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

by Nicholas Erik

  “You look pretty bummed, Keeney.”

  “Just thinking.”

  “Yeah.” There was a long silence. “It does make you think, dude.”

  “Life is strange,” Keene said, his thoughts far away. If human beings in the twenty-first century water boarded and blew the legs off their enemies, what the hell did they do in the nineteenth century? For a moment, Keene’s heart hammered, and he thought he was going to collapse.

  Then he reconsidered. In his own time, back on Apollus, Fox had removed part of Derek’s pinky, as was custom to brand traitors to the Coalition. And she hadn’t even been Keene’s enemy, per se—although in light of recent discoveries, that was debatable. There was a feral streak in the human genome that didn’t seem to change, regardless of time or space.

  Thus, the reverse must’ve been true, as well: good men lurked here as well, difficult though they might be to find. But Keene didn’t have to search. He had Strike. And Linus, who was shaping up fast.

  The thought made him relax.

  “It makes you think about how the world can be a nasty place sometimes, you know?” Linus pointed up at the trees. “It’s peaceful.”

  “There are wolves out here, too. Probably bears.”

  “Why you gotta shit on the moment, Keeney?”

  “What’s that called? Yan and ying?”

  “Yin and yang,” Linus said. “It’s about contrast. Whatever’s bothering you, that’s what shows you what’s sweet.”

  “Didn’t take you for such a philosopher.”

  “You’re a crappy listener, man,” Linus said, and brushed by Keene to head into the woods. “You said this was strange, and I followed your lead, dude.”

  “What’d I say?” Keene watched the kid travel about thirty yards into the trees. “Where are you going?”

  “Footprints.”

  Keene looked down. Amidst the fallen berries and brush, boot prints led away from the camp, clearly visible in the untouched ecosystem. Without any belongings to pack, Keene hurried to catch up with his companion.

  “Nice catch,” Keene said once he was next to Linus again.

  “It was obvious.”

  “Come on, don’t be sore.”

  “Sore? What, are you from 1954?”

  “Not quite,” Keene said. “Wait.”

  “Like hell I’m gonna listen to you when you don’t listen to—”

  Keene yanked the kid’s skinny arm, pulling Linus to the ground. Before the kid could exclaim or shout curses to voice his dissatisfaction, Keene shoved a hand over his mouth.

  A muffled series of cries came from Linus, followed by thrashing kicks.

  “Be quiet.”

  More protests. Keene gripped tighter.

  “Shut up and listen. Hear that?” A nearby forest stream burbled. And a woman was having a heated argument with a group of men. The words were difficult to discern, but the voice clearly belonged to Samantha Strike.

  Keene let his hand off the kid’s mouth. Linus glared, wiping spit from his cheeks. Keene, now aware that he might be walking towards an ambush, walked slowly through the forest, careful to avoid branches and dry, crinkly patches of dead leaves.

  The shouts and protests grew louder.

  “You’re going to come with us—oww. She bit me,” Keene heard a rough voice say in angry Cantonese.

  Splashing and muted cries came from the stream. Keene decided that it was time to pick up the pace, stealth be damned. He pushed through the forest as fast as his legs would allow. Suddenly the trees ended and he found himself tumbling down a hill, into a clearing where a small stream cut through the woods.

  He put his hands out to brace his fall, stopping just short of a rocky outcropping. Linus, a few seconds behind, rolled in behind him, right into Keene’s sore back.

  “Thanks.” Keene sprung to his feet and surveyed the scene.

  A naked Strike was fighting off two small, wiry men covered in crude tattoos. Ratty ponytails clung to their shoulders and tattered wisps of clothing hung off their sunken chests. Another man surveyed the scene from the opposite shore, shouting encouragement in Cantonese to his friends.

  Strike bucked as one of them held her shoulders, his companion attempting to attach a rope to her wrists without being kicked, bitten or otherwise injured. She snarled and fought, getting one arm free with a vicious elbow. She stumbled and the man on her back fell on top of her, pushing her head beneath the surface.

  Keene gripped a rock in his hand and leapt into the water.

  The thrashing alerted the trio to his presence, and they turned their surprised gazes toward this new threat wading through the knee deep shallows. Whoever these men were, they weren’t exactly brilliant. The interruption allowed Strike to come up for air and catch her distracted attacker with a kick to the groin.

  He groaned and tumbled to his knees. Strike bounded on top of him, holding his head beneath the water.

  Keene chucked the rock at the other bandit, catching him in the face. He crumpled, clutching his eye. A thin stream of blood appeared in the rippling waters.

  He glanced over at Strike, who was releasing her man. Her naked arms quivered, the veins in her shoulders pulsing. She gave the body a light push, and it drifted face down towards the shore.

  “We’ll kill you, too,” she said to the man on the shore.

  The man on the shore shouted and pumped his fist before turning to run. Strike dove towards her clothes on the shore, scattering the items to reveal her pistol.

  With a well-practiced motion, she swung it off the ground, aimed down the sights, and squeezed off a shot. The man, by this time fifty yards away, staggered, his head dropping from view. Then he popped up again, wounded but still alive.

  She fired again, but this shot missed. He escaped out of sight.

  “Damnit. Got him in the arm.”

  “I don’t think his chances are too good,” Keene said. “Considering the medical care here.”

  “Took you long enough,” Strike said. She kicked the other bandit with her bare foot when he tried to stand. “Useless.”

  “We travel together,” Keene said. He walked over to the one remaining man and started dragging him towards land. The bandit protested, and Keene punched him in the gut.

  “So you two could watch me from the bushes? Yeah right.”

  Keene shook his head. “Fuck you. Really.”

  “I was exploring.”

  “We stick together.” Keene threw the limply protesting man onto the grass. The man tried to scramble away, but the rock to his skull had dulled his motor skills. Keene placed a foot on the bandit’s back and pushed him into the ground.

  “What’d they want?”

  “I was relaxing in the stream, and they came out of nowhere. Figures, when I didn’t have this.” Strike, now somewhat clothed in her undergarments, wagged the 9mm at the prisoner. “Sneaky son of a bitch.”

  The man spat in her direction.

  Keene decided a more direct approach was necessary. “Why did you attack my friend,” he said in Cantonese, the neural implant module allowing him to speak perfectly. “You like attacking women? That it?”

  “Never,” the man replied, with more arrogance and defiance than his situation warranted. He made a noise signaling his disgust that was reminiscent of a kazoo. “Not white cows.”

  “Your actions suggest otherwise.”

  “Attack?” The man laughed bitterly. “Capture, yes. For Ching Shih.”

  “What’s he saying,” Strike said. “Maybe I can help.” She tapped the pistol against the palm of her hand.

  “He’s saying they weren’t trying to jump your bones in the river. Sorry.”

  “What’d he say exactly?” Strike’s eyebrow rose.

  “Nothing important. Something about not being interested in a white cow.”


  Strike’s slender arms crossed, and her grip tightened on the pistol. “He’s not talking about me, is he?”

  “Let’s get over hurt feelings.” Keene kicked the prisoner in the ribs. “Where’s Ching Shih?”

  “I will not betray our leader.”

  Keene shrugged, then kicked the man in the head, knocking him out cold. They ripped the man’s garments to shreds, braiding the cloth together to form a makeshift rope. Then they lashed him to a nearby trunk.

  “That should keep him,” Keene said.

  “He’s lucky I don’t kill him.”

  “You used to complain about men wanting to sleep with you, now you complain about the one who doesn’t?”

  “It’s the principle,” Strike said. “He was rude.”

  Keene searched the man’s damp pockets. He extracted a damp piece of parchment. It contained a time and a meeting place. Later that same day, in the evening. In a Guangzhou opium den, although the establishment’s name had been washed away. Another smaller piece of parchment dropped out, dripping water. Keene picked it up off the bank and shook it out.

  “I think I found what they wanted,” he said. “Answers.” The writing detailed how these scouts of Ching Shih had been keeping track of a strange group—that was, Keene, Strike and Wade—who spoke a dialect of English unlike the Imperialists.

  From the rundown, these three pirates had been following the group ever since the yacht had run aground in the fishing village. They’d received their marching orders when the Red Flag Fleet had landed. It’d been easy to catch up with Keene and the others, remaining unseen, since they were some of Ching Shih’s fastest and most skilled scouts.

  “Answers about what?” Strike said.

  “About where to go next,” Keene said, scanning the piece of paper. “And what to do.”

  “So what’s the plan, Keeney,” Wade said.

  “I think we have a meeting to crash.”

  16 | Guangzhou

  While Keene had formulated a general plan of attack, there was still one unaddressed, very immediate concern.

  Transportation.

  Travelling to Guangzhou in time to disrupt this meeting would be a serious challenge. And Keene needed information—on what type of deal Captain Reynolds had brokered on Lorelei’s behalf with the pirate queen, and what for. Hopefully the men attending this meeting would be high enough in Ching Shih’s organization to fill-in the details.

  Like a location, and what was set to be traded.

  The trio made their way out of the forest well before the sun had reached its apex, emerging on a merchant road rife with traffic—at least given the standards of the day. This meant that they had to wait no longer than twenty minutes for a horse drawn cart to come by, which Keene hailed.

  By now he had grown accustomed to a certain level of curiosity from the locals for his impeccable language skills. The merchant stroked his white, bushy beard and listened to Keene’s questions regarding the trip to Guangzhou and how long it might take.

  From the exchange, Keene gathered that it was no more than fifteen miles—far less than a day’s journey, according to the merchant—and if one were to follow the road, they were sure to find it.

  Following the road, however, proved more complex than the simple instructions suggested. The dirt path, well-defined in some areas, could disappear with little notice, overtaken by brush and trees.

  Keene and the group continued in the same direction, the sun reaching its broiling height a third of the way into the journey, according to Strike’s smartphone, which measured her steps. At this rate of fatigue, the group would be lucky to make it halfway to the large coastal city by day’s end.

  Another approach was necessary.

  As was water.

  Keene waited for the next merchant to pass by the route, and flagged him down.

  The man begrudgingly stopped. Apparently the novelty of Keene’s strange language skills did not appeal to his sensibilities.

  “Chen is busy,” he said. “Speak.”

  “Who’s Chen?”

  “I am,” the man said, playing with the gold tassels adorning his ostentatiously colored pants. If Keene hadn’t seen this man on the merchant’s trail, he would have pegged him for some sort of travelling performer or circus runaway. But apparently the garishly dressed Chen was a businessman. Hawking what, exactly, was difficult to determine. No aromas emanated from the covered wagon hitched to the horses, and the wooden wheels sat lightly on the road’s worn ruts, suggesting a light load.

  His fleshy jowls moved in unnatural ripples when he spoke. Almost as if the fat was separate from his body, an organism of its own.

  “We’re going to Guangzhou.”

  “Good for you,” Chen said with a snort. He lifted the reins, ready to spur his horses to action.

  “We have to be there by tonight.”

  “Very interesting.” Chen lowered the reins ever so slightly, his impatience dissipating as the wheels behind his quicksilver eyes began to turn. “It is a long ways on foot.”

  “How far?”

  “Perhaps fifteen miles.”

  Keene whispered the number to Strike.

  “We heard that five miles ago,” Strike said and gave Chen an angry glare.

  “She says you’re lying,” Keene said.

  “The woman is smart,” Chen said with a grin, his pudgy face rippling and straining. “A great surprise.”

  “We need a ride.”

  Chen’s gaze darted over the group, and then he smoothed out his ridiculous sequined tunic with a slight huff. “I am a busy man.”

  “We have business with Ching Shih.”

  “She does not employ foreigners,” Chen said with a dismissive wave.

  “I don’t want to work for her,” Keene said. “I want to rob her.”

  Chen’s eyes widened. “Crazy, crazy man.”

  “And we’ll give you half the loot if you take us up the road.”

  Chen, unable to suppress his unbridled greed, smiled wide. “You’re crazy. I like crazy.” He gestured them aboard. “But if things go wrong, Chen will be gone.”

  “I’d expect nothing less,” Keene said, offering his hand.

  The two men shook, and then the wagon turned around. The group climbed in the back.

  “Empty,” Keene said with a knowing grin. “Clever man.”

  Then he reflected on the night’s plans as the wagon bounced and wobbled full speed towards Guangzhou.

  17 | Den of Thieves

  The trio—and their merchant-turned-taxi service—arrived on the outskirts of the coastal city of Guangzhou just as the sun was setting. According to the directions on the parchment, Keene and his friends had some time to kill prior to the mysterious meeting.

  But there was another concern—finding the opium den. Knowing little of the city, and presuming the pirates’ meeting spot to be clandestine, Keene found himself up against a clock.

  Upon their arrival, Chen had docked the wagon at a suspect looking inn. He had extolled its virtues as a tremendous bargain, however, and insisted that only he and Linus would stay—Linus as collateral for the half of the loot he was owed. Not a bad choice from Keene’s perspective, since Chen had a fighting chance in hell of actually overpowering the kid if Linus tried to run.

  “You can’t leave me, Keeney.”

  “Slip out when he’s not looking,” Keene said in English while the merchant glared at everyone with a suspicious gaze. “You can do it.”

  “Come on,” Linus said.

  “Boy stays,” Chen said in decisive, clipped Chinese. “No alternative.”

  Keene shrugged along with Chen’s demands, much to Linus’ dismay, and then Strike and Keene set out down the path to the city. The road, which had alternated between finished patches and dirt, gradually segued into a continually paved affair
. Sloped-roof houses stretched across the horizon, all the way to the shimmering sea, where dozens of boats sat anchored at port.

  In the distance, clearly visible over the horizontal expanse of shops and homes, were two pagodas, standing like watchmen over Guangzhou.

  The sounds of a vibrant merchant city soon reached Keene’s ears, the citizens still clamoring to exchange goods and wares in the dwindling light. Eventually, he and Strike were no longer on the outside looking in, but part of the bustling city, swallowed up by the sea of buildings.

  Keene passed through the throng of people, taking in the sights.

  He approached a street vendor.

  The man held up a single finger, indicating the price of his dumplings. Keene shook his head and asked, “Opium?”

  The street vendor frowned and scowled, waving Keene away.

  “What’d you say?”

  “I asked for opium,” Keene said.

  “Yeah, just ask for drugs,” Strike said. “That’s pretty much how it works, right?”

  “Any suggestions, brilliant one?”

  “Find someone who looks the part.”

  “And where might we go for that?”

  “The underbelly.”

  The way Keene saw it, they were already in the underbelly. But this was coming from a twenty-first century perspective, from which even the most regal castle or estate would resemble a pigsty. Indeed, there were parts of the city that Keene quickly found were worse. Soon they were lost in the dense, winding alleys and streets, each new roadway providing them with few clues regarding the whereabouts of the mysterious den.

  The dying light had dwindled into a glowing orange, suffusing the city with an ethereal, warm glow. Piles of refuse had now replaced the rows of street vendors. Hallowed white beads—of cats and vagrants—stared out at Keene from the safety of shadowy awnings.

  “Here,” Strike said. She approached an older man seated on the street, making gestures with her hands, pointing back at Keene. He raised a skeptical, unkempt eyebrow at the animated woman, but did not run. “Ask him which way the port is.”

  “Why the port?”

  “There’s probably lots of seedy stuff nearby. And pirates.”