ESCANTA: A James Thomas Novel (The James Thomas Series Book 1) (9 page)

“Me too. You’re starting to annoy the shit out of me,” Cami said, laughing. “Seriously, though, I am looking forward to going home, too. In the agency I was a complete nomad, always moving with no real base and it never bothered me. And now we’ve been away a little over a week and I’m already missing my apartment.”

A waitress came over to their secluded table and James waited for her to put down the bottle of water and walk away before he responded. “That’s because we’ve created a home in New York—a home that none of us have had for a long time. And in some ways that makes us vulnerable, and predictable, but we can’t run forever, and we can’t all run together. It’s a risk worth taking.”

Cami nodded her head. “You know that’s the most you’ve said all trip.”

James shrugged his shoulders. “You should travel with Deacon if you want to talk all day long.”

She ignored his remark. “You’re quieter than you usually are, and that concerns me,” Cami said.

“I’m quiet, and thoughtful, because I’ve got the Russians on my back.”

“If you say so, boss,” she said, lifting her sunglasses to wipe her face. It was an unusually hot summer day, and the heat was so dry it felt like it leeched the water from your blood.

Cami didn’t look convinced, though, and James wasn’t confident in his words either. He was concerned about the Russians, but he was also concerned about his feelings for Mak Ashwood, or rather the fact that he even had some semblance of feelings for her. It was definitely not like him.

“Look at the sky,” Cami said, and James turned in his seat, looking up. The beautiful blue sky he’d seen an hour ago was now bruised and battered with dark, stormy clouds.

“That’s good,” James said. “People will stay indoors tonight.”
Fewer potential witnesses
, he thought.

Cami nodded in agreement and finished the last of her calorie-loaded snack. “Should we make a move in anticipation for the go-ahead?”

“Let’s.”

They’d been idle now for twenty-four hours since they’d given Samuel their last lead and James was itching to move, to get some answers.

They walked through the streets, as inconspicuous as two friends, or siblings. They chatted, stopped to take a few photos, acting like tourists, and then continued on. Nothing about them looked out of place, nothing about them appeared dangerous.

James’ phone rang and he was relieved to see it was Samuel.

“Are we on?” James asked.

“We’re on. He’s your guy. I’ve sent the address to your phone and set up your GPS. Keep in touch,” Samuel said.

“Thanks. Will do.” James hung up and then checked the address to make sure it was the same one they’d initially identified. It was. This was it—if all went well, tonight he would have the link to the next layer. He would be one step closer.

As soon as the sun melted into the horizon, Cami and James were ready. They had spent the last hour surveying the street and associated apartment block, and with the building blueprints Samuel had managed to steal, from God knows where, they had entry and exit strategies in place.

Cami was to play the key role, and she looked every bit the part. The locks of her brown wig bounced on her shoulders as she walked toward the target’s door. Mr. Alberto had a love of women, women he paid for services, and Cami was a special gift from Madame Bella for being her best customer this month. James had balked when he looked over the credit card transactions—Mr. Alberto spent more on prostitutes than James paid himself every month.

James sidled up to the recess in the wall. It wasn’t a good hiding spot, this hallway didn’t have any, but he doubted Mr. Alberto would keep Cami waiting long.

Cami knocked on the door.

Silence.

She waited patiently and then knocked again.

Silence.

He should’ve been home, he’d been more than eager to receive his gift when they’d telephoned earlier.

“Samuel, open the door,” James said. “Cami, be careful.”

“Go,”
Samuel said and Cami pushed the door open. She leaned in and said, “Mr. Alberto? Mr. Alberto, are you home?”

When she took a step inside, James sprinted down the hallway, following her in. Cami was standing beside the bloody body when he caught up to her.

“Samuel. He’s dead,” James said, leaning forward to touch Mr. Alberto’s body. “An hour, perhaps, given his body temperature. They knew we were coming.”

“Fuck it!”
Samuel swore and James and Cami looked at each other in surprise. Samuel didn’t swear often and it was almost hilarious when he did. James might have laughed except for the sobering bloody pulp of a man at his feet.

“Two entry wounds and he took a good beating, which I would guess came first. A punishment, perhaps, and then a guarantee that he wouldn’t talk,” James said, thinking aloud.

“I think you should come home, James. We’ve got nothing else to go on at the moment. Let Escanta re-group, and then we’ll have another shot,” Samuel said. “I might be able to dig up something else in the meantime.”

The last sentence seemed to be added on as a gift of hope, but James took it anyway. He had nothing else to hold on to at this stage.

“All right, we’re going to the airport. Book us some flights home,” James said, taking one last look at Mr. Alberto.

Damn
.

They could have chosen to live anywhere in the world, but James and Deacon had chosen New York. At the time they’d been on the run for four years—hiding from the agency, and their enemies—and no one had been able to find them until Samuel did. Samuel had performed his own disappearing act from the CIA, which James hadn’t been aware of at the time, and he’d taken his most valuable asset with him: his skills.

On a crisp, Chicago morning, an unidentified package had arrived by courier. It had no sender details, and it was addressed to
Liam Smith.
Inside the box was a cell phone. The agency had found them, or so they’d thought. They grabbed their duffel bags, their only belongings, and were about to run when the phone rang. They looked at it, debating whether to answer it.

If the agency knew where they were, why weren’t they banging down the door? Or worse, why weren’t they firing bullets through the walls? If they knew where they were, and they wanted to kill them, they’d be dead already. James had taken a gamble and answered the phone.

Samuel had been busy in his time away from the agency. While James and Deacon had been focused on surviving, Samuel had been building programs and hacking into every database he could find. He’d gathered all of the agency’s dirty secrets and created a beautiful, haunting, virtual diary that only he had the key to. That key was a piece of code. It was his way out, his guarantee that they wouldn’t come after him, because if he didn’t enter the code every so often, this digital vault would explode itself all over the Internet. But he needed someone to tell the agency this, to negotiate his freedom, and not get killed in the process. And who better than
Liam Smith
? And so Liam became the second man with a key.

“Coffee?” Cami said, yawning as she sat behind the wheel, driving them home from the airport, pulling James out of his memories. James rarely drove—he liked to be in a position where he could move fast if they ever came under attack.

The yawn was contagious. “Sounds good. We’ll get one for Samuel and Deacon, too. We’ll debrief when we arrive and then you should take the rest of the day off,” James said.

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” she said, veering into a parking slot.

James offered to run in—any excuse to stretch his legs again after the long flight—and took his position in a long line of coffee addicts. He looked up to the television screen, which was broadcasting the morning news—another terrorism attack, another corrupt government official, a global market crash—it was always a variation of the same. The real news, the news people needed to hear about, was never made public. The dirtier the secret, the deeper it was buried.

James inched forward slowly, but like always, his mind was alert. He was always watching everyone around him—he could tell you how many people were in the store, how many staff were working, where the exits were, where the cameras were—that way of thinking, of assessing every situation he was in, no matter how mundane, was so ingrained in him that he doubted he could break it if he wanted to. Which he didn’t. It was good to be aware, and it was an advantage to notice things others didn’t—it put you one step ahead of the game.

“The court hearing continues today for the triple murder with suggested links to the Italian Mafia. Criminal prosecutor, Makaela Ashwood, declined to comment on the death threats she has allegedly received but she seemed confident and relaxed as she walked into the courthouse this morning.”

James stilled, returning his attention to the television. He hadn’t been paying it attention but he’d heard every word. Footage of Mak entering the courts, which James assumed had been taken earlier this morning, flashed up on the screen.

James was first in line now but he pretended not to notice as he kept his eyes on the bulletin.

“Excuse me? Are you ready to order?”

“Apologies,” James said, flashing the woman behind the counter a smile. “I’ve been following that murder trial.”

“Oh, me too! I hope she wins.”

“I’ve been away for a few days. What are these death threats about?” James asked, aware he only had a few seconds—the woman behind him was agitatedly shifting from one foot to the other.

“They haven’t said too much yet. Apparently she received a few messages, notes, I think. They didn’t say what was written on them.”

“Interesting,” James said. “Sorry for holding up your line. I’ll have four cappuccinos, please.”

She waved her hand. “Oh, no problems at all!”

James handed over the money, avoided her flirty eyes, and promptly moved to the side before the lady behind him got violent. Huffing and puffing in agitation was a bit much so early in the morning, and he could only imagine how the rest of her day was going to pan out.

How did the media find out about the notes?
Mak had sworn to secrecy on the notes, so there should only have been four sources: Thomas Security, Mak’s new security firm, Mak’s old security firm, and the people that sent them. No one else should’ve known. James’ gut feeling told him that someone’s system had been hacked. And no one had mentioned it to James.

He mulled it over in his mind, and then decided not to say anything immediately. He’d wait until the debriefing was done, and if it still hadn’t been mentioned, he’d bring it up.

James was surprised to see her looking so reassured when her nerves must have been sparking like hot coals. She looked good on the television, very good. She looked beautiful, and he found himself wishing he could see her in the courtroom doing what she did best. Some men were intimidated by strong women, but James was turned on by them, and turned on by this one more than any other he’d ever met.

There were no further news updates on the trial, so with the tray of coffees in his hand, James made his way back to the car.

“Geez, that took a while,” Cami said, her eyes on the traffic.

“It was busy,” James said, but his mind was occupied on the news bulletin he’d just seen. The more he thought about Mak’s case, the more he didn’t like it. Something wasn’t right—something about those notes was off. They were too cryptic, too vague. It could be the mob’s strategy: to scare the hell out of her without it looking like it was coming from them. But say it wasn’t from them? Unlikely, but a possibility. Then who else had something to gain? And what else did they have planned?

“Unusually quiet, James.” Her words were more warning than concern.

“Yes, Cami, we just got off a long flight and I didn’t sleep. What would you like to chat about?”

Her lips pouted together, and he thought she might reprimand him for his snarky attitude, but she didn’t. She let this one pass, and probably because he almost never took out his emotions on her. James had learned at a very young age to control his temper. A man with a temper made mistakes. A man with a temper was a liability.

They pulled into the underground garage and James juggled the tray of coffees in one hand and his bag in the other as they rode the elevator up to Samuel’s office.

Samuel and Deacon were waiting for them, and were suitably excited about the coffees. James led the debriefing, recapping everything that had happened in Russia and Hungary, even though Samuel and Deacon had been witness to almost all of it via cameras and earwigs.

“What have you been able to find out about European groups, or cults, with occult practices? The more I think about it the more it concerns me,” James said.

Samuel sighed. “It concerns me, too. I’ve been able to find some data on a Slovenian group that performs black magic, primarily in the form of spells using herbs and alchemy. I don’t want to write them off yet, but they don’t seem particularly dangerous—the surrounding area has an average crime rate and no ritual deaths have been reported. Additionally, they tend to keep to themselves as far as I can tell.

“Another group in Romania has come up on my radar. These guys are a little more concerning. Three years ago, two members of this group were arrested for a series of murders and each of the victims received similar wounds. They are evidently in favor of skinning, dismembering and disemboweling their victims. They then wrap them in white sheets and bury them.

“The third group, however, is the most concerning. And I am assuming this is a group or cult. Romania has a high number of unsolved murder cases, and in a high percentage of these cases, the blood of the victims’ has been drained, and carved into their chest is the letter ‘six’. Make of that what you will, but it points to a cult, or ritual killing. I’m going to need some time to work on this group and gather more information,” Samuel said.

“Focus on that third group. And research any symbolic significance of the number six,” James said.

“Will do,” Samuel confirmed and they all looked at each other, presumably thinking the same thing: this could get ugly.