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

by Nicholas Erik

  Eyes closed, he pretended he was back home on Apollus—some 200,000 years and even more light years away—instead of a drab warehouse converted into low rent office space.

  Low rent they couldn’t even afford.

  For a duo of problem solvers with a high daily retainer, they had some pathetic digs. The lone grime streaked window overlooked a trash strewn alley lined with dumpsters.

  Keene thought of the cryptic note he’d received a couple months prior from Fox, that mysterious woman in the crimson dress, beneath his hotel door. We shall meet again at the Ruby Rattlesnake.

  Maybe he should’ve been looking into that, instead of chasing jobs that apparently didn’t exist.

  “I wouldn’t count on an intervention from on high,” Strike said.

  Keene could have made plenty of jokes about Strike and interventions, but instead he opened his eyes and tilted his head towards the ceiling. She stepped into view, her blonde hair shimmering under the flickering fluorescent strip lighting.

  Her arms were crossed, causing the worn chestnut leather jacket to crease and ride up, exposing a well-defined torso. Someone had been hitting the gym in the past couple months.

  It hadn’t been Keene.

  His gaze fell down to the gray concrete, past her dark denim jeans and leather boots.

  “Why the hell are we here,” Keene said, sounding sad and defeated about the whole enterprise. The way he leaned on here, it was clear what the word actually meant.

  “You don’t like the ambiance?”

  “There’s an entire mountain of gold in Peru, and you just leave it.”

  “Since I was unconscious, maybe you should blame your old buddy Dash for that oversight.” She crouched down, leveling her intense gaze at Keene. He avoided the stare. “Then again, a group of crazies were trying to kill us. So…”

  “Oh, I blame him. For leaving my multi-tool behind.” How much easier life had been with the multi-tool, that little piece of technology from his own time. Ah, yes, it was beautiful. Hack into anything, control any electronic device.

  And it was gone forever, buried underneath an avalanche of heavy rock and unsalvageable Incan treasure. Now Keene had to rely on actual wit, intuition and skills to survive.

  “I knew you were a whiner, but Christ, this is bad even for Captain Keene.”

  “Bite me.”

  “Not for all the gold buried in the Lost City.”

  Keene closed his eyes and focused on his breath. Strike had started calling him Captain Keene whenever he did something she didn’t like—which was pretty often. Like she couldn’t believe that, at one point, he’d piloted The Blue Maybelle out amongst stars, planets and asteroids, whipping through atomic dust with nimble ease.

  Not that he’d be doing that again. Ever.

  Keene’s sister Lorelei and her boyfriend Derek Dash— Keene’s former second-in-command— had blown up The Blue Maybelle’s wreckage as a safety precaution following everyone’s near-death experience in the Incan ruins. In case anyone else had an inclination to irreversibly destroy the Earth’s atmosphere by trying to pilot the space-craft off world.

  All told, this confluence of events meant that Keene was staying on Earth for good, with nothing but his wits—and Strike—to guide him through life.

  On some days, this was acceptable.

  Today, with their corporate bank account literally crying out for additional funds, his current situation was less than inspiring.

  “Try living in the present,” Strike said. Her hand came down on his shoulder. “Everything will be all right, Captain—”

  “Don’t call me that.” He looked up at her with baleful eyes. “We’re partners now, remember?”

  “Yeah, I’m such a lucky girl.” She smiled, so it almost seemed like she meant it.

  Keene gave up complaining and rose to check the monitors. The tell-tale patter of feet on the cold concrete floor suggested the presence of a nearby rat. He tried to focus on the flashing images, but his surroundings threw everything off.

  “Nothing.”

  “Something will come.”

  Keene opened his mouth to respond, then figured Strike was joking. If not, she was delusional. He squeezed one eye shut to see what the room looked like through mono-vision. Then he did the same with the other.

  A knock at the door almost startled Keene out of his chair.

  “See, what’d I tell you?” Strike said.

  The knocks grew louder, more frantic, echoing off the cathedral ceilings. Strike furrowed her brow and reached for her sidearm.

  “Maybe the neighbors are finally saying hi.”

  “There aren’t any.” Strike slunk forward.

  “You got this?” Keene hung back around the monitors. His fingers flitted between the revolver on his hip and the stubble on his chin. “I think this is all you.”

  “If you shoot me by accident, I swear.” The furtive knocking continued.

  “So you don’t want backup?”

  “Just keep it holstered.” Strike released the deadbolt and poked the gun barrel through the cracked door. “The hell do you want?”

  No answer from the hall.

  Keene leaned back against the desk, resisting the urge to dart over and check out the commotion. The office was still, aside from the occasional beep of the computer’s scanning programs. Ten seconds stretched into twenty, then the door burst open, shattering the suffocating silence and sending Strike to the ground.

  The deadbolt’s chain flew into the air and landed in the corner.

  Keene fumbled for his gun, struggling to clear the holster.

  “Don’t shoot,” Strike said. “It’s okay.”

  Keene stopped to stare at their late night visitor. “She’s half-dead.”

  “Yeah, she’s banged up pretty good,” Strike said. They watched as the young woman, blood streaked through her hair and clothes, staggered into the middle of the room.

  How she’d mustered the strength to almost knock the door off its hinges was anyone’s guess. But that wasn’t Keene’s primary concern at the moment.

  The woman was coming straight towards him.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Keene backed away from the monitors. “Let’s not get all friendly.”

  The woman kept walking, falling elbows first onto the desk, the impact shaking the workstation. She pointed, murmuring something neither Keene nor Strike could make out.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t shoot her.”

  “Thought about it,” Strike said. “But look at her.”

  “Who is she?” He looked at the woman, slumped in prayer-like form on the floor, her arms splayed out in front of her, forehead touching the concrete. “She just pass out?”

  “I look like a mind reader?”

  The woman took shallow breaths, her skin a few shades beyond white. Not the picture of health. Keene nudged her with his foot.

  No movement.

  A tattoo on the inside of the woman’s right wrist caught his eye. He turned her arm over.

  “Subject 8. Looks like a barcode.”

  Strike knelt down. “The level of detail on that is insane.” She traced the outlines of the ink with her finger. “To be readable? Crazy. Someone spent a lot of money to mark her as theirs”

  “Maybe it’s all for show.”

  “These are for show.” Strike rolled up the cuff of her jacket, displaying the beginning of a full-sleeve tattoo that crept up the rest of her arm, all the way to her shoulder blade. Then she rolled the chestnut-colored leather back down. “What this girl has, it’s functional.”

  “What for?” Keene got to his feet, Strike following.

  But before he could walk away, a bloodstained hand tugged at the edge of his shirt. His eyes narrowed.

  This woman—Subject 8—held something between her thumb and index finger.r />
  A USB thumb drive.

  He reached for it, but she refused to let go. Her eyes met his and his heart stopped and restarted. The haunting silver beads were so fierce and intense that it seemed impossible they belonged to someone who came in looking half-dead.

  “Kip Keene,” the woman said. “We must destroy the Ruby Rattlesnake.” And then she passed out, falling on her side, her fingers leaving behind reddish streaks on his white shirt.

  He stared at the small plastic drive in his palm.

  “She said my name.”

  “Ruby Rattlesnake?” Strike said. “What the hell is she going on about?”

  “I don’t know who she is.”

  “I got it. Let’s see the drive.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Keene jammed the drive into the front of the computer and waited for it to load. His thoughts travelled back to a strange prophecy regarding a Ruby Rattlesnake he had received about a month earlier, from a mysterious woman who had saved his life in the Peruvian jungle.

  Could both women be speaking of the same thing?

  They watched as the contents of the drive played.

  “Well, I didn’t expect that,” Strike said.

  Keene stared at the screen and nodded.

  This was unexpected indeed.

  3 | Blood Trail

  “This is a grave threat. Dire. Extremely dire. Code—what’s above red?” Commander Owens scratched his crew-cut hair with the tip of his six shooter.

  “Crimson? Ruby?” One of the latest recruits, Subject 10—her actual name a damned mystery to him—chimed in. She was unusually tall—even from across the room, it was apparent that she towered over him—and possessed a rippling cascade of polar white hair stretching down to her waist.

  “Why is a trainee in the situation room?” Owens stopped itching his head and turned away from the report projected on the wall to face the assembled group. “Anyone?”

  “Training, sir,” Subject 10 replied. “It’s an exercise.”

  “Yes, I see. An exercise. Just the time for exercises. A perfect time for exercises and practice.” He sat down in a puffy leather chair at the head of the table. His pale skin looked taut, his eyes more sunken than usual. His raspy voice broke up an octave when he continued. “Do you not agree?”

  “Sir?”

  “I don’t believe I agree.” Owens reached into his pocket and extracted a plain orange medicine bottle filled to the top with flat white tablets. He opened it and tapped one out into his palm. His fingers traced over the RR logo stamped on one side. This whole enterprise had been most promising, yes. More than promising.

  And potentially undone by the meekest of creatures. A rabbit.

  Irony of ironies.

  “You disagree,” Subject 10 said.

  “I don’t believe I agree at all. This is a time for expertise, not neophytes.”

  The members of Owens’ inner circle—the highest ranking officials of Project Atlantis—were silent as the commander downed the pill. Only the new recruit had the temerity—or stupidity—to talk.

  “Nothing like real world practice. Sir.”

  Owens fished another tablet out and took it as well. He then returned the bottle to the inside of his well-tailored suit jacket. In an hour, perhaps two, his condition would be revitalized. But always temporarily, battling a flood with half-measures and stop-gaps. Ever the child with his finger in the dam.

  Except the stakes were higher than any flood. His life hung in the balance.

  “What do they call you?”

  “My name was—”

  “Your original name, so unimportant. Your nickname, far more important. Isn’t that right, Walter?” Walter, a slight man with gray hair, shifted uncomfortably in the corner, like he was trying to disappear into the shadows. “Walter here designed the nicknames as a depersonalization exercise. I have my doubts, but then, I’m not a scientist.”

  Owens coughed into a white handkerchief, noting the spots of bright blood.

  “They call me Hawk,” the lithe woman said.

  “How appropriate.” Owens teetered to his feet. His guards took a step forward to help him, but he waved them off. “Whose joke was it, then, to bring along the Hawk to catch its natural prey?”

  Owens looked around the room, but no one laughed. True, they all knew better than to play games with him. Time was valuable to a man in his condition. One might even say invaluable. Play was a luxury for those who didn’t suffer from a terminal illness.

  “There is no joke, sir,” Hawk said, and stepped forward, into better light. Even with his hazy vision, it was apparent that this woman was quite the specimen. More impressive than Rabbit, even. Her musculature rippled through the sweat-wicking polyester training suit. “I know her.”

  “Do you?”

  “Rabbit trained me. I am ready.”

  “Gentlemen, do we not have someone else better suited to the task?” Owens shifted his gaze around the room, at the half dozen other men present. “Walter?”

  “Gone, sir.” His meek voice inaudible.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Subjects 7 and 9 were dispatched in the elevator by Rab—Subject 8.” Walter rubbed his hand through the remnants of his hair. “This woman before you is the only Subject remaining in the program, as of this moment.”

  “And further experiments?”

  “I’m afraid locating suitable subjects has proved difficult and costly.” Walter cleared his throat. “And there is one more issue.”

  “Which is?”

  “The source of the drugs, the ingredient. The Ruby Rattlesnake. We are having difficulty distilling more of the ingredient. The water in the fountain has run empty.”

  “Meaning?” The slightest bit of apprehension and tension crept in to Owens’ flat tone.

  “Subject 8—Rabbit—she was the only specimen with specific genetic markers. The treatment, the pills, they could also be reverse engineered from her blood. Perhaps even a cure.” Walter shifted on his feet. “But it’s only possible when she’s alive.”

  “We have Hawk. She’ll do fine.”

  “You’re not hearing me. Sir.” Walter coughed and looked at the ground. “Rabbit’s blood is unique. She’s special.”

  “Bottom line?”

  “Without another source of the ingredient or Rabbit, the tablets on hand are the last we have. The end of the project. And a cure for you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Walter. Tremendous analysis. I do mean it.” Owens took a deep breath and balled up the lapels of his jacket in his fists. Not only did Rabbit have access to all the operation’s confidential files—which would ruin everything he built, if released or sold—but she also represented his only hope.

  Life could be so funny.

  He beckoned for Hawk to come closer. She glided across the room. “So you’re the last one.”

  “I am ready, sir.”

  “For what, pray, are you ready?”

  “For the hunt.”

  Her eyes gleamed with an empty sort of hunger. One of a dog after a bone.

  Or a hawk stalking a rabbit.

  “Very well,” Owens said. If she wasn’t ready, the consequences would soon become apparent—and she would bear the full brunt of them. “Activate the kill-switch geo tracker.”

  “But sir,” Walter said. “The investment in Subject 8 and the project has been tremendous. I urge you to reconsider.”

  “I am aware she is our last hope of success.”

  “We have not determined how to distill more of the ingredient. This could be the end, sir.”

  “Set the kill-switch to a delay.” Owens stared at the ceiling, calculating numbers. “Two hours.”

  “But if Subject 8 dies.”

  “Then she dies.” Owens clasped his hands together. “And I die, as does Project Atlantis. But I will
not die a coward.”

  “Perhaps we should canvas the city first.”

  “A needle in a stack of needles.” Owens would have laughed, but the energy to do so was not forthcoming. “The kill-switch must be activated in order to get her location. The maximum the firmware allows is two hours. Understand?”

  The Subjects had been designed to be perfectly invisible—a valuable commodity in a world where everyone was ever on the grid. Locating one via satellite tracking—after all the training and indoctrination—was a tell-tale sign that termination was almost certainly necessary, which was why the two features had been intertwined. But this particular feature had transformed into a sort of nightmarish constraint, now that Rabbit had to be recovered alive.

  Two hours had been agreed upon to settle any disputes and quash any emotional arguments the staff might have had. If the kill-switch wasn’t removed by then, the subject would suffer a massive electric shock that usually resulted in immediate cardiac arrest.

  Although occasionally the deaths were more protracted and painful.

  “I understand, sir.” Walter nodded. “Is that all?”

  “Prepare the search team. We leave in half an hour.”

  “We?” This was the first word that Walter, the lead scientist on Project Atlantis, had uttered with any sort of force or clarity.

  “I’ll be fine. Go.”

  The various personnel filed out of the room. Hawk lingered in the doorway. “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “I will be your faithful instrument. This project is great and its mission is great.”

  The girl—and she wasn’t much more than that, not a day over twenty—sounded like an infomercial testimonial.

  “Yes, very well. We shall see, I suppose.”

  Hawk left the room and the door swung shut, leaving Owens alone.

  His hand snuck once more into his pocket, feeling the bottle of pills. The fingers closed around the plastic as tight as he could muster. He sputtered and heaved, blood rushing to his ears.

  No one ever saw him like this. The frustration, the rage, the helplessness.

  But if there was ever a time, all by himself, to let it out…

  He took the medicine from his pocket and hurled the bottle against the wall. It bounced off the cinderblocks with a hollow rattling noise and fell to the floor unharmed.