“We can get the car,” one of the men said.
“Si, we’ll bring it closer.”
“No. I think the walk will do me some good.” Owens calculated the dosages, and then reached into his pocket for another pill. He swallowed it without water, staring at the sun above. How strange, this planet, with its varying climates. Pleasant and hospitable one place, bitter cold another.
How could the ancients, without science or knowledge, reconcile such madness?
Owens cracked a wan smile, his posture confident and steady. He knew how they managed.
They didn’t have supersonic jets, so they never could have known about anything other than their own small existence.
The driver opened the back door and Owens slid across the empty leather seat. The car tore off, barreling down the runway before making a sharp turn on to the main road. A vibrant, bustling city passed by the tinted windows before fading into grassland and shrubbery.
Owens cracked one of the water bottles and drank.
The car’s phone rang, and Owens answered.
“It is done. We have them, sir,” the heavily accented voice said, cracking as the car wove in and out of the mountainous terrain.
“Two of them?”
“A man and a woman. Kill?”
“No.” Owens almost dropped his water. Instead, he squeezed the bottle so hard that water sprayed all over his suit. He shook off his blazer and drew a deep breath to steady himself. “No, just watch them.”
“That is extra.”
“Very well, then it’s extra. No one touches them.”
“Okay.” The call ended.
Commander Owens stared at his trembling hand. He concentrated on steadying it, but his powers of focus were hapless in the face of the disease. It was progressing further, the medicine buying him less time than he thought.
Quivering, he counted out three more tablets into the crinkled palm of his hand, running the revised numbers in his head. Where he thought he’d have two days, he might get one. Thirty hours, tops.
He sighed and swallowed the pills.
Everything was going to turn out okay.
Because there was no other alternative.
Commander Owens smoothed out his suit’s damp and rumpled front and stepped into the glaring light. He took his sunglasses from his pocket and put them on. Miles of forested jungle surrounded him. The humidity provided an instant shock, as did the mercenaries’ quarters.
A squat adobe hut stood on a tree populated hill. From a distance, it would be impossible to imagine anyone had lived there for many decades. Looking over his shoulder, Owens found that the nearby road was nothing more than a muddy trench.
He noted that the limousine had been outfitted with thick treaded tires, the type more at home on an all-terrain vehicle than a luxury automotive. Perhaps he should have anticipated that this meeting would take place far away from civilization.
Commander Owens checked his watch. A two hour drive. Time was slipping between his trembling fingers.
He turned to his driver. “You don’t suppose they could have met us in the city.”
“Sorry, boss,” the heavy man said, adjusting his body armor and shirt collar. “They insisted on this place.”
“Very well,” Owens said. “Lead the way.”
The burly man pushed open the moss-covered wooden door. Owens filed in after.
Three men wearing camo fatigues and extensive face paint trained their rifles on them.
“La contraseña!”
Owens recognized it as the voice of their leader. He looked at the man, a tall and lean soldier with a few combat tattoos and no great distinguishing characteristics, and nodded.
“The sun has risen.”
The guns didn’t lower at the utterance of the password. Instead, the leader jabbed the rifle towards Owens in a menacing manner. “Money.”
“Of course.” Owens gestured for his driver to come closer, whispering into his ear, “This is the best you could do? These fellows?”
“I’m sorry, boss.”
“Yes, well I suppose it was short notice. Get the funds.”
The driver retreated to the car, backpedaling out the door with his hands raised.
Owens took the interim time to examine what he was about to pay a million dollars for.
Lashed to one chair was a handsome man of considerable stature, staring straight ahead at the door. He hadn’t reacted at all to the appearance of either Owens or his driver. In fact, he hadn’t moved. The man’s preternatural calm was disarming enough that Owens was almost tempted to make a loud noise in an attempt to elicit some sort of reaction.
By contrast, the woman seated next to her fellow prisoner squirmed and grunted, curling her lip like a rabid wolf when Owens’ gaze fell upon her. Her unkempt black hair and lack of makeup suggested that she didn’t concern herself much with appearances. She wasn’t particularly ugly, merely plain. The veins in her arms tensed as she strained against her bonds, suggesting that she possessed some degree of power.
Yes, she did have a rather square form. A fighter by trade.
The driver returned with a silver case and handed it over to the lead kidnapper. The mercenary unclasped the latches and stared inside, thumbing his dirty fingers through the banded cash.
“Are we good, gentlemen? I apologize for being forward, but deadlines. You understand.”
“It is all there,” the man said after a few minutes. “They are yours.”
He retreated into the shadows of the room, clutching the case in one hand and his rifle in the other.
The transaction finished, Owens turned his attention towards the two prisoners.
“Ah, my friends.” Owens didn’t smile. He removed his sunglasses and tucked them above the pocket square in his suit. “I am delighted to meet you both.”
“We’re not your friends,” the woman with the black hair said, her English accented with the rhythms and flairs of Spanish. “Or anything close to it.”
She spit on the dirt floor, at the feet of the closest guard. Owens didn’t move or acknowledge the slight.
The driver handed Commander Owens a file.
Owens glanced through the contents, nodding along as he read. He stopped at a series of photographs.
“It is amazing what you can find on government servers. And recovered hard drives. They just leave it there for the taking. Scary.” He removed the paperclip from a stack of photos and took one out, examining it in the dim light. “You must be Lorelei Keene, sister to one very troublesome and irritating Kip Keene. It is a pleasure.”
“All yours, apparently,” Lorelei said, her teeth gritted together. She strained against the rope, a fruitless escape attempt from the rusted metal chair. Owens arched an eyebrow at her efforts.
This girl had spirit.
But these mercenaries, local fellows, they were quite capable, if almost equally as disagreeable. At least they were a nasty sort who knew how to tie a damn good knot.
“I presume you’re also acquainted with Samantha Strike?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I would,” Owens said, closing the file. “Because that woman and your brother have something that belongs to me.”
Lorelei snorted and threw her hair back from her eyes. She glared at Owens. “Good.”
“And I see Mr. Dash is the quiet one. Might he have anything to add to the conversation?”
Derek Dash continued staring at the door.
Owens’ previous urge got the better of him, and he snapped his fingers in front of Derek’s face. But the bound man didn’t blink or move.
“Impressive stoicism, Mr. Dash, if I do say.”
“He’s shy,” Lorelei said. “But only around assholes.”
“The report is missing that fact. Gentlemen, your report s
eems incomplete.” Owens peered over the edge of the manila folder at the three men outfitted in combat gear leaning against the crumbling wall. One of them shrugged. The other didn’t seem to understand, but glared.
The leader said, “We just pick them up.”
“Nevermind. A joke. Obviously not the time.”
“I got it, boss,” the driver said, and laughed a little.
“I do suppose it wasn’t funny. I’m out of practice.”
“I bet you were always great at parties,” Lorelei said.
“Afraid not,” Owens said and knelt down before her. She kicked her tied feet in protest. “You see, I’ve been a sick man for quite some time.”
“That’s called karma, buddy.”
“And there are others, too, who share my plight. But I have found a cure.” Owens stood up and walked over so that he was beside Lorelei. He took her face between his hands and turned it towards his own. “Which is why you’re going to call your brother.”
“Get your hands off her,” Derek said. A tiny pang of jealousy flitted up from the pit of Owens’ stomach. This man possessed a marvelous, rich voice, like nectar sliding from a golden mountaintop. The precise opposite of his own raspy and haggard monotone.
“Just as soon as you call dear Mr. Keene and inform him about the situation.”
“We haven’t talked in months,” Lorelei said, shaking her head, trying to free it from Owens’ grasp.
“That may be true,” Owens said, releasing his grip. “But you’re still one thing.”
“Which is?”
“Family. So problematic, but you love them all the same.”
“No.”
“Too late,” Owens said with a shrug, his driver handing him a satellite phone and a list of names. “This should be exciting, no?”
He put it on speaker, so that everyone could hear.
The line picked up.
“Hello?” A man’s voice picked up.
“I’d like to speak with a Mr. Keene.”
“Keene? That dick? If you know where he is, I’m gonna strangle—”
Owens ended the call and crossed off the first name on the list of Keene’s known associates. A similar reaction came from the rest of the dozen lowlifes listed in the FBI’s sealed file on the ironically nicknamed Gentleman Thief.
Reaching the final name, a pang of nervousness settled in Owens’ chest. If this lead didn’t pan out, he had wasted an irrecoverable amount of time on a dead end. He hadn’t considered that no one liked Kip Keene, and thus would not be helping him.
Owens punched in the last number and waited. Two rings. Three rings. Four rings.
Maybe this person wouldn’t even answer.
The million he could stomach. That was nothing. The temporal cost of the twelve to fourteen hour round-trip excursion made him reach into his jacket and take out the medicine bottle. A new plan this late in the game would be nothing more than a wish on a shooting star.
He fumbled with the cap, his sweaty palms unable to get a good grip.
Someone picked up.
“Hey, douchebag, who’s calling?”
Owens stood bolt upright, dropping the pills. “Is this a Mr. Wade Linus?”
“Who wants to know?” The boy’s not-yet-fully-mature voice was laced with suspicion. “If this is about my network usage, I told you clowns—”
“Tell Mr. Keene that I want to speak with him. It’s quite urgent.”
“Says who?”
“The leader of Project Atlantis.”
The line fell silent, the only audible sound a series of hushed curses and panicked breaths.
“Uh, I don’t think I really know anything about that.”
“Just be a good little boy and put him on.” Owens motioned to his driver, indicating that men should be dispatched to the Linus residence immediately. His lackey nodded and began making the appropriate preparations. “Are you listening?”
“It’s Keene,” a voice said. “Who the hell is this?”
“Commander Owens. I’m disappointed Rabbit didn’t tell you all about me.”
“She only gives out bits and pieces.”
“That’s true. A mysterious woman.”
“What do you want?”
“I have two people who are dying to speak with you.” Owens couldn’t help himself. He laughed at the pun, cheesy as it was. “Say hello, my new friends.”
“Kip? Don’t listen to anything this son of a—”
A rifle butt from one of the soldiers landed in the back of Lorelei’s neck, sending her chair tumbling to the ground. Her eyes snapped shut. Derek, even with his legs and arms bound, got to his feet and swung the metal chair at the closest guard, catching him in the gut.
The guard doubled over, and Derek leaned back and jumped, bringing the chair down on the man’s head with a huge crack.
The leader fired a round at Derek’s shin. Derek screamed and crumpled to the ground, blood streaming from his leg.
“I need him alive, you morons.” Owens clutched the phone to his chest and stopped the leader from clubbing Derek to death with his rifle. “I didn’t pay you for corpses.”
“He hit my man.” The leader pointed at the soldier in the corner, his face caved in by the chair. The man appeared to be quite dead.
“Jesus Christ, it’s like I’ve trapped a bear,” Owens said. He nodded at the man in the corner. “How much?”
“No sale,” the leader said.
“How much?”
“One million more.”
“Done.” Owens nodded at his driver, who went back to the car to retrieve more funds. Then he brought the phone back to his ear. “Mr. Keene? I do apologize for that interruption. Your friends are not pleased with their predicament, as you might imagine.”
“What happened?”
“They’re still hale and hearty, I assure you. For the most part. As they will be, if you give me what I want.”
“Tell me what to do.” Keene said, his voice no more than a whisper.
“I want you to meet my terms, Mr. Keene,” Owens said. “Or your friends will die. Slowly.”
13 | Leverage
“I’ll be there in twenty-four hours with what you want,” Keene said.
The call ended, and Keene let the phone slip from his hand. The wireless handset exploded into a shower of plastic and cheap green circuit boards upon impact with the kitchen tile. But Keene’s attention was elsewhere.
He stared at the countertop, mouth agape, trying to breathe and control the pounding waterfall of thoughts disrupting his mind.
On the one hand, what he’d seen on the drive was a disaster. The reams of files told a twisted tale. It didn’t start that way. Nothing ever did. A chance encounter with some unsubstantiated reports of ancient artifacts washing up in Spain had sent the independently wealthy Owens, an avid thrill-seeker, on a mission through the depths of the Mediterranean—a last adventure before his progressive neuromuscular condition rendered him unable to move.
Finding Atlantis, however, and stumbling upon an almost magical substance within its long-buried halls had changed his outlook. Owens had been reinvigorated, his energy and faculties restored beyond his wildest dreams upon contact with the medicine that would come to be known in the files as the Ruby Rattlesnake.
After that, his focus had changed. Extensive laboratories and Project Atlantis were set up to study and reverse engineer what appeared to be a miracle cure. Thus, what Commander Owens and Project Atlantis set out to do was honorable enough—seeking a permanent cure for various neuromuscular disorders.
But whatever Owens had discovered deep beneath the Mediterranean’s picturesque waters had excellent reason to remain buried. The treatment, derived from the water of an ancient fountain in the center of the city referred to as the “Atlantean spring,” was toxic.
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br /> Yes, it could instantly regenerate a sick person’s cells—thereby curing them of almost any disease—and make them whole again.
But that tremendous power came with two major caveats—the effects on the mind were nothing short of psychosis. Worse, when administered to certain healthy subjects, like Rabbit, it effectively created sociopathic super-soldiers, strengthening their muscles to absurd levels while massively impacting the structures of their brains.
But the second drawback was far more alarming. Most people saw no improvement or psychosis at all, because they died in spectacularly painful fashion as soon as the Ruby Rattlesnake tablets were administered.
Hundreds of potential Subjects had been acquired—mostly young runaways and vagrants—and tested during illegal trials. Less than a dozen had survived, and if Rabbit was any indication, it might have been better if none had made it through testing at all.
If Owens was allowed to continue, the ramifications would be dire. For the documents suggested he had a plan to improve humanity by unleashing his “miracle cure” upon the world.
This despite the warnings of many of his scientists, who had also made the determination that these side effects were unavoidable and largely unpredictable—and that future treatments derived from this substance would have the same deleterious drawbacks.
Owens had demoted most of them, and installed a certain Walter Morrows as his chief of science, a complicit yes-man who told the exulted leader exactly what he wanted to hear. Namely that a full recovery was possible, the mental effects reversible and that a cure for the rest of the population was possible.
Even if they didn’t need to be cured.
On the other hand, Owens had captured Keene’s sister and his former second-in-command—or ex-best friend, depending on what light Keene thought of Derek in—and had made it quite clear that they would be mailed back to Keene in little pieces if he failed to comply with the terms.
“So, dude, you gonna share what Captain McMonotone wanted?” Linus crossed and uncrossed his thin arms. “He sounded like a psycho, man. I don’t do psychos. I think you both might need to hit the old dusty trail.”
“He’s kind of cute,” Strike said, and put him in a headlock, knocking the oversized hat on to the floor. “Can we keep him?” She ruffled Wade’s hair as he squirmed to get away. She stopped when Keene’s expression failed to change. Wade backed away, skin flushed, fervently straightening out his unkempt locks.
The Kip Keene Box Set: Books 1, 2 & 3 Page 21
