King's Ransom Read online

  KING’S RANSOM

  A THRILLER

  E.H. JENNINGS

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2019 by E.H. Jennings

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 9781077417229

  All rights reserved by E.H. Jennings

  For those who don’t believe the devil,

  even when he tells the truth.

  PROLOGUE

  December 2006

  200 miles north of Umea, Sweden

  The tall, slender woman had just finished stoking the fire when she heard the oven beep, signaling the completion of her latest creation. The house already smelled a pleasant assortment of honey, caramel, and cinnamon; freshly-ground coffee beans would soon join the amalgam.

  She hurried across the patched wooden floor and retrieved the pan from the stove. Inside were raisin-rye muffins, their tops a perfect golden brown. The recipe had originated in Austria with her great-grandmother and it was one her family had come to expect at nearly every gathering.

  Her home was a small cabin tucked into the hills of some of Sweden’s most desolate terrain. Presently, it looked like something off a holiday card, with red and green lights adorning both front windows and a small fir tree, copiously clad in white and gold, standing in the entryway.

  Across the kitchen, a wine rack fashioned from balsa wood hung on the wall above the table. It had been a gift from her husband, something he had found on one of his many treks across the globe.

  She retrieved a bottle and poured a glass as she waited for the muffins to cool.

  Sipping her merlot, she turned a knob on the ancient radio sitting on the counter and the room was filled with the sounds of Christmas. Bing Crosby, Perry Como, and Dean Martin crooned into every nook and cranny of her quaint cottage. She wanted her family to feel the Christmas spirit the moment they walked through the door.

  Christmas spirit, or spirit of any kind, had long been a rarity in her household. That was something she deeply regretted. But despite the sacrifices, she still supported her husband in everything he did, whether she understood it all or not. And above all else, she loved him.

  That’s what good wives do, she thought, drinking from her glass and finding a smile. Her mother had once told her that loving a man all your life is an accomplishment, so she couldn’t help but feel proud of what she had achieved.

  As the steam settled over the muffins, the woman made her way to the fridge and removed what would serve as the finishing touch to an elaborate family meal, the one that would surely evoke feelings of nostalgia in her children: her homemade pumpkin cream cheese icing.

  Piping it on the muffins, she could hardly contain her happiness. It had been years since her family had been together for Christmas; now they would be here any minute.

  Her son had called from the airport in Stockholm, and even with the treacherous roads it wouldn’t be long until a much-awaited reunion with the people she loved more than life itself.

  Soaking in the scene, the woman had no way of knowing everything was about to change. That the joyous reunion she so desperately desired would never happen.

  Not today or ever again.

  • • •

  Eight hundred and fifty yards to the northwest, tucked in the hayloft of a dilapidated barn, was the man who would be responsible for that change.

  He was watching the woman move about her kitchen through the scope mounted on his Winchester .300 sniper rifle.

  Snow was beginning to fall. A fresh six inches was forecasted to accumulate overnight, adding to what was already a shin-deep blanket covering the ground. The man smiled as he went through his final checks, his final assessment of the shot.

  His sightline, despite the significant distance and ever-worsening conditions, was sufficient for someone of his skill.

  He was among the most prolific snipers in history, and yet, few people knew his real name. That was fine with him; he wasn’t in it for the glory or the medals or the presidential commendations. He didn’t need some politician to pat him on the ass and make him feel better. He enjoyed his work, and living in obscurity was simply part of the package.

  He checked his watch. Less than two minutes.

  He continued watching the woman through his scope, a Leupold Mk 4, and concluded that for a woman in her sixties, she was still a fine piece. Tall and trim with dark hair falling onto her shoulders, she could have passed for a youthful forty.

  The man then had to suppress a chuckle as he thought of her husband. The surly old bastard had done okay for himself.

  As the clock ticked, the man forcibly drove every thought from his mind. The woman’s looks were not his concern, nor were the mouth-watering muffins she was drowning with icing. To someone who had eaten nothing but saltines in the previous seventy-two hours, fresh muffins were a damn strong distraction.

  The op had been planned for months, but he had strict orders not to act until he received the proper clearances.

  Those clearances had come through his earpiece twenty-one minutes ago. He didn’t need to check his watch again. His internal clock told him it was time.

  Methodically, his breathing began to slow and his nerves turned to steel. His entire body became still as his breathing calmly reached eight respirations per minute.

  He had found what those in his line of work referred to as cold zero.

  Centering his crosshairs on the woman who was now sitting on a stool, the man touched a finger to his nose then to the front edge of his scope, a ritual that had never failed him, and steadied himself behind the weapon.

  He counted down slowly in his head.

  Three…Two…One…

  The shot barely made a sound. The heavy suppressor had done its job.

  And so had the shooter.

  The woman fell from the stool, a Lapua magnum round having just passed through her forehead. She was dead before she hit the floor.

  After racking the bolt on his rifle, the man employed a sniper’s most critical skill: patience.

  While he waited, he couldn’t help but think again of the woman’s husband. He had hidden his family well. Very well, in fact. It had taken the shooter’s organization the better part of two years to find them, and even then it had been a careless decision by one of the man’s children that eventually tipped their location.

  The dead woman’s husband was smart and very difficult to predict. He was a skilled professional. He was also a traitor. And now his family would pay the ultimate price for his sins.

  The shooter had counted off two hundred and forty-five seconds since the shot, just over four minutes, when he looked up to see a van descending the slippery hill into the valley. He watched as the van eased to a stop outside the cabin and the doors burst open. Two young boys climbed hastily out the side doors, while their parents got out the front.

  Sixty seconds later, back at cold zero, the shooter watched the mom and two boys enter the cabin while the dad unloaded luggage from the van. The shooter touched his nose then his scope, then sent a Lapua cartridge squarely through the back of the father’s head, removing most of his face as it exited his body.

  Swiftly and with great precision, the shooter moved back to the kitchen window where the other three were in hysterics.

  The mother had fallen to her knees beside her dead mother-in-law and the shooter watched as she frantically motioned for her sons to go get their father. As soon as they cleared the front door the shooter touched finger to nose and scope, then placed a perfect shot that severed the mother’s brainstem.

  She, like the others, was killed instantly.

  In the next moment he swiveled back to his left and found the boys screaming over what was left of their father. As they stood frozen in traumatic shock, the shooter fired two rounds in
quick succession.

  The boys each landed in a slushy pile of their own blood.

  Forty-five seconds later the shooter had disassembled his weapon, policed his brass, and was on the move. He wore all white fatigues beneath an all white gilly suit, which made it impossible to see him from any further than thirty yards.

  No one would be getting that close.

  In less than ten minutes he would be inside a vehicle that would transport him to a private airfield. Thirty minutes after that, he would no longer be in Sweden. And after freezing his ass off in a barn for three days, he had decided he might never come back.

  As he trudged a steady pace across the tundra, carrying his weapon of death in a custom-built white briefcase, he realized many would find what he had just done to be barbaric. And maybe it was. He didn’t want to do it, but he had to. He didn’t feel guilty because he simply couldn’t think that way.

  It wasn’t murder; it was selfless service to his country, an investment in the preservation of freedom and liberty.

  Hell, it made sense enough to him. The way he saw it, the old bastard had it coming. It was his penance for betraying the United States of America.

  SIX YEARS LATER

  CHAPTER ONE

  Paris, France

  139 hours remaining

  Colton King lit a cigarette and listened to the rain.

  It was a bad habit he had picked up in college and never really tried to break. He didn’t smoke all that often, only when he was bored or nervous. It just so happened that today he felt an odd mix of both.

  After the nine-hour flight, he had landed at de Gaulle around 0800 and driven a rental to one of his favorite places in town, a bookstore called Livre Grotte. Colton had always loved books, but they weren’t the reason he loved visiting the Book Cave.

  The store was owned and operated by a woman named Angelica LeFleur. He had known Angie for years, and if not for the countless obstacles, would have seriously contemplated asking her to marry him.

  It was a damn shame it could never happen.

  He spent three hours at Livre—making phone calls, responding to emails, and chatting with Angie—before purchasing a copy of the La Croix daily paper and venturing two blocks over, to a quaint café tucked amid myriad shops and offices on Avenue Montaigne. The jet lag must have catalyzed his appetite because he had eaten a pesto chicken sandwich, two cranberry scones, and was now nursing his third cup of Parisian coffee.

  Easing back in his chair, Colton breathed the moist air and smelled the dankness of the Seine, which flowed just over a mile to the south. Beyond it were both the American University of Paris and one of the world’s most famous tourist attractions, the Eiffel Tower.

  But Colton wasn’t in the City of Love as a tourist. And he certainly wasn’t here for love.

  He was here, as usual, on business.

  He had been an analyst for the CIA for three years. And despite the long hours, meager pay, and all but non-existent social life, he actually liked his job. It certainly wasn’t what he had envisioned when he enrolled as an economics major at the University of Virginia, but it beat the hell out of sitting behind a desk somewhere reading W-2s and memorizing tax codes.

  Plus, though he rarely acknowledged it, Colton had a highly absorbent mind. He spoke eight languages, all fluently, and had always been able to do complex math problems with ease.

  During his senior year at UVA, he had taught and taken the same Calculus 4 class—at the same time.

  He graduated Summa Cum Laude with a double major in economics and math and a minor in Latin, which he had mostly just done for fun. As it turned out, his background in Latin had accelerated his acquisition of other languages, a skill that served him well in his work with the Agency.

  But despite gleaning a great deal of intellectual fulfillment from his job, the thing he appreciated most was the opportunity to serve his country.

  He came from a proud military family. His father had been a lifer, serving twenty-six years in the Army and earning a slew of medals and commendations in Vietnam. His uncle had been a Marine for nearly a decade, then a SEAL for fifteen years after that.

  But most of all, he looked up to his brothers; they were legends, not only in their tiny hometown, but also in the eyes of their younger brother.

  Both All-American athletes in high school, they had each signed division one football scholarships, two years apart. Carson to Kentucky; Connor to West Virginia. But on a quiet September morning in 2001, everything had changed, the glory days instantly archived in a file of forgotten memories.

  Carson and Connor joined the Army soon after the tragedy and each had served valiantly overseas. Colton, a junior in high school when the towers fell, had always idolized his brothers but didn’t have the physical ability to follow in their footsteps. He was never an athlete and knew he didn’t have what it took to be some kind of war hero.

  But upon graduation from college, the CIA had given him an opportunity to serve in a different way, and he had always relished that chance.

  The buzz of the phone in his pocket interrupted his reverie.

  He reached down and put the cigarette out on the pavement as he scanned the message. As was the case with many of his correspondences, it had been sent from a blocked number.

  Something’s off. Change of plan. Café Toulouse in 30.

  Though the message was anonymous, he knew exactly who it was from. The man’s name was Xavier Thorsby, better known around the Agency as simply, X.

  Colton ruminated on the words. Though he had received customary confirmation seventy-two hours before, something about it hadn’t felt right.

  It had come in the usual encrypted email, but something was different. Maybe it was the font or possibly the phrasing. He wasn’t sure. He just knew there was something about the correspondence that felt funny, and in the intelligence business a funny feeling is rarely humorous.

  He had met with deep cover agents on dozens of occasions; never had he received telephonic contact on the day of the meet. It was poor tradecraft. The risk of interception and compromise was simply too high.

  He glanced back down at the screen.

  Something’s off. Change of plan.

  He whispered the words aloud.

  That’s when he remembered it. Remembered her, rather. The blonde. In a mail room at Langley. He remembered what she had told him, how confused he had been.

  Now, suddenly, her message was shining through with stunning clarity.

  Rising from his chair, he scanned the rooftops along the avenue and found nothing. But his instincts were going off like homing beacons. He needed to act quickly.

  He grabbed his napkin and tore open the newspaper, spilling the remainder of his coffee in the process. His mind raced as he carefully assembled a list of numbers. It took him three minutes and most of the napkin, but he finished and tucked it inside his copy of the La Croix.

  He then made a quick jaunt across the street, left the paper in trustworthy hands, and hurried back to Montaigne, scanning the rooftops as he went. He jogged through an alleyway that separated a small law office and a shoe boutique, and just as he passed into the shadows he felt it.

  Cold and hard, pressed firmly against his neck. Metal.

  The weight of a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and shoved him forward. “Left out of the alley,” a deep voice commanded. “Black car at the end of the street. You make a sound, I leave your brains on the pavement.”

  Colton had received hand-to-hand combat training from the Agency, but most of what he remembered came from his brothers.

  In one swift motion he drove his left elbow into the man’s sternum at the same moment his right heel found the man’s groin. His assailant hunched over and took a few steps backward, trying to recover from the trauma his privates had just endured.

  Colton saw his opportunity.

  He had raised his fist when something hit him from behind. It was light; he barely felt it. But now he was staggering, struggling to reg
ain his balance. Unable to raise his arms, he fell forward and landed hard on his face.

  One of the assailants kicked him in the ribs and rolled him over.

  That was the last thing Colton King would remember—staring up at the men who had just killed him, and watching the gray sky fade to black.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Langley, Virginia

  95 hours remaining

  So what have we found in Lebanon?”

  The Central Intelligence Agency’s Associate Deputy Director, Teresa Ferrell, was sitting in the office of Carter Bradford, who at 54 was the youngest Director of Central Intelligence to ever hold the position. The DCI was not in a good mood.

  “The news out of Beirut isn’t good,” said Ferrell, her gravelly voice evidencing a chronic lack of sleep. “To be honest, we have no way of knowing how much was compromised. But we have to plan for the worst.”

  Bradford leaned forward. “Which means what exactly?”

  “Well…” Ferrell hesitated, unsure of how much to divulge. She eventually decided to come out with it. “That all of Thorsby’s progress in Syria has been effectively negated, the entire data transfer was intercepted and decoded, and X and Colton are both either dead or being interrogated in some cell in Palestine.” She paused, letting him digest the implications. “Which means, at best, we lose a field agent and one of our top analysts.”

  Noting the Director’s expectant gaze, she ran a nervous hand through her graying hair and simplified it further. “Best case scenario, we just lost three years in Syria.”

  Bradford had his chin resting atop steepled hands. “And we still have no idea who’s behind it?”

  “None.”

  The CIA chief looked near implosion. “You mean to tell me that in forty-eight hours’ time we’ve established absolutely no leads? For God’s sake, Teresa, we’re the premier intelligence gathering organization on the planet. Please tell me how the hell that’s possible!”

  Ferrell shrugged futilely. “Prelim data suggested Hezbollah involvement but that turned out to be guesswork. All we really know is that it was professionally done. Everything was wiped clean, both in Paris and Beirut.”