The Plantation

Teaser chapter

“CHRIS KUZNESKI . . .

completely understands what makes for a good story:

action, sex, suspense, humor, and great characters.”

– Nelson DeMille

THE PLANTATION

“INGENIOUS . . . Chris Kuzneski’s writing has the same kind of raw power as the early Stephen King.”

– James Patterson,

New York Times

bestselling author

“EXCELLENT! High stakes, fast action, vibrant characters, and a very, very original plot concept. Not to be missed!”

– Lee Child,

New York Times

bestselling author

“RIVETING . . . Kuzneski displays a remarkable sense of suspense and action . . . will leave readers breathless and up much too late! Don’t miss it!”

– James Rollins,

USA Today

bestselling author

“POWERFUL . . . A great plot twist. Right from the opening scenes, the book takes off, and all I can say is hang on for the ride.”

– Douglas Preston,

New York Times

bestselling author

“GRAPHIC . . . Becomes more sinister with each turn of the page.”

– James Tucker, bestselling author of

Tragic Wand

“ACTION-PACKED . . . The twists and turns of a Stephen King chiller . . . will keep you on the edge of your seat.”

-M. J. Hollingshead,

author of The Inspector’s Wife

“WOW! . . . Powerful stuff. It’s a gripping novel that smells of gunpowder and reeks of heroism, with a beautiful girl, some crazed characters, and lots of sadistic revenge . . . Kuzneski has written a sick, sensational yarn. I can’t wait for the next one.”

-Thom Racina, USA Today bestselling author

Titles by Chris Kuzneski

SWORD OF GOD

SIGN OF THE CROSS

THE PLANTATION

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Foreword

A few years ago I nearly gave up. Like many writers, I had a tough time breaking into the industry. Agents ignored me, and publishers rejected me. My life was like a bad country song, only I didn’t have a mullet. To make matters worse, my savings were almost gone, which meant I was this close to doing something desperate-like getting a “real” job.

Back then, the only thing that stood between me and the workforce was a novel I had just written called The Plantation . It featured two main characters that I really liked, Jonathon Payne and David Jones, and a plot that was pretty original. In hindsight, maybe too original. At least that’s what I was told in several rejection letters. Editors and agents loved the book but weren’t sure how to market it. And in the book business, that is the kiss of death. No marketing means no sales. No sales means no book deal. And no book deal means it’s time to search the want ads.

Thankfully, I came across an article about a company called iUniverse and a new type of technology called print on demand. Simply put, copies of a book could be printed after a book order was placed, thereby eliminating large print runs that a struggling writer like myself couldn’t afford. Suddenly I had the freedom to print a small quantity of books that I could sell to family and friends. And if I was really lucky, total strangers would buy it, too.

Long story short, my plan worked. I sold enough copies out of the trunk of my car to ward off starvation, plus it gave me the confidence to take things one step further. I figured since readers loved The Plantation, maybe writers would as well. So I wrote letters to many of my favorite authors, asking if they’d be interested in reading my book. Incredibly, most of them agreed to help, and before long they were writing letters to me, telling me how much they enjoyed it. And I’m talking about famous authors like James Patterson, Nelson DeMille, Lee Child, Douglas Preston, and James Rollins. Each of them willing to endorse my novel.

Seriously, how cool is that?

Anyway, even though I had their support, I still didn’t have a publisher. But all of that changed when Scott Miller, an agent at Trident Media, bought one of my self-published copies in a Philadelphia bookstore and liked it enough to e-mail me. At the time I had a folder with more than one hundred rejection letters, yet the best young agent in the business bought my book and contacted me. Not only did I get a royalty from his purchase, but I also got the perfect agent.

By then I had written my next novel, a religious thriller called Sign of the Cross, which Scott wanted to shop immediately since The Da Vinci Code was dominating the bestseller lists at that time. It proved to be a wise decision. Within months, he had sold the American rights to Berkley and the foreign rights to more than fifteen publishers around the world.

Finally, I could throw away the want ads.

Next up was Sword of God, which became my second international bestseller. In my mind, it was book three in the Payne/Jones universe. But to most readers, it was only book two because The Plantation was never released by a major publisher.

That is, until now.

Several years have passed since I wrote the first draft of The Plantation. The original version was much longer and contained several mistakes that rookie writers tend to make. With the help of my good friend Ian Harper, I tried to eliminate as many of those as possible-while keeping the plot intact. After a lot of tweaking, I’m thrilled with the final product.

To me, The Plantation is my first love. It’s the book that allowed me to write for a living.

Hopefully, you’ll fall in love with it, too.

CHAPTER 1

Thursday, July 1st

Icy River, Colorado

(122 miles southwest of Denver)

ROBERT Edwards hurdled the fallen spruce but refused to break his frantic stride.

He couldn’t afford to. They were still giving chase.

After rounding a bend in the path, he decided to gamble, leaping from the well-lined trail into the dense underbrush of the forest. He dodged the first few branches, trying to shield his face from their thorny vegetation, but his efforts were futile. His reckless speed, coupled with the early-morning gloom, hindered his reaction time, and within seconds he felt his flesh being torn from his cheeks and forehead. The coppery taste of blood soon flooded his lips.

Ignoring the pain, the thirty-two-year-old struggled forward, increasing his pace until the only sounds he heard were the pounding of his heart and the gasping of his breath. But even then, he struggled on, pushing harder and harder until he could move no farther, until his legs could carry him no more.

Slowing to a stop, Edwards turned and scanned the timber-land for any sign of his pursuers. He searched the ground, the trees, and finally the dark sky above. He had no idea where they had come from-it was like they’d just materialized out of the night-so he wasn’t about to overlook anything. Hell, he wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d emerged from the underworld itself.

Their appearance was that mystifying.

When his search revealed nothing, he leaned against a nearby boulder and fought for air. But the high altitude of the Rockies and the blanket of fear that shrouded him made it difficult to breathe. But slowly, the pungent aroma of the pine-scented air reached his starving lungs.

“I . . . made . . . it,” he whispered in between breaths. “I . . . fuckin’ . . . made . . . it.”

Unfortunately, his joy was short-lived.

A snapping twig announced the horde’s approach, and without hesitation Edwards burst from his resting spot and continued his journey up the sloped terrain. After a few hundred feet, he reached level ground for the first time in several minutes and used the opportunity to regain his bearings. He studied the acreage that surrounded him, looking for landmarks of any kind, but a grove of bright green aspens blocked his view.

“Come on!” He groaned. “Where . . . am . . . I?”

With nothing but instinct to rely on, Edwards turned to his right and sprinted across the uneven ground, searching for something to guide him. A trail, a rock, a bush. It didn’t matter as long as he recognized it. Thankfully, his effort was quickly rewarded. The unmistakable sound of surging water overpowered the patter of his own footsteps, and he knew that could mean only one thing. Chinook Falls was nearby.

Edwards increased his speed and headed for the source of the thunderous sound, using the rumble as a beacon. As he got closer, the dense forest that had concealed the dawn abruptly tapered into a grass-filled clearing, allowing soft beams of light to fall across his blood-streaked face. Suddenly the crystal clear water of the river came into view. It wasn’t much, but to Edwards it was a sign of hope. It meant that things were going to be all right, that he had escaped the evil presence in the woods.

While fighting tears of joy, the athletic ski instructor scurried across the open field, hoping that the campground near the base of the falls would be bustling with early-morning activity, praying that someone had the firepower to stop the advancing mob.

Regrettably, Edwards never got a chance to find out.

Before he reached the edge of the meadow, two hooded figures dressed in black robes emerged from a thicket near the water’s edge, effectively cutting off his escape route. Their sudden appearance forced him to react, and he did, planting his foot in the soft soil and banking hard to the left. Within seconds he’d abandoned the uncovered space of the pasture and had returned to the wooded cover of the thick forest. It took a moment to readjust to the darkness, but once he did, he decided to climb the rocky bluff that rose before him.

At the top of the incline, Edwards veered to his right, thinking he could make it to the crest of the falls before anyone had a chance to spot him. At least that was his plan. He moved quickly, focusing solely on the branches that endangered his face and the water that surged in the distance. But his narrow focus prevented him from seeing the stump that lay ahead. In a moment of carelessness, he caught his foot on its moss-covered roots and instantly heard a blood-curdling snap. He felt it, too, crashing hard to the ground.

In a final act of desperation, Edwards struggled to his feet, pretending nothing had happened, but the lightning bolt of pain that exploded through his tattered leg was so intense, so agonizing, he collapsed to the ground like a marionette without strings.

“Shit!” he screamed, suddenly realizing the hopeless-ness of his situation. “Who the hell are you? What do you want from me?!”

Unfortunately, he was about to find out.

CHAPTER 2

Mars, Pennsylvania

(13 miles north of Pittsburgh)

THE alarm clock buzzed at 10:00 A.M., but Jonathon Payne didn’t feel like waking up. He had spent the previous night hosting a charity event-one that lasted well past midnight-and now he was paying for his lack of sleep. Begrudgingly, after hitting the snooze button twice, he forced himself out of bed.

“God, I hate mornings,” he moaned.

After getting undressed, the brown-haired bachelor twisted the brass fixtures in his shower room and eased his chiseled, 6’4”, 230-pound frame under the surging liquid. When he was done, he hustled through the rest of his morning routine, threw on a pair of jeans and a golf shirt, and headed to his kitchen for a light breakfast.

He lived in a mansion that he’d inherited from his grandfather, the man who raised Payne after the death of his parents. Even though the house was built in 1977, it still had the feel of a brand-new home due to Payne’s passion for neatness and organization, traits he had developed in the military.

Payne entered the U.S. Naval Academy as a member of the basketball and football teams, but it was his expertise in hand-to-hand combat, not man-to-man defense, that eventually got him recognized. Two years after graduation, he was selected to join the MANIACs, a highly classified special operations unit composed of the best soldiers the Marines, Army, Navy, Intelligence, Air Force, and Coast Guard could find. Established at the request of the Pentagon, the MANIACs’ goal was to complete missions that the U.S. government couldn’t afford to publicize: political assassinations, antiterrorist acts, etc. The squad was the best of the best, and their motto was fitting. If the military can’t do the job, send in the MANIACs.

Of course, all of that was a part of Payne’s past.

He was a working man now. Or at least he tried to be.

THE Payne Industries complex sat atop Mount Washington, offering a breathtaking view of the Pittsburgh skyline and enough office space for 550 employees. One of the execu tives-a vice president in the legal department-was exiting the glass elevator as Payne was stepping in.

“Morning,” Payne said.

“Barely,” the man replied, as he headed off for a lunch meeting.

Payne smiled at the wisecrack, then made a mental note to dock the bastard’s wages. Well, not really. But as CEO of his family’s company, Payne didn’t have much else to do, other than showing up for an occasional board meeting and using his family name to raise money for charities. Everything else, he left to his underlings.

Most people in his position would try to do more than they could handle, but Payne understood his limitations. He realized he wasn’t blessed with his grandfather’s business acumen or his passion for the corporate world. And even though his grandfather’s dying wish was for Payne to run the company, he didn’t want to screw it up. So while people with MBAs made the critical decisions, Payne stayed in the background, trying to help the community.

The moment Payne walked into his penthouse office, his elderly secretary greeted him. “How did last night’s event go?”

“Too late for my taste. Those Make-A-Wish kids sure know how to party.”

She smiled at his joke and handed him a stack of messages. “Ariane just called. She wants to discuss your plans for the long weekend.”

“What? She must be mistaken. I’d never take a long weekend. Work is way too important!”

The secretary rolled her eyes. Payne had once taken a vacation for Yom Kippur, and he wasn’t even Jewish. “D.J. called, too. In fact, he’d like you to stop down as soon as you can.”

“Is it about a case?” he asked excitedly.

“I have no idea, but he stressed it was very important.”

“Great! Give him a call and tell him I’m on my way.”

With a burst of adrenaline, Payne bypassed the elevator and headed directly to the stairs, which was the quickest way to Jones’s office during business hours. When he reached his best friend’s floor, he stopped to admire the gold lettering on the smoked glass door.

DAVID JOSEPH JONES Private Investigator

He liked the sound of that, especially since he’d helped Jones achieve it.

When Payne inherited the large office complex from his grandfather, he gave Jones, a former lieutenant of his, a chance to live out his dream. Payne arranged the necessary financing and credit, gave him an entire floor of prime Pittsburgh real estate, and provided him with a well-paid office staff. All Payne wanted in return was to be a part of his friend’s happiness.

Oh, and to assist Jones on all of his glamorous cases.

Plus he wanted business cards that said Jonathon Payne, Private Eye.

But other than that, he just wanted his friend to be happy.

Payne waved at Jones’s receptionist, who was talking on the phone, and entered the back office. Jones was sitting behind his antique desk, a scowl etched on his angular face. He had short hair, which was tight on the sides, and cheeks that were free from stubble.

“What’s up?” Payne asked. “Trouble in Detectiveland?”

“It’s about time you got here,” Jones barked. His light mocha skin possessed a reddish hue that normally wasn’t there. “I’ve been waiting for you all morning.”

Payne plopped into the chair across from Jones. “I came down as soon as I got your message. What’s the problem?”

Jones exhaled as he eased back into his leather chair. “Before I say anything, I need to stress something to you. What I’m about to tell you is confidential. It’s for your ears only. No one, and I mean no one, is allowed to know anything about this but you. All right?”

Payne smiled at the possibilities. This sounded like something big. He couldn’t wait to hear what it was. Maybe a robbery, or even a murder. Jones’s agency had never handled a crime like that. “Of course! You can count on me. I promise.”

Relief flooded Jones’s face. “Thank God.”

“So, what is it? A big case?”

Jones shook his head, then slowly explained the situation. “You know how you have all those boxes of gadgets near my filing cabinets in the storage area?”

“Yeah,” Payne replied. He’d been collecting magic tricks and gizmos ever since he was a little boy. His grandfather had started the collection for him, buying him a deck of magic playing cards when Payne was only five, and the gift turned out to be habit-forming. Ever since then, Payne was hooked on the art of prestidigitation. “What about ’em?”

“Well,” Jones muttered, “I know I’m not supposed to mess with your stuff. I know that. But I went in there to get some paperwork this morning, and . . .”

“And what? What did you do?”

“I saw a pair of handcuffs in there, and they looked pretty damn real.”

“Go on,” Payne grumbled, not liking where this was going.

“I brought them back here and tried to analyze them. You know, figure them out? And after a while, I did. I figured out the trick.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, so I slipped them on to test my theory, and . . .”

Payne stared at D.J. and smiled. For the first time, he realized his friend’s hands had been hidden from view during their entire conversation. “You’re handcuffed to the desk, aren’t you?”

Jones took a deep breath and nodded sheepishly. “I’ve been like this for three freakin’ hours, and I have to take a leak. You know how my morning coffee goes right through me!”

Laughing, Payne jumped to his feet and peered behind the desk to take a look. “Whoa! That doesn’t look comfortable at all. You’re all twisted and-”

“It’s not comfortable,” Jones interrupted. “That’s why I need you to give me a hand.”

“Why don’t you just break off the handle? Or aren’t you strong enough?”

“It’s an antique desk! I’m not breaking an antique desk!”

Payne smiled. “Wait a second. I thought you could pick any lock in the world.”

“With the proper tools, I can. But as you can plainly see, I can’t reach any tools.”

“I see that,” Payne said, laughing. “Fine. I’ll give you some help, but . . .”

“But what?” Jones snapped as his face got more flushed. “Just tell me the secret to your stupid trick so I can get free. I’m not in the mood to joke here.”

“I know. That’s why I don’t know how to tell you this. I’ve got some bad news for you.”

“Bad news? What kind of bad news?”

Payne patted his friend on his arm, then whispered, “I don’t own any fake handcuffs.”

“What? You’ve got to be kidding me!” Jones tried pulling free from the desk, but the cuffs wouldn’t budge. “You mean I locked myself to my desk with a real set of cuffs? Son of a bitch!”

“Not exactly something you’ll put on your private eye résumé, huh?”

Jones was tempted to curse out Payne but quickly realized that he was the only one who could help. “Jon. Buddy. Could you please get me some bolt cutters?”

“I could, but I’m actually kind of enjoying-”

“Now!” Jones screamed. “This isn’t a time for jokes! If my bladder gets any fuller, I’ll be forced to piss all over your office building! I swear to God, I will!”

“Okay, okay. I’m going.” Payne bit his lip to keep from laughing. “But before I leave . . .” He placed his hand on the cuffs, and with a flick of his wrist, he popped off the stainless steel device-a trick he’d learned from a professional escape artist. “I better grab my handcuffs so I know what type of bolt cutters to get.”

Jones stared in amazement as his best friend walked across the room. “You bastard! I thought you said they were real?”

Payne shrugged. “And I thought you promised not to mess with my stuff.”

CHAPTER 3

PAYNE’S schedule was free until an afternoon meeting, so he decided to return his girlfriend’s message in person.

Ariane Walker had recently been named the youngest vice president in the history of the First National Bank of Pittsburgh, an amazing accomplishment for a twenty-eight-year-old female in the boys’ club of banking. She was born and raised in nearby Moon Township, a fact that she and Payne were often kidded about since he grew up in Mars, Pennsylvania. Both of them took it in stride. Normally, they just replied that their relationship was out of this world, and they meant it. They’d been dating for over a year and had never had a fight-at least none without pillows.

As Payne strolled to Ariane’s office, a journey he tried to make a few times a week, he peered down at Pittsburgh’s gleaming skyline and smiled. Even though he grew up disliking the place, a city that used to be littered with steel mills, industrial parks, and the worst air this side of Cher nobyl, his opinion had slowly changed. In recent years Pittsburgh had undergone an amazing metamorphosis, one that had transformed it from an urban nightmare to one of the most scenic cities in America.

First, the steel industry shifted elsewhere, leaving plenty of land for new businesses, luscious green parks, and state-of-the-art sports stadiums. Then Pittsburgh’s three rivers-the Allegheny, the Monongahela, and the Ohio-were dredged, making them suitable for recreational use and riverfront enterprises. Buildings received face-lifts. Bridges received paint jobs. The air received oxygen. This mutt of a city was given a thorough bath, and a pure pedigree had somehow emerged, one that had been voted “America’s Most Livable City.”

“Hey,” Ariane said the moment Payne knocked on her open office door. “I called you earlier. You get my message?”

“Yep, and since I had nothing else to do, I figured I’d pay my favorite girl a visit.”

“I don’t know where she is right now, so I guess I’ll have to do until she gets back.”

Payne sighed as he moved closer. “Oh well, I guess you’re better than nothing.”

The chestnut-haired executive grinned and gave him a peck on the cheek. “We’ve got to make this quick, Jonathon. With a long weekend coming up, I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“But you still have tomorrow off, right? Or am I going to have to buy the bank and fire you?”

“Oh, how romantic!” she teased. “No, that won’t be necessary. Once I leave here at five, I’m officially free until Tuesday morning. The next one hundred and eleven hours are all yours.”

“And I’m gonna use every one of them. I swear, woman, I don’t get to see you enough.”

“I feel the same way, man. But one of us has to work, and I know it’s not going to be you.”

Payne grimaced. “It certainly doesn’t look like you’re working too hard. I mean, here you are, a highly paid bank official, and instead of doing something productive, you’re sitting at your desk, undressing me with your eyes.”

Ariane blushed slightly. “Please!”

“And now you’re begging for me. Damn, get a hold of your passion. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

She smacked him on the arm and ordered him to calm down. “What is it that you want?”

“Hey, you called me. Remember?”

“Please don’t remind me of my bold and desperate act.”

“I can’t help it that you’re easy.”

“That’s true,” she joked. “I think I get that from my grandmother. She used to run a brothel, you know.”

“Really?”

“No, not really.” She laughed at the thought. “So, what are we going to do tonight?”

Payne shrugged. “Some of the new holiday movies come out today. I guess we could grab some dinner and catch a flick.”

“Your treat?”

“I don’t know,” he scoffed. “You claim I don’t even have a job. Why should I pay?”

Ariane faked a growl. “That wasn’t a question, Jonathon. That was an order. Your treat!”

He loved it when she called him Jonathon. He really did. For some reason she was the first person he’d ever met that made it sound sexy. With anyone else, the name gave him flashbacks to the days when his parents were alive and he was just a boy. Jonathon was the name his mother used when he was in trouble. Like the time he accidentally ran over the neighbor’s cat with a lawn mower. The cat’s tail healed quickly, but Payne’s ass was sore for weeks.

“Of course it’s my treat!” He laughed. “I pay for all the women I’m currently dating.”

“Well, we can talk about your hookers later. In the meantime, do you have time to take me out to lunch? I think this place could do without me for a little while.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, smiling.

Within minutes, they were strolling hand in hand above the city, enjoying the summer sun and each other’s company. In fact, they were so lost in their own little world that neither of them noticed the black van that started following them the moment they left the bank.

CHAPTER 4

Longview Regional Hospital

Longview, Colorado

(109 miles southwest of Denver)

TONYA Edwards sat in the ob-gyn’s office, nervously waiting for her test results. Normally, Tonya was an optimistic person, someone who always looked at the bright side of life, but a first-time pregnancy has a way of changing that. Anxiety and fear often replace calm and joy, and as she waited for her doctor, the tension gnawed away at her very large stomach.

When the exam room door finally opened, Tonya wanted to jump up to greet the doctor, but it was physically impossible. She just wasn’t in the condition to make any quick movements.

“How are you feeling, Tonya?” asked the middle-aged doctor as he pulled a chair next to her. “Any better?”

“Not really, Dr. Williamson. I’m still nauseous, and I have a slight headache.”

“And how’s the little fellow doing today?”

She grinned and patted her belly. “Robert Jr. is doing fine. He’s been kicking up a storm while I’ve been waiting for the results, though.”

“Well, I’ve got good news for both of you. Everything looks perfect. No problems at all.”

Relief flooded Tonya’s face. After taking a deep breath, her lips curled into a bright smile. “That is such good news, doc. You wouldn’t believe how worried I’ve been.”

“Actually,” he said, “I probably would. I’ve been doing this for many years, and I’ve seen this happen many times before. Tension tends to bring on flulike symptoms. First-time mothers have it pretty rough. Especially someone like you. Since you no longer have your own mother to talk to, you really don’t have anyone to help you through this. Sure, Robert is there, but this is all new to him, too. And he certainly has no idea about the physical changes that you’re going through, now does he?”

Tonya smiled as she wiped the moisture from her eyes. “He’s kind of clueless on the physical stuff. In fact, I had to tell him how he got me in this condition to begin with.”

Dr. Williamson let out a loud laugh. “Well, I must admit I expected him to know at least that much.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. Robert is a wonderful husband, and he’s going to make a great dad, but you’re right. He’s clueless when it comes to my body and this baby.”

“I’m sure he’s doing the best he can, so take it easy on him.”

When her appointment was over, Tonya waddled down the corridor toward the elevators. After pushing the down button, she leaned against a nearby wall and rested.

“Are you all right?” asked a man in a powder blue nurse’s outfit.

The voice startled her. “What? Ah, yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.”

“How many months are you?”

She laughed as she touched her belly. “Eight down, one to go.”

“I bet you’re excited, huh?”

Tonya nodded her head. “I don’t know what I’m looking forward to the most: having a baby or getting my body back to the way it used to be.”

The black man grinned. “Well, I admire you women. You go through so much in order to bring something so precious into the world. I got to hand it to you.”

“Well, somebody’s got to do it, and it certainly isn’t going to be a man.”

He nodded. He couldn’t agree with her more. “So, what were you doing here?”

“I just had an appointment with Dr. Williamson. He wanted to run a few tests to make sure I’m fine.”

“And everything went well, I hope?”

“Perfect.”

“Good,” the man said. “I’m glad to hear it.”

As he finished his statement, the elevator door slid open, revealing an empty car. Tonya took a few steps forward, but she appeared a little unsteady on her feet.

“Wow,” she muttered. “I really don’t feel very good.”

The man grimaced, then patted her on the arm. “I’ll tell you what. If you hold the door for me, I’ll get something that will help you out. Okay?”

She stared at him, a look of confusion on her face.

“Just trust me, all right?”

Tonya nodded, holding the door open button. The man jogged halfway down the hall and grabbed a wheelchair that had been abandoned in the corridor. Pushing it as quickly as he could, the man returned to the elevator. “Your chariot, madam.”

She smiled and settled her wide frame into the seat. “Normally you wouldn’t catch me in one of these for a million bucks, but to be honest with you, I think the rest will do me good.”

“I was heading outside anyway, so it would be my pleasure to assist you to the parking lot.”

“Thanks,” Tonya said. “I appreciate it.”

As the elevator door slid shut, the smile that had filled the man’s face during the entire conversation quickly faded. Reaching into his pocket, he grabbed the hypodermic needle that he had prepared ten minutes earlier and brought it into view. After removing the cap, the man inched the syringe toward the exposed flesh of the unsuspecting woman.

“Don’t worry, Tonya,” he whispered. “The baby won’t feel a thing.”

Before she had a chance to question his comment or the use of her name, he jabbed the needle into her neck and watched her succumb to the potent chemical. The elevator door opened a moment later and he wasted no time pushing the sleeping woman through the lobby, right past the security staff at the front desk.

“Is she all right?” asked one of the guards.

“Dead tired,” he answered as he rolled her toward the black vehicle that waited outside.

LATER that night, Payne and Ariane went to the movies. Unfortunately, the theater was so packed they were actually relieved when the film ended.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked as they walked outside. “Did you like it?”

“Like what?”

“Um, the movie we just saw.”

Ariane smiled, giggling at her atypical behavior. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been able to figure that out. I’ve got a slight headache from that darn crowd. I guess I’m kind of out of it right now.”

“No problem, as long as you aren’t trying to back out of tomorrow.”

“No chance there, mister. In fact, I think I have our entire weekend planned.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Well, what do I have to look forward to?”

Ariane glanced at him and smiled. “I figured we can start off tomorrow morning with breakfast and a round of golf. Then, when I’m done kicking your butt, we can grab some lunch before heading back to your pool for some skinny-dipping and a variety of aquatic activities that will never be in the Olympics.”

“I don’t know.” Payne laughed. “The TV ratings would go through the roof if the Olympics used some of the events that I have in mind.”

She blushed slightly. “Then on Saturday, if you’re not too tired, I figured we can work on perfecting our routines.”

Payne threw his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “That sounds pretty good to me. But one question still remains: What’s on the itinerary for tonight?”

Ariane frowned. “Nothing but sleep. As I mentioned, I’ve got a slight headache, and I think it has to do with a lack of rest. If it’s okay with you, I just want to go home and snooze.”

“Sure, that’s fine.” In truth, he was disappointed, but he didn’t want to make her feel guilty. “I guess I’ll just go home and do some paperwork. You know me. My job always comes first.”

CHAPTER 5

Friday, July 2nd

Plantation Isle, Louisiana

(42 miles southeast of New Orleans)

THE cross was ten feet high, six feet wide, and built with a sole purpose in mind. The carpenter had used the right kind of wood, soaked it in the ideal fuel, and planted it into the ground at the appropriate angle. The Plantation had one shot to do this right, and they wanted it to go smoothly. It would set the perfect tone for their new guests.

“Torch it,” Octavian Holmes snarled through the constraints of his black hood. The wooden beams were set aflame, and before long fiery sparks shot high into the predawn sky, illuminating the row of cabins that encircled the grass field.

Ironically, the image brought a smile to Holmes’s shrouded face. As a child, he had witnessed a similar scene, a cross being burned in his family’s front yard, and it had evoked a far different reaction. It had terrified him. The bright glow of the smoldering wood. The sharp stench of smoke. The dancing specters in white hoods and sheets. The racial taunts, the threats of violence, the fear in his father’s eyes. All of it had left an indelible mark on his young psyche, a scar that had remained for years. Now things were different. He was no longer a scared boy, cowering with his family, seeking strength and protection. Now the roles were reversed. He built the cross. He lit the flame. And he controlled the guest list.

Finally, a chance to exorcise some of his personal demons.

Over the roar of the blaze, he continued his commands. “Bring the prisoners into formation!”

A small battalion of men, dressed in long black cloaks and armed with semiautomatic handguns, burst into the cramped huts and dragged the blindfolded captives toward the light of the flames. One by one, the confused prisoners were placed into a prearranged pattern-three lines of six people-and ordered to stand at attention while facing the cross. When the leader of the guards was finally happy with the setup, he let his superior know. “We’re ready, sir.”

“Good,” Holmes replied as he settled into his black saddle. “Drop your hoods!”

In unison, the entire team of guards covered their faces with the thick black hoods that hung loosely from the back of their cloaks. When they were done, they looked like Klans men in black robes. Their eyes were all that remained uncovered, and they burned like glowing embers in the Louisiana night.

“It’s time to show them our power!”

With sharp blades in hand, the guards charged toward the prisoners and swiftly cut small holes in the white cotton bags that had been draped over the heads of the captives.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Holmes barked as he trotted his stallion to the front of his guests. “Welcome to the Plantation.”

He paused dramatically for several seconds before continuing his monologue. “I’m sure each of you would like to see your new surroundings, but there is something blocking your sight. It is called duct tape, and it will be quite painful when you pull it off. . . . Don’t worry. Your eyebrows will eventually grow back.” Holmes laughed quietly. “I realize that your hands are currently bound, but I’m quite confident you’ll be able to remove the tape without our assistance.”

Slowly and painfully, the prisoners removed the adhesive strips from their faces, tearing flesh and hair as they did. Then, once their eyes had adjusted to the light from the intense fire, they glanced from side to side, trying to observe as much as they could. The sudden realization that each person was a part of a large group gave some captives comfort and others anxiety.

“Impressive!” Holmes shouted in mock admiration. “I’m quite pleased with the guts of this group. Normally my prisoners are weeping and praying to me for mercy, but not you guys. No, you are too strong for that.” He clapped sarcastically, slamming the palms of his black leather gloves together. “Now that you’ve dazzled me with your inner strength, it’s time for me to show you how weak you really are. While you are guests on my plantation, there are strict rules that you must follow. Failure to follow any of them will result in severe and immediate punishment. Do I make myself clear?”

The prisoners remained quiet, too scared to speak.

“My God! I must be going deaf! Why? Because I didn’t hear a goddamned word from any of you.” He rode his horse between the lines of prisoners. “Let’s try this again, but this time I want you to scream, Yes, Master Holmes!” He glared at the captives. “Are you ready? Failure to follow my rules will result in severe and immediate punishment. Do I make myself clear?”

Fewer than half of them answered. An act of disobedience that pissed off Holmes.

“Yesterday you had the right to do what you wanted, say what you wanted, think what you wanted. But all of that is gone now. Your freedom has faded into the air, like smoke from this burning cross.” The prisoners glanced at the clouds of ash that slowly rose into the darkness. “You are no longer members of a free society. You are now possessions. You got that? And as my possessions, you are now governed by the rules that I’m about to share with you. Failure to comply with anything will result in swift and decisive action on my part. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master Holmes,” mumbled most of the crowd.

Holmes shook his head in disgust, disappointed that he would have to damage some of his property so early in the proceedings. “Bring out the block,” he ordered.

Two guards ran to the side of the field and lifted a four-foot wooden cube onto a small cart. Then, as the prisoners stared in confusion, the guards dragged the large chunk of wood to the front of the crowd.

“Thank you,” Holmes said as he climbed off his horse. “Before you hustle off, I’d like you to do me a favor.”

“Yes, sir!” the guards said in unison.

“Do you see the tall man at the end of the front row?” Holmes pointed at Paul Metz, a father of two from Missouri. “Please bring him to me.”

“Me?” Paul shrieked as he was pulled from the line and dragged to the front of the group. His family, who’d been standing next to him, trembled with fear. “What did I do?”

“So you can talk! See, I wasn’t sure if you had the ability to speak until now. Why? Because a moment ago I asked the group to answer a question, and no sound came from your lips.”

“I answered, I swear.”

Holmes slammed his gloved hand onto the wooden block, and the sound echoed above the roar of the fire. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“No,” Paul sobbed. “But I swear, I answered you. I yelled my response.”

“Oh, you yelled your response, did you? I was staring right at you, focusing solely on you, and I saw nothing! No sound, no head movement, not a goddamned thing!”

“I screamed, I swear.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders at the claim. He had no desire to argue with a prisoner. It would set a very bad precedent. “Put your hands on the block,” he said calmly.

“What?”

Holmes responded to the question by slapping Paul in the face. “Don’t make me tell you again. Put your hands on the fucking block.”

He closed his eyes and eased his bound hands onto the wood. He quivered as he did.

“Now, choose a finger.”

Paul opened his eyes and stared into the hooded face of his captor. “Please, not that,” he begged softly.

In a second flash of rage, Holmes threw a savage punch into Metz’s stomach, knocking the breath from him. On impact, Paul collapsed to the ground in front of the wooden block.

“Choose a finger or lose them all.”

From his knees, Paul reluctantly placed his hands on the chopping board, then extended the pinkie of his left hand. As he wiggled it, announcing his choice, he sobbed at the impending horror. “This one, Master Holmes.”

Holmes smiled under his hood, enjoying his moment of omnipotence. This was the type of respect he would demand from all of his prisoners. And if they failed to comply, he would make sure that they had a very unpleasant stay.

“Now,” he shouted at the transfixed crowd, “I would like you to observe the following.” With the viselike grip of his left hand, he grabbed Paul’s wrist and pinned it painfully to the wood. “This man chose to ignore a direct order from me, and because of that, he will be severely punished.”

With his right hand, Holmes grabbed his stiletto, then paused to enjoy the surreal nature of the moment. In the presence of the dancing flames, the length of the five-inch steel shaft gleamed like Excalibur in the regal hands of King Arthur. The crowd gaped in awe at the spectacle they were witnessing. Wailing from his knees, Paul waited for his punishment to be executed.

“Let this be a lesson to you all!”

With a quick downward stroke, Holmes rammed the razor-sharp blade into Paul’s knuckle, just below his fingernail, immediately severing the tip. A flood of crimson gushed from it, glistening in the firelight. Paul screamed in agony while trying to pull his damaged hand off the block, but Holmes was too strong for him. After lifting the knife again, he plunged the blade into Paul’s finger a second time, severing it just below the middle knuckle.

“Stop!” Alicia Metz shrieked above her husband’s wails.

A guard instantly silenced her with a ferocious backhand.

“Not yet!” Holmes answered. He pulled the embedded blade from the block again, and this time buried it into the edge of Paul’s palm, dislodging the last section of his little finger with a sickening pop.

“Why?” she sobbed as she slumped to the ground. “Why are you doing this? What have we done to deserve this?”

Holmes glanced at the three chunks of finger that sat on the chopping block in front of him and smiled, admiring his handiwork. “I’m sick of her babbling. Gag her.”

Two guards grabbed the fallen woman and wrapped her mouth in duct tape.

“Anything else, sir!”

“Yes,” Holmes sneered. “Get this man some gauze. It seems he’s had an accident.”

CHAPTER 6

The Kotto family estate

Lagos, Nigeria

(Near the Gulf of Guinea coast)

HANNIBAL Kotto stared into his bathroom mirror and frowned at the flecks of gray that had recently emerged. Although he was fifty-one years old, he didn’t look it. In fact, people always assumed that he was ten years younger than he actually was.

After opening his plush purple curtains, Kotto gazed across the man-made moat that encircled his majestic grounds and observed a team of workers as they pulled weeds from his impeccably maintained gardens. All of them were new employees, and he wanted to make sure that they were following his orders. Unfortunately, before he had an opportunity to evaluate their performance, his phone rang. “Damn,” he muttered. “There’s always something.”

Kotto reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out his cellular phone. “Kotto here.”

“Hannibal, my dear friend, how are things in Nigeria?”

For the first time that day, Kotto smiled. It had been a while since he’d spoken with his business partner, Edwin Drake, and that was unusual. They normally spoke a few times a week. “Things are fine. How about South Africa? Is Johannesburg still in one piece?”

“Yes, and I still own most of it.” Drake, an Englishman who made the majority of his money in African diamond mines, laughed. “However, with the civil unrest in this bloody city, my holdings are not as impressive as they used to be.”

“That is a shame, but a common drawback to life in Africa. Governments come, and governments go. The only thing that’s constant is conflict.”

“A more accurate statement has never been spoken.”

Kotto smiled. “Tell me, Edwin, where have you been hiding? I thought maybe you were getting cold feet about our recent operation.”

“Not at all. I couldn’t be happier with our partnership. The truth is I had some last-minute family business to attend to in London, and I honestly didn’t want to call you from there. I never trust those bloody hotels. You can never tell who’s listening.”

After a few minutes of small talk, Kotto steered the conversation to business. “I was wondering what you thought of the last shipment of snow you received. Was it to your liking?”

“Snow? Is that what we’re calling it now? I like the sound of that.”

“I’m glad. I felt we needed a code name for the merchandise, and I hate the term they use in South America.”

“You’re right. Snow is so much simpler to say than cargo blanco.”

“Exactly. And since both of us speak English, I figured an English word was appropriate.”

“Why not something Nigerian? Couldn’t you come up with something colorful from your native tongue?”

Kotto laughed loudly. He always got a kick out of the white man’s unfamiliarity with Africa. “Edwin, I did come up with a word from my native tongue. English is the official language of Nigeria.”

“Really? I didn’t know that. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“It’s all right. I’m used to your ignorance by now,” Kotto teased. “But I hope you realize I don’t walk the streets of Lagos in a loincloth while carrying my favorite spear.”

Drake couldn’t tell if his friend was lecturing or joking until he heard Kotto laugh. “Hannibal, I must admit you had me going for a while. I thought I hit a nerve.”

“Not at all. I just thought a moment of levity was in order before we continued our business.”

“Yes, it was rather pleasant. Thank you.”

“So, what did you think of your last shipment of snow? Did it meet the expectations of your buyers?”

“In some ways yes, and in some ways no.”

Kotto frowned. It wasn’t the answer he was hoping for. “What do you think needs to be improved?”

“Honestly, the overall quality. I think my buyers were hoping for something better than the street product that I sold them. They wanted something purer. You know, upper-class snow.”

“Well,” he replied, “the last batch was just a trial run. From what I understand, the next shipment we receive will be the best yet.”

CHAPTER 7

WITH such a diverse group-an equal mix of young and old, male and female-there appeared to be no link between the prisoners of the Plantation. But Harris Jackson knew that wasn’t the case. He knew the reason that these people had been pulled from their lives and brought to this island. He understood why they were being humiliated, abused, and tortured. And he relished the fact that they were stripped of their homes, their possessions, and their pride. All of it made sense, and he was going to enjoy his authority over them for as long as it lasted.

In the flickering firelight, Jackson stared at the seventeen people in front of him and savored how each of them was shaking, literally trembling with fear. God, how he loved that! It made him feel indestructible. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Master Jackson, and my job on this island is leader of the guards. When you address me, you shall use the name Master Jackson or sir. Nothing else is acceptable. Nothing else will be tolerated.”

Under his black hood, he smiled. When he’d worked as a lawyer during his short-lived legal career, he loved addressing the jury-trying to get them to listen, hoping to catch their eye, convincing them to believe-and for some reason, his orientation speech made him think back to his days in the courtroom. The days before his disbarment.

“As you can probably tell, none of you were given an opportunity to change your clothes after you received your invitation to the Plantation. Some of you are filthy, and some of you are clean. A few of you are dressed warmly, and others are not.” He stared at Susan Ross, a sixteen-year-old who’d been abducted from a community pool in Florida, and appreciated the way her teenage body looked in her bikini. He made a mental note to pay her a visit later. “In an attempt to make everybody equal, I’d like each of you to disrobe.”

Despite his command, nobody moved. They just stared straight ahead in absolute shock.

Like Holmes before him, Jackson shook his head in disappointment. “What a shame! I assumed that each of you had a pretty good understanding of your situation by now. I figured the Ginsu display from earlier was going to keep you in line for the rest of your visit.” Jackson shrugged his broad shoulders as he walked toward the prisoners. “I guess I was wrong.”

Jackson stopped in front of Susan, his six-foot frame towering above her. “I’m looking for a volunteer,” he roared in the voice of a drill sergeant. “And I think you will do nicely.”

Despite her cries of protest, he lifted her half-naked, 110-pound body over his shoulder and carried her toward the chopping block. Two guards offered to assist him, but he quickly ordered them to stay back. He was enjoying himself far too much to let them share in the fun. When he reached the wooden cube, he set her gently on the ground, then put her in a stranglehold so she couldn’t run away.

“What do you want from me?” she cried through the cloth of her white hood.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he whispered into her left ear. “And I must admit I’m looking forward to it.” He pushed his groin against the small of her lower back, and she immediately felt his excitement start to grow. “Can you feel how hard I am? That’s because of you, you know. All because of you.”

Susan tried squirming free of his grip, but Jackson was simply too strong for her. As she tried to pull away, he laughed at her feeble attempts.

“Are you done?” he asked in a civil tone.

After one more try, she nodded her head.

“Good, because I’m dying to begin.”

Like a tarantula, Jackson’s black fingers crawled down her nubile flesh, gradually creeping across her firm stomach, then sliding under her bathing suit. “Do you like my magic fingers?” he whispered. “Do you like when I touch you?”

Before she could respond, he lifted her off the ground and forced her to stand on the bloody chopping block. Within seconds, her bare feet were coated with the red fluid that had gushed from Paul Metz’s finger.

“As I told you a moment ago, I would like each of you to take off your clothes. Apparently, you’re not as threatened by me as you were by Master Holmes. Now, because of your ignorance, this young girl has to suffer.”

“Please don’t hurt me,” she sobbed. “I was being good. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was being good.”

With a mischievous smile, he placed his dark hand on the back of her leg and slowly, sexually, stroked her inner thigh. “I know, my dear, but it’s not my doing. You should fault your fellow inmates for ignoring my instructions. They’re more to blame than I.” His hand crept higher and higher on her smooth leg until it stopped on her ass. “Remember, I’m not to blame for this. Bear me no ill will.”

Taking his stiletto from the folds of his cloak, Jackson slowly raised the blade behind the unsuspecting female, inching it toward his target. The sharp steel glistened in the light of the raging fire.

“I want you to kneel for me,” he purred. “And I want you to take your time.”

Without a word of complaint, the girl dropped to her knees. His unblinking eyes followed the curvature of her cheeks on their downward path. When she reached the block, he heard her groan as she sank into the cherry liquid that coated the surface. The sound brought a smile to his lips.

“Now raise your hands above your head, and hold them there.”

She did as she was told, and her movement electrified him-her unquestioning compliance literally made his heart race faster.

“Remember,” he breathed, “no ill will.”

Jackson placed his hand on the girl’s bare back and searched for the perfect spot to make his incision. Once he found it, he lifted the knife to her flesh, tracing the ridges of her spine with the broad side of his cold, metal blade. As he did, he noticed the emergence of goose bumps, not only on her skin but on his as well. Gathering his emotions, Jackson inched the stiletto to the midsection of her back, the spot directly between her shoulder blades, then paused.

This was where the cut would be made.

Turning the blade to the appropriate angle, Jackson gazed at the crowd to make sure that they were watching. They were. The entire throng was focused on the hypnotic movements of his knife, like he was an ancient Mayan priest preparing for a ritual sacrifice. Pleased by the attention, he redirected his gaze to his target.

“It’s time!” he whispered.

With a quick slash, Jackson sliced the strap of her bikini top. Then, before she had an opportunity to flinch, he carved her swimsuit bottom as well, exposing her entire body to the audience and the humid Louisiana night.

A wave of humiliation flooded over the girl. She tried to cover herself by crouching into a tiny ball on the wooden cube, but Jackson wouldn’t allow it. He yanked her from her bloody perch and forced her to retake her position with the rest of the prisoners.

He would’ve preferred to wrap her in his arms but knew this was no time to be playing favorites. He had to treat everyone the same in order to set the rules, in order to get their respect.

Besides, he’d have a chance to make things up to her later-when they were alone.

CHAPTER 8

Wexford, Pennsylvania

(11 miles north of Pittsburgh)

DESPITE the early hour, Jonathon Payne managed to smile as he drove to Ariane’s apartment. Normally a grin wouldn’t make an appearance on his lips until much closer to noon, but since he was spending the entire day with her, he woke up in an atypically good mood.

Years of predawn calisthenics had soured his opinion of the morning.

Dressed in khaki shorts and a white golf shirt, Payne pulled his Infiniti SUV into the crowded lot outside of her building. After parking, he walked under the maroon awning that covered the complex’s entrance and pressed the button to be let in. When she didn’t reply, he tried the system a few more times before he walked back to the parking lot to make sure that her car was in her assigned space. It was there, and in his mind that meant she was definitely home.

Slightly frustrated, Payne strolled back to the intercom system and tried the buzzer again, yet nothing changed. He was still unable to get her attention.

Come on, he thought. I know you’re scared to face me on the golf course, but this is ridiculous.

Standing in the entryway, pondering what to do next, he noticed a thin strip of duct tape sticking to the frame near the automatic lock of the security door. Moving closer, he realized that the tape started outside the frame and ran inside the building, purposely keeping the door open.

“Oh,” Payne mumbled, figuring the intercom system must be broken.

Thankful to be inside, he jogged up the carpeted stairs to the second floor and noticed that the thick fire door at the top of the steps was propped open with a large stick.

Without giving it much thought, Payne continued his journey down the hallway toward Ariane’s apartment. That’s when he noticed something he couldn’t dismiss. A piece of duct tape had been placed over the peephole of her door. Tape that wasn’t there when he dropped her off the night before.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea swept through Payne’s stomach. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew that something had happened to Ariane.

Payne pounded on her door loudly, hoping that she had overslept or had been in the bathroom when he was buzzing her. But somehow he knew that wasn’t the case. He knew that something was wrong. Very seriously wrong.

“Ariane!” he yelled. “It’s Jon. Open the door!”

When his pleas went unanswered, Payne reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He hit the speed dial and watched as her name and number appeared on the screen. “Come on! Answer the damn phone!”

After four rings, Payne heard a click on the line. It was her voice mail.

Payne cursed as he waited to leave his message. “Ariane, if you’re screening your calls or you’re still in bed, pick up the phone.” There was no response. “I’m really worried about you, so please call me on my cell as soon as you hear this message, okay?”

He hung up the phone, worried. “Think, goddamn it, think! Where could she be?”

Payne racked his brain for possibilities, but couldn’t think of any logical explanations. Most stores weren’t open at that hour, and even if they were, she would have taken her car to get there. Most of her friends would still be sleeping or getting ready for work, so they wouldn’t have picked her up. And her family lived out of state, so she wasn’t with them.

No, something had happened to Ariane. He was sure of it.

PAYNE wasn’t the type of guy who waited around for news. He was the aggressor, a man of action. Someone who followed his instincts, despite the odds. In the military, his gut feelings were so accurate that they were treated with reverence, like a message from God.

And in this case, he sensed that time was precious.

Without delay, Payne took a step back and launched his right leg toward the door. His foot met wood with a mighty thump. It echoed down the hallway like a gunshot. The sturdy frame splintered in several places as the door swung open with so much force that the lower hinge snapped a bolt. Adrenaline was a wonderful thing.

In his former career, Payne would’ve been armed and whispering orders into his headset. But today he was alone and empty-handed, worried about what he might find inside.

Cautiously, he walked into Ariane’s apartment. The place was immaculate. No overturned tables, no broken lamps. And most importantly, no dead bodies. Payne wasn’t sure what he was expecting to see, but he felt a certain sense of relief when he found nothing.

The only damage he noticed was the damage that he had done himself.

Taking a deep breath, Payne realized that he needed a second opinion. And when he needed help, he turned to his best friend. Payne hit his speed dial and waited for Jones to answer.

“Yeah?” Jones croaked, obviously sleeping in on his day off.

“D.J., it’s Jon. Something’s happened, and I need your help.”

That was all that Jones needed to hear.

FIFTEEN minutes later, Jones pulled up next to Payne’s SUV and studied the parking lot, but nothing seemed out of place. “Have you heard from her?”

Payne shook his head as he jogged over to Jones’s car.

“Don’t worry. That doesn’t mean something bad has happened. I’m sure there are a thousand possibilities that could explain where she is, so tell me everything you can. I’m sure we can figure something out.”

Payne nodded while shaking his friend’s hand. “I appreciate you coming over so early. I feel better just having you here.”

“No problem. It’s the least I can do for free office space.”

Payne smiled, but his body language told the real story. He was scared. “You know how I used to get gut feelings back when we were in the MANIACs?”

Jones nodded. “Your gut saved my ass more often than Preparation H.”

“I don’t know why, but I’m getting the same bad feeling right now. I know that something’s happened to Ariane. I don’t know what, but something.”

“Jon, listen. We’ve been out of the military for a while now, so the tuning fork in your stomach is bound to be rusty. Right? Besides, you’re not used to being awake at this time of day, so I’m sure your system is out of whack.”

Reluctantly, Payne agreed.

“Why don’t you fill me in on everything, and we can come up with some kind of solution.”

Payne nodded. “I walked Ariane to her door last night. She had a headache and said she needed to get some sleep. We made plans for this morning, then I went home.”

“You didn’t stay the night?”

“If I had, do you think I’d be out here?” he snapped.

“Sorry, I just-”

“No,” Payne apologized. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you. It’s just, I don’t know. . . .” He paused for a minute, trying to gather his thoughts. “I would’ve stayed the night, but she had a headache and thought it would be best if she got some rest.”

“So, you didn’t have a fight or anything?”

Payne shook his head. “I was supposed to pick her up at seven thirty. We were going to grab a light breakfast, then head straight for the golf course. She told me that she’d made an eight thirty tee time.”

“Fine. Now walk me through this morning.”

“I woke up early and showed up on time. I tried buzzing the intercom, but there was no reply. Next I checked the lot, and her car is here.” Payne pointed toward it. “I went back to the front door, and that’s when I noticed the duct tape.”

“What duct tape?” The two of them walked to the entryway, and Jones studied the way the tape had been placed over the lock. “Well, if something has happened to her-and I’m not saying that it has-I doubt we’re dealing with professionals.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Look at the placement of the tape. Instead of running the strip over the lock in a vertical fashion, they placed it horizontally, allowing us to see it.”

“And in your opinion, is this lack of professionalism good or bad news?”

Jones shrugged. “To be honest with you, it could be either. If something has happened to Ariane-and it’s still a big if in my mind-then there’s a good chance that other mistakes have been made as well. And that’ll increase our opportunity to find her.”

“That sounds good to me. So, what’s the bad news?”

“If this isn’t a professional job, there’s a better chance that someone will panic, and if that happens . . .” Jones didn’t have the heart to finish the sentence.

“Understood,” Payne grunted. “Let me show you upstairs.”

The two men jogged to the second floor. Jones shook his head when he saw the stick used as a door prop. “Definitely not professionals,” he muttered as they walked toward Ariane’s front door. “You tried calling her, right? Maybe she’s just sleeping and can’t hear the door from her bedroom.”

“Trust me, she’s not in her bedroom.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I went into her bedroom.”

“You had your key with you?”

Payne shook his head. “Not exactly.”

Jones noticed the splintered door frame before he reached Ariane’s apartment. The door hung there, slightly tilted, like it had been battered by a tropical storm.

“Let me guess,” Jones quipped. “Hurricane Payne.”

“She wouldn’t answer the door.”

Jones shrugged as he walked inside. “Seems like a reasonable response.”

“Listen,” Payne said, “I realize everything I’ve showed you is marginal at best. But this is the thing that really got me going.” He pointed to the tape that covered Ariane’s peephole. It was the same type of tape that covered the lock on the front door. “There’s nothing innocent about this. And I guarantee that this tape wasn’t here last night. No way in hell.”

Jones grimaced. It did seem suspicious. But he didn’t touch it, just in case there were fingerprints on it. “What kind of security system does her apartment have? Didn’t you pay to have it upgraded?”

“Yeah, they installed alarms on all the windows and the two doors. I also had a camera mounted inside the peephole, but they must’ve known about that.”

“Not necessarily. Just because they put tape on the door doesn’t guarantee that they knew about the camera. They could’ve been trying to prevent her from seeing into the corridor. Shoot, for all we know, maybe her neighbor across the hall was doing something illegal, and he wanted to guarantee his privacy.”

“But how does that explain the fact that she’s missing?”

“I have no idea,” Jones admitted. “But I’m trying to keep as many options open as possible. Have you tried talking to her neighbors? Maybe they saw something.”

“I was reluctant to bug them so early, but now that it’s after eight o’clock and you’re beginning to see my point of view, I’m willing to try anything.”

Jones nodded his approval. “Why don’t you handle this floor while I head downstairs?”

“Fine. But if you find anything, please let me know immediately.”

“Will do,” he assured Payne. “And Jon? Keep the faith. We’ll find her.”

CHAPTER 9

KNOCKING on each door, Payne started with Ariane’s neighbor across the hall and slowly made his way down the corridor. Everyone that he talked to was friendly and immediately knew who Ariane was-females of her beauty tended to stand out. Unfortunately, no one saw or heard anything out of the ordinary. And no one could account for the duct tape over the front lock.

After speaking to the last of her neighbors on the second floor, Payne heard Jones running up the stairs in an obvious state of excitement.

“I think I’ve got a witness,” Jones exclaimed. “He’s waiting downstairs in the hall.” Within seconds, the two men were standing in front of the open door of apartment 101. “Mr. McNally, this is Jonathon Payne, Ariane’s boyfriend. Jon, this is Mr. McNally.”

Payne shook the hand of the elderly man while trying to observe as much as he could. McNally appeared to be in his mid-eighties, walked with the aid of a metal cane, and closely resembled Yoda from Star Wars-minus the green color. His apartment was cluttered with heirlooms and antiques, yet for some reason a framed Baywatch poster of Pamela Anderson hung near the entrance to his kitchen. “Mr. McNally, D.J. tells me that you might’ve seen something that could help me find Ariane?”

“Who the hell is D.J.?” the old man snapped. “I didn’t talk to any bastard named D.J.”

Jones looked at Payne and grimaced. “Sir? Remember me? I talked to you about two minutes ago. My name’s David Jones, but my friends call me D.J.”

“What the hell kind of person has friends that refuse to use his real name? You kids today. I just don’t understand your damn generation.”

“Sir, I don’t mind. D.J. is just a nickname.”

“A nickname?” he shrieked. “You think that’s a nickname? Horseshit! It’s just two capital letters. Why don’t you just use B.S. as your nickname instead? Because that’s what your nickname is: bullshit! When I was growing up, people used to have nicknames that said something about them, like Slim or Cocksucker, not pansy names like D.J.”

“Sir,” Payne interrupted, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I was wondering what you saw this morning. David said you saw something that could help me find my girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend? Who’s your girlfriend?”

Payne rolled his eyes in frustration. This was getting nowhere. “Ariane Walker. She lives upstairs in apartment 210.”

McNally pondered the information for a few seconds before his face lit up. “Oh! You mean the brunette with the dark eyes and the nice cha-chas? Yeah, I saw her bright and early, about an hour ago. She was wearing a red top and a short skirt. It was so small I could almost see her panties.” The elderly man cackled in delight as he pondered his memory of the beautiful girl. “That gal’s a real looker.”

Payne couldn’t agree with him more. She was the prettiest woman he had ever seen. The first and only person who had literally left him speechless, which was unfortunate since he was in the middle of a speech at the time.

A few years back, Payne had volunteered to speak to a group of convicted drunk drivers about the tragic death of his parents. The goal of the program was to make recent offenders listen to the horrors of the crime in order to make them think twice about ever drinking and driving again. Payne was in the middle of reliving his nightmare-describing the devastation he felt when he was pulled from his eighth-grade algebra class and told about the death of his parents-when his eyes focused on Ariane’s. She was standing off to the side, watching and listening with complete empathy. In a heartbeat, he could tell that she’d been through the same horror, that she’d lost a loved one in a similar nightmare. It didn’t matter if it was a brother, sister, or lover. He knew that she understood.

Payne managed to finish his heart-wrenching tale without incident, but when he started his conclusion, he found himself unable to take his eyes off of her. He knew he was there to make a point, but suddenly he was unable to focus. There was just some quality about her, something pure and perfect that made him feel completely at ease. In his mind, something good had finally come from their loss. His parents’ accident and her parents’ accident had brought them together.

And the realization stole his ability to speak.

“Jon?” D.J. whispered. “Do you have some questions for Mr. McNally, or do you want me to ask him?”

Payne blinked a few times, which brought him back to the moment at hand. Turning toward the elderly man, he said, “Where did you see Ariane?”

“In my bedroom,” McNally muttered.

Payne and Jones exchanged confused glances, trying to figure out what the man meant. “Ariane was in your bedroom?”

The man cackled again. “If she was in my bedroom, do you think I’d be out here talking to you bozos? Hell, no! I’d be popping Viagra like it was candy corn.”

“Then why did you mention your bedroom?” Jones asked.

McNally inhaled before replying. “Do I have to spell everything out for you whippersnappers? I was in my bedroom when I saw her outside my window with a bunch of fellows. And let me tell you . . .” He tapped Payne on his chest. “You need to get your woman on a leash because she looked pretty darn snookered. They were practically dragging her.”

“She was being dragged by a bunch of guys? What did they look like?”

McNally pondered the question for a few seconds, then pointed at Jones.

“They were black?” Payne asked.

“No, you dumb ass, I mean they were butt ugly and had stupid nicknames! Of course I mean they were black.”

“Could you tell us anything else? Were they tall? Short? Fat? Anything?”

“They were black. That’s it. Everything about them was black. Black clothes, black hoods, black shoes. I don’t even know how many there were because they looked like shadows, for God’s sake. Shoot, they even drove a black van.”

Payne grimaced at the news. “Did you happen to see a license plate on the van?”

“As a matter of fact, I did!” McNally declared. “It was the only thing that wasn’t black.”

“You saw it? What did it say?”

“I have no damn idea,” he answered. “The numbers were just a big ol’ blur. But I do know one thing. The plate was from Louisiana.”

Skepticism filled Payne’s face. “How do you know that?”

“I got me a lady friend that lives down in Cajun country, and every year I visit her for Mardi Gras. When the van first pulled up, I saw the Louisiana plate and thought maybe she was coming here for a little lovin’, but obviously, when I, um . . .” The old man furrowed his brow as he tried to remember his train of thought. “What was I talking about again?”

“Actually,” Jones lied, “you had just finished. Is there anything else that you can tell us about this morning?”

“I’m kind of constipated. But I ate some prunes, so I’m hoping-”

“That’s not what he meant,” interrupted Payne. Even though he was sympathetic to McNally’s advancing age, he didn’t have the time to listen to him ramble about his bowel movements. “David wanted to know if you had anything else to tell us about Ariane?”

McNally pondered the question, then shook his head.

“Well, I’d like to thank you for your information.” Jones handed McNally a business card, then helped him back inside his apartment. “If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

Once Jones returned to the hall, he said, “I have to admit things are looking worse for Ariane, but I don’t think we can go to the cops quite yet.”

“Why not? You heard what he said. A group of guys dragged her to their van early this morning, and no one’s heard from her since.”

“True, but Mr. McNally is not exactly what you would call an ideal witness. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think he’s lying or anything, but you have to admit he lost touch with reality a couple of times during our conversation.”

“Shit!” Payne thought they had enough information to go on, but Jones knew a lot more about police procedures than he did. “So what do you recommend?”

“Honestly, I think we should go upstairs and snoop around Ariane’s apartment a little more. Plus we can see if the peephole video camera recorded anything before they covered the lens.”

CHAPTER 10

INSIDE the plantation house, Theo Webster stared at his computer screen as he scrolled through page after page of painstaking research. After removing his wire-rimmed glasses, Webster rubbed his tired eyes and stretched his skinny 5’8” frame. The track lighting above him reflected off the ebony skin that covered his ever-growing forehead and highlighted the dark bags that had recently surfaced under his drooping eyelids.

After cracking his neck, Webster settled back into his seat and resumed his research, studying the in-depth genealogy of the island’s most recent arrivals. As he scrutinized Mike Cussler’s family, Webster heard a creak in a floorboard behind him.

“Shit,” he muttered as he reached inside his oaken desk.

Without looking Webster fumbled through various items until his hand made contact with his gun. Slipping his fingers around the polymer handle, Webster slowly pulled the .38 Special from his desk while staring at his computer screen.

The floorboard whined again, but this time the sound was several feet closer.

It was time to make his move.

In a sudden burst, Webster dropped to the hardwood floor and spun toward his unsuspecting target. The move stunned the trespasser so much that he dropped the cup of coffee he was carrying and shrieked like a wounded girl.

The pathetic wail brought a smile to Webster’s face. “Gump, what the hell are you doing sneaking up on me? Don’t you know we have nearly two dozen prisoners on this island that would like to see me dead? You got to use your head, boy! God gave you a brain for a reason.”

Bennie Blount lowered his head in shame, and as he did, his elaborate dreadlocks cascaded over his dark eyes, making him look like a Rastafarian sheepdog. “I sorry ’bout that. I was just trying to bring you something to wakes you up.”

Webster glanced at the brown puddle that covered the floor and grimaced. “Unless you have a straw, I think it’s going to be tough for me to drink.”

The 6’6” servant stared at the steaming beverage for several seconds before his face broke into a gold-toothed smile. “For a minute, I thought you be serious, but then I says to myself, Master Webster ain’t no dog. He ain’t gonna drink his drink from no floor, even with a straw!”

“Well, that’s awfully clever of you, but before I congratulate you too much, why don’t you run into the other room and get a mop?”

“That’s a mighty good idea, sir. I guess I shoulda thought of it since it’s my job to clean and all.” Blount slowly backed away from the spill as he continued to speak. “Don’t ya worry now.”

Blount had been hired by the Plantation for his strong work ethic and knowledge of the local swamps. Nicknamed Gump for his intellectual similarities to Forrest Gump, the dim-witted character from the movie bearing his name, Blount lived in the guest wing of the white-pillared mansion. During the course of the day, he spent most of his time cooking and cleaning, but twice a week he was allowed to journey to the mainland for food and supplies.

When Blount returned to Webster’s office, he was disappointed to see his boss working again. He liked talking to his superiors whenever he could, even though they often got upset when he interrupted their top-secret duties.

“Gump,” Webster asked without turning around, “what are we having for breakfast?”

The question brought a smile to his lips, and his gold teeth glistened in the sunlight. “Well, I figure since this be a big week for y’all, I should fix a big Southern meal likes my momma used to make. I makes eggs ’n’ bacon ’n’ ham ’n’ grits ’n’ biscuits ’n’ fresh apple butter, too. Oooooooweeeeee! I think my mouth is gonna water all day!”

Webster nodded his head in appreciation, at least until Blount’s statement sank in. He turned from his computer and faced the dark-skinned servant. “What exactly did you mean when you said this was a big week for us? What do you know about this week?”

With the soiled mop in his hand, he shrugged. “Not much, sir, but I can tell somethin’s up. There be an excitement in the air that’s easier to smell than the magnolias in May. I figured maybe it’s your birthday. Or maybe it’s ’cause the Fourth of July is coming!”

Webster studied Blount as he spoke, and it appeared that he was telling the truth. “I think it’s just the holiday that has everybody excited,” he lied. “I know I’m looking forward to it.”

“Well, I be, too! In fact, I was wondering if I can go to the city for the fireworks show on Saturday night. I don’t know why they on the third, but they is!”

“Let me ask the other guys at breakfast, then I’ll let you know. But as far as I’m concerned, that’s fine with me.”

“Thank ya, Master Webster! Thank ya! That’d be nice of ya!” Blount picked up his bucket and backed toward the open door. “Oh! Speaking of breakfast, I almost forgets to tell ya that it’s ready to eat.”

CHAPTER 11

ARIANE’S place appeared to be in order, with the exception of her splintered door. An off-white sofa sat against the wall to the left and faced a tasteful entertainment center that held a television, stereo, and DVD player. A leather chair rested in the corner of the room under a halogen lamp.

Jones walked to the security panel near the front door and pushed the button for a system check. Within seconds, the unit beeped and a digitized voice filled the room. “The crime alert system is operational. Current status is deactivated. Push one to activate the system.”

“The unit is working, which means she probably turned it off to answer the door. Either that or she forgot to turn it on last night.”

Payne shook his head. “When I walked her to the door last night, I made sure she got in and turned the system on before I left. In fact, I always wait until the damn thing beeps.”

“Then she turned it off for some reason. And my guess is to open the door.”

Payne swallowed deeply while opening the tiny black box that was mounted to the inside of Ariane’s front door. He removed the recordable DVD from the peephole surveillance system and carried it to the player. “I don’t know if we’ll see anything, but it’s worth a look.”

After slipping the disc inside, he hit play and waited for it to begin.

“How does this thing work?” Jones asked.

“It’s activated by movement in the hallway. That way it doesn’t record hour after hour of nothing.” Payne pointed to the black screen to show Jones what he meant. “Since the opening is blocked, the camera interpreted that as someone standing directly in front of the door.” Payne glanced at his watch, then looked at the electronic counter on the DVD player. “What time did Mr. McNally say he saw Ariane?”

“He said it was about an hour before we talked to him.”

“Well, I got here about seven thirty, and there was no black van in the parking lot, so I’d guess we’re talking about seven or seven fifteen, right?”

Payne skipped back several minutes until his own face filled the screen.

“When was that filmed?” Jones asked.

Payne studied the image and recognized the clothes he’d worn the previous evening. “That was from last night, but I’m not sure if it was before or after my date with Ariane.” The faint beeping of the security system could be heard through the TV’s speaker as Payne’s image turned and walked away from the door. “See, I told you she set the damn system last night. I told you!”

Jones started to defend himself when a figure flashed across the screen. “Whoa! What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Payne said as he hit the pause button, then frame advance.

The picture crept by at a sluggish pace. After several seconds of nonaction, a gloved hand emerged from the right side of the screen. Moving an inch at a time, the arm eventually reached the lens of the peephole, and once it did, the picture immediately went black.

“Damn!” Payne cursed. “Not a goddamned thing!”

“Be patient.” Jones grabbed the remote from Payne and slowly rewound the image to the moment before the tape was applied to the door. “Just because we didn’t see a face doesn’t mean it’s a total loss. There’s more here than you think.”

“Like what?”

“What color was the man who put the tape on the door?”

Payne stared at the screen. “I can’t tell. He’s wearing black gloves and long black sleeves.”

“True,” Jones muttered as he placed his finger on the image. “But look closer. There’s a gap where the glove ends here, and the sleeve begins there.”

Payne moved closer to the screen and stared. “I’ll be damned! You’re right. I can see the edge of each garment.”

“You thought they overlapped because of his skin. Whoever put the tape on the door is black. Not coffee and cream like me, but pure black. I’m talking hold the milk, hold the sugar, hold the freakin’ water black.”

“Hey,” Payne interrupted. “What’s that on his arm?”

“Where?”

“Right between the glove and sleeve. Is that a tattoo?”

Jones crouched in front of the TV and considered the question. Unfortunately, the image was too dark to see things conclusively. “Hang on a sec. Let me change the brightness on the TV. It might help.”

Payne stared at the screen as it brightened. “It might be a tattoo, but I honestly don’t know.”

“Don’t worry. I know a way we can find out. I have a computer program at my office that lets me blow up video images, alter color schemes, manipulate contrast, and so on. I’ll take the disc over there and see if I can learn anything else.”

“Sounds good to me.” Payne reached for the eject button, but before he pressed it, Jones grabbed his arm.

“Listen,” he said in a sympathetic voice, “I wasn’t going to mention this, but I have to be upfront with you. There’s still one thing we need to check. I was going to wait until later, but I feel you deserve to be with me when it’s done.”

“What are you talking about? What do you need to check?”

Jones placed his hand on Payne’s broad shoulder and squeezed. “The peephole camera records image and sound, right? I mean, we heard the alarm system beeping, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, so?”

Jones swallowed hard. “The video of what happened this morning is obviously unwatchable because of the duct tape, but there’s a good chance that we might be able to hear this morning’s events after the peephole was blocked.”

“Oh, God, you’re right! Put it on!”

“Jon, keep in mind if something did happen to Ariane, it might be painful to-”

“Put it on! I’ve got to know what happened.”

Jones nodded, then hit the appropriate button on the remote. After several seconds of silence, the faint sound of a doorbell could be heard from the blank TV screen. It was followed by a loud, rhythmic knock.

“You’re early,” Ariane complained. “I’m still getting ready.”

A brief silence followed her comment before a faint giggle emerged from the speaker.

“First you’re early, now you’re covering the peephole!”

Beeps from the security system chimed in the tape’s background.

“I’ll tell you what, Jonathon, I’m going to kick your butt all over the golf course. There’s no doubt about that!”

Her comment was followed by the click of a deadbolt, the twist of the door handle, and-

Jones pushed the pause button and glanced at Payne, whose face was completely ashen. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Yeah,” Payne muttered, his voice trembling with emotion. He didn’t really want to, but if he was going to help Ariane, he knew he had no choice. “Play the disc.”

“Are you sure?”

Payne shook his head from side to side. “But play it anyways.”

With the touch of a button, Ariane screamed like a banshee, sending chills through Payne and Jones. As her wail echoed through the room, it was quickly replaced by heavy footsteps, muffled squeals, and then the most frightening sound of all.

Silence.

CHAPTER 12

WHILE Holmes, Jackson, and Webster had breakfast in the mansion, Hakeem Ndjai, an unmerciful man who’d been hired as the Plantation overseer, took control of the captives.

Even though he was a valuable part of the Plantation team, his foreign heritage excluded him from the decision-making hierarchy. He had been handpicked by Holmes, who had heard several stories of Ndjai’s unwavering toughness in Nkambé, Cameroon, where Ndjai had been an overseer on a cacao plantation. Like most workers from his country, he had labored in unbearable conditions for virtually nothing-his average income was only $150 per year-so when Holmes offered him a job in America, Ndjai wept for joy for the first time in his life.

But that was several months ago, and Ndjai was back to his old ways.

In a cold growl, Ndjai reinforced the instructions that Jackson and Holmes had given during their cross-burning party, but he did it with his own special touch. “I am the overseer of this Plantation, and out of respect for my job, you shall refer to me as sir. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir!” the naked group shouted.

“Each of you has been brought here for a reason, and that reason will eventually be revealed. Until that time, you will become a part of the Plantation’s working staff, performing the duties that will be assigned to you.” Ndjai signaled one of the guards, who ran forward, carrying a silver belt that shone in the sun. “While you are working, you will be positioned on various parts of our land, and at some point, you might be tempted to run for freedom.”

He smiled under his dark cloak. “It is something I do not recommend.”

Ndjai grabbed the metal belt and wrapped it around a cement slab that rested near the bloodstained chopping block. After clicking the belt in place, he handed the cement to a nearby guard, who immediately carried it fifty yards from the crowd.

“When you are given your uniforms, you will have one of these belts locked to your ankle. It cannot be removed by anyone but me, and I will not remove it for any reason during your stay on this island.” He reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a tiny remote control. He held the gadget in the air so everyone could see it. “This is what you Americans call a deterrent.”

With a push of a button, the cement block erupted into a shower of rubble, sending shards of rock in every direction and smoke high into the air.

“Did I get your attention?” he asked. “Now imagine what would have happened if your personal anklet were to be detonated. I doubt much of you would be found.”

A couple of the guards snickered, but Ndjai silenced them with a sharp stare. He would not tolerate disrespect from anybody.

“I know some of you will try to figure out how your anklets work, and some of you will try to disarm them. Well, I will tell you now: Your efforts will fail! We have buried a small number of transmitters throughout the Plantation. If at any time your anklet crosses the perimeter, your personal bomb will explode, killing you instantly. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, one more thing. If your device is detonated, it will send a signal to the anklets that are being worn by several other prisoners, and they will be killed as well. Do you understand?”

They certainly did, and the mere thought of it made them shudder.

CHAPTER 13

JONES returned to his scenic office and locked himself in his massive technology lab. The room cost a staggering amount of money and was filled with high-tech equipment that many police departments would love to have. The most important piece of hardware was the computer, but it was the instrument that cost Jones the least. Built by Payne Industries, the computer was a scaled-down version of the system used at FBI headquarters in Langley, Virginia, and had been given to Jones as an office-warming gift.

Placing the surveillance disc into the unit, Jones quickly broke the footage into manageable data files. He was then able to select a precise frame from the video and put it on his screen in microscopic clarity.

“What should I look at first?” he mumbled to himself.

Then it dawned on him. He wanted to examine the assailant’s right wrist to see if the black mark was, in fact, a tattoo.

Jones scrolled through a number of frames until he found the scene that fit his specific needs. The suspect’s arm was centered perfectly on the monitor, and the gap between the glove and the sleeve was at its widest. Then he zoomed in and sharpened the image.

A few seconds later, Jones smiled in triumph when an elaborate tattoo came into view. The three-inch design was in the shape of the letter P, and it started directly below the palm of the suspect’s hand. The straight edge of the symbol was in the form of an intricately detailed sword, the blade’s handle rising high above the letter’s curve. At the base of the drawing, small drops of blood fell from the weapon’s tip, leaving the impression that it had just been pulled from the flesh of a fallen victim. Finally, dangling from each side of the sword was a series of broken chains, which appeared to be severed near the left and right edge.

As Jones printed several copies of the image, his speakerphone buzzed, followed by the voice of his secretary. “Mr. Payne is on line one.”

With a touch of a button, Jones answered his call. “Jon, any news?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing. I went to the police like you suggested and filled out the appropriate paperwork. It turns out that I knew a few of the officers on duty. They assured me that Ariane would get top priority.”

“Even though she’s only been gone a few hours?”

“Her scream on the surveillance tape and Mr. McNally’s testimony have a lot to do with it. Normally, they’d wait a lot longer before they pursued a missing person, but as I said, the evidence suggests foul play.”

“Did they give you any advice?”

“I wouldn’t call it advice. I think a warning would be more accurate. These cops know me, so they automatically assumed that I would do something stupid to get in their way. Why would they think that?”

Jones smiled. The cops had pegged him perfectly. Payne was definitely the intrusive type. “Instead of giving you the obvious answer, let me tell you what I discovered.” He described the image in detail, then filled him in on a theory. “I think we’re looking for a Holotat.”

“A Holo-what?”

“Holotat.”

Payne scrunched his face. “What the hell is that?”

“Back in World War Two, German guards used to tattoo their prisoners with numbers on their wrists in order to keep track of them. After the war, the people who survived these camps had a constant reminder of the Holocaust, marks that eventually became a source of inspiration.”

“What does that have to do with Ariane?”

“About five years ago, members of Los Diablos, a Hispanic gang from East L.A., decided it would be cool if they tattooed their brothers in a similar fashion, marking them on their wrists. Before then, gangs used to get their tattoos on their arms, chests, or back, but suddenly this trend caught on. Holocaust tattoos, known as Holotats, started popping up everywhere.”

“And you think the P tattoo is a Holotat gang emblem?”

Jones nodded his head. “That’s what it looks like to me. Of course, I could be wrong. It could be a jailhouse tat or the initial of his girlfriend, but my guess would be a Holotat.”

Payne considered the information, and a question sprang to mind. “You said it might be his girlfriend’s initial. Does that mean we’re sure it’s a guy?”

“That would be my guess. The thickness of the wrist suggests a masculine suspect, but to be on the safe side, I wouldn’t completely rule out a female. Of course, she’d have to be a Sasquatch-looking bitch.”

Payne laughed for the first time in a long time. He felt better knowing that Jones was helping him through this. “So, what now?”

“Why don’t you come down here? I have a few more tests I want to run on the video. But I want you to look at the tattoo to see if you notice anything that I didn’t.”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

IT took Payne nearly an hour to reach Mount Washington, and the drive was a miserable one. Holiday traffic was starting to pick up even though it was only midday. Payne used his master key to enter Jones’s technology lab and found his friend hard at work on the computer.

“Any new developments?” Payne asked as he picked up a printout of the tattoo and studied it.

“There wasn’t much visual data to work with on the disc, so I focused on the audio. I know it’s hard to believe, but sound can tell you so much.”

“You mean like her scream?”

“No, I mean like background noise. You know, stuff that’s there, but isn’t really obvious.”

“Such as?”

Jones walked to the far side of the room and tapped his hand on a small metallic unit. “I call this device the Listener, and for the last half hour, it’s been our best friend.”

Payne crossed the room for a closer look and watched as Jones typed a specific code into the unit’s keypad. The Listener responded by extending its front tray six inches forward.

“This unit was designed to analyze sound and place it into specific categories. Since we were dealing with a stable environment with little background noise I had the machine focus on a couple of things. The first was her voice. I wanted to see if I could understand what she tried to say after her initial scream.”

“You mean when her voice got garbled.”

“Yeah. My guess is they were probably gagging her at the time, but I was hoping the machine might be able to isolate the sound and clean it up for us.”

“Did it work?”

“Actually, it worked beautifully. Unfortunately, it won’t help our cause very much.”

“Why not? What did she say?”

Jones picked up the transcript and read it aloud. “She said, ‘Help me. Somebody help me.’ ”

Payne closed his eyes as Ariane’s words sank in. He had managed to stay relaxed while Jones explained the features of his computer equipment, but now that the focus of the conversation was back on Ariane, Payne felt the nausea return. What would he do if he couldn’t track her down? Or worse yet, if someone had already killed her?

“Jon?” Jones said. “Are you okay? I asked you a question.”

Payne opened his eyes and turned to his friend. “Sorry. What was that?”

“I wanted to know if you told the cops how many people were involved.”

He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I told them that Mr. McNally saw more than one person, but wasn’t sure how many.”

“Well, thanks to the Listener, I’d say that there were probably three of them.”

Payne sat up in his chair. “How did you figure that out?”

“Simple. I programmed the device to filter out everything but the footsteps, and after listening to the disc, I could hear three distinct sets. But, as they were leaving, I could only hear two.”

“You mean someone stayed inside Ariane’s apartment?”

Jones shook his head. “At first, that’s what I thought, too, but as I listened to the disc again, I noticed a scratching noise in the background. I filtered out all the other sounds, isolating the scratch, and this is what I got.” He pushed his mouse button once, and a rough grating sound emerged from his system’s speakers. “What does that sound like to you?”

“Feet dragging on a carpet?”

“Bingo!” Jones was impressed that his friend had figured it out so quickly. It had taken him several minutes to come up with a hypothesis. “Remember what McNally said? It looked like your girlfriend was snookered because they were practically carrying her to the van? Well, my guess is she was drugged or knocked out. The three sets of footsteps that the Listener originally detected were Ariane and the two assailants. They broke into her place, gagged her, drugged her, then dragged her out. That’s the only thing that fits.”

“But I thought you said there were three guys involved. Where was the third guy while the abduction was going on?” Before Jones had a chance to answer, the solution popped into Payne’s head. “Oh, shit! They probably needed a driver to stay outside in the van.”

Jones nodded. “That’s what most criminals would do.”

CHAPTER 14

PAYNE

and Jones gathered all of the information they’d accumulated and took it directly to the police. When they entered the local precinct, Payne headed for Captain Tomlin’s office. He had met Tomlin a year earlier at a charity golf event that Payne Industries had sponsored, and they had stayed in touch since.

“Do you have a minute?” Payne asked as he tapped on Tomlin’s glass door. The captain, who had curly hair and thick arms, waved him in. “Have you ever met David Jones?”

Tomlin introduced himself, shaking Jones’s hand with a powerful grip. “Jon has told me all about you. I almost feel like we’ve met. I understand that you served under him in special ops.”

“Yeah,” Jones answered as he took a seat next to Payne. “We relied on each other so much we ended up attached in the real world.”

“That happens all the time. There’s something about life in the military that draws soldiers together-a kindred spirit that bonds all warriors.”

Payne winced at the suggestion. “I don’t know about that crap. I think D.J. stuck with me so I could get him a job.”

Jones nodded. “To be honest, he’s right. I actually can’t stand the bastard.”

Tomlin laughed loudly. “So, I take it from your comedy that Ariane’s all right? Where was that gal hiding?”

The comment drained the humor from the room.

“Don’t let our joking fool you,” Jones declared. “It’s just our way of dealing with things. The truth is we’re still looking for her.”

Payne held up his cell phone, showing it to Tomlin. “I’m having all of my calls forwarded. If she tries to contact any one of my lines, it’ll ring here.”

“Good, then you won’t have to sit at home, killing time.”

Payne took a deep breath and nodded. To him, waiting was the hardest part. “How are things on your end? Did you have a chance to send any officers to her apartment?”

“I sent a small crew over. Unfortunately, we didn’t notice anything new. You guys must’ve done a pretty thorough job this morning.”

“We did,” Payne said. “I hope we didn’t step on any toes by entering the scene.”

“Heavens no. I would’ve done the same thing if a loved one of mine was involved in something like this. Of course, my answer as a police officer would’ve been different if I didn’t know you. But you’re professionals, so I trust your judgment when it comes to a crime scene.”

Jones stood from his chair and handed the captain all of the information he had acquired from Ariane’s DVD. “We did get some data on one of the suspects that entered the apartment. He had an elaborate tattoo on his right wrist. Looks like a Holotat to me.”

Tomlin pulled a close-up of the tattoo from the large stack of papers and studied it. “It could be, but very few gangs in Allegheny County use them. They’re a lot more common on the West Coast and down south.”

“That makes sense,” Payne said, “since this person’s probably from Louisiana.”

Tomlin furrowed his brow. “I’m not so sure of that. If I were a criminal, I wouldn’t use my own van as a getaway vehicle. And if I did, you can bet I wouldn’t use my own license plate. I’d bet there’s a good chance we’re going to get a report of a stolen plate or an abandoned black van somewhere in the area. And when we do, we can go from there.”

That wasn’t what Payne wanted to hear. He was hoping the captain supported his theory on the van’s origin. When he didn’t, he felt an unexpected burst of betrayal. “What are you saying, that these clues are a waste of time?”

“No, I’m not saying that at all. Every little bit helps. However, I’m not going to blow smoke. I respect you way too much for that.”

“Good! Then tell me where we stand. I need to know.”

Tomlin leaned back in his chair and searched for the appropriate words. “In a standard kidnapping, there’s little we can actually do until we get some kind of ransom demand. Sure, we’ll continue to search for evidence and witnesses, but without some kind of break, the odds of us finding her

before

they call are pretty slim.”

Jones glanced at his friend and waited to see if he was going to speak, but it was obvious he was done talking for the moment. “Captain? In your opinion, do you think this abduction was done for money?”

Tomlin didn’t want Payne to feel responsible for the kidnapping, but there was no denying the obvious. “To be honest, that would be my guess. Payne Industries is a well-known company, and Jon is recognized as one of the wealthiest men in the city. Since Ariane doesn’t have a history with drugs or any other criminal activities, I can think of no other reason for her abduction.”

“Thank you for your honesty,” Payne said. Then, to the surprise of Jones and Tomlin, he stood up and headed for the door. “If you find anything at all, please let me know.”

“I promise,” Tomlin called out. “The same goes for you. Call me day or night.”

***

WHEN

they reached the parking lot, Jones questioned Payne. “Jon, what’s going on? First you snapped at the man, then you bolted from his office without even saying goodbye. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Payne shrugged. “I’m not really sure. But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m not going to sit at home, waiting for some ransom demand.”

“I kind of assumed that. You aren’t exactly the sit-on-your-ass type.”

Payne nodded as he pondered what to do next. Even though he valued Captain Tomlin’s advice, there was something about his opinion that bothered him. He couldn’t place his finger on why, but he knew he didn’t agree with Tomlin’s assessment of the black van.

While thinking things through, Payne pulled from the crowded police lot and turned onto a busy side street. He maneuvered his vehicle in and out of traffic until he got to McKnight Road, one of the busiest business districts in the area. As he stopped at a red light, Payne reached across Jones’s lap and pulled a small book out of the Infiniti’s glove compartment.

“What’s that?” Jones asked.

“It’s my address book. I’m checking to see if I know anyone from Louisiana. I figure maybe a local would know something about the Holotat. You don’t know anyone down there, do you?”

“Sorry. My roots are up north, just like yours. Why, do you have someone in mind?”

“No, but-” The light turned green, and as it did, the word

green

clicked in Payne’s mind. “I’ll be damned! I just thought of someone from New Orleans.”

“Who?”

“Did I ever introduce you to Levon Greene?”

Jones’s eyes lit up with excitement. Levon Greene was an All-Pro linebacker for the Buffalo Bills before a devastating knee injury knocked him from the NFL. Before getting chop-blocked by Nate Barker, a guard with the San Diego Chargers, Greene was a fan favorite. He was known throughout the country for his tenacity and his colorful nickname, taken from a famous Bob Marley song. “The Buffalo Soldier? You know the Buffalo Soldier?”

Payne nodded. “He lived in Pittsburgh for a year after the Bills cut him. The Steelers signed him and kept him on their injured list for over a season. Our paths crossed on more than one occasion on the b-ball courts. He liked to play hoops for therapy.”

“But that doesn’t mean you

know

him. I see Steelers and Pirates all of the time, but that doesn’t mean they’re my boys.”

“True, but I know Levon.” He handed Jones the address book and told him to look for a phone number. Jones quickly flipped to the

G

s and was stunned when he saw Greene listed.

“Holy shit! You do know him.”

“I told you I knew him. What’s Levon’s home number?”

Jones glanced at the page for the requested information. “You don’t have a home number. You only have a cell listed.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. When he gave me his info, he was just getting ready to move back to New Orleans and didn’t know his new number.”

“He was moving to Louisiana, and he gave you his number? What, were you guys dating or something?”

Payne laughed. “Jealous?”

Jones shook his head and grinned. He’d always been amazed at Payne’s ability to keep his sense of humor in the most tragic of times. Sure, his buddy would have the occasional flare-up and reveal his true emotions during a crisis, but on the whole Payne was able to conceal his most personal feelings under a facade of levity.

Originally, when the two first met, Jones had interpreted Payne’s frivolity as a lack of seriousness, and he actually resented him for it. After a while, though, he learned that Payne’s sense of humor was simply his way of dealing with things. He realized that Payne never mocked the tragedy of a situation. Instead, he tried to use humor as a way of coping with the fear and adrenaline that would otherwise overwhelm him. It was a good trick, and eventually Jones and several other MANIACs learned to do the same thing.

“Seriously, what’s the deal with you two? Have you known him long?”

“I met him in North Park playing basketball. We were on the same team, and the two of us just clicked on the court. He was rehabbing his knee, so he couldn’t move like he used to on the football field. But he was strong as an ox. He set some of the most vicious screens I have ever seen in my life, and most of the time he did it to get me open jumpers.”

Jones laughed at the description of Greene. “It sounds like Levon plays hoops with the same intensity he showed in the NFL.”

“Hell, yeah! Even though we were in the park, he had a serious game face on. In fact, some people were afraid to play against the guy.”

“I bet, but that still doesn’t explain why he gave you his number.”

“We ended up making it a daily thing. We’d meet at the courts at the same time every day, and we’d take on all comers. Kicked some serious ass, too. Unfortunately, right before Steelers camp started, he failed his physical and was released from the team. But he told me if I was ever in New Orleans I should give him a call.”

“Wow, I’m kind of surprised. I thought I knew most of your friends, and now I find out you’ve been keeping a celebrity from me. So, are there any movie star chums that I should know about?”

“Did I ever tell you about my three-way with the Olsen twins?”

Jones laughed at the comment. “What are you going to do about Levon?”

“It’s not what I’m going to do. It’s what you’re going to do.” Payne handed him his cell phone. “I want you to dial his number for me.”

“You want me to call Levon Greene? This is so cool!” Jones dialed the phone, then looked at Payne when it started to ring. “What should I say to him?”

Payne snatched the phone from Jones’s grasp. “Not a damn thing. He’s my friend, not yours.”

“You are such a tease!”

Payne was still laughing when Greene answered the phone. “Who’s this?”

“Levon, I don’t know if you’ll remember me. My name is Jonathon Payne. I used to run ball with you at North Park when you were living up in Pittsburgh.”

“White dude, nice jump shot?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Yo, man, wazzup? I haven’t heard from your ass in a long time. How ya doin’?”

“I’m fine, and you? How’s the knee?”

Greene winced. It was one topic that he didn’t like dwelling on. “Still not a hundred percent, but it’s better than it used to be. I’m still hoping some team needs a run-stuffing linebacker and gives me a look in camp. But I don’t know. It’s getting kind of late.”

“Well, they’d be crazy not to take you, Levon. You’re as fierce as they come.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it. So, wazzup? Why the call out of the blue? Are you coming to New Orleans? I got a big-ass house. I can hook you up with a room. Won’t charge you much, neither,” he joked.

Payne wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find out from Greene, but he figured the only way to learn anything was to be up-front with the man. “Actually, Levon, the reason I called is an important one. You know how I told you I was doing fine?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I lied. Something’s going on up here, and I was hoping you could give me a hand.”

“I don’t loan people money, man. You’re gonna have to ask someone else.”

Payne grinned. If Greene knew how much money Payne actually had, Levon might be asking him for a loan. “No, it’s not about cash. Nothing like that. I promise.”

“What is it then? What’s the deal?”

Payne exhaled, trying not to think about Ariane. “I was hoping to get some information about a gang that might be operating in Louisiana, and I figured since you play a lot of street ball, you might be able to find something out on the courts.”

“Is that all you need? Shit! No problem, man. What’s the name of the posse?”

“Actually, that’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

“All right, but you gotta give me something to go on, ’cause there’s a lot of motherfuckin’ gangs down here. And every day a new crew pops up.”

“Damn,” Payne mumbled. He had been naively hoping that New Orleans was a one-gang town. “Do any of the gangs have Holotats? You know, tattooed gang emblems on their wrists?”

“Hell, yeah. A lot of crews do. Just tell me what it looks like, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

“The letter

P

, with a bloody knife sticking out of it.”

Greene thought about the information for a moment, then responded. “Off the top of my head, there’s nothing I can think of. But if you give me some time, I can ask around. If anything turns up, I’ll let you know immediately.”

“That sounds great,” Payne replied. “And I’d really appreciate anything you can come up with. It’s a matter of life or death.”

“Give me an hour, and I’ll give you a buzz at this number. I know a couple of brothers that know about this type of shit. Let me get ahold of them, then I’ll get ahold of you.”

“Levon, thank you! I’ll be awaiting your call.”

Jones, who’d overheard the entire conversation, questioned Payne the minute he hung up the phone. “So, he’s going to hook you up?”

“He’s going to try.”

“And what if he does? What are you gonna do?”

Payne smiled as he put his hand on Jones’s shoulder. “How does Fourth of July in New Orleans sound to you?”

CHAPTER 15

The Kotto Distribution Center

Ibadan, Nigeria

(56 miles northeast of Lagos)

MOST

aspects of the sprawling complex were recognized as legitimate. Hundreds of Nigerian-born workers came to the center each day to unload massive shipments of cacao, palm oil, peanuts, and rubber that had been brought in from Hannibal Kotto’s various businesses. Because of these ventures and the numerous employment opportunities that he offered, Kotto’s name was known and respected throughout Africa.

And it was this respect that allowed him to take advantage of the system.

As he sat behind his mahogany desk, Kotto waited for his assistant to give him the go-ahead to start the conference call. When the woman nodded, Kotto knew that everybody was ready.

“Gentlemen,” he said into the speakerphone, “I realize that English is not the strongest language for all of you, but since I’m dealing with several clients at once, I feel it is the most appropriate selection.” Kotto took a sip of Oyo wine, a local beverage made from the sap of palm trees, then continued. “In order to give everybody a sense of who they’ll be bidding against, I’d like each of you to name the country that you’re representing. Each of you has been assigned an auction number. When your number is called, please tell the group where you are from.”

As Kotto’s assistant read the numbers, heavily accented voices emerged from the speakerphone, each announcing his country of origin. Algeria, Angola, Cameroon, Ethiopia, Kenya, Libya, Namibia, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo were all represented.

“If you were listening,” Kotto stated, “I am sure each of you realizes that Africa is the only continent that Mr. Drake and I are dealing with. We’ve had several offers from Asia and South America as well, but we’re not ready to deal with their politics. At least, not yet.”

“When do you expect to broaden the operation?” asked the Ethiopian delegate.

“That’s a decision we haven’t made. If all continues to go well, there’s the possibility of expansion within the next few months.” Kotto took another sip of wine while waiting for further questions. When none came, he changed the course of the discussion. “I realize that some of you were disappointed with the last shipment. Mr. Drake and I discussed the issue, and I apologize for any problems it might’ve caused. I would like to assure you that you will have no such problems with the next delivery. It is the best quality we’ve ever prepared.”

The Kenyan spoke next. “What will that do to the price? I imagine we will have to pay more for the increase in caliber, will we not?”

Kotto grinned. “I would imagine, like in any business, that an increase in quality will cause an increase in price, but to what extent the price will rise, we’ll find out shortly.”

JONES

settled into the soft leather seats of the Payne Industries jet and closed his eyes for a moment of retrospection. During his military career, he’d been on hundreds of life-threatening missions, but this was the first time he’d ever felt hopeless before a flight. For one reason or another, he knew he was completely unprepared for what he was about to do.

And it was a feeling that he didn’t like.

When he was a member of the MANIACs, they were always given advanced reconnaissance before they were dropped into enemy territory. Maps, guides, safe houses, and specific objectives were always provided before they were put into danger. But not today. No, on this mission Jones was willing to ignore every protocol he had ever been taught because his best friend needed his help. He was flying to a city he’d never visited to look for a girl who probably wasn’t there, and the only thing they had to go on was a tattoo of the letter

P

.

“This is crazy,” he said to himself.

As he opened his eyes, he saw Payne hang up the phone at the front of the cabin and return to his seat, which was across the aisle from Jones.

“Go on. Get it off your chest,” Payne said, knowing his friend wasn’t happy.

“Are you sure this trip is wise? I mean, don’t you think it’s a little bit impulsive?”

“Not really. As I told you before, Levon talked to some of his boys in the city, and they assured him that Holotats are used by several of the local gangs.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t guarantee that Ariane is going to be down there. For all we know, the gang could have members in cities across America like the Bloods or the Crips. It could be a local thug from the Hill District that we’re looking for. Heck, the

P

could stand for

Pittsburgh

.”

“True, but that doesn’t explain the Louisiana license plate, now does it?”

Jones shook his head. He wasn’t really sure how to explain that. “But don’t you think that this is jumping the gun? We have no idea what we’re getting ourselves into.”

Payne smiled. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve assumed that his friend was afraid of flying. “What’s troubling you, D.J.? We’ve been to thousands of places that are more dangerous than New Orleans, and I’ve never seen you act like this.”

“Well, I’ve never felt like this,” Jones admitted. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I can tell we’re about to walk into a hornet’s nest. And the fact that we weren’t allowed to bring any weapons into the airport makes me feel unprotected.”

“I figured you’d feel that way. That’s why I just gave Levon another call. Since he has a number of contacts on the street, I assumed that he’d have some gun connections.”

“Does he?”

“He said he’d see what he could do, but I think that’s his way of saying he’ll get it done.”

A few hours later, the jet landed on an auxiliary runway at Louis Armstrong International Airport in Kenner, Louisiana, which spared Payne and Jones from dealing with the hassle of the main terminal. After grabbing their bags from the plane, they walked to the nearest rent-a-car agency, where they picked up the fastest rental available, a Ford Mustang GT convertible.

The airport was only fifteen miles west of the Crescent City, so the drive to New Orleans was a short one. Following Interstate 10 all the way into Orleans Parish, Payne followed the directions Greene had given him. Before long they were navigating the streets of the central business district.

As Payne and Jones expected, the contrast between the tourist areas and the outlying neighborhoods was disheartening. Hurricane Katrina had ravaged the entire city in August 2005, and since that time most of the governmental funds had been funneled into the city’s businesses and infrastructure, not the residential sections or suburbs. In many ways, the reasoning was sound. Tourists were the lifeblood of the region, and the only way to get them to return was to restore the areas that they wanted to visit.

One of those places was the Spanish Plaza, the spot where they would meet Greene.

Donated by Spain in 1976 as a bicentennial gift, the plaza was one of four foreign squares that paid tribute to the roles that France, Italy, England, and Spain played in the history and culture of New Orleans. The focal point of the site was a man-made geyser, encircled by an elaborate cut-stone deck and illuminated by a rainbow of lights that lined the scenic monument.

As Payne and Jones strolled down the plaza’s steps, they saw Greene, wearing a pair of white Dockers and an ice blue Tommy Hilfiger shirt, looking even larger than he did during his NFL playing days.

“Levon,” Payne called as he neared his friend. “Thanks for meeting me.”

Greene, 6’3” and 275 pounds of muscle, stood from the bench where he’d been resting his knee. “No problem, my man.” He grabbed Payne’s hand and pulled him close, bumping his shoulder while patting him on the back with his free hand. It was a greeting that was quite common in the sports world. “You’re looking good. You still playin’ ball?”

“Not as much as I used to. But I manage to work out whenever I can. Of course, I still have a long way to go before I’m a badass like you.”

Greene smiled and turned his attention to Jones. “By the way, my name’s Levon Greene. And you are?”

Jones grabbed Greene’s hand and replicated the greeting Greene had given Payne-except Jones did it with much more vigor. He was thrilled to meet one of his biggest sports heroes. “I’m David Jones, a friend of Jon’s and a big fan of yours.”

“That’s always nice to hear, especially since I’m a huge fan of yours as well. I can hardly believe that I’m actually talking to the lead singer of the Monkees!”

Payne couldn’t help but laugh. He occasionally teased Jones about his name’s similarity to Davy Jones, and it was something that D.J. couldn’t stand. However, Payne had a feeling that the remark would produce a much different reaction coming from Greene.

“Oh, I get it!” Jones said as he playfully punched Greene on his arm. “The Monkees! That’s pretty damn funny. I bet I used to look a lot whiter on TV, huh?”

Greene laughed, then returned his attention to Payne. “Have you guys eaten yet? There are a number of places in this city where we can get traditional Louisiana food, like jambalaya or gumbo. Or, if you prefer, we can just head over to the French Quarter for a beer and some naked breasts. Trust me, whatever you want, I can deliver. Just name it, and it’s yours.”

Payne glanced at Jones, then back at Greene. He’d been less than forward with Greene on the phone and decided it was time to give him a few details about their mission. “Levon, I have to tell you something. This isn’t going to be a pleasure trip. We’re down here for one reason and one reason only: to find out about your local gangs.”

Greene grimaced, confused. “Man, what is it about this damn tattoo that brought you guys down here? What could possibly be so important?”

Jones noticed the anguish on Payne’s face, so he decided to answer for him. “Early this morning Jon’s girlfriend was kidnapped from her apartment building. On the surveillance video, we noticed the tattoo that Jon described on one of the criminals. There was a witness who saw his girlfriend thrown into the back of a van that had Louisiana plates. We’re down here to try and find her.”

Greene grunted. “Damn, I had no idea. What did the police say?”

“Not much,” Jones answered. “They’re doing everything they can in Pittsburgh, but until we receive a ransom demand or find some conclusive evidence about the gang, they aren’t willing to contact the FBI or any other law enforcement agency.”

“So, you two are here to snoop around? What are you planning to do to get her back?”

With determination in his eyes, Payne rejoined the conversation. “Whatever it takes.”

CHAPTER 16

BECAUSE

of his size, Greene claimed the shotgun seat of the cramped Mustang, forcing Jones to sit in the back. Normally Jones would’ve bitched and moaned about losing his front-seat status, but since Greene would’ve needed the flexibility of a Russian gymnast to contort his 275-pound frame into the backseat, Jones didn’t mutter a single complaint.

After getting into the car, Greene spoke first. “I was able to purchase the artillery that you guys wanted, but it cost me a pretty penny. If you want, we can pick it up now.”

Payne agreed, and Greene directed him to the nearby parking garage where his black Cadillac Escalade was parked. The SUV was equipped with a gas-guzzling 400-plus-horsepower engine, limousine-tinted windows, and enough speakers and subwoofers to register a 3.5 on the Richter scale. “This here is my pride and joy,” Greene exclaimed. “It was the last extravagant gift I bought myself before my injury. Ain’t she sweet?”

“She’s a nice ride, and it certainly looks like you take care of her.”

Greene nodded as he opened his hatch. “My daddy always used to say, if you take care of your car, your car will take care of you.”

Jones slid up next to the ex-linebacker and glanced inside the spacious cargo hold. “My God, your trunk’s bigger than the seat you’re making me ride around in.”

Payne rolled his eyes at Jones’s remark. “What did you get for us, big man?”

“You said you needed some reliable handguns, so I picked you up a couple of Glocks. I didn’t know which model you’d prefer, so I got a 19 and a 27. The 19 uses standard nine-millimeter ammo, which many people like. Personally, I prefer the 27. In fact, it’s the kind I carry for protection. It’s chambered in forty-caliber Smith amp; Wesson, which I think is ballistically better than the nine-millimeter.”

Payne smiled his approval as he picked up the charcoal gray Glock 27 from Greene’s cargo hold. The ridged polymer handle fit snugly into his experienced hand, and as he held it up to the overhead lights, he stared at the gun with the wide-eyed fascination of a kid with a new toy. “You made a nice choice. No external safeties to worry about. It’s light, dependable. Perfect.”

“I guess that means I’m stuck with the 19, huh?” Jones didn’t have a problem with the weapon, but after riding in the cramped backseat, he was in the mood to complain about something. “Did you get us anything else?”

Greene leaned into the trunk and pulled out a large maroon suitcase. As he fiddled with the case’s combination lock, he spoke. “You told me that money wasn’t an object and that you needed a couple of weapons with some serious firepower, right? Well, I hope this is what you had in mind.” Greene opened the case, revealing a Heckler amp; Koch MP5 K submachine gun and a Steyr AUG assault rifle.

Jones reacted quickly, grabbing the MP5 K before Payne could get his hands on it. “My, my, my! What do we have here? German-made, three-round burst capability, nine hundred rounds a minute. A nice piece of hardware.”

“That’s not all,” Greene declared. “I picked up the optional silencer as well.”

“Great!” Payne said. “That means he can kill a librarian without disturbing any readers.”

“Not that I’d

ever

kill a librarian,” Jones assured him.

“They’re special people.”

Greene ignored their banter, focusing on Payne instead. “Jon, this Steyr AUG is one of the best assault rifles on the market. It has an interchangeable barrel, so you can use it accurately from a distance like a sniper or up close like a banger. And the cartridges-five-point-five-six by forty-five millimeters-can be bought in department stores, for God’s sake! It’s very versatile.”

Payne picked up the rifle and attached the scope with the skill of a soldier. Once it was in place, he held the eyepiece to his face and put a fire alarm across the garage in his sight. He held the weapon steady, sucked in a deep breath, then paused. “Bang!” he mouthed before dropping the AUG to his side. “You’re right. This is a fine choice, and all the weapons appear to be in pretty good shape. What did the purchase run you?”

Greene pulled a handwritten invoice out of his pocket and gave it to Payne.

Payne glanced at the sheet and smiled. “What kind of a street dealer writes out receipts? Does he have a return policy if we’re not completely satisfied?”

“Actually, I wrote the stuff down so I wouldn’t forget. I’m not that strong with numbers.”

“Me, either,” Payne admitted. “That’s why I try to avoid them at work.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you do for a living?”

“I’m the CEO of a multinational conglomeration. We specialize in everything from new technologies to clothes to food products.”

Greene laughed in a disbelieving tone. “Okay, whatever. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. Besides, I’m too hungry to worry about it. Why don’t we get out of here?”

Jones agreed. “Sounds good to me. Should we take one car or two?”

“Why don’t we take two?” Payne said. “There’s a good chance that we’re going to be putting ourselves in danger before the end of the night, and I’m not comfortable asking Levon to help us any more than he already has. It’s one thing to ask him for guns and a place to stay, but it’s entirely different to put his life in danger for two guys he barely knows.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Jones seconded. “Things could get a little bit nasty if we meet up with the wrong people.”

“Come on, D.J., let’s put our stuff in the back of the Mustang, then we can follow Levon to dinner.” Jones nodded, then walked toward the car with a handful of weapons.

“Hold up a fuckin’ minute!” Greene roared. “I can’t believe you had an entire conversation about me and didn’t bother to ask my opinion. What kind of Yankee bullshit is that?”

“Yankee bullshit?” Payne muttered. “I don’t remember talking about baseball.”

“I don’t think you did. He must’ve misheard you. The acoustics down here aren’t that great.”

“Enough already! Would you guys please shut up before I’m forced to use a Glock on your ass? Damn!” Greene shook his head in disgust as he walked toward Payne and Jones. “Listen, I realize that I don’t know you guys very well, but I’ll be honest with you: This shit intrigues me. When I was still playing ball, I used to live for the adrenaline rush that I got on game day. The crowd calling my name, the speakers blasting my Bob Marley theme song, the feel of a quarterback sack. Man, those were the days.”

Greene’s eyes glazed slightly as he thought back to his All-Pro seasons with the Bills.

“Unfortunately, that shit has changed. Since Barker blew out my fucking knee, I haven’t been able to get too excited about anything. I’ve done my best to rehab and run and lift, but the truth is, my career is probably done.”

“So, what are you saying?” Payne asked.

“For the first time in almost three years, I can feel the adrenaline pumping again. When you called and told me that you wanted me to round up some weapons, I nearly got a hard-on. Then, when you told me the reason for your visit, I got even more excited-an excitement I haven’t felt in a long time. Anyway, I guess this is what I’m saying: If you don’t mind, I’d like to come along for the ride. I’d like to help you find your girlfriend.”

Payne turned to Jones and grinned. He’d been hoping Greene would offer his services. “I don’t know, man. I just don’t know. D.J., what do you think?”

“Well, a New Orleans native with street connections might come in handy, and his nickname is the Buffalo Soldier after all.”

“Good point.” Payne smiled and shook Greene’s hand. “Okay, Levon, you’re on. But if at any time you feel like we’re leading you somewhere you don’t want to go, just say the word and we’ll understand.”

Jones nodded his head. “Yeah, there’s no sense getting killed in a fight where you have nothing to gain.”

“That sounds pretty fair,” Greene exclaimed. “But before we begin, I need to ask for one small favor.”

“You got it,” Payne said. “Just name it.”

“Well, since there’s a good chance that you might die on this trip, I was hoping you could pay me for the guns before you got killed.”

CHAPTER 17

ROBERT

Edwards lay on the dirt floor of the small cabin, trying to hold back tears. He had never felt more exhausted in his entire life, yet the waves of agony that engulfed his body hindered his ability to slip into a painless sleep.

His face was still scarred and scabbed from his unsuccessful escape attempt through the Colorado woods on Thursday morning. The flesh on his back was sunburned and slashed from the numerous whippings he had received in the field as punishment for alleged misbehavior. His hands were sore from pulling weeds, and his arms ached from crawling through the untilled soil.

But all of that paled in comparison to the pain that he felt in his injured left leg.

The swelling in Robert’s foot and ankle was so severe that his limb no longer looked like a normal appendage, but instead appeared to be a severe birth defect or some kind of laboratory mutation. The bloated and deformed leg had turned such a deep shade of purple that its hue bordered on black instead of the peach color of his uninjured leg. And enough blood had pooled in the lower extremity that the subsequent pressure was cutting off his foot’s circulation. His toes were ice-cold, and his foot tingled as if it were on the verge of falling asleep. Robert knew something needed to be done, but his limited knowledge of first aid was not advanced enough to deal with the severity of his injury. Without ice or an analgesic to reduce the pain and swelling, he did the only thing that he could. He elevated his leg by resting it on the cabin’s lone bench.

As he closed his eyes, trying to get the rest that his body required, he heard the rattling of the cabin’s lock. He turned his head and watched the door inch open. He stared at it with unblinking eyes until he recognized the shadow that slid into the room. It was Master Holmes, and he was holding a sledgehammer.

“What’s that for?” Robert cried. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me! I haven’t caused any problems!”

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Holmes growled. “My guards assured me that you were lagging behind in the field, you needed assistance on more than one occasion, and you objected to being beaten. Those sound like serious problems to me.”

“I swear I was doing my best! The pain in my leg was unbearable, and it slowed me down at times, but I never quit. I never gave up. I swear to God I did everything I could! Please don’t hit me. I swear I’ll get better. Oh, God, I swear!”

Holmes considered Robert’s plea, then shrugged as he moved closer. “But I don’t see

how

you can get better. You claim you were doing your best today, but my guards told me that your efforts weren’t good enough. If you were already doing your best, I don’t see how you could improve.”

Robert tried to sit up, but he was unable to budge his leg. “I promise I’ll get better. Just give me a painkiller and I could work harder. I just need something for the pain.”

Holmes shook his head and sneered. “It’s always something with you. This morning you were complaining to the guards. Now you’re claiming you can do anything if we get you some drugs. As far as your pain goes, I don’t give a fuck! Pain is something everyone must deal with, and those that deal with it the best will succeed the most. Obviously, you’re one of those people that can’t cope.”

“I can, Master Holmes. I swear I can cope with the pain.”

Holmes grinned as he tightened his grip on the wooden handle. “All right,” he stated, lifting the sledgehammer high above Robert’s head. “Let’s see if you can deal with this!”

Screaming like a medieval warrior, Holmes shifted his weight forward and swung the mallet’s iron head. Robert raised his hands and tried to deflect the blow, but his reflexes were too slow and Holmes’s efforts were too determined. The hammer smashed into the bridge of Robert’s nose, splintering the delicate bones of his face, not stopping until the cold steel collided with the blood-soaked floor.

“Can you handle that?” Holmes mocked. “Or do you need something for the pain?”

Gasping for air, Robert opened his eyes and lifted his head from the floor with a terrified shriek. He gazed around the room, searching for Holmes with every ounce of energy that remained in his body, but the powerful man was nowhere to be found. The tiny cabin was empty, except for the sound of a feminine voice that was urging him to lie down.

“Honey,” Tonya Edwards pleaded as she stroked her husband’s damp hair, “you were just dreaming! It was just a bad dream.”

Robert tried to catch his breath as he glanced at his wife’s face, but the image of Holmes’s hammer still lingered. The dream had been so intense, so real, that his entire body was dripping with perspiration and his heart was pounding with urgency.

“Shhh,” she begged, “let me take care of you.”

It took a moment to settle him down, but Robert finally did as she requested. He eased his weary head to the cabin’s floor, then stared into Tonya’s dark eyes, searching for answers. “How did you get in here? How did you find me?”

Tonya continued to stroke her husband’s hair, doing everything in her power to calm him. “You collapsed when the guards brought you back from the field, and they didn’t want you to die. They brought me here to help you. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up ever since.”

Robert’s eyes filled with tears as he tried to make sense of it all. The abduction, the brutality, the labor. What had he done to deserve this? He had never lived the life of a saint, but he had never done anything to warrant this. He had never killed, robbed, or harmed anyone. In fact, he had never purposely hurt anybody in his entire life. And what about his wife? Why was she here? She was pregnant, for God’s sake! What could she have possibly done to merit her imprisonment on the Plantation?

“Sweetie, did you hear me?” Tonya sobbed. “Can you hear what I’m saying?”

Robert did his best to focus on her lips, yet he had no idea what she had said. “How did you get in here?” he repeated, not remembering his earlier question.

She swallowed deeply, trying to stay strong for him. “The guards brought me in to take care of you. They want me to try and fix your leg.”

“But you’re not a doctor.”

Tonya smiled, and the small movement of her lips temporarily lifted his spirits. “I know I’m not a doctor, but I’m the only person who’s allowed to help. The guards told me what needed to be done, but I didn’t want to do it until you woke up. I wanted to get your approval first.”

“My approval?” Robert didn’t like the sound of that. If it was a simple medical procedure like putting on a bandage, Tonya would’ve done it while he was asleep. Since she wanted to ask his permission, he knew it was something serious. “What do you have in mind?”

Tonya clambered to her feet-a difficult task because of her pregnancy-and waddled to the bench where her husband was currently elevating his leg. Carefully, she sat next to his swollen limb, trying not to jostle the bench with her body weight. Then, with the tenderness of a new mother, she placed her left hand on his injured ankle.

“Robert, the guard told me you have a displaced fracture. That means your bone was broken and the pieces shifted away from each other.”

“The guard told you? Is he a doctor?”

His wife shook her head as she pointed to his leg. “No, he’s not a doctor, but if you look at it, it’s kind of obvious.” Tonya took a deep breath before continuing. “Your leg’s pointing straight ahead, but your foot is turned way to the right.”

Robert didn’t need to look at his injury. The severity of his pain let him know that something was seriously wrong. “How are you supposed to fix it?”

Tonya gulped before answering. “The guard told me if you want the bone to heal properly, I need to . . . um . . . straighten it out.”

He was going to ask how she was going to do that, but he knew the answer. She had to twist his foot until everything was aligned in his leg. “Do you trust his advice?”

She nodded. “Remember when I slipped on the ice and broke my finger two years ago? The first thing the doctor did was pop it back into place. That way, it was able to grow back together.” She bent her right index finger back and forth. “And see? It turned out just fine.”

Robert agreed with her logic. If he wanted the ability to walk without a limp, he knew that something needed to be done immediately. “Do you think you can handle this? I know how squeamish you can be.”

“Yeah, I can handle it,” she said, smiling. It was a smile that said,

If I’m doing it for you, I can handle anything.

Robert appreciated the sentiment. “I want you to promise me something, though. When you do this, do it quick, like removing a Band-Aid. Just make one decisive move and get it over with, okay?”

“You got it.” Tonya stared at him, wanting to say something to her husband, but the appropriate words escaped her. “Are you ready?”

“Not really.” He laughed through gritted teeth, “but I have a feeling I could never be ready.”

She grinned, admiring his courageous sense of humor. “I think this will be easier if we did it on the flat ground. That way, I’ll be able to anchor your upper leg with my body weight.”

Robert closed his eyes as his wife lifted his swollen limb off of the bench and lowered it to the cabin’s dirt floor. He winced as she placed it on the hard ground, but the pain wasn’t nearly as bad as he had expected. “So far, so good.”

Tonya leaned forward and gently kissed her husband on his forehead. After whispering soft words of encouragement, she turned away from him, resting her weight on his left knee, anchoring his upper leg in place. Without stopping to think, she leaned toward his broken limb and grabbed his foot. Then, with a quick burst, she rotated his foot to the left. The violent twist filled the cabin with a series of sounds-first the grotesque snap of his leg as his bones shifted back into place, then the heart-stopping shriek of a man in agony.

It was a sound that would be repeated by several prisoners in the coming days.

CHAPTER 18

THE

last thing on Payne’s mind was dinner, but Greene insisted that they stop for something to eat. They had to, he said. His stomach demanded it. As a compromise, Payne pulled into the first drive-through he could find and ordered several ham and cheese po’boys, a local specialty.

“So,” said Payne as they waited for their food, “where to next?”

Greene thought about it for several seconds. “The first thing we’re gonna have to do is talk to some of my boys from the Quarter. They’d be more aware of things on the street than me.”

“What kind of things?” Jones asked.

“Everything. If it happens in the city, they’ll know about it. They’ll be able to fill you in on the tattoo you’re looking for. Plus, if you’re lucky, they might be able to tell you something about the kidnapping. Of course, since that didn’t happen down here, details might be limited.”

Payne considered Greene’s words carefully. “Will your friends be willing to talk to us?”

Greene shrugged. “That’s something I don’t know. Most of the time, they’re pretty receptive about helping me, but in your case, I don’t know. You have two things working against you.”

“And those are?”

“You’re white, and you’re from the North. Some people down here don’t take kindly to those two things.”

Payne nodded. “I can understand that, and I figured as much. But at the same time, I have two things that will help my cause.”

“Like what?” Greene asked.

“First of all, I have you guys on my side, and since both of you are black, that might help us with some of the bigger racists we come across.”

“That’s true, but it might not be enough.”

“And secondly,” he said as he laid a thick wad of cash on the dashboard, “I’m willing to spend my entire fortune if it helps get Ariane back.”

Greene eyed the stack of bills that sat before him and grinned. “You know, I think you’ll get along with my boys just fine!”

“I had a feeling I would.”

“But before we go anywhere, there are still a few ground rules I’m gonna have to insist on before we meet my people.”

Payne scooped up his money and nodded. “I’m listening.”

“This is my hometown, the place I’ve chosen to live for the rest of my life. So I don’t want you doing anything that’s going to hurt me after you guys leave. That means I don’t want you roughing up any of my contacts, and I don’t want you making me look bad in any way. I have a reputation to uphold in this city, and I don’t want it tarnished. Okay?”

Payne and Jones agreed to his conditions.

“And finally, if I’m going to help you out, you need to promise me one more thing: absolutely no police involvement of any kind.”

“Why not?” Jones asked, slightly suspicious.

“The people that we’ll be dealing with aren’t exactly friends of the law, and if word gets out that I’m teaming up with the local authorities, then my sources will dry up. And trust me, that won’t help you find the girl, and it won’t help me after you’ve left.”

“No cops, no problem,” replied Payne, who was willing to agree to just about anything. “Now, unless there’s something else, can we get this show on the road?”

AFTER arranging a meeting with his best source, Greene directed his friends through the narrow streets of the Vieux Carré, the historic neighborhood also known as the French Quarter.

“Some people get confused when they come down here because the term French Quarter is misleading,” Greene said. “Most of the architecture around here is Spanish in design, built in the eighteenth century. Most of the original French settlement was burned during a rebellion a little more than two hundred years ago. And thankfully, much of it survived Katrina.”

From the backseat, Jones glanced at the buildings and noticed nothing but bars, strip clubs, and T-shirt shops, and none of them looked very old. “Levon? Are you telling me that Spain had nude dancing back in the seventeen hundreds?”

Greene laughed. “If they did, I doubt the conquistadors would’ve ever left. No, this is the one part of the French Quarter that has been ruined by modern-day greed. If you want to experience the true character of this area, you need to explore the side streets. That’s where you’ll find the flavor of the early settlers.”

Payne suddenly looked at Greene in a whole new light. He always knew that Greene was intelligent, but he never realized the ex-linebacker had a passion for history. In the past, their playground conversations never got beyond street basketball and life in the NFL. “I have to admit, Levon, I’m kind of surprised. You never seemed to be the type of person who cared about the events of early America. Now you sound like a tour guide.”

“I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be a compliment or not.”

“Yes,” he assured Greene, “it’s a compliment.”

“Thanks. I guess ever since I hurt my knee I’ve had the opportunity to do a lot of things that I wouldn’t have done earlier in my career. One of those things is historical research. I’ve been reading a lot of books on the past, trying to picture what life used to be like down here before the nineteen hundreds. As you can imagine, it was a much different place.”

Payne nodded as they pulled up in front of the Fishing Hole, a nightclub where the marquee boasted “the Prettiest Girls in

Nude

Orleans.” After parking, the three men walked to the front door and were quickly greeted by a bouncer who recognized Greene. With a slight nod, he allowed the trio to enter the club for free. Payne and Jones followed Greene into the smoke-filled lobby and were immediately taken aback by the first thing they saw: the couch dance room.

Similar in design to the orgy rooms of the Roman Empire, the room consisted of ten couches scattered around a spacious chamber. For a twenty-dollar tip, a naked vixen led an eager man to one of the black leather couches. During the course of a song, she would attempt to seduce him by rubbing, sliding, and grinding against his fully clothed body. Her goal was simple: convince him to purchase another song. And it wasn’t a tough sale. Mix horny men with inexpensive alcohol, naked women, and heavy petting, and there’s a better chance that a guy will file for bankruptcy before saying no to a beautiful stripper.

Strolling between the couches, Payne and Jones gaped at the erotic scene that unfolded around them while Greene chuckled with childlike delight.

“It’s kind of hypnotic, isn’t it?” asked Greene. “I always enjoy watching the crowd that stands along the walls. You’ll see an awful lot of perverts with their hands in their pockets, if you know what I mean.”

Both men knew what he meant, but that didn’t mean they wanted to watch it.

“What are we doing here?” Payne asked. “Is it for the scenery, or did we come here to meet somebody in particular?”

“Actually, both. The main guy I wanted you to speak to is the owner of this club. And since I didn’t want you fellas to come to New Orleans without having a chance to experience Bourbon Street, I told him that we would meet him here. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

Jones continued to stare at the naked females and shook his head. “Nope, doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I’m tempted to borrow twenty bucks.”

Payne grabbed Jones by the arm and pulled him into the hallway. “Come on, D.J., get your mind in the game. If we start to lose focus, we could miss something important.”

“Sorry,” Jones muttered, his face flushed with embarrassment. “But the only time I see stuff like this is late night on Cinemax.”

Greene led Payne and Jones through a back corridor, and before long they were strolling through the dancers’ dressing room. Surprisingly, none of the undressed women were bothered by the men’s presence. When they reached the back corner of the room, Greene spoke to the security guard who stood outside of a private office. “Let Terrell know I’m here. He’s expecting me.” The guard quickly opened the thick metal door to get authorization from the club’s owner but noticed that he was on the phone.

“It’ll be one minute, Mr. Greene. Mr. Murray is finishing up a call.”

Greene nodded, then returned his attention to Payne and Jones. It was time to supply them with some background information on the man they were about to meet. “Terrell Murray is one of the most influential men in New Orleans, even though you’ll rarely hear his name mentioned in high society. He tends to stay out of politics and high finance and prefers to deal with the seedier side of the city-strip clubs, prostitution, gambling, and so on. Very few things of an illegal nature get done in Orleans Parish without his permission or knowledge, so there is a very good chance that he’ll be able to point us in the right direction.”

Payne nodded. “And I take it you’ll do all of the talking?”

“Since he doesn’t know you, he won’t help you. Fortunately, he’s an avid football fan and has a place in his heart for me, so I’ll be able to ask him anything that you guys want to know. I obviously understand the basics of your case, so I’ll get him to talk about the tattoo and the kidnapping, but is there anything else you want to find out?”

Payne shook his head before they were led into Murray’s private office.

The well-lit room was immaculately maintained and outfitted with French Neoclassical furniture from the late seventeen hundreds-definitely not what Payne and Jones were expecting to find. Four Louis XVI chairs, possessing the classic straight lines of the period, encircled a round wooden table that sat in the middle of the hardwood floor. Gold trim lined the walls, ceilings, and picture frames of the chamber, matching a chandelier that dangled above the sitting area. The room’s artwork was obviously influenced by the Roman Empire, a motif that reflected the French’s interest in the designs of the ancient cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum. A marble bust of Tiberius, the second emperor of Rome, sat proudly on a pedestal in the far corner.

An elderly black man, dressed in a pale gray suit and an open-collared shirt, stood from his seat behind his Louis XVI desk and greeted his visitors with a warm smile. “Please come in. Make yourself at home.”

“Thank you,” Payne replied as he soaked in the office’s decor. “This is an impressive setup you have here. It’s like a museum.”

Murray shook Payne’s hand and thanked him for the compliment. “First of all, enough with the formalities. If you’re a friend of Levon’s, there’s no need to call me

sir

. Please, my name is Terrell.” Payne nodded in understanding. “And as far as this room is concerned, antiques are a hobby of mine. I own a number of shops on Royal Street, but I’m afraid I deny my customers the opportunity to buy the best items. I tend to keep them for myself.”

“And you’ve done a wonderful job,” Jones added. “You truly have.”

“Good, I’m glad you like it.” Murray motioned for the men to be seated in the Louis XVI chairs and eagerly joined them. “So, Levon, what brings you here on a Friday night to see an old man like me? I know it can’t be companionship because most of the lovely ladies of the club would be more than willing to go home with you.”

Greene smiled at the thought. “Actually, I’ve come for your knowledge of the city. My friends and I are in search of a particular gang that operates in the area, and we were hoping that you could point us in the right direction.”

Murray furrowed his wrinkled brow before speaking. “And am I to guess the name of the gang, or would you like to give me that information?”

“That’s one of the reasons I came to you. The only thing we know is the design of their Holotat. It’s in the shape of the letter

P

and uses a bloody dagger in the image.”

“Yes,” Murray replied with the blank face of a gambler. “I know that tattoo, and its appearance is a recent one to this city. Unfortunately, I know little about the men who wear them. I am sorry I cannot tell you more.”

Without saying a word, Payne turned toward Greene and pleaded for him to dig deeper. Payne sensed that the old man was holding something back, and Greene picked up on the nonverbal request to continue.

“Terrell, I know that you try to stay out of other people’s business, but in this case, I’m hoping you’ll make an exception. Earlier today a man bearing that Holotat burst into the apartment of Jon’s girlfriend and abducted her. So far, there’s been no ransom demand and very little police activity. We’re afraid if we don’t do something immediately we may be too late. Please, any lead that you can give us would be appreciated.”

Murray considered Greene’s plea for several stress-filled seconds before nodding. “Above Rampart Street near St. Louis Cemetery #1, there is a small tattoo shop. It is operated by a man known as Jamaican Sam. He’s the most popular skin artist in the area, and I would bet he’s the man responsible for designing that Holotat. Go to him, and see where it leads you.”

CHAPTER 19

Galléon Township Docks

Galléon, Louisiana

(37 miles southeast of New Orleans)

THE

driver of the Washington Parish ambulance stopped near the narrow dock, then made a three-point turn in the gravel driveway. Once the vehicle pointed away from the Gulf of Mexico, he backed it carefully to the edge of the secluded pier. Satisfied with its positioning, he turned off the motor and stepped under the wharf’s lone streetlight.

Tension was evident on his face.

While listening to the lapping water, he checked his watch and realized he was a few minutes early. To kill time, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a paper match. He took a deep drag, then blew a puff of smoke into the nighttime air.

This would be his last delivery for a while, and for that he was quite thankful. He didn’t know why, but he’d grown more and more anxious with each mission that he’d completed for the Plantation. At first, he blamed his uncomfortable feelings on the recent death of his aunt. He assumed her passing had caused some sort of subconscious guilt since his after-hours duties centered on the shipment of cadavers for medical experiments. But lately, his concerns were a little more tangible. Snippets of overheard conversations, copies of phony death certificates, and deliveries that were scheduled for the dead of night.

All of which made him nervous.

But that was only part of it. What freaked him out more than anything were the sounds. On more than one occasion, he could’ve sworn he heard noises coming from the back of his ambulance-loud thumps emerging from the sealed containers, muffled screams leaking from the crates of the dead. God, the thought of it made him shudder.

To calm down, he took another drag on his cigarette and stared at the warm waters of the gulf. Something about this didn’t seem right.

As he continued to wait, he pondered his role as a deliv eryman, thinking back to the day he was first hired. A well-dressed black man spotted him washing his ambulance and asked him if he was interested in making some extra cash. The man claimed he was operating a private medical center off the coast in Breton Sound and was looking for the quickest way to deliver his research from Lakefront Airport to his new facility. Since emergency vehicles were given special privileges on the roadway, he felt that an ambulance would be the most efficient mode of transportation. Plus, he pointed out, he was looking for someone who would be comfortable around dead bodies and felt a medical worker would be perfect.

The driver glanced at his watch again and realized he still had a few minutes until the workers from the Plantation would arrive. If he hurried, he figured he could sneak into the back of his ambulance and investigate the crates that had been loaded for him at the airport.

“Screw it,” he said aloud.

He emphasized his statement by slamming his cigarette into the water.

With quiet determination, he opened the door of the ambulance and climbed across the front seat. Sliding through the narrow entryway, he crept into the back and quickly grabbed the paperwork that had been attached to the top of the first wooden container. It read:

WALKER, ARIANE

28 YEARS OLD

WEXFORD, PA

JULY 2

Wow, he thought to himself. She died earlier today. That’s pretty quick for someone to be moved across state lines.

He continued to flip through the documents, hoping to find a cause of death or the reason she was going to be examined, but the sheets were filled with numbers and other data that he was unable to comprehend.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced at his watch again. They would be here soon. And the last thing he wanted was to be caught snooping. Not only would they refuse to pay him, but he realized he might end up in one of the coffins as well.

AFTER leaving the ambulance, the small boat navigated the narrow channel of the cypress swamp, carefully avoiding any logs or stumps that would puncture its bow. As it eased against the moss-covered dock, the captain of the vessel tossed a rope to one of the guards, who quickly attached it to its anchoring post.

The craft was now secured.

Octavian Holmes emerged from the shadows of the stern and shouted terse orders to the men on cargo duty. The workers, dressed in black fatigues and carrying firearms, hauled the two wooden crates to a waiting truck. Once Holmes climbed into the back of the vehicle, the driver started the motor and maneuvered the shipment through the thick camouflage of the island’s foliage. A short time later, the flatbed truck burst from the claustrophobic world of leaves into the neatly manicured grounds of the Plantation.

“Stop here,” Holmes growled with authority.

The workers lifted the wooden crates from the vehicle and placed them on the charred remains of the burned cross. As Holmes watched closely, they tore into the crates with crowbars and within seconds the boxes were reduced to shreds. Cautiously, the men lifted the two unconscious prisoners from the dismantled containers and placed them in the cool grass.

“They’re all yours, sir.”

Holmes nodded while studying the paperwork of his new arrivals. Satisfied, he bent over to examine their sleeping forms and immediately liked what he saw. The first captive was an elderly man with a strong jaw, thinning white hair, and a deep surfer’s tan. He was in amazing physical shape for his age, possessing great muscle tone despite his seventy-one years of life. His wrists were thick, his shoulders broad, and his stomach carried little flab.

“Jake Ross,” he mumbled as he nudged the man’s hip. “I bet you’re still a pit bull, huh?”

When he was done with the senior citizen, he turned his attention to the drugged female, and her beauty instantly overwhelmed him. Her chestnut hair flowed over her rosy cheeks, cascading down her neck and onto her slender shoulders like a tropical waterfall. Her bosom, concealed under a bright red golf shirt, danced with each life-sustaining breath, and the image stirred something deep within Holmes. Her legs, tanned and athletic, were in full view since her white skirt had been torn during her cross-country journey. But even in rest, they possessed the fragile grace of a master ballerina’s.

And her face-her gorgeous face-was the most beautiful he had seen in a very long time.

After catching his breath, Holmes dropped to his knees and kissed the girl on her lips. “Ariane Walker,” he whispered, “it’s a pleasure to have you on my island.”

With a smile on his face, Holmes scooped her off of the turf and gently folded her frame over his left shoulder. As her arms dangled against his muscular back, he carried the unconscious girl toward her cabin with little effort. His eighteen years of work as a mercenary, which required stamina, strength, and discipline, guaranteed a level of physical conditioning that few men could ever hope to achieve. His missions had taken him through the severe warmth of the equator, the extreme cold of the Arctic Circle, and all the milder climates in between. In the process, he had learned how to survive anything that this world was capable of throwing at him.

And because of that, invincibility radiated from him like heat from a flame.

When he reached Ariane’s cabin, he paused briefly, letting one of the guards unlock the exterior deadbolt. “You go in first,” Holmes ordered. “Make sure her roommates are facing the wall in the back corner of the room.” The guard did what he was told, threatening Tonya and Robert Edwards until they were properly positioned.

“All clear, sir.”

Holmes walked into the cabin and eased Ariane onto the hard ground. Then, before either captive could see his face, he turned from the room and disappeared into the dark night, leaving Tonya to take care of another family member.

This time, her unconscious baby sister.

CHAPTER 20

Saturday, July 3rd

IN

New Orleans, St. Louis Cemeteries #1 and #2 are referred to by locals as “cities of the dead.” Designed in the eighteenth century, both graveyards feature elaborate aboveground vaults and French inscriptions that are both poetic and charming. Unfortunately, a nighttime visit to either burial ground is liable to add to the body count of the sacred lands. Located west of Louis Armstrong Park, this area is known as one of the most dangerous in the city. Gangs and criminals control the territories to the north of Rampart Street, and they use the popularity of the graveyards to ambush unsuspecting tourists.

Before leaving the safety of their Mustang, Payne, Jones, and Greene gazed at the terrain like antelopes surveying a water hole. They carefully searched the shadows of the land, looking for predators that lay in wait, hunting for a clear passage to their intended destination. When they were satisfied, they crept cautiously from their vehicle.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Greene stated, “the tattoo shop should be right ahead of us.”

The men continued their walk in silence until they found a small shop with a flickering neon sign that said

Sam’s Tattoos

in the window. Like most tattoo parlors, this one stayed open after midnight to cater to the bar crowd. Glancing at a historical plaque that was fastened to the building’s front, Greene pushed the door aside. Chimes from a small bell announced their presence.

A tall white man, dressed in an elaborately tie-dyed shirt and baggy denim shorts, emerged from behind a wall of dangling beads and greeted his customers with a nod of his head. As he did, his braided orange hair fell across his pale green eyes while his shaggy beard bunched up in the folds of his neck. Tattoos covered the tanned flesh of his arms and legs.

“What can I do for you dudes?” he asked in the syntax of a stoner.

As Payne studied the employee, he realized it looked like a box of Skittles had thrown up on the guy. “We’re looking for a man named Jamaican Sam. Can you tell us where to find him?”

“Dude! You’re in luck. Sam, I am!”

The three men looked at each other in confusion. They were expecting their contact be a little more Jamaican and a little less Dr. Seuss.

“You mean you’re the owner?” Payne asked. “You don’t look like I pictured you.”

“Is it the nickname, dude? People always get thrown by my nickname.” The three men nodded at the walking rainbow. “Damn! I gotta get me a new nickname.”

Jones knew he was going to regret asking it, but for the sake of curiosity, he had to know. “How did you get the name Jamaican Sam?”

“Well, dude, the Sam part was easy because, you see, that’s my name. But the Jamaican part, well, that’s a little more complex. A couple years ago, a bro from the islands came in to get some ink done. I did this bitchin’ drawing of a naked hottie and put it on his back. Once I was finished, he was pretty stoked. In a heavily accented voice, the dude said, ‘Ja makin’ Sam’s name known t’roughout da city, mon!’ Well, some customers overheard it, and they lumped

ja makin’

with the

Sam

, so people started calling me Jamaican Sam.” He punctuated his story with a huge grin. “Pretty sweet, eh?”

As fascinating as the story was, Payne didn’t come to this part of town to learn Sam’s history. He had more important things to find out-things that could possibly save his girlfriend. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I was hoping you could give us some help.”

With his left hand, Sam brushed his braided orange locks from his eyes. “Like I said in the beginning, what can I do for you dudes?”

“Actually, you can help me with a tattoo. I recently saw an elaborate design on this guy on the bus. The moment I saw it, I knew I wanted to have it. I just knew it! Unfortunately, before I had a chance to ask him where he got it done, we arrived at his stop and he disappeared. Do you think you could tell me who drew it for him?”

Sam shook his head violently, trying to clear his head. “Hold up. Let me see if I understand your quandary. You spotted a slammin’ tat, and you expect me, even though I’ve never seen it, to picture it in my mind and tell you who did it? That’s some challenge, dude.”

“But can you do it?” Payne demanded.

It took thirty seconds for Sam to reply, but he finally shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see why not. But it’ll cost ya twenty bucks.” Payne handed him the money, and Sam quickly stuffed the bill into his multicolored boxers, which could be seen above the waistline of his shorts. “What did this Picasso look like?”

“It was in the shape of the letter

P

. The straight part of the

P

was a dagger, and-”

“Whoa!” Sam gasped, sounding like Keanu Reeves. “Was there, like, blood dripping from the dagger?”

Payne stared at the guy-he couldn’t have been older than twenty-two-and nodded. “So, you’re familiar with it?”

Sam walked over to his counter and flipped through a picture album of some of his most impressive designs. When he reached the page he was looking for, he handed the book to Payne. “The tat you’re looking for is one of mine. How cool is that? Kind of a small globe, eh?”

“Yeah,” Jones grunted, who suddenly didn’t like the precision of Terrell Murray’s off-the-cuff recommendation. “Way too small for my taste.”

Payne picked up on Jones’s tone and instinctively touched the gun that he’d concealed under the flap of his shirt. “What can you tell me about its design?”

Sam scratched his bright orange beard for a moment, pondering his position, then shook his head from side to side. “It just ain’t worth it, dude.” He reached into his boxer shorts and withdrew Payne’s twenty dollars. “You can take your money back. I’ve got nothing for ya.”

Payne looked at the money with disapproval. He wasn’t willing to touch something that had been stored in Sam’s underwear. Nor was he about to let him off the hook that easily. “A deal’s a deal. You accepted the cash, now it’s time to give me some info.”

“Sorry, dude, but I just can’t do that!” Sam laid the money on the counter and slowly backed away. “I made a previous deal with a group of brothers that requested my work for that particular job. I told them my lips were

el sealed-o

if anyone asked me about that tat.”

“How many people were in the group?” Jones asked.

Sam shrugged, then let out a weaselly little laugh. “Sorry, bro. I don’t remember getting any money from you, so I don’t owe you any info. You dig?”

Payne grinned at Sam and waited for the orange-haired freak to return his smile. When he did, Payne pulled his firearm into view and nestled it under the artist’s hairy chin. “First, you referred to a bunch of black men as ‘brothers,’ and then you referred to my friend as your ‘bro.’ Now you’re going to test my patience even further by refusing to answer a simple question? Sorry, bro, that’s not the way my friends and I operate.”

“Wait a second,” Sam gulped, as the color drained from his face. “Did you guys come in together? Oh, dude, I didn’t know that! If I had known that, I wouldn’t have been so shady!”

Payne nodded, but refused to lower his gun. “Tell us about this group, Sam, before my finger gets a twitch and I add some red to your obnoxious shirt.”

“Well, a bunch of brothers . . . uh, I mean, Africans came here a couple weeks ago-”

Jones quickly corrected him. “The appropriate term is African Americans.”

“No, dude, not in this case. These dudes were African.”

Payne raised an eyebrow. “Continue.”

“Anyways,” Sam stuttered, “they were looking for a Holotat. They told me the name of their gang and what they were looking for, then left the rest up to me. They gave me some cash and told me to have a tat design by the next day.” Sam pointed to the picture in the album. “This is what I came up with, dude. Honest!”

“What was the name of the gang?” Payne demanded.

“Dude, I can’t tell ya that. I just can’t.”

Payne pushed the barrel of his gun even harder against Sam’s throat, and as he did, he noticed Sam start to tremble with fear. “Sammy? I have a policy that prevents me from killing the mentally challenged, but since we’re in a hurry, I might be willing to make an exception.”

Sam took a trouble-filled breath, then answered. “I’ve got a problem, dude. When the group got their tats, they threatened to kill me if I told anyone about their posse. Now, here you are, and you’re threatening to kill me if I

don’t

tell you about their posse. Well, you don’t have to be Alex Trebek to see that I’m in jeopardy.”

“Jeez,” Payne said. “That jeopardy comment was pretty funny.”

“Did you like that?” Sam asked, hoping to lighten the mood. “I just made that up.”

“You did?” Payne grunted. “Well, unless you want it to be the last clever thing you say, I think you should start talking. What’s the name of the gang?”

Sam closed his eyes in thought. After thinking about all of the consequences, he figured it was better to possibly die later than to definitely die now. “The Plantation Posse.”

Payne lowered his weapon. “And what can you tell us about this Posse?”

“I don’t know,” Sam mumbled. “They were young, black, and very athletic-looking.”

“Wow,” Greene remarked. “You just described every team in the NBA. You gotta do better than that.”

“And some of the guys had thick African accents.”

“Come on!” he objected. “My NBA comment is still accurate.”

Sam glared at the ex-football star. After a moment, a flash of recognition crossed his face. “Whoa, dude, I know you. I know who you are!”

Greene cursed under his breath. He knew going into this partnership that there was a good chance that he was going to be recognized. Now it was just a matter of how he was going to handle it. “Who I am is not important, you box-of-crayons-looking motherfucker! What

is

important is my boy’s question. What did these guys look like?”

The rage in Greene’s voice was enough to silence Sam. There was no way he wanted to piss off the Buffalo Soldier. “Okay, dude, I’ll tell you anything you want to know, just don’t hurt me! I’ve got a low threshold for pain.”

Greene nodded. “I appreciate your honesty. In return, I promise not to test that threshold. But instead of talking to me, I want you to talk to my friends. Okay? And while you’re telling them everything that they need to know, I’m gonna go in the back and use your bathroom.” He turned toward Payne and Jones, looking for permission. “That is, if you guys can handle things alone for a couple of minutes.”

Payne patted Greene on his shoulder. “Thanks, I think we can take over from here.”

“While you’re back there,” Jones added quietly, “check to see if anybody is hiding or if there’s another way into this place. I’m not in the mood for any surprises.”

Greene hustled into the back and did what was requested. “Things look fine,” he yelled to Payne and Jones. “There’s nothing back here that can hurt you.”

Payne grinned as he leaned against the counter. “Sorry, Sam. Since you’re all out of allies, it appears that you’re kind of stuck. You have no choice but to tell us about the Posse.”

“Dude, I swear, I can’t describe them any better than I have. The only thing in my brain is their black clothes and the large roll of bills they were toting. Other than that, nothing!”

Payne nodded, beginning to believe Sam’s claim. He realized that it would be tough for anyone to remember specific details about a group of men who had visited him several weeks ago, especially if they were foreigners. One face would blend in with the next. “Fine, let’s get off their appearance. Why don’t you tell me about the tattoo? What did the image symbolize?”

Sam scratched his beard while studying the picture from his album. “Well, dude, the

P

obviously stands for

Plantation Posse

, but I bet you figured that out, huh?”

“Come on,” Payne mumbled. “Tell us something that might actually be useful.”

“Fine!” Sam growled. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, but I’m warning you dudes, you’re forcing me to sign my own death warrant. My blood’s gonna be on your hands!”

And in a blink of an eye, Sam’s words became prophetic.

CHAPTER 21

THUNDER

echoed from across the street as the sniper pulled the trigger on his rifle. His first shot shattered the window of the tattoo shop, sending thousands of knifelike shards in every direction. As they fell to the floor in a melodic song, the bullet entered the right eye of its victim, obliterating Sam’s brain and skull in a single flash.

Without pausing to think, Payne and Jones reacted to the situation like it was an everyday occurrence. Their experiences with the MANIACs had prepared them for far worse. Payne dashed for cover in the front corner of the shop, which was away from the broken window and allowed him to take a clean shot at anyone who entered the front door. Meanwhile, Jones headed in the opposite direction, taking refuge behind the front counter.

“Are you all right?” Jones yelled as he pulled out his Glock.

“I’m not perfect, but I’m better than Sam.”

Jones glanced around the corner and stared at the near-headless victim. Crimson gushed from the gaping hole where his face used to be. Hair, brain, and bone clung to the back wall like chunky spaghetti sauce.

“We’re dealing with a serious weapon, Jon. Whatever it is tore right through his skull.”

Payne surveyed the scene before offering his summation of the kill. “From the looks of it, the shooter has an elevated position.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Look at the window if you can. The top is the only part that’s broken, and the only way a bullet can do that and hit a man in the head is if it was discharged from above.”

Jones nodded in agreement. “If that’s the case, this wasn’t a drive-by. The bastard’s probably on a roof or in a tree. No way we’ll be able to nail him from this angle.”

“You’re probably right. That’s why we’re going to have to go outside and get him.”

Jones put his finger in his ear and tried to unclog it. “Sorry, I must’ve misheard you. Did you say we should go out there and get him?”

“Yes, princess, that’s what I said.”

The statement didn’t sit well with Jones. “But we don’t know what we’re up against! Hell, we don’t know a damn thing, and you want us to go outside with our weapons blazing? Am I Butch or Sundance?”

Payne chuckled at Jones’s reaction. He expected something more soldierly from an ex-MANIAC. “Wow, wait until I tell the fellas about this at our next squad reunion. They won’t believe how quickly you’ve lost your nerve!”

“I haven’t lost my nerve, Jon. I’ve gained common sense. What good is it to go outside and face a sniper?”

“What good? Going out there could save Ariane’s life!”

“How do you figure?”

“Think about it! Why was Sam killed? What purpose could that have served?”

Jones shrugged. “I don’t know. Somebody wanted to keep him quiet.”

“Exactly! Sam must’ve known something, and it must’ve been pretty damn important.”

“Like what?”

“I have no idea. Maybe he could identify someone, or has a billing address in his files, or maybe, just maybe, he knew something about Ariane. Truthfully, I don’t know. But if we don’t go outside, our odds of getting an answer go down considerably. And you know it!”

“Shit,” Jones grumbled, realizing what Payne had in mind. “You’re hoping to take this guy alive, aren’t you?”

Payne nodded. “How else is he going to be useful?”

Jones knew that Payne was right, that they needed to talk to the guy, but he also realized the level of danger that would be involved. If the sniper was still outside, he was probably waiting for them to make a move. And the moment they did-

bang!

Because that’s how snipers operated. They patiently waited for their targets to do something stupid, then they took full advantage.

“So, are you coming or not?” Payne asked in a less than pleasant tone. “ ’Cause if you aren’t, I gotta start looking for a new best friend.”

“Ah, man, why did you have to go there? Anytime you need a favor, you always pull out the best-friend card. Fine, I’ll help you out, but I’m not doing this because of your stupid threat. I’m doing this because I need the exercise.”

Payne grinned in appreciation. “The first thing we need to do is figure out how we’re going to get out of here. Since the door is glass, he’ll pick us off before we even open it. We’ll need to find a different exit.”

“How about the window? If I knock out the bottom half, we could slip behind one of the cars outside with little exposure time. Plus, it’ll let this guy know we’re armed.”

“Sounds good. But before we go, let me get the lights. The less this guy sees, the better.”

Jones liked the idea. Darkness would improve their odds even more. “Can you reach ’em from there, or are you going to have to shoot ’em out?”

Payne leaned out from his hiding place and stared at the small panel of switches near the door. It would take some doing, but he felt he could reach the buttons without risking his life.

“No problem,” he lied. “Piece of cake.”

Moving quickly, Payne dropped to his hands and stomach and crawled across the vinyl floor. He did his best to avoid the broken glass, but since there were chunks of it everywhere, he found himself bleeding immediately.

“Looking good,” Jones whispered as he peered out from behind the counter. “In about two feet, you’ll be directly under the switch. Okay, stop.”

Payne tilted his head back and tried to reach the metal panel above him, but the damn thing was a foot too high. That meant he’d have to leave the safety of the floor to reach it. Of course, the advantage he’d gain with darkness outweighed the risk of going for the lights. While keeping his torso parallel to the floor, he stretched his bloody hand upward, inching it slowly along the wall until he felt the cold surface of the switch.

“Let’s see if you like the dark,” Payne said as he turned off the lights.

The gunman replied with a blitzkrieg that tore through the tiny shop. Glass, wood, and plaster erupted into the air as the sightless sniper relied on blind luck and sheer volume to hit his targets. A second wave followed quickly, which shattered the front door and showered the room with a stream of razor-sharp confetti, but Payne remained calm, keeping his face covered and his body against the base of the thick front wall.

“I guess not,” he sneered.

When the violence subsided, Payne risked a quick peek into the back of the shop. Things were blurry at first because of the lack of light and a cloud of dust, but after a few seconds, he realized the counter that shielded Jones had taken more hits than a hippie at Woodstock.

“D.J.,” Payne whispered, “are you all right?”

“Yeah, and very lucky. I don’t know how that last batch missed me.”

“Me, either.” Payne glanced around the shop and realized they couldn’t stay there much longer. “We have to get out of here. If we stay put, he’s going to hit us eventually.”