The Cathari Treasure (Cameron Kincaid) (24 page)
Read The Cathari Treasure (Cameron Kincaid) Online
Authors: Daniel Arthur Smith
Pepe slipped his hand in his
pocket and then took out his phone for Cameron.
“This thing is ancient,” said
Cameron. He turned the old clamshell phone as if he had not seen one in
years. “Does it even work?”
“Ha, ha,” said Pepe. “It
works.”
“This thing is an
antique.” Cameron flipped open the clamshell and the screen lit up.
“No color? I don’t believe it.”
“Less features is longer
battery,” said Pepe, his brow stern. “Now do you want to use it?”
“Yeah, yeah, relax,” said
Cameron.
“Don’t complain,” said Pepe.
Cameron winked at Pepe and
Pepe flashed a smile back. These men had been friends for so long they
had become brothers.
Cameron rapidly dialed a number
and waited for the other end to pick up.
“Hello,” said a voice. The
voice was Claude, another old friend and brother.
“Claude, hey there, it’s
Cameron.”
“I have not heard from
you. Are you ok?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll be
coming back right after I return Pepe to Montreal.”
“Pepe is there with you?”
“Sure, he says hello.”
Cameron gave Pepe a knowing glance.
“Bonjour, mon ami,” said
Pepe. Cameron continued, “He says bonjour.”
“I heard him,” said Claude,
“bonjour.”
Cameron looked up at Pepe
again, “Claude says bonjour.” Pepe gave a small wave to the phone
accompanied with the same smile he had flashed at Cameron a moment before.
“So you will be back soon?”
“Yes Claude, and thank you for
covering. I’m sure a lot of people have been asking questions about the
other night.”
“Funny thing,” said Claude, “no
one is asking questions.”
* * *
* *
The
End
Cameron
Kincaid returns in
The Somali Deception EPISODE I
The Somali Deception EPISODE II
The Somali Deception EPISODE III
The Somali Deception EPISODE IV
Or
The Somali Deception THE
COMPLETE EDITION
* * *
* *
* * *
* *
A
Note from the Author
Thank you for reading The Cathari Treasure.
The seed of this novel began some years
ago prior to the birth of my second son.
I was renting a small office space across the street from the famed
Chelsea Hotel in search of an idea for a new novel.
The floor of the office was inhabited
with a cadre of talented writers at different career stages.
Having found the genre of literary fiction
a challenge to publish I was indecisive as to which of my interest to nail down
and spent much time conversing with the other desk dwellers.
The veteran travel writer in the next
office over turned me onto the idea of utilizing all of the cities I had
traveled to in a series of adventure stories and the comedian at the end of the
hall, only known at that time as the voice of a baby on a series of famous
television commercials, inspired the idea of a former Legionnaire that had
become a celebrity chef.
I also
discovered from the travel writer that a previous tenant to my writing space
was Stephen O’Shea and at that desk he authored his history on the Cathar, The
Perfect Heresy.
Having been
fascinated with the Cathar during my religion studies years past I found this
to be serendipitous and with some sprinkling of fiction the first Cameron
Kincaid novel was written.
There is
a bit more to that tale.
My second
son was born after the inception of The Cathari Treasure so I traded the office
for crib duty and wrote for the most part during late night feedings throughout
the spring and summer of 2010 with one hand holding a baby bottle and the other
typing away.
If you enjoyed The Cathari Treasure I would appreciate if
you would share your thoughts in a review.
Reviews help other readers that may have similar interest as you decide
whether or not this is a story they would like to read.
And again thank you.
* * *
* *
Daniel Arthur Smith is the international bestselling author
of The Cathari Treasure and The Somali Deception.
American born, Daniel has traveled to
over 300 cities in 22 countries, residing in Los Angeles, Kalamazoo, Prague,
Crete, and New York.
Daniel was born and raised in Michigan, graduating from
Western Michigan University where he studied philosophy and comparative
religion.
He has been a teacher,
bartender, barista, poetry house proprietor, technologist, and a Fortune 100
consultant across America and Europe.
Daniel resides and writes in Manhattan with his wife and young sons.
Discover more at
http://www.danielarthursmith.com
Twitter:
http://twitter.com/authordasmith
Facebook:
http://facebook.com/danielarthursmith
Goodreads
:
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6893816.Daniel_Arthur_Smith
And
the serial site:
http://thecatharitreasure.com
* * * * *
Read on for an excerpt from the
next Cameron Kincaid Adventure
THE SOMALI
DECEPTION
* * * * *
The Somali Deception
Copyright © 2010-13 by Daniel
Arthur Smith
* * * * *
Chapter 1
Seychelles Tuesday 02:35 hours
SCT
Christine woke to yells from the
decks above.
She slid her hand to
the still warm spot where Nikos had been sleeping and then began to raise herself.
Wine and darkness pulled Christine back
toward her pillow.
She pressed her
hand down hard on the mattress to steady the spinning bed and then pushed
herself up further.
Softly Christine spoke to the
darkness, “Nikos.”
No one answered.
Christine again said his name,
this time louder, “Nikos.”
The yacht was still.
Christine shifted to the side of
the bed, dizzy from the subtle movement.
The shouts above were scattered, unclear, and the voices strange.
The yelling stopped.
The darkness, stillness, and silence
enveloped Christine.
The cabin air
became thick and the remnants of the wine again pulled at her forehead, down
her neck, into her stomach.
The
blood rushing through her core gagged her.
The handle of the cabin hatch
came to sudden life.
The stillness broken,
Christine’s chest went tight.
Breathing ceased.
Her lungs
held hostage by muscles squeezing deep into her neck, chin, jaw, the sensation
of falling back and away, the urge to vomit, to escape, and then, a rapid
eruption of adrenalin.
Christine’s
body was overcome in a wave of forced compensation as all of her muscles
released.
Her breathing returned,
faster than measure.
Clenching the
edge of the blanket, she pulled the velour in tight to her lips to stifle the
sound of her low feeble sobs.
Hard
forced clicks from the latch filled the stateroom.
Though the cabin was a shroud of black,
Christine set her eyes wide in the direction of the imminent intrusion.
Futilely she began to back pedal against
the slick silk sheets, sinking deep into the cushioned headboard.
Across the
room
metal slapped against metal, then repeated, two, three times, and then,
abruptly stopped.
Though the hatch was locked the
chemicals pounding through Christine offered no quarter, the flood had begun,
the invasion merely delayed.
Christine was alone on the master bed, in the darkness, stillness,
immersed in near silence.
Muffled
whimpers continued to betray Christine despite her efforts to shield her mouth
and the hot rapid
breaths
that coursed through her nose
were thunderous.
Through out her
chest and throat, her mouth and nose, the sensation of more
breath
out than in.
A volley of gunshots followed by
a barking shout interrupted the silence.
Christine broke down what was
happening on the yacht into a series of actions spaced eternally apart.
Each silent divide an escalating stretch
of anxiety towering the last.
Nikos had assured Christine that
to anchor on the far side of Curieuse was safe.
They were so close to Mahé, so close to
Victoria.
The beach and marina were
in view from the deck, a far swim at most in bath water warm blue water.
From the edge of the room,
Christine heard the smooth metallic rub of a key being slid into the hatch and
then tumblers falling into place.
Christine wanted Nikos to be the
one turning the key.
With a final click of the lock,
the hatch smoothly fell ajar.
A
seam of light sliced through the cabin.
Christine winced.
Her eyes
tightened, opened, then tightened again.
The hatch opened smoothly.
Christine was initially blinded
by the glare of the hall, then her eyes adjusted to the form before her.
The open hatch was cut with the
backlit silhouette of a towering man, his arms contoured, his head a smooth
sphere.
Two other men of smaller
stature stood behind the first.
Christine’s green eyes tuned to the indirect lamps of the hall.
The two men behind the silhouette were
both dark Africans, one in a light soiled t-shirt, the other shirtless, each
with a Kalashnikov strapped over a thin shoulder.
The tall bald man hunched down into
the stateroom.
Christine watched
the outline of the fingers of one hand spread wide then slip away into the dark
inside edge of the doorway.
The
man’s arm snaked up until he found the switch he was seeking.
With a click, the wall sconces fastened
above each side of the master bed illuminated the cabin with an amber
glow.
The man, an African darker
than the others, surveyed the room.
His eyes scanned the dressers snug under the side berth and cabin
windows.
He inspected the closet
doors, and the opened entrance to the head.
Not once did the bald giant’s eyes focus
on the near naked woman, a model by trade, peering at him from the master bed.
With a wave of his hand, the
tall man gestured the two gaunt Kalashnikov bearers into the stateroom.
The men reached down between them and
from the floor lifted a shirtless
caucasian
.
Limp in their grasp, the two men
effortlessly dragged the unconscious man toward Christine.
As the men moved closer,
Christine’s feeble whimpers rose to convulsive sobs.
Frozen against the cushioned headboard,
her eyes began to flood.
The bright green of her eyes
glazed over with the well of tears, and her head and neck pressed back so
tightly against the headboard, that with each thudding pulse, the thundering
rush of blood pained the base of her skull.
The two men carried the ragdoll
of a man over to the bed and then with a dip and a lift they heaved the
lifeless figure next to Christine.
Her eyes shot to the bloody face.
The beaten man was Nikos.
Her heart swelled, throbbing against her lungs, preventing air from
getting in.