by Alison Ryan
Eschewing the attention, he returned to his hotel and hit the gym, his body having gotten used to extreme daily workouts as part of his incarceration.
After completing a set of military presses, he wiped his brow with a towel and heard a familiar voice behind him.
“Easy, big fella. It’s bad enough Atlas makes me feel so puny. Take it easy on the weights already.”
Canaan turned to see Odin standing in the doorway, grinning.
The brothers hugged, the longest one they’d ever enjoyed, squeezing tightly despite Canaan wearing a sweaty t-shit and Odin a $5,000 suit.
“Sorry, bro, hopefully that’ll come out,” Canaan said as they separated and he noticed the stains he’d left on Odin’s clothes.
“Eh,” Odin waved him off. “It’s not like I don’t have half a dozen just like it. If it had been one of my good suits, maybe I’d be mad at you. But hey, it’s just so good to finally see you.”
“You should have seen me yesterday,” Canaan replied. “Before I got a shave. The beard was pretty serious. ZZ Top-style.”
“Dad would have flipped his shit,” Odin said. “Remember when Achilles grew that Fu Manchu, and Dad saw it?”
Canaan laughed. “Yeah, of course. ‘You’re a Titan! You’re expected to carry yourself with a certain dignity!’”
The brothers felt like little kids again, and they retired to Canaan’s suite to reminisce and catch up.
As their conversation turned to Aidana, Odin suggested a piece of poetry to his brother.
“It’s by Pablo Neruda, he was a Chilean poet. He wrote love poems, sonnets, to his wife, every day for years.
“He numbered them with roman numerals. Number ninety-three or ninety-four seems apropos here. I can never keep them all straight, so many of them are so good. The one I’m referring to, I don’t have memorized, but I can paraphrase it. Anyway, I’ll send it to you. In the sonnet, he tells his wife that if he dies, he wants her to survive him, to live her life with such a fury that even the dead sit up and take notice. At the end he writes that if he looks down on her after he dies and sees that she’s suffering, that he’ll die again.
“He says all those things much more eloquently than I can, but you get the point. If what you and Aidana shared was real, and I don’t doubt it for a second, then she would want you to live a life that would make her proud.”
“Thanks, Odin,” Canaan responded. “For everything. I know you couldn’t have understood, but I had to stay. I had to try. And you helped me to have the visits I had, to get to see Aidana when I did. I can never—”
Odin cut him off. “You’re my brother. I don’t ever need to know the whys and wherefores; all I needed to know was that you needed help.”
Just then, the booming voice of the patriarch of the Titan clan resounded through the suite.
“Canaan!”
Emerson Titan picked Canaan up off the floor in a bear hug, swinging him around as he hadn’t since Canaan was a youngster.
“I’m here too, you know,” Odin deadpanned.
Emerson put a hand to his lower back in mock agony. “I’ve only got so many lifts left in this old back. Besides, your brother’s obviously been working out. Canaan, pick your big brother up and throw him up in the air for me!”
Canaan approached Odin menacingly, and Odin put his hands up in surrender.
“I’m good. I feel all the love I need already, thanks.”
The Titan reunion lasted into the evening, and the three men shared dinner, drinks, and updated one another on their plans.
Odin would return to Las Vegas to oversee Titan Holdings operations, stateside, while also prepping for the 2016 Rio Olympics. Emerson’s never-ending jaunt around Asia would continue, and Canaan planned to do some traveling in order to make up for lost time before setting foot back into the USA Fencing training center to make an attempt at competing alongside his brother in Rio.
Canaan’s first order of business was a trip to South Africa to see how his skills with a blade fared against the deadliest snake on the continent.
10
Present Day…
Two men roughly escorted a third, his wrists bound behind his back and a black hood over his head, into a spacious, well-appointed room. The hooded man was sent to his knees with a kick to the back of his left leg, and the bag was removed.
From the head of Canaan Titan.
Canaan blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight streaming in through open French doors. The sounds of seagulls and waves crashing outside confirmed that the ocean was nearby, although all that could be seen of the outside world from where Canaan knelt was endless blue sky.
The two men who’d brought Canaan into the room stood off to the side; thick, rugged mercenaries who looked as though seeing something sweet and innocent, like a kitten or butterfly, would cause them great pain.
The youngest Titan rolled and stretched his wrists and shoulders, attempting to engineer an escape, although he’d already tested the cuffs and found them to be completely secure.
Shortly thereafter, he heard the door behind him open and a tall, slender man was deposited on the floor next to Canaan. His hood was removed to reveal close-cropped blonde hair atop an angular face. He looked to be in his late thirties. A pencil-thin scar ran from his left cheekbone back to his ear. He wore a khaki pants and green polo shirt.
His hands were bound in an unfortunately familiar fashion.
The two captives made eye contact and the newcomer spoke. “You must be Canaan.”
Canaan didn’t recognize him, and made a face to indicate as much.
“I know Atlas and Odin. You’re not them, but I see the resemblance. Sorry to hear about Achilles.”
His English carried with it a mild German accent.
“Forgive me. I’m Matthias Schneider. I’m a, ah, ‘professional’ colleague of Atlas. It’s nice to meet you, despite the circumstances.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Growled one of the two men who’d brought Matthias in. He had a rife slung over his shoulder in addition to the side arms they all carried.
Canaan longed to ask one of their captors, or Matthias, just what was happening, but it seemed conversation wasn’t welcome at this point.
The last thing Canaan recalled was mind-blowing sex, with that stunning redhead from the auction; he could faintly smell and taste her on his lips. He recalled drifting off to sleep with her in his arms. And then… nothing. Where the hell was she? Was she okay?
Canaan had fallen asleep naked, but he now wore a gray t-shirt and the pants of a blue tracksuit. On his feet were Nike running shoes a smidge too tight.
Whatever this was, it was part of Atlas’s world; the presence of Matthias Schneider confirmed that.
But the red head had nothing to do with any of that. For that matter, neither did Canaan, really.
Odin had some enemies, and Canaan had been Odin’s proxy at the auction. Did this have anything to do with that? With Odin? Canaan’s mind raced.
A few minutes later, a third prisoner was brought into the room in an identical fashion. Matthias was to Canaan’s immediate right. Next to him, a man was set on the floor, and his hood removed. This one, Canaan knew.
Nolan Weston.
Nolan bore a split lip, black eye, and an abrasion on his chin. The yellow shirt he wore had blood spatter across the front and a rip on the back. He’d clearly been taken by force.
Whereas Matthias Schneider was cool and calm, Nolan was in a rage.
His head swiveled, and he nodded at Matthias and Canaan before spitting on the floor and speaking to the men standing by the French doors, in broken Russian, a language Canaan spoke fluently. Although the grammar was mangled and the pronunciation less than perfect, every Russian-speaker in the room understood that Nolan Weston was explaining to the guards that they were all the products of their mothers having sex with pigs.
One of the men who’d brought Canaan in, an ugly, barrel-chested bruiser, barked back at him before walking over and k
icking him hard in the stomach.
Nolan collapsed to the floor before being pulled back up.
The door opened again, but rather than another handcuffed, hooded hostage, instead an electric wheelchair glided silently across the floor, occupied by a man with slicked-back black hair, wearing glasses. His twisted body slumped sideways in the chair, propped up on a cushion. His right arm controlled the chair while his left curled up against his body unnaturally. Canaan guessed multiple sclerosis or cerebral palsy, but he was no doctor and couldn’t have placed a confident wager either way.
The man in the wheelchair was accompanied by a striking woman with short, dark hair, wearing a form-fitting red dress. Tattoos swirled around and across most of the exposed flesh on her sculpted arms and legs. She stood behind the man in the chair, who’d taken a position in front of the kneeling men.
“This is wonderful,” the man remarked, in a dry, raspy voice. He paused as the unmistakable sound of a helicopter landing nearby filled the room. “Where are the rest?”
“They’re coming, sir. They’ll be here shortly,” one of the men who brought Nolan in replied. He spoke with an Irish brogue.
The wheelchair crept up closer, and its driver looked down pitilessly at his captives. With a sneer, he reversed back as the door opened again, crowding the room with four more thugs and a pair of black hoods.
To Canaan’s left, an angry man in his twenties with a shaved head, wearing a rumpled suit, shut his eyes tight and opened them slowly to compensate for the brightness of the room. Past him was a statuesque blonde with a puffy right cheek and swelling around her left eye. She wore workout clothes, as if she’d been abducted leaving the gym.
“What’s the meaning of this?” The new man next to Canaan barked, defiantly, with a thick British accent. “Who’s in charge here, then?”
“Is this all of them?” the man in the wheelchair asked, and the Irishman stepped forward to answer in the affirmative.
“You’re in no position to ask questions. Just be grateful you’re still breathing,” the man in the wheelchair suggested. “That could certainly change. But I’ll indulge you. I’m in charge. Since my father was murdered, you can call me QB.”
“That filth was euthanized, not murdered,” Nolan Weston taunted. “It’s just a shame he went so quickly. He deserved to suffer.”
The tattooed woman behind the wheelchair crossed the room in a flash and delivered a brutal kick between Nolan Weston’s legs. Every man in the room cringed, and several gasped. He pitched forward, coughing and groaning, in obvious distress.
The woman who’d kicked him nodded to the henchmen lined up along the wall and two of them approached and lifted Nolan back to a kneeling position. He looked pale, sucking in deep breaths through his nose as he struggled to compose himself.
“Hopefully that will bring any unpleasantness to a close, and Arava won’t have to deliver any additional ‘corrections’, no?” QB asked, and we collectively nodded and mumbled our acquiescence. “We’re all civilized here, and I expect you to behave accordingly. In this house, my word, and my family, is paramount. Any transgressions against either will result in immediate punishment.
“But, that’s why we’re all gathered here, isn’t it?”
QB “paced” back and forth before us in his chair as he spoke. His underlings stood silently against the wall behind him. His woman, Arava, the one who’d kicked Nolan in the last place any man wants to be kicked, walked over to one side of the room and poured herself a drink.
“You’ve been brought here in the interest of justice,” the man in the wheelchair continued. “Justice for my father and my family. As all of you know, he was butchered in Las Vegas last year. In the street, like a dog.”
QB’s rant bore little resemblance to the truth, as Canaan and Nolan knew it, but they had no choice but to endure his revisionist history lesson. He held all the cards. The “audience” contained several high-level intelligence operatives, and each of their minds raced with thoughts of escape, although little could realistically be accomplished against a room filled with armed men, unless something happened to significantly change the odds.
“The way I heard it, he was shot dead while abducting a baby,” Matthias boldly interjected. “Which may have been the least of his sins.”
Arava set down her drink and walked toward Matthias, but QB raised a hand to stop her. He stared Matthias down intensely for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
“The idea that low-born trash such as you could possibly comprehend a man like my father is laughable, Herr Schneider,” hissed QB, menacingly. “No matter. His death will be avenged. All guilty parties will be punished, accordingly. All of you had a part to play in the tragedy, and you’ll all pay. But not before assisting me in bringing the rest of the chickens home to roost.”
The heavy door creaked open yet again, and a tall Arab man in a white suit walked purposefully into the room, flanked by three more nasty-looking thugs. He approached the wheelchair, and greeted its occupant warmly. “Hello, brother!” He bent at the waist and embraced QB.
“Welcome, Qadim,” he replied with a smile.
“Where are we so far?” Qadim asked.
“We’ve only just begun. Nolan Weston, Matthias Schneider, Canaan Titan, Carlton Fox, and Annalise Rubidoux,” QB stated, “introducing” the prisoners to the man called Qadim, who didn’t appear as if he could possibly be QB’s brother, despite the greeting.
“I’d hoped for more Titans,” Qadim conceded. “After that entire Gutenberg Bible charade, no Odin?”
Canaan’s ears perked up. The auction was legitimate, as far as he could tell. Charade? If the entire thing had been a setup, where were Raven and Duncan now? Every moment in the room only filled Canaan with more questions, and no answers.
“Patience,” QB replied. “Canaan’s brothers will come for him. And when they do, we’ll collect the lambs. You’ll have your slaughter, brother. We are polar bears, Qadim.”
Qadim looked quizzically at his older sibling.
“When polar bears hunt walruses,” QB explained. “They don’t attack directly. Walruses can weigh more than a ton. Two thousand pounds behind those tusks could be quite damaging. No, instead, the bears bellow and charge at the walruses, and in the ensuing panic, the walruses injure one another. The bears enjoy a leisurely feast with nothing to fear.
“Taking this group will instill panic in the rest. They’ll make themselves vulnerable. We’ll finish them at our convenience.”
“Indeed,” Qadim answered, as he walked toward the kneeling quintet. He began with Annalise, placing a hand on her defiant cheek. “Killing you would be such a waste. I’ve argued against it from the start. You just need the proper… motivation. You could be a useful pet.”
She stared furious daggers up at him. He stepped to the man to Canaan’s left, a stranger to the rest of the room who’d been referred to as Carlton Fox.
Qadim made eye contact, and the two men engaged in an intense, uneasy staring contest.
“You don’t like me, do you Mister Fox?” Qadim asked in his smooth, educated tone.
“Remove my handcuffs and you can find out,” the Brit answered.
Qadim looked back at QB and the two of them laughed. “No, we’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to bring you here. I don’t think so. I’ll try to see to it that you enjoy our hospitality.”
He approached Canaan next. “Are all Titans cowards, or just Atlas and Odin?”
“Excuse me?” Canaan replied.
“I asked if you were a coward like your brothers.”
Canaan had had enough. “You don’t know my brothers. If you did, you’d be terrified right now.”
The tall Arab held out his hand, flattened to demonstrate the steadiness of a surgeon.
“I’m well aware of their capabilities. They’ll find you here only because we allow it, and we’ll be ready for them.” He swept his hand back toward the assembled mercenaries, now more than a dozen in all.
“Hello, Matthias,” Qadim said, with familiarity in his voice.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Matthias replied.
The two men conversed in German. Nolan’s German was excellent, and Annalise was conversational, but most of the room was left in the dark. Qadim became angry at one point and stuck his finger in Matthias’s face. Arava brought a drink to QB, who watched the proceedings with obvious amusement.
“Nolan Weston,” Qadim stated, moving on. “As I understand it, you were present when my father was killed.”
Nolan nodded his head.
Qadim produced a pistol from the small of his back and pressed it to Nolan’s forehead. He held it there as the rest of the captives held their collective breath.
Qadim’s fury waned, however, and he lifted the barrel of the gun away and replaced it behind his back. Qadim squatted in front of Nolan, so that their faces were very close, almost touching.
“Did you kill Nicholas Mendy? In Iceland?” Qadim asked.
“Why ask questions to which you already know the answer?” Nolan replied. “If you’re going to kill me, stop posturing and get it over with before I die of boredom.”
Qadim measured his words before speaking. “Killing Nicholas is what’s kept you alive. He was scum.” Qadim turned back to his brother. “I didn’t authorize Weston to be part of this. I want him released. He deserves a reward for avenging Quincy. Put the hood back on and get him on a plane. Drop him somewhere far away.”
He returned his attention to Nolan.
“This is your ‘get out of jail free’ card. One chance. Give us a reason, however, and we won’t show such mercy again.”
QB rolled up to where Qadim squatted before Nolan Weston.
“Bollocks,” QB stated. “He stays. He may as well have pulled the trigger in Las Vegas. I loved Quincy just as you did. But father did what he felt had to be done. Nicholas Mendy was just an instrument. A tool. If you want to be upset with anyone, it should be Quincy. Had he been allowed to do the things he wanted to do, it would have spelled disaster for our family. An empire that’s taken generations to build would have been toppled because of his ‘conscience.’ His weakness. He was never one of us.”
