With all of his remaining strength, Barker grabbed Greene’s lower leg and pulled it upward, tugging and yanking on the limb until the weakened joint literally exploded from the excess stress. The loud popping of tendons and cartilage was quickly accented by Greene’s screams of pain, which sent shivers down the spines of everyone in the area.
But Barker was far from done. With a devious grin on his face, he lifted his foot off of Greene’s knee and slammed it into the middle of Greene’s throat. He’d been put through so much over the past several weeks that there was no way he was going to stop. No fucking way.
Not until
his
revenge was complete. Not until
he
felt vindicated for
his
pain.
And no one in the area had any desire to stop him.
EPILOGUE
Saturday, July 17th
Harper White Medical Center
New Orleans, Louisiana
THE
door was closed and the room was dark, but that didn’t stop Payne and Jones from entering. They’d broken so many laws in the past few weeks that they weren’t about to let visiting hours—or the heavyset nurse at the front desk—stand in their way.
Not with something as important as this to take care of.
“So,” Payne growled as he approached the bed, “did you actually think we were going to forget about your role in this?”
The injured man didn’t know what to say, so he simply shrugged his shoulders.
“You can’t be that stupid!” Jones said. “What, are you a buckwheat or something?”
The comment brought a smile to Bennie Blount’s heavily bandaged face. “I haven’t known what to think,” he whispered. “I haven’t seen you guys since my accident.”
Payne placed his hand on Blount’s elbow and gave it a simple squeeze. “We’re sorry about that. We would’ve been here
much
sooner, but we’ve been tied up in red tape. Of course, that tends to happen when you sneak into a foreign country and kill a bunch of people.”
Jones shook his head in mock disgust. “The Pentagon and all its stupid policies. Please!”
Blount laughed despite the pain it caused in his cheeks.
Payne said, “I hear the swelling around your spinal cord has gone down. How’s your movement?”
“Pretty good. I’m still a little wobbly when I walk, but the doctors think I’ll be fine.”
“That’s great news, Bennie! I’ve been worried sick about you.”
“Me, too,” added Jones.
“Now my biggest concern is my face. That crazy dog did a lot of damage.”
Payne gave Blount’s elbow another squeeze. “Well, stop worrying about it. I’m flying in the world’s best plastic surgeons to treat you. They’ll have you back to your old self in no time.”
Jones nodded. “Unless, of course, your old self isn’t good enough. They could make you look like Denzel, or Will Smith,
or
give you a nice set of D-cups. Whatever you want.”
Payne frowned. “Do you think his frame could support D-cups? I’d say no more than a C.”
“Really? I think he’d look good with—”
“Forget the tits.” Blount laughed. “My old self would be fine, just fine. But . . .”
“But what?” Payne demanded. “If you’re worried about the money, don’t be. All of your hospital bills have already been taken care of.”
“What?” he asked, stunned. “That’s not necessary.”
“Of course it is! After all you’ve sacrificed, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Listen to him, Bennie. Even with a truckload of insurance, you’d still have tons of out-of-pocket expenses.”
“Yeah, but—”
“But, nothing!” Payne insisted. “Furthermore, you’ll never see another tuition bill for the rest of your life. As soon as you’re feeling up to it, you can head back to school, compliments of the Payne Industries Scholarship Fund. We’ll take care of everything—including a monthly stipend for beer and hookers.”
Blount shook his head. “Jon, I couldn’t. Seriously.”
“Hey,” Jones added, “that’s not all. We have one more surprise for you, something that’s more valuable than money.”
“Guys, enough with the gifts.”
“Hang on,” Payne insisted. “You’ll really like this one. We saved the best for last.”
Then, with his typical flash of showmanship, Payne threw the door aside to reveal the most attractive woman Blount had ever seen.
Dark brown hair. Dark brown eyes. Unbelievable figure. Simply dazzling.
She stood there for several seconds, speechless, unsure of what to do next. Finally, with her composure regained, she grabbed Payne’s arm and glided across the room to meet the family member she’d never even known she had.
“Bennie,” Payne said with a lump in his throat, “I’d like to introduce you to someone who’s very special to me. This is your cousin Ariane.”
Author’s Note
While conducting my research for this novel, I read hundreds of journal entries that detailed the ungodly horrors that occurred on many nineteenth-century plantations. And
not
just the accounts of ex-slaves. In order to keep my research as balanced as possible, I studied just as many narratives from slave owners as I did from the slaves themselves. And do you know what? I’m glad I did, because it wasn’t until I read the firsthand accounts of these brutal men that I started to understand how malicious and sadistic some of them really were.
Sure, it was unsettling to read about the sting of a bullwhip from a slave’s point of view, but not nearly as disturbing as the words of one overseer who described the process of whipping his workers in near-orgasmic terms. “The delicious crack of leather on flesh fills my hand with delight and sends my body a shiver.”
Chilling, indeed.
It was those types of quotes that convinced me to include the graphic sequences that I did, scenes that are so full of carnage and torture (the Devil’s Box, the Listening Post, etc.) that some readers have complained to me about nightmares. Well, I’m sorry for your loss of sleep. But if I didn’t stress the gore and bloodshed of plantation life, then I would have been the one losing sleep. Because my story would have been less than accurate.
And now a special excerpt
from Chris Kuzneski’s
THE LOST THRONE
Coming soon in hardcover from
G. P. Putnam’s Sons!
PROLOGUE
Christmas Day 1890
Piazza della Santa Carità
Naples, Italy
THE greatest secret of ancient Greece was silenced by a death in Italy.
Not a shooting or a stabbing or a murder of any kind—although dozens of those would occur later—but a good old-fashioned death. One minute the man was strolling across the Piazza della Santa Carità, pondering the significance of his discovery; the next, he was sprawled on his stomach in the middle of the cold square. People rushed to his side, hoping to help him to his feet, but one look at his gaunt face told them that he needed medical attention.
Two policemen on horseback were flagged down, and they rushed him to the closest hospital, where he slipped in and out of consciousness for the next hour. They asked him his name, but he couldn’t answer. His condition had stolen his ability to speak.
The man wore a fancy suit and overcoat, both of which revealed his status. His hair was thin and gray, suggesting a man in his sixties. A bushy mustache covered his upper lip.
Doctors probed his clothes, searching for identification, but found nothing of value. No papers. No wallet. No money. If they had only looked closer, they might have noticed the secret pocket sewn into the lining of his coat, and the mystery would have ended there. But as hospital policy dictated, no identification meant no treatment. Not even on Christmas morning.
With few options, the police took him to the local station house, an ancient building made of brick and stone that would shelter him from the bitter winds of the Tyrrhenian Sea. They fed him broth and let him rest on a cot in an open cell, hoping he would regain his voice.
In time, he regained several.
Starting with a whisper that barely rose above the level of his breath, the sound slowly increased, building to a crescendo that could be heard by the two officers in the next room. They hurried down the corridor, expecting to find the stranger fully awake and willing to answer their questions. Instead they saw a man in a semicatatonic state who was babbling in his sleep.
His eyes were closed and his body was rigid, yet his lips were forming words.
One of the officers made the sign of the cross and said a short prayer while the other ran for a pencil and paper. When he returned, he pulled a chair up to the cot and tried to take notes in a small journal. Maybe they’d get an address. Or if they were really lucky, maybe even a name. But they got none of those things. In fact, all they got was more confused.
The first words spoken were German. Then French. Then Portuguese. Before long he was mixing several languages in the same sentence. Dutch followed by Spanish and Latin. English layered with Greek and Russian. Every once in a while he said something in Italian, but the words were so random and his accent so thick that they made little sense. Still, the officer transcribed everything he could and before long he noticed some repetition. One word seemed to be repeated over and over. Not only in Italian but in other languages as well.
Il trono. Le trône. El trono.
The throne.
This went on for several minutes. Language after language from one man’s mouth. Like the devil speaking in tongues. Then, just as quickly as it started, it stopped.
No more words. No more clues.
The man would never speak again.
Two days later, after he had been identified, newspapers around the globe reported his death. Yet there was no mention of his strange behavior. Nothing about his ramblings or the throne he kept describing. Instead, reporters focused on the colorful details of his life—his wealth, his accomplishments, his discoveries. All the things that made him famous.
Of course, if they had known the truth about his final days, what he had finally found after years of searching, they would have written a much different story.
One of fire, deception, and ancient gold.
One that wouldn’t have an ending for two more centuries.
CHAPTER 1
Present day
Saturday, May 17th
Metéora, Greece
THE monk felt the wind on his face as he plummeted to his death, a journey that started with a scream and ended with a thud.
Moments before, he had been standing near the railing of the Moni Agia Triada, the Monastery of the Holy Trinity. It was one of six monasteries perched on natural rock pillars near the Pindus Mountains in central Greece. Known for their breathtaking architecture, the monasteries had been built two thousand feet in the air with one purpose in mind: protection.
But on this night, their sanctity was breached.
The intruders had crossed the valley and climbed the hillside with silent precision. They carried no guns or artillery, preferring the weapons of their ancestors. Swords stored in scabbards were strapped to their backs. Daggers in leather sheaths hung from their hips. Bronze helmets covered their entire heads except for their eyes and mouths.
Centuries ago the final leg of their mission would have been far more treacherous, requiring chisels and ropes to scale the rock face. But that was no longer the case—not since 140 steps had been carved into the sandstone, leading to the entrance of Holy Trinity. Its front gate was ten feet high and made of thick wood, yet they breached it easily and slipped inside, spreading through the compound like a deadly plague.
The first to die was the lookout who, instead of doing his job, had been staring at the twinkling lights of Kalampáka, the small city that rested at the base of the plateau. Sadly, it was the last mistake he ever made. No questions were asked, no quarter was given. One minute he was pondering the meaning of life, the next his life was over.
No bullets. No blades. Just gravity and the rocks below.
One of the monks inside the church heard his scream and tried to warn the others, but before he could, the intruders burst through both doors. Brandishing their swords, they forced all the monks into the center of the room, where the holy men were frisked and their hands were tied.
Seven monks in total. A mixture of young and old.
Just as the intruders had expected.
For the next few minutes, the monks sat in silence on the hard wooden pews. Some of them closed their eyes and prayed to God for divine intervention. Others seemed reconciled to their fate. They knew the risks when they accepted this duty, what their brotherhood had endured and protected for centuries.
They were the keepers of the book. The chosen ones.
And soon they would be forced to die.
With the coldness of an executioner, the leader of the soldiers strode into the church. At first glance he looked like a moving work of art: muscle stacked upon muscle in statuesque perfection, a gleaming blade in his grasp. Unlike the others who had entered before him, his helmet was topped with a plume of red horsehair, a crest that signified his rank.
To the monks, he was the face of death.
