“Don’t need your help,” the man says without looking up.
What the fuck?
“You’re tied to a tree,” I point out. “Being tortured.”
His eyes open, the color hidden in darkness. “Not really. Not yet.”
Hand on the machete sheathed on my belt, I take a step closer, evaluating the man. Despite his situation, he’s fearless. The kind of fearless that only comes from 1) having been in this situation before, and 2) knowing you’ve got a way out. And if he has a way out, I can’t see it. His hands are cuffed to a branch high above his head. His legs are tied to roots below.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“He’ll eventually start asking questions,” the man says. “And every question is an answer.”
Something clicks. This man’s presence, at the location to which I was given coordinates, is not a coincidence. I draw the machete and spin around, on the lookout for danger that’s not coming.
“You can leave,” the man says, and then he falls silent for a beat. When he speaks again, I hear a threat in the tone. “Unless you’re here for a reason?”
“Same as you, would be my guess.” I fish the small white card out of my pocket and hold it up, the gold You’re invited… text easy to read in the moonlight. “Came here to help a friend in trouble?”
“Shit,” the man says, and with a quick yank, he’s free of the cuffs. They’d already been picked. He was just biding his time, allowing the homunculus-bird to cut him with the hopes of garnering information about his friend. “You military?”
I hand the man my utility knife, and he starts to work on the ropes binding his feet. “Something like that. You?”
“Something like that.” After a few quick slices, he’s free. He stands up, swivels the short blade around in his hand, and offers it back, handle first.
“Keep it,” I say. “You’ll probably need it.”
He looks at the knife and smirks. “I’m used to longer.”
“Thankfully,” I say, “you’re the first person to tell me that.” I offer my hand. “For now, you can call me Cowboy.”
He shakes my hand and introduces himself with a single word. “King.”
3
My grip on the man’s hand and the machete’s handle tighten in unison. “King of what?”
Still unruffled, the man named King glances down at our hands, and then the machete. “That’s a bad idea.”
“King of what?” I ask again. If he makes me ask again, I’m going to punctuate the question by removing his hand. My previous experience with the Seven Kings has left me with a stark distrust of anyone bearing the name. King of Plagues. King of Fear. King of War. They’re all dead now, but there are always unsavory people looking to claim their legacy.
Without tugging his hand away, he turns his back to me, revealing a tattoo of Elvis Presley. He wiggles his shoulder blade and the King of Rock ’n’ Roll looks as if he’s swaying his leg back and forth. “That and chess,” King says.
I release his hand and step back.
“Good grip,” he says, flexing his fingers.
I motion in the direction the homunculus-bird exited. “Did you learn anything from him?”
“Not much,” King says. “He’s a slight man. Aryan features. Hooked nose. Whoever he works for, he’s not the brains. But he does enjoy his job. What I really want to know is—” His head twitches as though he’s listening to something. Then he taps his ear and speaks. “Copy that. Thanks, Lew.”
He taps his ear again, grumbles, “Damn it,” and then seems to remember I’m there. “The old friend used to lure me here is missing. Looks like someone has been living in his house for a week. Collecting the mail. Making purchases. And not leaving a trace.”
I dig into my pocket, retrieving my phone, which is powered off and protected by a Ziploc bag. I power it on and clench my jaw when I see several messages from Bug. I play the newest, listen to the short message, and nearly crush the device in my hand. Laura is missing. Her husband is dead. Rotting in the bathtub, while someone created the digital illusion that the couple was still safe and sound.
I don’t need to confirm my situation. He can see it in my eyes.
Over the din of insect chirps rolling out of the jungle on the island’s coast, my ears pick up the familiar whine of small engines. “Take cover!” I lean behind the ruins of an interior stone wall, while King remains rooted in place, making me look and feel a little like a chicken-shit. But my caution comes from experience. When most people think of drones, they picture Peeping Toms hovering the craft outside bedroom windows or over nude beaches. But they’re easily modified to carry more than cameras — a fact I learned the hard way.
“It’s a drone,” he says, eyes on the night sky, watching the stars, any one of which could be something else. “Ten of them, actually.”
This revelation pulls me out of hiding. “You can see them?”
“Their lights.”
If the drones have lights on them, they blend in perfectly with the backdrop of stars.
“I’ve looked at the stars long enough to know which of those”—he points at the sky—“shouldn’t be there. And if they wanted us dead, it would’ve been easy to blow up this rock when you arrived.”
He’s right about that. They want something from us. From what I can tell, we’re similar men in similar positions. He’s a little more… casual about his mortality, but he’s got a familiar look in his eyes, as if he’s already strategizing. Chess King indeed.
Several of the stars high above start shifting about, revealing themselves as drones, hundreds of feet up, where the buzz of their rotors blends with the sound of insects.
Before either of us can react, a loud buzzing brings our attention to the air just thirty feet above us. A hexa-rotor drone hovers overhead, capturing King and me within the cone of its spotlight.
“Glad to see you both made it.” It’s the homunculus-bird, his voice pumping from a speaker. “And thank you for not killing each other. The others bet against a civil meeting. Thought you two might tear each other apart. After all, life requires you both to sometimes shoot first and ask questions if there are survivors. But I had faith. You are two of the best candidates I’ve seen. Noble. Determined. Skilled. Team players. Deadly.”
Candidates? This is some kind of test?
A single drop of water, the faint bloop striking my ear like a Klaxon, warns me of danger. I whisper, “Incoming on my ten.”
“More at my three,” King says.
“This is a little elaborate for the Boy Scouts,” I say to the drone. “Who are you?”
To my surprise, the man gives an answer that I suspect is honest, because it’s too ridiculous to be fiction. “The Princes of Peace.”
“Listen, princess…,” King says.
“Princes. Plural of prince.” The man’s loud retort makes the speaker crackle. King’s quip has revealed just how short a temper the man has, and people with short tempers make mistakes. “We will bring peace to Earth by ending conflicts before they begin. By toppling violent despots. By—”
“Who decides?” I slowly pull the hammer from the belt loop where I tucked it. I tap King’s hand with the handle and he takes it with a subtle nod. It’s not much, but it will complement the three-inch blade. “Who decides who to kill, or overthrow?”
“The Princes.” He enunciates more clearly this time. “We vote.”
“Democratic assassins,” I say. “That’s new.”
The drone buzzes for several seconds. When the man speaks again, it’s clear he’s trying to remain calm. “I’m no longer sure which of you I want to see survive this.”