Rise of the Beast: A Novel (The Patmos Conspiracy Book 1) (8 page)

18

Devil’s Den Hiking Trail,
Ozark National Forest

JULES RETRACED HIS STEPS ANGRILY. His socks were in shreds and his feet were bruised and bleeding. He felt no physical pain, only the psychological pain of failing Jonathan Alexander.

He chased Pauline for at least five miles—unless she had broken from the path and he missed her. It was nearly impossible to track someone while running as fast as you can. He managed two more shots in her general direction after she bolted. Even as he pulled the trigger each time he knew the bullet would not find its mark due to the dense foliage protecting her as she wound in and out of turns on the wooded path.

She had stolen from the man and she had escaped him. How could that have happened? His approach shot hit her in the shoulder. Alexander wanted him to take her alive if possible. He heard her cry of pain. He saw the flash of fresh bright blood set against a bright green sports top as he pounded up the path toward her. He saw her fall to her side. He was sure she would be waiting for him, maybe in shock, to secure her capture when he got to the spot. Instead, all he found was her fanny pack, Mr. Alexander’s journal, and her smartphone.

He immediately sprinted in pursuit. Not wearing shoes didn’t help his speed, but Jules did not think he would have caught her anyway. Not unless she was hurt badly enough to collapse. No way of knowing.

When he had her dead to sights, she had shifted her body weight down on all fours and bent her head forward. Instead of placing a cartridge into the flesh of her hip and immobilizing her, he came much closer to a kill shot than he planned. If she had dropped any lower to do her treacherous work, he would have spun a bullet in one ear and out the other. That wouldn’t have been good. Mr. Alexander wanted her alive for questioning.

What to do now was the only question. The small team that accompanied Mr. Alexander wasn’t prepared to launch a hunt through the woods. In Alexander’s estate outside Geneva, the security team kept a small fleet of modified Trimble Gatewing X100 drones in the air as part of their security protocol. He was not sure whether Erich had packed one of the unmanned aerial machines in the hold of the Gulfstream. He should know. But how was he to anticipate needing it for a manhunt? The model was illegal for private use in the US, which probably meant it hadn’t been stowed. Even if Erich did bring it, it would take an hour for him and his copilot, Michael, to arrive at ground zero. That was assuming they could immediately find an available car. The drone had a maximum of forty-five minutes of flight time. At eighty kilometers per hour, it could travel about fifty-three kilometers in the search for Pauline.

But what if Mr. Alexander’s small team hadn’t traveled with the drone? By calling Erich he would be broadcasting the full extent of his failure, the one thing Mr. Alexander didn’t handle well.

Jules thought of covering up what had happened. He could just tell Mr. Alexander he had no choice but to kill her. But that would only prolong the inevitable revelation that she had escaped. She wasn’t dead after all. Ultimately he knew only one thing: obedience. Jules sighed, pulled his satellite phone from a hip holster, and called Erich.

“Yes Jules?”

“Do we have the Gatewing with us?”

“We do not. Is there a problem?”

“Yes there is.”

He explained the situation to Erich, ended the call, and hit the speed dial for Mr. Alexander. The conversation was short but painful.

“Bring in help and find her,” were Alexander’s final instructions.

He would put on shoes, get some equipment from his pack he had hidden near the trailhead, and would start back up the winding path with a high beam flashlight to look for signs of Pauline’s movements.

Implacable, stoic, and confident, the only time Jules felt the sense of failure he did now was when he got the letter from the Roman Catholic Diocese of Basel, informing him he had not been selected for the Swiss Guard in charge of protecting the Holy Father and the Vatican. He was certain he would be selected. He met all the qualifications: he was Catholic, handsome, physically fit, a Swiss citizen, had military training and combat skills, and was between the ages of nineteen and thirty-one.

Some claimed the Swiss Guard was the finest fighting force in the world. What an honor that would be. He passed the physical tests with flying colors. But then the rejection letter arrived. When he pressed for an answer on why he was passed over, a nervous bishop who found Jules waiting for him in his office unannounced, let it slip out that Jules had not passed the psychological testing.

The Holy See’s loss was Alexander’s gain.

So how could he have let down the man who gave his life purpose and meaning?

I will find her. When Mr. Alexander has what he needs, I will cut out her eyes for my collection.

19

Bentonville, Arkansas

ALEXANDER’S MIND TRAVELLED BACK TO the first man he killed in cold blood. Everyone called Alexander, Jonto, at the time. He was only fifteen years old, working on a shipping vessel that was delivering cargo from Athens to Marseilles. There was a large wooden crate not listed on the manifest. Amongst the omnipresent barrels of olive oil, it concealed a few identically marked drums filled with snowy white powder wrapped in clear kilo packages. He and the man who hired him, Gabriel Lefebvre, were instructed to fit in with the other hands. There was a predetermined time and place where they would transfer the product to two men who would load the heroin on a freighter bound for Liverpool.

Under cover of darkness and fog—a smuggler’s most beautiful kind of night—he and Lefebvre moved the heavy drums in a rowboat. The handoff went beautifully. But when they returned to their ship the second mate was waiting at the top of the ladder for them. He was also the ship’s medical doctor and watch keeping officer. Either he was personally vigilant at all hours of the night or he had been tipped off by a crewmember that Alexander and Lefebvre were up to something.

The second mate confronted the two men alone. Big mistake. He informed them that all he wanted in return for graciously ignoring what
Lefebvre and Jonto had just done was their full cut of the transaction. Every penny. He let them know they should feel lucky he hadn’t already manacled them together in the brig to turn over to the police at the next port. A bigger mistake. Despite his youth, Jonto was not someone to threaten unless you were willing and ready to act immediately. It would have been much wiser for the ship’s watch keeping officer to threaten him after he was restrained.

Gabriel stood slack jawed and submissive. Quick as a snake, Alexander gutted the man with a switchblade, spilling his blue, gray, and purplish intestines and a bucket of bright red blood slippery goo on the deck. He wiped both sides of the knife on his pants, snapped the silvery razor-honed blade in its holder, and pocketed it.

“What did you just do?” Gabriel whispered, dark eyes gleaming, barely able to control the quaver in his voice.

“The only thing there was to do,” Jonto answered calmly. “The man was going to steal what is ours.”

“Vous tromper!”
Gabriel hissed, pushing Jonto backwards.

Already playing the long game, Alexander was patient and slow to anger even at this young age, but he would not suffer anyone to call him a fool without consequence.

The second man he murdered was Gabriel Lefebvre. Two seconds after he hissed
“vous tromper!”
at him, Alexander slashed Gabriel’s throat, the knife retrieved from his pocket and opened with near magical speed. Lefebvre stared at Jonto in astonishment through lifeless eyes before slumping atop the second mate on the bloody deck. Alexander took Lefebvre’s cut of the fee from the inside pocket of his oilskin windbreaker and relieved the second mate’s corpse of the generous wad of francs and other currencies in his wallet. He threw both men overboard and went back to the crew’s sleeping quarters for his rucksack. He quietly climbed down the ladder, checked that all his belongings were collected, slung the heavy pack over his shoulder,
returned above deck, descended the ladder to the rowboat, untied it, and launched away from the ship, putting all his strength into a slow but steady stroke. When he stepped ashore, Jonto began the long journey back to Greece by road.

The big boss, the man who hired Alexander after his father died wasn’t happy with him for killing Lefebvre and damaging a longstanding business arrangement. But Petrov Xenakas saw something in Alexander’s eyes that he knew could be used. By seventeen, Alexander—still named Jonathas Alexopolous and known as Jonto to his friends—was a bodyguard and enforcer for a Greek heroin smuggler.

Alexander almost smiled when he thought of the final moment when he seized Xenakas’ empire from him, killing him with the same switchblade he had used on Lefebvre and the second mate that fateful night on the Mediterranean.

Were there any murders he regretted? Holding the pillow over the jaundiced face of his brother, Nikolai, while he was in a drunken stupor had been a little painful. But Nikolai’s drinking and gambling habits had become too hard to manage and were costing the Alexopolous syndicate too much money. The booze had killed him already anyway. No, he didn’t regret that murder, and wasn’t sure it should be considered murder anyway.

But now, what of Reverend Garrison? Was it bad luck to order the execution of a good luck charm?

The man had served his purpose. All he could do now was complicate an already complicated undertaking.

No, Garrison had to die. But perhaps when the second phase of Patmos was underway, he would build a memorial for his spiritual mentor.

“IS EVERYTHING OKAY, SIR?” THE driver asked.

“What could be wrong on such a lovely fall day?” Alexander responded pleasantly. Inside he was irritated that his state of mind was so easy to read—and that he was being studied with perhaps a flicker of recognition. He was preoccupied and hadn’t replaced his sunglasses and hat. He needed Jules at his side.

“You are right on that. It is a beautiful fall. I apologize for asking, sir.”

“No apologies, please, that was kind of you to ask,” Alexander answered smoothly. “And it was kind of you to be so accommodating to drive Jules out to meet our friend at the trailhead.”

“Just my job, sir. Very happy to do so. Is one of our drivers coming back for them or is another service picking them up? I heard Samuel, her driver, was given the last part of the day off. Heck, I could drive back down there myself if no one is scheduled yet.”

“Again. That is kind of you …” Alexander located the man’s name on his printed itinerary … “Charles. But your offer won’t be necessary. We’ve made other arrangements.”

Alexander pulled his sunglasses from his lapel pocket and pushed them over his nose. He kept his face pointed straight forward but watched the driver’s eyes dart nervously between the road and the rearview mirror. The chauffeur’s eyebrows moved back and forth, up and down, in a rhythm of deep thought. He is trying very hard to figure something out, Alexander thought. I don’t like to be presumptuous, but I suspect he wonders why I look familiar and who I am.

“So you’ll be going to the airport alone, sir?” the driver queried.

Today is not the day to have a driver who is curious and inquisitive, Alexander thought. Particularly with Pauline wounded and at large. Jules would do all he could to reacquire her but there was a vast expanse of territory to cover. The trail Klaus found for her was in a state park consisting of thousands of acres. The problem was exacerbated in that it abutted the Ozark National Forest. Pauline had become the proverbial
needle in a haystack. Support, including men and drones, was en route, but a lot could happen before their arrival throughout the evening.

He looked forward. Charles was circumspectly watching him in the rearview mirror. He needed to assuage the driver’s meddlesome concern.

“My traveling companion has been training for her first triathlon. As soon as she started up the trail, she became quite taken by the scenery and topography of your area. I suggested she stay over a couple days to take advantage of this lovely setting.”

“I’ve never understood those distance runners,” the driver commented. “My daughter ran cross country in high school. It looked like nothing but pain and sweat to me.”

“I could not agree with you more, Charles. Triathletes, marathoners, and the like are different animals. Once she decided to stay for some altitude and hill training, she insisted it begin with today’s run. Young people are so bold and fearless. I had to insist with her that Jules remain to make sure she’s safe and to organize suitable accommodations for her stay. I would love to stay over myself, but business calls.”

I’m afraid I need to give another task to Jules, Alexander thought. Jules knows how to simulate a fatal heart attack and another dozen ways to make a death look like natural causes. But he must move fast and still be particularly circumspect as we are on foreign soil and have other acute problems to wrap up.

Alexander’s mind began to take inventory of the day.

Reverend Garrison, I thank you for your spiritual counsel. You were most helpful today even if I am still not sure if God, if he indeed exists, will work on my behalf. If he doesn’t or if he works against me, I know the one who will cover my efforts with spiritual protection. I am sorry the blessing you provided for me will cost you so much. But great deeds require great sacrifices.

Pauline, you were a bad girl. But be assured, Jules will find you. Not even I want to know all that he will do to you.

Alexander almost smiled. Then he furrowed his brow. No one was supposed to know he was in Northwest Arkansas. His publicist made sure a few members of the paparazzi knew he had landed in Nice, France, with a young runway model from Milan. His publicist actually believed that was true. As did the runway model. Alexander didn’t hold the prejudice that pretty girls weren’t smart, but in this case, she was clueless that the man who was wining, dining, and bedding her, was Alexander’s doppelgänger. But others, undoubtedly enemies, now knew better.

Loose ends are annoying … but inevitable. So no matter. Every day has its problems. Nothing we can’t handle. We knew this was going to be arduous, so nothing has changed.

CHARLES, THE CHAUFFEUR, KEPT HIS eyes on the road. He made a conscience effort to stop glancing at the man behind him. He chewed on his lower lip, a nervous habit his wife hated, as he tried to sort out the day’s events.

His passenger’s words on his companion—
I think we know what kind of companion she is
—wanting to stay over for further training were strange. The deadly, blond gorilla told him she was going to take it easy because she wasn’t feeling well. She wanted to go straight back to the jet and wait for another car after she walked back to the trailhead.

I told him it was best for me to wait at the trailhead and send another car for the old man, but the bodyguard insisted I come back to the church. That didn’t make sense either.

Despite his concerted efforts to keep his eyes straight ahead, Charles looked at his passenger in the rearview mirror yet again. He couldn’t see the man’s eyes through the darkened lenses, but he felt an intense eye contact with the man, whoever he was.

I should know his name. I’ve seen him before.

Charles felt a prickly tickle run from his scalp to the back of his neck. He released an involuntary shudder of fear that raced from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

Why is he staring at me? What is he thinking? Who is this creepy guy? It feels like he is in my mind.