by David Meyer
KNOX
BY DAVID MEYER
GUERRILLA EXPLORER PUBLISHING
Knox Copyright © 2016 by David Meyer
Guerrilla Explorer Publishing
Cover Design Copyright © 2016 by David Meyer
Cover Art Copyright: An exterior view of the US Gold Bullion Depository: National Archives and Records Administration (National Archives and Records Administration Copyright Notice)
Publishers Note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher and author. Your support of the author’s rights is greatly appreciated.
First Edition – February 2016
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Copyright
About KNOX
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Author’s Note
Ready for More?
BEHEMOTH Excerpt
About the Author
Books by David Meyer
ABOUT KNOX
World-renowned treasure hunter Cy Reed faces his most daunting crisis yet in this sensational new novel from international bestselling author David Meyer!
In 1971, President Nixon sealed off the U.S. Bullion Depository at Fort Knox. In the process, he locked away unimaginable wealth … along with an astonishing secret.
In New York City, famed treasure hunter Cy Reed fights his way through a massive riot. With everything on the line, he races to complete an ultra-strange urban excavation. But when that excavation turns up startling information about his disgraced grandfather, he’s plunged headfirst into a tangled web of conspiracy and government secrets.
As the truth about his troubled family starts to emerge, Reed forges a path into the heart of the Fort Knox depository. With the world teetering on the brink of financial oblivion, he battles to uncover a breathtaking secret that could save the global economy … or shatter it into millions of pieces!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Although I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting him, I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Dean Wesley Smith for his book, Writing into the Dark: How to Write a Novel without an Outline. Thank you Dean … your book helped me regain a love of writing I’d begun to lose after years of endless outlining and rewriting.
As always, thank you Julie, my muse, for your helpful editing work. And thank you Ryden, for your crazy laughter.
The curtains are about to open. So, take your seat. Get nice and comfortable.
Welcome to the Cy Reed Adventures.
Welcome to KNOX.
CHAPTER 1
She sensed them before she saw them. But Beverly Ginger didn’t shift her gaze, didn’t break stride. At this point, it was better not to tip her hand, better to let them think she was oblivious to their presence. She’d let them sneak up on her, get real close.
Then she’d strike.
On she walked down Madison Avenue, breathing softly, high heels clicking gently against the sidewalk. She knew the time, knew she was running late to the annual Explorers Society Awards Night. Of course, that was deliberate. For her, making an entrance always trumped timeliness.
Her dress, a formal black number that still managed to scream bad girl, stretched to her calves. Slit down the middle, it hugged her curves in all the right places. Her wavy, chestnut hair draped down both sides of her face and past the elaborate choker that encircled her neck. She carried a small clutch bag—filled with mints, a mini perfume bottle, her smartphone, lipstick and gloss, a thin wallet, but no gun—in one hand.
She sighed, annoyed at herself. She wished she hadn’t chosen that particular dress for the evening. If things continued as expected, she was going to get blood—not hers—all over it.
She glided farther down the sidewalk, heading north, bathed in the harsh glow of overhanging streetlights. After a short distance, she spotted Toad Road, a popular Upper East Side sports bar. It was dark, quiet.
That’s strange, she thought.
It was Friday evening, five minutes shy of eight o’clock. In other words, Toad Road’s sweet spot. But the usual clientele, a mix of hormone-charged twenty- and thirty-something investment bankers, lawyers, and marketing gurus, was nowhere to be seen.
As she passed by Toad Road, she saw the reason there was no crowd. The bar was closed and blocked by one of those expensive rolling aluminum grilles. There was no sign on the grille, no notice, nothing.
Walking farther, she saw another restaurant, a chic Thai lounge. It was also closed. Same type of security grille, same lack of explanation. Broadening her gaze, she studied her surroundings.
Metal gates and grilles of varying designs enclosed every visible storefront. Besides herself, the sidewalks buttressing Madison Avenue were vacant. And the street was vacant as well. No people. No taxis or cars, parked or otherwise.
Glancing up, she took in the tall buildings lining either side of the street. Windows were dark. Blinds were drawn. Shades were closed. It was as if the entire neighborhood had up and vanished.
She sensed
something in the air. Something much bigger than the three oversized men who continued to stalk her at a distance and from the shadows. It was a sort of dark energy, vibrating from within the buildings and down the side streets. It felt like unseen forces were enclosing her, cutting her off from the rest of the world.
A sudden gust of warm air struck her side. A door banged against a stopper. Twisting her neck, she saw a couple of men and women gathered inside the darkened lobby of an apartment building. They wore black hoodies and jeans. Bandanas, carefully knotted, covered their faces.
The group stood still for a second. Then a short, husky woman filtered through the entranceway. Others followed her outside, followed by still others.
Beverly exhaled. Her muscles tensed up in anticipation of a fight. But if the people noticed her, they didn’t show it. Instead, they fanned out, some moving down the sidewalk and others into the street.
Glass shattered in the distance. The light changed, dimming a bit. She spun around on her heels and saw more people pouring out of more doorways. They wore dark clothing and gloves, along with bandanas, ski masks, and even gas masks. Some were empty-handed. But most of them carried crowbars, hammers, and tire irons.
A man, tall and skeleton-skinny, brushed past her. He raced into the street and reared back with what looked like a ball of fire in his hand. A moment later, he launched the object into the air. It flickered wildly in the darkness before smashing through a third floor window. Flames erupted and smoke poured out into the night.
Throaty cheers rang out. Screams and shouted curses quickly followed, along with the sounds of metal crashing against metal.
Her stalkers forgotten, Beverly turned in a slow circle, transfixed by the depravity, the destruction. It was a full-blown riot. In Manhattan’s wealthiest neighborhood
And she was smack dab in the middle of it.
CHAPTER 2
One by one, the streetlights caved to the growing violence. A pall of darkness spread across Madison Avenue. Crowds of rioters joined together, attacking mailboxes, lampposts, and decorative bushes and trees. Looters went after the metal gates and grilles, eager to cause mayhem and make off with ill-gotten gains. Fistfights broke out and quickly transformed into all-out melees, complete with swinging pipes and stabbing knives.
Why didn’t anyone tell me about this? Beverly looked down at her sleek, formal attire with distinct distaste. I would’ve worn my leggings.
Prior to linking up with Salvage Force, an archaeological salvage company, Beverly had spent several years immersed in violence. She’d done tours with the U.S. Army as well as with ShadowFire, the globe’s largest and best-known PMC. As a result, she was more than prepared for nearly every conceivable situation. But a riot? Well, that was a different matter altogether.
The very nature of riots was what made them so difficult to endure. Yes, there was a certain logic to how they worked. But there was also a whole lot of chaos and unpredictable herd-like behavior, too. Plus, about a million ways, accidental or otherwise, to sustain injuries.
A hoodie-clad man, wielding a long wrench, stopped in the middle of the street. He turned and stared at her, his lustful eyes locking in on her breasts. But before he could make a move, a second man smacked into him. The first man twisted and nearly lost his balance. Recovering quickly, he raced after the second man, his lust replaced by fury.
Beverly frowned. She wasn’t afraid of a fight. But she had to stay on her toes. She was a beautiful woman, outfitted in a dress and heels. That made her a big target for predators, especially the powerless sort who tended to frequent riots.
A heavy fist plowed into her unprotected stomach. She dropped her clutch and crumpled over at the waist, heaving for air. But the tight fabric restricted her lungs and kept them from refilling.
A second fist rose out of the darkness, striking her jaw. Her head flew down and back and her teeth rattled so hard she thought they’d come loose.
She stumbled backward, barely maintaining balance in her heels. Blood filled her mouth and she spat it out, getting the copper-scented liquid all over her dress and the fallen clutch bag.
The air shifted ever so slightly. But this time, her senses were on high-alert. She dove to the sidewalk, narrowly dodging another fist. Then she rolled across the rough surface and climbed back to her feet. Still gulping oxygen, she twisted around to face her attacker.
Or rather, attackers.
There were three of them, all burly men. Two of them were equipped with blunt metal pipes. The leader, the one who’d struck her, sported a pair of huge fists.
She knew their faces, but not well. She’d never seen them before tonight and she’d only caught a few glimpses of them prior to the riot. Which begged a whole lot of questions. Who were they? Why had they stalked her? And why were they now attacking her?
“I’m feeling nice.” She spat out more blood. “If you leave now, I just might let the three of you live.”
The leader, a tall white guy with gaunt cheeks and a tattooed neck, studied her visage. “Who said there were only three of us?”
Her spine prickled. Immediately, she dropped low, shifted to one side, and stuck out her right foot.
A fourth attacker, caught in mid-lunge, tried to adjust his footing. But he was too late and tripped over her outstretched leg. Arms reeling, he stumbled across the sidewalk on a collision course with the other men.
A satisfied smirk curled across Beverly’s lips. A crash of bodies was inevitable. The four men would fall to the sidewalk, a mess of tangled limbs, and she could be on her way. Actually, wait. She touched her aching jaw. No. Not yet. She needed to dish out a little revenge first.
She stood up, kicked off her heels. Then she eyed the stumbling man, waiting for the crash. But it didn’t happen that way. Instead, the tattooed guy shoved the stumbler to the ground. Then he strode forward, hands tight to his face like a boxer.
She backed away, feigning nervousness. Most likely, her attackers knew her background, knew her capabilities. But they probably had their doubts, given her small stature and skimpy attire. And that was fine with her. Let them think she was some helpless woman who preferred cocktails to combat. Because nothing could be further from the truth.
Thanks to her time in the U.S. Army, she was well-trained in MAC, or Modern Army Combatives. Her striking skills, influenced heavily by Muay Thai, were second to none. Her ground fighting abilities, developed out of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and Sambo, were beyond impressive. And thanks to extensive work in wrestling and judo, she could throw and take down larger opponents with the greatest of ease.
The tattooed guy came forward, unleashing punches powerful enough to shatter windows. Beverly continued to backpedal, twisting and shifting, dodging every blow without so much as a single counter-punch. And all the while, she maintained a stunned, horrified look. Like she didn’t know what to do. Like her dodging was just luck, liable to run out at any second.
The guy’s lips curled in frustration. He punched faster, harder. His strikes grew increasingly erratic. Beverly, for her part, continued to bob and weave. Continued to look like she was confused and helpless. Like she couldn’t snap his arm just as easily as she might snap her fingers.
She gave up more ground, moving into the street. Adrenaline raced through her and she felt her anger fade away. Gleeful mirth replaced it. She was enjoying herself, enjoying the fight. It had been way too long since she’d cracked some skulls.
She dodged a few more punches. Waited for a clean opening. Then she thrust her palm out, hard and fast.
It slammed into the tattooed guy’s nose. Bones snapped and cartilage crunched. Tiny waterfalls of oozing blood poured out of his nostrils. His eyes teared up and he screamed falsetto-style.
The two followers, still carrying their metal pipes, froze in place. Their eyes shifted to their weeping leader and Beverly saw hesitation in their faces.
“So,” she said sweetly. “Who’s next?”
They looked at her. No, wait. They weren�
��t looking at her. They were looking past her. And that could only mean—
A loud burst of air roared out into the night. A projectile slammed into her left shoulder blade. Her pain sensors erupted. She stumbled a few steps, fell to one knee.
In a normal situation, Beverly would’ve sensed the danger, would’ve been ready for it. But the riot, with its constant flow of noise, odors, and movement, had overloaded her senses.
A second projectile crashed into the right side of her waist and dropped to the ground. She toppled over and saw a small fabric-covered object lying on the pavement.
They got me with bean bag rounds? she thought with disgust. Wow, this is embarrassing.
She twisted her head to the other side and saw the shooter. He wore a plain hoodie and carried a modified shotgun in his arms.
The shooter stared daggers at her. Then he slung the shotgun over his shoulder and produced a long knife. Meanwhile, the two followers came up behind her, wielding their pipes and blocking off escape routes. Which meant they didn’t know everything about her background. For Beverly had extensive knowledge of Eskrima melee weapons fighting as well.
She rose to her feet. Her dress had ripped along the slit, revealing much of her tight, curvy body. Her hair had frizzed up and grown sweaty with exertion.
Raising a hand to her mouth, she wiped away a bit of blood. Then she turned in a slow circle, casting looks at her opponents. “What are you waiting for?” She smiled brightly. “Come and get me.”
CHAPTER 3
What a bunch of phonies.
My calloused fingers curled around the edges of the billowing burgundy curtains. Squinting through a tiny slit, I stared out at the Lindbergh Auditorium’s vast sea of soft velvet seats. It was full of familiar faces—many of them belonging to people who had publicly attacked me over the last few years. But I didn’t see the one that mattered most.
Late again. Typical Beverly.
As I watched the crowd, I was reminded of my youth. Of all those times I’d been on stage or on a field. Surrounded by other kids as their parents cheered us on. I recalled scanning the seats, the bleachers. Looking for faces that would never—could never—appear.
“Where the hell have you been? I told you to meet me in the Great Hall.”
