Crown's Vengeance, The (2 page)

Erika Carr strode confidently through campus, fully aware of the attention her tall, lithe frame demanded as she passed. Effortlessly beautiful, she too had taken advantage of the breezy summer weather and dressed accordingly. College men stood helpless in her wake.

A rush of cool air sent tingling goose bumps across Erika’s flesh when she entered the history department’s main office building.

Situated in the middle of Penn’s campus, just across the Schuylkill River from downtown Philadelphia, the ancient mysteries of civilization thrummed with a vibrant intensity in College Hall. This building may have been over a hundred years old, but it was populated by scholars with an intense thirst for knowledge, of whom Erika was a proud member.

Overhead lights flashed on when she entered her office, the cool leather of her desk chair crackling as she sat down.

Eyes wide with anticipation, Erika opened the metallic suitcase on her desk. Inside was the artifact she had been waiting for all week. As the recipient of a federal grant to document recently unearthed personal effects of Alexander Hamilton, Erika’s mind raced with anticipation as she finally laid eyes on the documents.

The sharp trill of her desk phone intruded.

“Erika Carr.”

“Hey.”

One word, and Erika’s heart fluttered.

On the line was Parker Chase, the man with whom she had recently reunited after a year of separation. Prior to that, they had spent nearly eight years together. Parker was calling from his office in Pittsburgh, where he plied his trade as a financial advisor.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Up to my eyeballs in work. You wouldn’t believe how demanding rich people can be.”

Sarcasm oozed through the phone. His job invited stress on a daily basis.

“Who would have thought? Not to change the subject, but guess what? I just received the Hamilton artifacts.”

“That’s wonderful. Are you working with anyone else on the project?”

“No, this one’s my baby. I’m going to start my study immediately, try to have a preliminary report drawn up within two weeks.”

“Think you can spare a few hours this weekend? You only have me for three days, so don’t waste them.”

He was coming into town for the weekend and staying with her before a meeting on Monday.

“I’ll see what I can do. Be careful driving.”

Before hanging up, Parker promised to call her that night. As she clicked off, Erika couldn’t wipe the smile from her lips, anticipation already building for their weekend. After the events of the past few months, she’d realized how badly she missed him and was determined to treasure every day they spent together.

On her desk were two framed pictures. One was of her and Parker standing on the football field after his last collegiate game. White jersey covered in dirt, beads of sweat running through his eye black, they stood arm in arm, faces shining.

The second photograph was of Parker’s recently deceased uncle, who had also been her colleague until his murder.

Joseph Chase had been a star in Penn’s history department, internationally renowned for his work on America’s battle for independence. Brilliant and personable, Joe had been there for her whenever she needed anything. Less than a year ago he had been shot to death, murdered by a group of men intent on protecting a centuries-old secret. She and Parker had become embroiled in the conspiracy, forced to run for their lives.

The shiny metal suitcase on her desk opened to reveal a wooden box, worn and warped from the passage of time. Originally a soft shade of chestnut brown, years of exposure to the elements had darkened the container until it was nearly black. However, in a testament to the eroding standards of modern craftsmanship, this two-hundred-year-old box had protected the paper documents contained inside from any type of water damage whatsoever.

Erika leaned over the box, now brightly illuminated under a powerful observation lamp attached to her desk. Teeth clenched, she forced the rusted metal hinges open to reveal an astonishing piece of history.

Several months ago, an estate sale had been planned in the suburbs of New York City, and during a routine inventory of the items, a wooden chest had been found. Inside was the box she now held, donated for study by the deceased homeowner’s estate.

While the wooden contraption alone wasn’t extraordinary, what made this box special was the cache of paperwork inside.

This little gem contained a collection of Alexander Hamilton’s personal correspondence, hidden for centuries inside an innocuous book.

A rush of excitement flooded Erika’s system as the first letter flipped open, thick paper crackling softly under her touch. Perfect lines of elegant script covered the page, a product of Hamilton’s university education, while the small letters which utilized every available space hinted at his humble upbringing in which waste was not tolerated and resources were scarce.

Erika ran a practiced eye over the artifact, scribbling notes as she went. The sun fell from its lofty perch as she worked until shadows crept up the walls and her stomach rumbled in protest. A dozen letters were spread out on a table to her rear, each one summarized in her notes. Every piece was unique and insightful in its own way, offering a previously unseen glimpse into the mind of America’s first Treasury secretary. The majority of the artifacts were personal correspondence, relative mainly to Hamilton’s personal life. However, her heart had skipped a beat when she unfolded an official letter from Thomas Jefferson, written on Jefferson’s personal stationary. Mundane contents aside, it was still an amazing treasure.

The constant stream of people walking by her open office door had dwindled to a trickle, most of the department personnel now gone for the night. Classes were over, and it was a dedicated professor who spent much leisure time in his or her office. Erika cast an eye to the rapidly diminishing sunlight, thoughts of catching the day’s final warming rays gaining momentum.

One artifact remained in the box. Gloved fingers gently gripped the surprisingly sturdy paper as she unfolded this last letter.

What Erika saw took the breath from her chest.

Chapter 3

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

A forearm wrapped across his throat. Parker struggled for air, spots flashing in front of his eyes as his brain shouted for oxygen.

Suddenly the pressure vanished. He gasped, his head light, chest on fire.

“That’s how quickly you’ll be out if your air supply is cut off.”

Behind him, the instructor stood, arms gesturing to the mat on which Parker sat.

“Chase is a strong guy, tougher than most. Look how quickly he went down without air. If you can’t breathe, you’re done.”

As he spoke, the black-belt-clad Krav Maga instructor put out a hand, which Parker used to haul himself off the mat. All around, students young and old soaked in the knowledge, aware that one day it could save their lives.

Inside this brand new gymnasium, martial arts instruction was dispensed daily to practitioners of all levels. Two sparring areas with padded floors and walls flanked a full-sized boxing ring, the centerpiece of a vast training area replete with heavy and speed bags, weight benches and squat racks. Farther away a climbing wall was visible, along with an aerobics studio and even a lap pool. A red sun cast its final rays through floor-to-ceiling glass windows that fronted the complex.

Parker shook his head to clear the cobwebs. He’d been coming here for several years now, fully hooked on the adrenaline rush this art form provided, as well as the subtle movements it demanded. Originally developed by Israeli Special Forces, Krav Maga was not only an intense workout, it could be a lifesaver.

Years of lifting weights had grown tedious, but Parker had no alternative outlet into which he could channel his competitive spirit. His entire life had been spent on a playing field, and it was on the gridiron that he’d found the most success. Football had paid his way through school, his athletic prowess earning him a full-ride Division I scholarship. After hanging up his cleats, he’d found that Krav Maga relieved the stress of his pressure-packed job, so every jab Parker threw contained a fury born from a disdain for his more difficult clients.

“All right, everyone pair off and practice a chokehold escape. Chase, you’re with me.”

Parker had picked up the martial art rapidly. Recognizing this, the instructor had taken Parker under his wing, challenging him daily to better his skills, never letting him leave without dishing out a reminder that as good as he was, a long road lay ahead.

An hour later, Parker was bruised, battered, and thoroughly pleased. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he headed to the locker room.

Darkness had fallen by the time he’d showered and made it home, a pile of letters greeting him on the front doorstep. Parker scanned his investment account statements, most doing surprisingly well. The past few months had been kind to him. Not enough to retire, but he couldn’t complain.

Before he could even grab a beer, his phone vibrated.

Work never really stopped. It only took a lunch break.

“Parker Chase.”

A familiar voice taunted him. “How’s the slowest safety to ever step on the field doing?”

“Still faster than you.”

The caller chuckled. “How are you, old buddy?”

Parker had met Ben Flood in college, and they’d remained close friends ever since. Both studied finance, and they’d quickly bonded over a shared love of sports, beer, and pretty women. Ben had taken a job in Boston after graduation, a position similar to the wealth management that Parker now practiced.

“Just fine. Getting older, though. How are you?” Parker asked.

“Same here. You know the drill. Anyway, I wanted to see if you’re still going to be up here next week?”

Parker’s office had dealings with Ben’s firm, so Parker jumped at any chance to travel to Beantown for work. It didn’t hurt that Flood’s employer was one of the largest financial service providers in the city and always provided great seats to a game, free of charge.

“Wouldn’t miss it. I hope that famous Aldrich Securities expense account hasn’t run dry.”

“It took some work, but I secured two seats in the company box at Fenway.”

Fenway Park was where the Boston Red Sox played, an iconic baseball stadium that was on every fan’s bucket list.

“You’re the man. Can’t wait.”

They chatted for a few minutes before hanging up. Parker was excited to see a game at Fenway and spend some time with Ben. With a beer in hand and some leftover pizza on the table, he flicked on the television.

A scene of terror filled the screen.

Beneath a hollow-eyed reporter who shouted frantically into the camera, a rolling text bar flashed the same words over and over.

British Chancellor of the Exchequer Assassinated
.

Parker’s beer stopped halfway to his mouth, forgotten. The somber voice of the reporter broke through.

“Less than an hour ago, Sir Roland Francis Sutton was found in his office with a single bullet wound to the head. He was rushed to the hospital, only to be pronounced dead on arrival. As you can see from the chaos behind me at number eleven”-she turned and indicated a building Parker assumed was on Downing Street-“authorities are only just beginning their investigation.”

Who would want to kill the Treasurer of Great Britain?

“Sir Roland was appointed to the chancellor’s post only ten months ago. He was somewhat of a surprise choice, tapped for the post ahead of the presumptive nominee, junior minister Colin Moore.”

Parker vaguely recalled hearing about the minor controversy.

“We don’t have much information at this point, but we’re being told the chancellor was shot while standing in front of the broken third-story window to my rear. As you can see behind me, Scotland Yard’s forensics teams are currently inspecting the buildings exterior. Across from us”-the cameraman swiveled around to a structure across the street-“we can see a team of investigators on the rooftop of a second building, situated across the way from Number Eleven Downing Street. From what we know right now, this particular office is utilized by the Ministry of Finance, though details are scant as to its purpose.”

The frazzled reporter came back into view.

“The prime minister is set to make a statement within the hour.”

As she repeated the same details over and over, Parker set his beer down. Why would anyone want to kill the British treasurer? Parker, better than most, knew that few things upset people more than money, but this Roland guy would have had little impact on the day-to-day finances of the average citizen. It didn’t make sense for an angry person to come after the head of the country’s finances. That would be like shooting Bill Gates because your computer kept crashing.

And weren’t government ministers well protected? You’d think that anyone who worked on Downing Street, which he knew was also home to England’s prime minister, would be well protected. Snipers on rooftops, cameras everywhere, basically an army of security working round-the-clock.

Apparently the only sniper around had been one of the bad guys.

Parker stared at the screen as he ate, trying to figure out all the angles. Who would want to do this?

And not only who, but why?

Chapter 4

London, England

Next door to the murder scene, the prime minister of the United Kingdom stepped into his office. The media horde standing outside had been avoided, leaving him to deal with the only slightly less numerous gathering within Number Ten Downing.

Over a dozen people lined the hallway outside his door, each of them waiting for a moment of his time. Thirty minutes ago he’d been on the golf course, happily launching drives into the woods, when his security detail had received word of the assassination. Within minutes a helicopter settled onto the pristine fairway to whisk him into the heart of London.

“I will speak with everyone in five minutes. Please wait out here.”