadn’t treated him well.

  The last asset between the pair of them—the diamond that Keene had purloined for a vicious, now deceased, gangster of unknown Eastern European heritage—had been fenced in order to buy a useless supercomputer.

  In theory, given their previous experiences in the Incan ruins, an artifact search and retrieval business had seemed like a bulletproof proposition. Ancient relics fetched a high price from collectors. Given the mountains of previously undiscovered—and now buried—treasure the pair had left behind on their adventure through the vestiges of Incan civilization, it seemed only reasonable that other myths of large troves might prove true.

  Reality, however, had thus far suggested the opposite.

  Their hypothesis had resulted in zero jobs—of either their own discovery or from would-be adventurers. Sure, the requisite crank calls and conspiracy theorists had come in. But that was about it for action.

  The bitter end of winter seemed to be a harbinger for the conclusion of their short-lived business.

  The sharp pain in his torso was almost a welcome reprieve from his daily existence of bleeding money in fruitless pursuit of nonexistent treasure. Keene pressed his hands together, like a monk simultaneously practicing meditation and the art of isometric resistance. His muscles pulsed, hair swaying from side to side.