by Mark Romang
“He sounds like a stand-up guy to me. Even sociopaths need employment,” Webb said, eyeing the half-empty Wild Turkey bottle.
Brennan picked up the whiskey bottle. He held it outside the tent flap and poured its remaining contents onto the ground. He turned back around. “He’s a killer, pure and simple. Yes, Castellanos took out some terrorists that wanted to kill us in the name of Allah. But he was chosen by our government to perform these unsavory kills because of his homicidal tendencies. And now he works for possibly the richest man on the planet.”
“Doesn’t Skymolt run the Skeptikos Alliance? Some SA agents were following Andrew around in Utah for a while, but then turned up dead. It’s why Andrew disappeared. He was framed for their deaths.”
Brennan nodded. “Henrik Skymolt is the founder of the Skeptikos Alliance, a militant atheist group that targets small towns around the world that display Christian objects. He sues the towns to get the offending objects taken down. And he always wins. He’s as ruthless and shrewd with his lawsuits as he is with his land acquisitions. The weird thing about Skymolt is that no one knows how old he is. He keeps his age a secret. I tried but couldn’t find his birth records.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I don’t really know. All I do know is Skymolt is behind Castellanos searching for Maddix.”
“Where is Mad Dog? Do you know?” Webb asked.
“I plead the fifth on that question. Right now you don’t need to know. Castellanos is your top priority.”
“And where is Castellanos right now?”
“He maintains two residences, both apartments. One apartment is in Baltimore, and the other one is in Stockholm. I think he’s in Sweden at the moment.” Brennan watched Webb’s face intently. He could see wheels turning.
“If I do this, Caleb, I’ll have to have money for expenses.”
Brennan smiled. “Of course, Coleton, I’ll take care of you. I’ve done well for myself since I left the service. I have my own global security company. I employ some of your peers. Some of them are in Iraq, and some in Afghanistan.” Brennan held a hand out for Webb to shake. “So are you in?”
Webb nodded and shook Brennan’s hand. “I could use a reason to get out of bed and do something.”
Brennan reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He handed it to Webb. “Go check into a hotel and take a bath. You smell something awful. Then get a haircut and buy some decent clothes. At five PM this evening you need to be at the Santa Fe Municipal Airport. My pilot will fly you to Stockholm on my private jet. On the jet you’ll find a side arm and ammo clips, as well as surveillance equipment, a satellite phone to communicate with me, and a travel passport, as well as cash to live on. You’ll be using an alias. Interpol is working hand in hand with the FBI to find Andrew and Sara. We don’t want them to know you’re traveling abroad.”
Webb pawed at a stray tear. “Thanks, Caleb, for pulling me out of this pit.”
Brennan didn’t answer. He pulled a change of clothes from out of his duffel. He then stripped off his hobo clothing and put on a dress shirt and slacks and a pair of oxfords. Over the dress shirt he slipped into a red vest with the Salvation Army logo emblazoned across it. He donned a ball cap with a similar logo. Finally, he pulled a package of bottled water out of the duffel. It was his second transformation in under an hour.
Webb shook his head at Brennan’s new look. “Man, you really are paranoid. And what’s with all the water?”
“I’m not crazy, just careful. And your fellow campers are thirsty, I’m sure,” Brennan said and started to crawl out the small tent.
“One more question before you go, Caleb.”
Brennan turned his head. “Yes?”
“If Castellanos closes in on Maddix and is about to kill him, do I take him out?”
Brennan nodded. “Do whatever it takes to keep Andrew and Sara alive. But killing Nikko Castellanos is your last resort.”
****
The two FBI agents sat in a beige Crown Victoria parked discreetly in a thicket just off the road where the homeless camp sat, roughly one-hundred and fifty yards away. Both special agents peered downhill through binoculars at the small tent city.
“Where did Brennan go? It’s been over an hour since he got out of the cab,” Special Agent Eric Shank grumbled.
Special Agent Nick Loomis lowered his binoculars. “I don’t know. We never actually saw him enter the camp. But he surely entered it. Where else could he have gone? And he hasn’t come out yet.” Both he and Shank had been assigned to the Andrew Maddix case two years ago. They’d been monitoring Caleb Brennan ever since, hoping to uncover a lead.
“He has to be talking to Webb. I’d bet anything Webb and Brennan are in cahoots together. They know where Maddix is, I’m sure of it,” Shank said.
Nick Loomis shrugged. “Maybe Brennan just feels sorry for Coleton Webb. After all he did train Webb.”
Shank looked over at his friend and colleague. “Come on, Nick. Think about it. SEALS stick together. It’s a tightknit brotherhood. They look out for each other when one of their own is in trouble. I think Webb and Brennan are helping Maddix somehow.”
“You may be right, Eric. And that’s exactly why we’re here, to see if Brennan will lead us to Maddix.”
“When it gets dark we should plant some listening devices near Webb’s tent. Maybe Brennan will come back and we can get some useful information.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll run your suggestion by headquarters. Who knows, maybe they’ll give us the green light.”
Chapter 4
Lyon, France—the next day
Having already devoured his meal of Blanquette de veau—veal stewed in cream, egg yolks, onions, and mushrooms—Nikko Castellanos stared out the café window at the sea of people milling around the shops and restaurants populating Lyon’s Presqui’le. The café sat amongst tightly packed buildings in the center of Lyon. Castellanos allowed a small grin to break across his handsome face. He could feel the city’s heartbeat meld with his own, could taste the energy thrumming in the air. He loved France.
For five years he had traveled the globe hunting for Andrew Maddix and Sara Kendall. He’d literally seen the whole world, sampled its cultural and architectural offerings, and France remained his favorite place to haunt. The Alps and the vineyards, the castles and cathedrals all fascinated him. And so far Lyon remained his favorite city in France. Incredible food, nightlife, music and theater, and history kept calling him back, as did the young uninhibited women.
He especially liked to explore the traboules—secret passageways underneath the city. 350 passageways stretching nearly 50 kilometers linked 230 streets in the Vieux Lyon district. The traboules were built by the Romans in the 4th century to shorten the walk to the Saone River. Silk traders also used them to transport their silk during rainstorms, and the French resistance fighters used the subterranean tunnels to escape the Gestapo during World War II.
Castellanos turned back around to face his dining partner, Pierre Bertrand. The Interpol agent always ate his food slowly, as he did today, cutting his skirt steak and shallots into tiny pieces and eating each piece one at a time, chewing leisurely. “You said you have a lead for me, Pierre. I’m dying to know what it is.”
“You must be patient, Nikko. Pleasure before business is my motto.” Bertrand lifted up a bite of steak and held it in midair. “Lyon is the culinary capital of the world. You must learn to savor your food, Nikko.”
“If it’s good I eat it fast. It’s the American way.”
“And that’s why Americans are so fat. They wolf down their food so they can eat more and more.”
“Please hurry, Pierre. I have to catch a plane to Stockholm. I need to report in to Henrik. I’d like to have something newsworthy to tell him.”
The Interpol agent wiped his mouth with his napkin and shoved his unfinished plate to the side. “Very well, Nikko. I’ve kept you in suspense long enough.” Bertrand picked up the attaché
case at his feet and unclasped it. He pulled out a thin stack of documents and placed them on the table, and then closed the attaché case.
“What are these?” Castellanos asked.
Bertrand flipped through the documents and separated them into two stacks. “Copies of flight reports for Caleb Brennan’s Bombardier personal jet and medical records for a man in New Zealand named Adam Thorn.”
“Who is Adam Thorn?”
Bertrand smiled and shrugged. “He could be your man, Nikko.”
“What makes you think so?”
“He’s the same age as Andrew Maddix. And a prosthetist in New Plymouth recently ordered a prosthetic for him. The prosthetic is the Ottobock C-Leg, the same model Maddix wears.”
“There are probably countless people in New Zealand who have lost a leg to diabetes,” Castellanos said.
“Perhaps you are right. But the country is sparsely populated, making it more likely.” Bertrand picked up the second set of papers. “Five years ago Brennan’s personal jet landed in New Plymouth, New Zealand one day after Andrew Maddix and Sara Kendall disappeared. Connect the dots, Nikko, and you have a possibility.”
Castellanos raised his wine glass. “Good work, Pierre. You actually earned your money this time.”
“Caleb Brennan was the breakthrough I needed. And then the discovery that Maddix wears a prosthetic aided my cause even more.”
“It makes sense. New Zealand is a good spot to go off the grid. Like you said, it’s sparsely populated and mostly Caucasian. There’s plenty of wilderness to hide out in. The country is isolated and difficult to reach; the climate is mild. And the police are a joke. Only a few even carry firearms.” Castellanos reached into his sport jacket pocket and withdrew an envelope. He handed the envelope to Bertrand, who promptly placed it into his attaché case. The envelope bulged with 10,000 euros, the payment for Bertrand’s detective work. Like Castellanos, the Interpol agent was also a Skeptikos Alliance agent. Henrik Skymolt brought Bertrand on board the operation to help Castellanos. But the Frenchman’s assistance would only come from behind a desk. He was not a field man, only a paper pusher.
“Do you have Adam Thorn’s address?” Castellanos asked, unable to believe he may have finally found one of the world’s most wanted fugitives. He would have given up long ago had Henrik Skymolt not offered him 14 million dollars to kill both Andrew Maddix and Sara Kendall. He’d been given half the amount up front. He’d receive the other half once he actually finished the job.
Bertrand shook his bald head. “I have an address for Thorn, but it’s a dummy address that doesn’t exist. I checked it out thoroughly. And the fact that the address doesn’t exist is even more proof that Adam Thorn is actually an alias for Andrew Maddix.”
Castellanos ran a hand through his wavy black hair. “Not having an address will complicate things a bit.”
Bertrand leaned in closer to Castellanos. “Have you ever figured out why Henrik is so obsessed with Andrew Maddix and Sara Kendall? And why he will pay you so handsomely to eliminate them? I don’t think he’s ever requested a hit like this.”
Castellanos looked furtively around him. Although it was the lunch hour and the café was relatively busy, empty tables surrounded them. Bertrand had asked the maître di for a private table. Their conversation would be next to impossible to eavesdrop if they spoke in low tones.
“He will only say that the video of the church exorcism Maddix uploaded to YouTube has caused a worldwide revival and hundreds of thousands of people have become Christians after viewing it. He feels the video has negated his years of dismantling the notion of an Almighty God creating the universe.”
Bertrand shook his head. “I am an atheist just like you, Nikko, a Skeptikos Alliance agent just as you are. And I admire Henrik’s passion for disproving God’s existence, but don’t you think he’s taking his obsession with Maddix too far?”
“Maddix is a murderer. He killed three people, all fellow Skeptikos Alliance agents. That’s enough for me. If Skymolt wants to pay me large sums of money to track down Maddix and Sara Kendall, I won’t refuse him.”
“I’ve watched this video hundreds of times. I can’t explain it. It looks real, like there really were demonic spirits possessing the church building. And maybe Maddix isn’t the killer. Someone in that town surely remembered what our organization did to it.”
Castellanos picked up the documents and gently folded them and placed them inside his sport jacket. He stood up. “I don’t have time to argue with you, Pierre; I need to catch the next plane to Stockholm. Contact me at once if you discover anything else.”
Bertrand motioned for Castellanos to sit back down. “Don’t be so hasty, Nikko. I have two things for you to consider before you proceed with the operation.”
Castellanos sank back down onto his chair.
“I will need to share my discovery with my superiors.”
“Give me 48 hours, Pierre. It’s all I ask.”
Bertrand shook his head. “36 hours. That’s all I can give you.”
“Very well, but can you make it starting at midnight tonight? That will give me roughly another twelve hours.”
Bertrand rolled his eyes. “Fine, I will not be unreasonable since you always compensate me so generously.”
“I have not forgotten how I agreed to give you five percent of my fee. I will keep my word,” Castellanos promised. “Now what is the second thing I need to consider?”
Bertrand nodded. “Andrew Maddix and Sara Kendall have been together now for five years. It is entirely possible they have a child together. Are you prepared to make the child an orphan?” he whispered.
Castellanos leaned forward so as only Bertrand could hear him. “The child will still have its mother. Henrik backed off his initial demand. He only requires that I cut out Sara Kendall’s tongue,” he replied softly.
Bertrand gasped. “Why would he ask you to do such a heinous thing?”
Castellanos shrugged. “I told Henrik that I don’t kill women or children. So he offered to pay me the full amount of 14 million dollars if I cut out her tongue. He said Miss Kendall won’t be able to proselytize without her tongue.”
“And you agreed?”
Castellanos nodded. “I agreed.”
