Rise of the Beast: A Novel (The Patmos Conspiracy Book 1)

by M. K. Gilroy

  Burke just nodded, running a hand through dark hair, cut short, the first hints of white on his temple.

  “We finally got the Federal Hydra Shok back in stock, if you need any ammo,” the kid continued, trying to engage. “It’s about impossible to get lately, but I’ve got a case stashed in the back.”

  Burke turned back and said, “I’ll take six boxes,” peeling three 100 dollar bills from his gold money clip with the 7th Ranger Regiment insignia onlay—a rare souvenir of his past life. Would he ever use the over-the-counter bullets? Only at a range. In real life, his ammo was custom made.

  “Were you Army?” the kid asked. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

  Questions were why it was better to not draw attention.

  “My dad was a marksman and taught me,” Burke lied.

  He quickly exited the storefront, put the gear in the trunk of his rented Chevy Malibu, and pushed the button to start the car.

  I did tell her the truth of what she as getting into. So why do I feel so empty?

  2

  Northern Yemen

  NICKY WANTED TO VOMIT AT what he witnessed. The only redeeming quality of the executions was watching the American put up a hellacious fight. Nicky had to hand it to the man. He did not die quietly.

  The young Saudi prince was a whole different matter. He was surprisingly pliant. Stoic? At peace? In shock? He accepted the blade with nothing but a blank, expressionless, stare, with only a single flare of his smoldering onyx eyes as the executioner touched the scimitar to his neck to mark where he would sever the man’s head with a savage stroke of power and grace.

  The Saudi was the son of a powerful Wahhabi sheikh. He was the model for the “new Arab man.” Intelligent, savvy, urbane, but ever faithful to Allah. Even after earning degrees from the Sorbonne University in Paris and Heidelberg University in Germany, he was still a true believer; maybe more of a believer after experiencing firsthand the empty decadence of the West. Nicky knew that the sheikh’s son had despoiled more than a few virgins in his student days, but he had eschewed the drug and party scene that seemed requisite on the resume of a wealthy heir to an oil fortune.

  The prince’s father, Sheikh Sulaymon, was not a billionaire, but close enough. His fury and vengeance would be colossal when he discovered that his eldest son, his beloved son, his anointed son, had been slaughtered by a toothless, barbaric, drug-addled, two-bit rival.

  The American was far from stoic. He was obviously not anticipating immediate entrance into paradise with a bevy of eager virgins awaiting him.

  He was strong, a demon with his hands, and he fought frantically and loudly to keep them free. He administered at least two broken wrists, one oozing, dripping eye socket, and a crushed larynx to the men who ultimately overpowered him. He bellowed and roared in the night as testimony to the survival instinct.

  But unlike scripted scenes in action movies, there is no choreography in a real life fight that presents one combatant at a time to be dispatched by spins, jumps, kicks, and fists, administered in artistic arcs and jabs. A fight is messy business. Put enough bodies, enough weight, enough flesh, enough fists and boots on one man and he will buckle and fall.

  Even on the ground, his hands bound, his muscles spent and trembling like gelatin, the American mustered enough energy for one last head snap to break Sheikh Malmak’s nose.

  There’s a reason you have bodyguards and other underlings taste your food for poison and fight your battles, Nicky thought. But out of pride the sheikh insisted on looking into the eyes of the American to let him know he was defeated.

  The broken nose was no real matter in the long run. The Sheikh was a hideously ugly old bird, with a missing ear, a mouth full of qat-stained rotten, broken teeth, and a misshapen mole the size of a euro coin that sprouted a menagerie of black and bristly white hairs. A half-smashed nose wouldn’t be the reason he didn’t make the cover of GQ. Not even the Yemen edition.

  Malmak’s name meant highness. The sheikh was pleased when the Saudi minister of religious affairs made it illegal for parents to name a baby boy Malmak anymore, a prohibition that migrated to Yemen. He was pleased because he believed that when history recounted his exploits, his name, Malmak, would be less diluted by smaller men. Nicky got all that through his translator who might or might not be reliable.

  Malmak. Highness. A great name, but the bearer was not destined for the history books. Pride precedes the fall, Nicky mused.

  Don’t fall in the same trap. A mad sheikh in pain might be enough to get you killed before you get out of this cesspool. Uncle told me to delegate more. Beginning tomorrow, if there is a tomorrow for me, I will listen.

  The American was spent. His legs and hands and waist were bound to a chair with duct tape. He got one last bite to the shoulder of the soldier circling him with the dull metal adhesive. Blood dripped from his mouth. Was it a chunk of meat from Azam, the guard he bit, or his own blood?

  The video camera was on a tripod ten feet in front of him. The executioner was ready. In one single blow, the Saudi’s head had separated from his neck, fallen with a thud to the ground, and then rolled on the dusty, rocky ground, spewing a jet of blood. That took real strength—and a sharp blade that the executioner tended to with a gentleness that belied its ceremonial purpose in Malmak’s tribe.

  The American would not be given a clean death. Because of the broken nose the sheikh had ordered the obese mute to use his dullest blade on the American. This was going to take time; it would be gory. Nicky knew better than to turn his head or avert his eyes. He had orchestrated the executions and now his job was to be strong, to watch every hack of nothing more than a dull, rusty machete, as it went through veins, muscles, arteries, tendon, and bone.

  The American lifted his head, spat blood, and cursed the sheikh. Nicky almost laughed.

  What a fighter.

  The dull gray blade slashed sideways, but not with the force and length of stroke that killed the handsome young Arabian prince. Nicky felt blood splatter on his face, as the metal dug into the neck about a fourth of the way through. Not deep enough to decapitate or kill the man.

  The American glared, snarled, and bellowed but no clear words emerged, no more profanity and curses filled the air.

  He would fight to the end. Nicky would like to have known him. If he had, he would have found another patsy to play the role of a treacherous American operative in this bloody charade.

  A second slash of the blade landed with a little more authority but the American somehow ducked into it and lost an inch of scalp and flesh on the top of his head for his efforts. The moon and firelight showed an eerie, gleaming white patch of skull. The man’s mouth was wide open in pain and rage, but it was a silent scream.

  Nicky nearly gagged from the assaultive stench as the man voided his bowels and bladder.

  What was his name? I should remember. He deserves that much.

  So much blood. The American couldn’t last much longer. Just don’t look away. Show no weakness. Nicky could feel the testosterone surging through the campsite. A laugh to his left. An excited shriek to his right. A chorus of undulating voices from all sides.

  Don’t turn from the main show. Eyes straight ahead. Don’t flinch. Watch. Smile. Maybe let out a yell. Be one with them. And perhaps you will live another day.

  The third stroke broke through the vertebrae deep enough that it stuck tight in a chunk of cartridge. The executioner, sweat roiling between the swells of his saggy chest and down his enormous belly, had to give several violent tugs to free the blade. Nicky had seen lots of blood—had caused lots of blood—but his stomach gave a violent wrench at the sight of the strands of bright red meat, appearing freakishly like the frayed end of a rope, spilling from the top and bottom of the gash. The ground around the American was now pooled in blood. His body continued to twitch and jerk—his brain might already be dead but his electrical impulses were still looking for a fight. Any physical movement was nothing but unspent energy racing throu
gh nerve patterns.

  The American fought a heck of a fight. His head still clung to his body on the fourth stroke, maybe by nothing more than skin. What a way to die. It was contagious in this part of the world. But dead was dead. Was the prince any better off for a clean death? What was a minute or two of less suffering he experienced than the American? Both would still be dead forever.

  Nicky was in the process of delivering more than twenty-five million US dollars in weaponry to this obscure tribe in northern Yemen, not far from the border of Saudi Arabia. As the handoff approached, he had used an unwitting conspirator in his Middle East network to plant the story of a rival tribe—the Wahhabi tribe controlled by the prince’s father, Sulaymon—coordinated by the American CIA of course, which planned to steal the weapons from Malmak.

  The American wasn’t CIA—at least not to Nicky’s knowledge— but he was big, athletic, and just happened to be negotiating a deal with the Wahhabi tribe to bring a stable electrical grid to the Hadhramaut Valley, a project the handsome Saudi prince had been working on since his return from the West. The output of his father’s oil wells was more than sufficient to improve the lot of the region the tribe inhabited.

  With the way the man fought, Nicky mused, maybe the American was CIA. Nonetheless, he and the prince’s protestations of innocence fell on deaf ears. The two men had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time when Malmak’s men kidnapped them. Nicky felt a little bad for his part in their brutal ending, but he knew it was for a greater good. His uncle would be pleased.

  That was the beauty of the plan. Arm men with long-standing grievances and up-to-date bad intentions, then spread rumors that their historical enemies have even more nefarious plans to inflict on them, and your work was mostly done for you. Passionate flames of emotion that turned intentions into actions quickly raced out of control and the next thing you knew you were watching an elegant Wahhabi prince’s head bounce and roll. Once the first shot was fired— or the first head rolled—a response would always follow. In the case of the prince’s father, it would be a much greater response that would echo throughout the region, turning tribe against tribe.

  With what we just gave Malmak, I give him a month rather than a week to survive the storm coming his way. The fool thinks he can win. Keep encouraging that thought. The only reason he will live out the year is that Sulaymon will keep him alive to torture him.

  The Americans were weak at the moment and might not acknowledge the death of one of their citizens. But whether or not they had boots on the ground, they and their allies were enmeshed in the region and would be involved in the ensuing battles one way or another. Particularly if the battles spread to the territories of their allies who helped keep their energy costs inexpensive.

  Malmak was foolish to think his ragtag, near destitute little tribe could wreak the damage he thought they could, no matter how many weapons Nicky supplied to them. But with Malmak’s righteous passion and enormous ego, Nicky was certain the bloodshed that would follow would be a good return on investment.

  This moment, this incident was a carefully scripted scenario to measure impact. He wondered if it was even necessary.

  The ISIS campaign in Syria and Iraq was not completely organic, but even with very little outside nudging, its exponential growth was nothing short of amazing. What Nicky was accomplishing—and he was not sure how much credit he could take—was significant, his uncle told him. Nothing pleased Nicky more than his uncle’s approval.

  It was time for the killing to spread south and east on the Arabian Peninsula, to Saudi Arabia, Yemen, and on into the Emirates. Work was already underway to turn brother against brother in Egypt. Fighting in Syria had taken on a life of its own and was already spreading to Iraq, Turkey, and Lebanon. Russian arrogance—they forget their wasted years in Afghanistan—had brought them to the fight. The Americans would be forced to redeploy.

  No country was more vulnerable than tiny Israel, but with the Muslim war to purify the land from the kafir—infidel Muslims— perhaps the rise of their enemies was a blessing in disguise. His uncle thought that was the case.

  Nicky’s orders were to build a network that traded in rumors and arms and to make heads rolls. He was succeeding beyond any reasonable projections. After they finished analyzing the results of this and several other Beta initiatives, then the full-scale implementation of their war plans would begin. His uncle’s goal was sixty percent carnage in the Middle East.

  Was this actually attainable? Nicky hadn’t thought so in the beginning but he was growing more and more confident with each successful mission.

  Seventy percent might be more realistic with what we have planned.

  Nicky looked at the sheikh. His face was a swollen gourd of wrinkles, but he smiled through the rotten, brownish stumps of teeth, and spat a thick gooey stream of qat in the direction of the American. That was good. Nicky was certain he would live to face another day.

  The network is in place. No one knows who is behind it. I will listen to Uncle and delegate what comes next, but far away from the killing zone.

  3

  Bentonville, Arkansas

  JONATHAN ALEXANDER ADJUSTED HIS SILK tie and smoothed back his silver white hair out of years of habit. Both were already perfectly in place. The twin Rolls Royce engines of the Gulfstream G650 lowered in pitch as his private jet began its smooth descent to a small private airfield in Northwest Arkansas.

  Even with a soft global economy that hampered the sales of luxury items, the Gulfstream was on backorder for almost five years. The fastest private plane available at 610-miles-per-hour, with an international range of seven thousand miles, he had to have it immediately.

  At seventy-three years of age and number eleven on the Forbes List of World Billionaires with a net worth estimated at just over fifty billion—Alexander smiled at the estimate—what was the point in waiting? He doubled the $65 million price tag to take delivery of a model intended for a Russian oil baron who was experiencing a temporary cash flow crisis. The drop in the price of a barrel of crude oil and the enormous cost of expanding a private army to protect oneself from emboldened enemies took a bite from his capital. Alexander knew firsthand the cost of mercenaries.

  The Gulfstream wasn’t his most expensive or spacious jet, but it had a strategic advantage. Having bought it in the secondary market through a distant company he owned, it was not yet known by friends and enemies that he was the passenger. Anonymous travel was one of the most difficult tasks for a man of his stature and reputation.

  Whenever he traveled anonymously, he took extra precautions, including sending his doppelgänger—the Frenchman bore an incredible resemblance to Alexander—to one of his island properties on the big jet, a beautiful woman or two at his side. Alexander paid the man handsomely but suspected he would volunteer for his assignments without remuneration.

  Still, every time he flew this route in the Gulfstream he was taking the risk of discovery. Only one man in Northwest Arkansas knew his identity—and despite trusting no one, Alexander trusted him.

  It was a crisp late October morning. Alexander’s cashmere camel sport jacket would provide him plenty of protection from the chill. He planned to be back in the air within five or six hours. He told Pauline, his most recent traveling companion, she could shop and do her daily ten-kilometer run—the latter was such a strange obsession—but she was to be back at the jet no later than three p.m. They would eat dinner at Per Se in Midtown and then spend the night at his townhome on the Upper East Side off Park Avenue.

  He could hear the shower in the stateroom turn off. He wasn’t happy that Pauline would not be presentable to see him off, a courtesy that was expected in her role—and it was never good to let hired help think that anything less than excellence was acceptable—but he waved off his irritation for the moment. He had a more important matter on his mind.

  Alexander’s long time pilot dropped the craft into a soft and perfect three-point landing on the runway of the Louise M. Th
aden Field of the Bentonville Municipal Airport. Normally they would land at the Northwest Arkansas Airport, but he preferred to be even more cautious and discrete this trip.

  The Gulfstream taxied to a pair of waiting gleaming black Range Rovers and the stairs were quickly lowered.

  “Darling, I’ll be just a second if you can wait,” Pauline called from behind the closed door. “I want to see you off.”

  He ignored her.

  “Jonathan?”

  He paused, irritated again.

  “Jonathan darling?”

  He put on sunglasses and a fedora, and then stepped through the door into the streaming sunshine.

  Pauline had been quite excited about finally being included on a long flight in the Gulfstream. Too bad it will be her last trip with me, he thought. She’s beautiful; a remarkable beauty that stirred bittersweet memories of distant time in his past. She is intelligent. She is charming. But she’s sloppy. You can take the girl out of Belgium, he thought, but you can’t take Belgium out of the girl.

  He would have Klaus, his personal secretary, work with his lawyers to execute their separation agreement. He wondered if she was bright enough to realize how little she was walking away with when she got a tidy little check for a hundred thousand euros. Not bad for a young person just starting out in life. But the sum paled in comparison to the opulent lifestyle she was experiencing by his side. Her modest payout wouldn’t book her two trips on a chartered Gulfstream. He doubted she would have any of the money left by years’ end. Young people had little sense of delayed gratification. They wanted things now. No matter. He liked her but wouldn’t miss her. Not for long. There were more Paulines out there.

  “As is always the case, the flight was a work of art. Such a fine landing, Erich,” he said to the ramrod straight captain who tipped his hat to him.

  “Thank you, sir. You are kind, sir.”

  Erich understood the rules of engagement. Erich was always excellent. Too bad for Pauline.