The Diamond Dragon (Kip Keene Book 4)
Read The Diamond Dragon (Kip Keene Book 4) Online
Authors: Nicholas Erik
Copyright 2015 Nicholas Erik. All rights reserved.
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James Mitchell pushed through the heavy doors of the Greater Tillus Savings and Loan and walked up the well-polished stairs. He gave the guard a slight nod and an apologetic smile before cutting the line. Muted protests broke out behind Mitchell, but they stopped when the tall man drew a long rifle out from beneath his tailored suit jacket. He fired one shot into the ceiling, bringing a rain of drywall down upon the bank patrons.
“Ladies and gentleman,” he said in a smooth, almost kind, voice, “I have a little announcement to make. My name is James Mitchell, and this is a bank robbery.”
Mitchell whirled around to face the guard, who was fumbling for a pistol.
“Cool it.” Another shot erupted from the rifle, sending the customers to the cold linoleum. The guard held up his hands and dropped to his knees.
“Just be calm,” the guard said. “No one needs to get hurt.”
“That depends.” Mitchell cracked a smile and rubbed the stubble coating his long chin. “Hopefully I’ve made my point.” He turned towards the bulletproof glass, behind which a shaking teller stood. The middle-aged woman reached her hand underneath the desk. “Miss?”
“Y-yes?”
“What’s your name?” Mitchell said.
“My n-name?”
He fired again, sending a spiral of cracks spider-webbing across the window. The teller dove to the ground, so that Mitchell could only see the tips of her quaking fingers. Mitchell pressed his forehead against the glass and tapped twice on the clear material with the gun’s stock.
“Get up, dear.”
“I don’t want to die.”
“That makes two of us.” He watched as she rose unsteadily to her feet. He squinted to read the nametag. “Dorothy. A pleasure. You can call me James.”
“Please don’t hurt me, James.”
“If you don’t want me to hurt anyone, then I’m going to need your help.”
The plump teller gave him a horrified look and shook her head, curls bobbing. She was too choked up to respond. Mitchell leaned back and started whistling—no tune in particular, just any notes that struck him as cheerful.
“But I can’t help you,” Dorothy finally managed some seconds later. “It’s against the rules. And you don’t look like a criminal, James.”
He smiled, displaying a perfect row of recently whitened teeth. If one were to guess James Mitchell’s occupation, bank robber would be unlikely to crack even the first hundred guesses. In fact, the way he presented himself—custom charcoal suit, expensive shoes, carefully maintained stubble—it appeared that he could
own
the bank.
Or at least run one of its trading desks—perhaps the options or foreign exchange unit, with his dash of debonair style. Not that there were any equities desks in Tillus, Iowa.
No—there was something much more valuable here that his employers desperately required.
“You flatter me,” he replied. Within his mind, he uttered the true answer.
Because I’m not a criminal
. But the real reason for his visit could not be explained for all the typical reasons. Security concerns, deniability issues. “I require this particular box, Dorothy, and nothing else.”
He slid a piece of paper into the metal tray. His fingers brushed against her chewed-down nails as she reached to grab the note.
“I—we can’t open the safety deposit boxes.”
“I assure you, Dorothy, that you can.” He tapped the gun against the glass. “And you will.”
“If I could just phone the manager—”
“Let me very clear, Dorothy.” Mitchell waited until her eyes met his. “If you don’t do this in the next ninety seconds, the people out here will become most…displeased.”
“Displeased?”
“That is how most individuals react to dying, is it not?”
A hushed gasp went through the bank. To that moment, the patrons had been remarkably calm and silent—but this threat had stirred the possibility of death inside their minds, and their anxiety was quickly rising.
Mitchell, from experience, knew that this did not benefit him. Only Dorothy’s reticence—as well as the knowledge that she had pressed the silent alarm right after the first gunshot—had forced him to play this card.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Dorothy said.
“Time is of the essence.”
Dorothy disappeared into a back room, her sensible heels clacking down a set of stairs that Mitchell couldn’t see. He glanced at his stainless steel watch. This mission was taking too damn long. From the corner of his eye, Mitchell caught sight of the overweight guard trying to play hero. Pawing at his pant leg, trying to be slick.
The son-of-a-bitch had a reserve pistol in an ankle holster.
It dawned on Mitchell, in the back of his mind, that this pudgy and balding man with the ill-fitting uniform was not only going to get a shot off, but at this distance, was likely to cause significant damage.
Quite sloppy. A second firearm should have been expected. More attention to detail was required. The residents of Tillus had more fight in them than the town’s nondescript façade suggested. Should have heeded Leif’s warnings about the locals.
Because now Mitchell was gonna pay the price in pain and suffering.
Mitchell leveled his own rifle as he watched the guard’s small pistol glint and bark. Two bullets caught Mitchell in the shoulder and chest, sending him backwards against the teller window. The divider shook under the sudden impact.
He heard seven more bullets fire, but felt no more pain. Misses.
Gritting his teeth, Mitchell aimed down the rifle’s sights and squeezed off a single shot. A shell casing clattered to the floor, blood staining the sparkling floor. The guard slumped to the ground and the patrons screamed.
Deniability was going to be a challenge, the way the situation was progressing.
Mitchell lowered the rifle and scanned the room—a proper examination this time, not a spurious glance. No one else presented a threat. He allowed the rifle to dangle at his side. Red soaked his suit jacket.
Dorothy, hurrying back, yelped when she saw the downed guard.
“But you—you
said
.”
“It is regrettable,” Mitchell replied, favoring his shoulder. “The box.”
“
Regrettable
? You killed Mike!”
“And that is unfortunate. The box, if you would be so kind.”
“I’m not giving you anything, not after what you’ve done.”
Mitchell gave a wearisome sigh. If this woman had any idea about the things he’d done, this particular incident would not even rate a mention. And yet he regretted them all. This mission had been his opportunity at redemption. To do something that mattered.
To save the world.
But it had the same result as all the others. He wasn’t a criminal, but a killer. And that was all he’d ever be to those he worked for—whether those associates were past or present.
Sirens blared in the distance. Maybe thirty seconds left.
“Dorothy,” he said, “listen to me very carefully.”
“No. I won’t.”
“If the police arrive, and I don’t have that box, everyone in this room will die.” He sucked in air. Goddamnit. One of the bullets had shattered his breastbone, cut right through to the organs beneath. Every breath he took, he could feel the bone crack in and out of place. “And it will be your fault.”
He stared at her, separated by only a half-inch of clear glass, his dark eyes shining.
“You don’t want that on your head.”
Dorothy paused for a moment, frozen in place, then shuffled towards the locked door separating the teller window from the bank floor. She unlocked the door with a jangly ring of keys and stood there, box tucked under her arm.
Mitchell grabbed box 462 and jogged towards the exit. The sirens were growing louder, the pain more intense. As he passed the fallen guard, he said a silent prayer for the dead. Then he burst into the bright light of day and ran around the corner with the box just before the police cars arrived from the opposite end of the street.
Breathing heavily, he tapped the plain steel box with his fingers as he sprinted through the narrow alley.
If what Agent Leif Redbeard thought was in this box was real, Mitchell had done a good deed.
But he wasn’t sure if that balanced the ledger when it came time to be judged.
Kip Keene adjusted his aviators, allowing a stream of bright sunlight to enter his eyes. The designer shades, much like the Spanish-style villa in Southern California, had been a generous parting gift from Ben, the enigmatic head of the Chronological Council—an organization now defunct, thanks to his and Keene’s efforts.
The old man had given Keene a USB drive containing his last will and testament—a series of addresses leading to storage units, various properties, rental lockers at airports and bus stations. By the end of the substantial list, Keene had found himself the owner of one SoCal mansion, a half-dozen jet-skis, and more quality antique furniture than he knew what to do with.
And one key that fit no locks inside the house.
Keene ran his hand through his short black hair and reseated the shades on his nose. A patch of prickly stubble made a scratching noise as he brushed his thin, knife-like chin. He wasn’t entirely convinced that an extended vacation suited him well. Even though it was nice spending the middle of December outside, instead of huddled beneath blankets.
Of more interest than the will was the drive’s mention of a mysterious entity named the Diamond Dragon. The Diamond Dragon file itself had contained just two lines, and fewer tangible leads.
Open the portal to save the girl.
Protect the girl to save the world.
Keene thought of Ben’s final words on the grainy video. “I have one project I was unable to finish…if you survive, please pursue the Diamond Dragon.”
Well, Keene had indeed survived the Chinese pirate queen Ching Shih and escaped the grasp of her relentless Red Flag Fleet off the coast of nineteenth century Guangzhou—nearly drowning in the process. But thus far the search for even a trace of the Diamond Dragon had been utterly futile. It’d been three months since Keene had returned to the present, yet no clues had presented themselves. Certainly no girls with an ethereal, world-saving aura had materialized.
Keene weighed the plusses and minuses of the situation.
On the one hand, not having to worry about funds suited him well. The sun was nice, too.
On the other hand, saving the world had a narcotic allure. Keene didn’t know if this was a narcissistic sickness, or genuine concern for this adopted home of his. Hell, maybe it just felt nice to be useful. But until a lead came through the pipeline, beer, sunshine and midday naps would have to hold him over.
He sipped from the longneck and sighed, tasting lime and salt. A shadow cut into his sun, and Keene shivered. His short black hair, stiffening from the seawater, wavered slightly in the light breeze.
“Way too hot for a jacket,” Keene said.
“Nice to see you, too.” Samantha Strike shoved her hands in the chestnut leather jacket’s pockets, balling up the cracked and worn material in her fists.
“It’s been lonely here with Linus. He found a girlfriend.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of a big deal.” Keene rose from the beach chair, wobbling in the sand. He offered his partner a handshake.
“What, no hug?”
“I figured you’d hit me in the face if I offered.”
“Yeah, it still hurts if I move too much.” Strike gave him a weak handshake. “This scar in my stomach won’t go away.” She gritted her teeth together and spit. “The nurses gave me this scar cream. Does nothing. I’m telling them, does it look like I got
pregnant
? I got shot by a friggin’ nineteenth century flintlock.”
“I’m shocked the doctors didn’t believe you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Strike tapped the pocket of her jeans, and something clinked. “Telling them that got me a sixty day chip. Only a junkie would make up a story like that, right? Should’ve told them I got bit by a dog.”
“It was true, though,” Keene said.
“How I got shot or me being a dope fiend?”
“Both.” A long silence took hold. Keene sipped from the bottle. “Last I saw you, you had some nice wheels. You didn’t bring the wheelchair along?”
Strike gave him a feigned shot in the arm, letting out a slight whimper before she even connected. “Son of a bitch, it’s been almost twelve weeks.” Her shoulder length blonde hair shook back and forth. “It’s like I’m eighty years old all of a sudden.”
“Bullets will do that,” Keene said. “Better heal up quick.”
“Someone needs saving?”
“I’ve been looking for the Diamond Dragon. Haven’t found much.”
“Figures this operation would go to shit without me.” Strike hobbled towards the stairs. “I gotta take a nap or something. A message came across the computer. Linus said you’d want to see it.”
“And Linus couldn’t come down here himself?”
“Door was locked when I knocked.” Strike took her hands out of her pockets and ran them through her hair. The jacket’s cuffs rode up, displaying the beginning of an intricate serpent tattoo on her right arm. “Yelled at me to get you, and to go away.”
“Aw, Linus is in love.”
“Can’t wait to meet this girl,” Strike said. She limped up the stairs. Keene could hear her labored breathing. She’d really been taken out of commission between the gunshot in China and the forced rehab—courtesy of him and Momma Strike—after her opium relapse in the back alleys of Guangzhou.
Keene hadn’t told her he’d been responsible for insisting on the hospital drug test and rehab. Better to keep it that way. If she found out, she’d pop off like a goddamn crate of fireworks.
Keene peered over the rims of the shades at the sprawling property, the palm trees, the lapping ocean. Gentle squawks floated by on an arid sea breeze. Beat the hell out of their old digs, that grimy converted warehouse back in New York.
The whole place seemed a little ridiculous, and there was that old saying about gift horses and their mouths. But sometimes a gift horse was just a gift horse—especially when its former owner had immolated himself to help keep the world safe.
Shame Ben hadn’t left some more leads on this Diamond Dragon problem. Too much downtime was going to kill them all.
Hopefully Linus had something good.