Half-Past Dawn

CHAPTER 28

The sounds of the jungle came alive at night: birds in sweet song and raptor screech; monkeys and small mammals on their nocturnal activities in the enormous trees; snakes and reptiles slithering in the underbrush, taking up positions to lie in wait and snatch their unsuspecting prey as it meandered by. The sudden howl of a macaque echoed through the mountains, its deep growl hushing all other sounds of the night, all bowing in fear and respect. And it was that moment of silence that frightened most, for it felt as if the world was waiting for death.

Cristos lay under the thick green canopy of the jungle, just on the outskirts of the Sapre estate. He had embraced his new name, Suresh having died along with his heart four months earlier. The fiery pain in his skin was still there, the grafts taut like an ill-fitting garment. All of it reminded him of why he was finding pleasure in this moment.

He had surveyed the property, performing reconnaissance for the last month under cover of darkness. He knew every inch of the grounds as if it were the land of his birth and the interior of the home as if it were his own skin, able to walk it blindfolded without a sound, without running into a single wall or piece of furniture in the ten-thousand-square-foot mansion.

It was built to resemble a Swiss chalet. The prime minister had modeled it on the lodge he frequented in Gstaad. Made of large pine timbers, it was a multistory log cabin with large picture windows affording views of the lake in front and the Parshia Mountains in back. Cristos found it pleasantly ironic that the upper reaches of the peaceful mountains the prime minister had looked upon for all of these years was not only the birthplace of his assassin but would also be the last place he gazed on in his final day.

Raj and Nadia were scheduled to be married the next day in a lavish ceremony by the lake. Three large white tents were in place, the seating for five hundred already set. The marriage was viewed as the dynastic merger of the century, the politically powerful family of Prime Minister Wahajian Sapre joining with the family of Kartic Desai, one of the wealthiest industrialists in the country. The marriage was arranged more than ten years earlier, before Nadia and Raj had met, before they had even finished grade school. Their fathers had laid out their lives for them, lives that they rebelled against in their own ways but fell in line with as they grew up.

But come tomorrow, there would be no wedding, there would be no grand merger to be covered in the New York Times, the London Times, or the Times of India. The headlines in the coming days would only be of death.

Cristos had formulated his plan. He would be acting on his own. His employers had already transferred five million dollars to an account in Prague, with the balance to be paid out upon completion. He requested a list of supplies and was surprised when it had all arrived ahead of schedule to the small warehouse he had rented in the slums three miles away from the estate.

A small stag party was held earlier in the evening, more akin to a Wall Street board of directors meeting than a stripper-filled, gin-mill extravaganza. Only men were on the estate at this time; the mothers, sisters, bridesmaids, and bride weren’t expected until morning.

While some of the small group headed upstairs to the six guest rooms and others had left the main house to rest in the guest houses on the other side of the lake, PM Sapre, Desai, and Raj had retired to the library for an impromptu ceremony. It was a gentleman’s den filled with books, leather furniture, and a fully stocked mahogany bar. The three men sat in large captain’s chairs, clutching glowing Cuban cigars, as if they were gods discussing the fate of mankind.

Cristos watched it all through the high-powered scope of his sniper rifle, listening to their every word through his earpiece, which picked up the signal from bugs he had placed earlier.

Desai placed a large wooden box on the table before Raj. The two older men smiled as he lifted the lid and drew out a long golden dagger, its hilt sparkling with precious gems.

“It belonged to my great-grandfather,” Desai said. “He was a prince in the times of the Maratha Empire. His father had it made for him as a symbol of purity, virility, and command. It is called the Shiant Dagger. It is said that those who possess it will attain great power over mankind. I now pass it to you.”

Cristos clutched the long Galil sniper rifle, smiling as he watched the exchange. Not a word was mentioned of Nadia, the wedding, or love-just daggers, business, and politics. Cristos reached over, picked up his bottle of water, and took a long, slow swig, savoring the coolness as it poured down his throat.

Without further delay, he grasped the rifle, lined up his sight, and swept the gun back and forth between his targets. Assured of his aim and without fanfare, he exhaled and pulled the trigger. The three-inch copper bullet exploded out of the gun, traveling the two hundred yards in an instant, shattering the large picture window in the library before exploding the PM’s head. Within half a second, the barrel was swung to the right, the cough of the rifle echoed along the mountain, and Desai’s head was nearly torn from his body.

Cristos swung the rifle again, lining up the sight on Raj, but he had a change of heart. He adjusted his aim and fired off two quick shots. The first bullet hit Raj in the stomach, tearing out his back, while the second bullet shattered his knee, driving a hole clear through the cap and cartilage.

Cristos abandoned the rifle and broke into a full-out sprint. Covering the grassy two hundred yards in less than twenty-two seconds, he leaped through the now-empty window frame into the library. He looked at his handiwork, at what was left of the corrupt PM Sapre, at Desai, inwardly smiling that the country’s richest man was felled by a two-dollar bullet.

He finally turned his eye to Raj, walking over and looking down on the dying twenty-year-old. He waited a moment for his face to register in the young man’s fading mind.

“What was it you said about erasing me from existence? I just wanted to say thank you.”

And as Raj’s eyes began to drift, Cristos pulled out an EpiPen-an auto-injector of epinephrine-and jabbed him in the thigh with it. Raj’s eye’s flew open as his heart began to race.

“I want you to be fully awake.” Cristos smiled. “Fully aware of the pain as you die.”

Suddenly, the twin doors exploded open. Cristos spun around, a pistol instantly in hand aimed at the intruder. But he did what he swore he would never do again. He hesitated, for he was looking into the eyes of Nadia.

And despite her unforgivable betrayal, his heart still skipped at the sight of her. Cristos had declared his heart dead, replacing the pain and hollowness with rage and vengeance, but that all melted away as his eyes fell upon Nadia.

She raced to Raj, taking him in her arms, screaming in agony as she looked at the carnage around her.

“What have you done?” she cried, the same words she had said four months earlier. She glanced at what was left of her father and nearly retched. Turning her attention back to Raj, she pressed her hand on his wounded stomach, trying to stop the bleeding.

Cristos just stared at her, momentarily losing all focus.

“How could you do this after everything I did for you?” Nadia openly wept. “I stopped Raj from killing you. I kept my father and the prime minister from seeking you out. I paid for your hospital, your care. I watched over you while you were in a medically induced coma.”

Cristos’s head began to spin, once again not knowing what to believe. Riley was very clear that the only reason he was alive was that the fire alarm had gone off and that Raj and Nadia needed to escape before they were seen. Riley said he was paying for his treatment, that his government, in conjunction with the British, was paying.

“I’m so sorry for what I did to you.” Her words flooded out on heavy breaths. “I panicked when I saw you killing Raj, I lost my mind and threw that oil. I can’t imagine the pain you must have endured. I haven’t slept since that night. Can’t you understand? This is my world. This is where I belong.”

Cristos began to panic; all logic, all reason, had left his mind as he fell under Nadia’s spell once again. “Come away with me. I can-”

“Go away with you?” she screamed. “You’re a monster. How could you do this? My father, the prime minister…”

She turned and looked at Raj. His eyes had fallen shut, his breathing coming in fits and starts as he slowly began to die.

“You’ve taken everything from me. Get out. Get out!”

“Raj said that-Riley said-”

“Who said what? You listen to everyone except yourself. What does your heart tell you, what does your instinct tell you?”

Cristos could see the truth in her eyes… and feel it in his heart. She was right. He was trained to listen to his instincts, and yet he had tucked them away, chosen to ignore them when they had been his guide for his whole life.

Cristos reached down, offering her his hand.

Nadia picked up the bejeweled dagger, pointing it at him. “Stay away from me.”

“Nadia…”

“I have nothing. You’ve taken it all from me.”

Cristos could see the despair in her eyes, her body shaking, on the edge of a nervous breakdown. He had come there seeking vengeance, bringing death, and succeeded in his task. But he had been manipulated by all: Nadia, Raj, Riley. He was truly just a pawn in their games. And while his heart had burned with Nadia’s betrayal, looking at her now, he couldn’t bring himself to harm her, for he realized that he still loved her in spite of everything.

“Please, you don’t understand…” he said as he reached out for her.

Nadia stepped back, finally looking at her father, the prime minister, and Raj.

And without warning, without a single word, she looked Cristos in the eye and plunged the dagger into her own chest.

The open-air jeep raced up the mountainside, under the canopy of night, the thick leaves allowing only shards of moonlight to penetrate. In the valley below, a sudden explosion lit up the night as the prime minister’s vacation home was torn to shreds, an enormous fireball engulfing it and the remaining guests inside.

Cristos white-knuckled the steering wheel, his eyes darting between the road and Nadia, who lay motionless across the backseat, the dagger protruding from her chest.

He had nowhere else to turn. He had abandoned his culture, his people, his father, but now they were the only ones he could turn to to save the woman he loved.

Five miles up the dirt road, the hard-packed surface abruptly ended as if it had been swallowed by nature. He grabbed Nadia off of the seat, careful to avoid touching the dagger, and carried her into the jungle, still knowing the path better than anyone. The long, twisting trail meandered through the thick foliage, over rocks and streams, up a five-mile slope whose grade never diminished.

It would be at least another hour before he reached the village. He feared that he was already too late when two Cotis priests stepped out of the dark jungle, members of the Tietien council. Hovath had schooled him in martial arts and weaponry, while Prunaj had taught him of spirituality and the jungle. Each-uncharacteristic for the Cotis people-carried a sidearm on his hip. Without a word, they flanked him.

And Cristos’s father stepped from the cover of the foliage.

Father and son locked eyes, a world of emotions exchanged without a word.

“You cannot come back.”

“You have to save her,” Cristos pleaded.

His father looked at the girl, her body limp in his son’s arms. “Save her for herself or save her for you?”

“Please,” Cristos begged. “Bring her back.”

He laid her down on the ground, gently stroking her dark hair from her face.

“Does she wish to live?” his father asked. “Or have you taken away what she lives for?”

His father knew what he had done.

“Bring her back!” Cristos exploded in rage.

“I know what you’ve become,” his father said softly. “My whole life, I fought it. Although I knew it to be your future, I had clung to hope. But fate sometimes is stronger than any force. The shadow hidden within you has emerged and consumed your heart and soul.”

“You don’t understand-”

“I do understand. I should have stopped you before all of this death. I foresaw your future but allowed my heart to fall into denial, questioning the future as some question the past.”

“I love her.” Cristos’s voice cracked. “You have to help me.”

“After what you have done-” his father said with pain filled eyes. “You will be followed; you will bring the outside world to us again. We cannot afford to protect you. We cannot allow our ways to be investigated so they may build a case to convict you.”

Prunaj and Hovath stepped forward, pulling and raising their pistols. They were trained on Cristos, and, anticipating his every move, they stayed just beyond his reach. Cristos’s emotions vanished, his eyes falling on Hovath.

“We must turn you over to the authorities of the outside world,” his father continued as Cristos kept staring at Hovath. “Please do not-”

And without warning, with his eyes locked with Hovath’s, Cristos drove his fist into his father’s gut, the immense blow knocking him sideways toward Hovath.

Cristos spun left, snatching the gun from Prunaj, continuing his motion up and into the priest’s neck, crushing his larynx with the butt of the pistol. Prunaj fell to the ground, unable to breathe.

As he was taught so well, Cristos could feel Hovath’s approach, could sense his finger wrapping the trigger. He feigned left and spun, firing Prunaj’s gun, the bullet hitting Hovath’s wrist, crippling his hand as the gun fell to the ground.

With no regard for his mangled wrist, Hovath dived at Cristos, and although he was his teacher, skilled in hand-to-hand combat, the student had surpassed him long ago. Cristos caught Hovath by the shoulder, rolling toward the ground, taking his teacher with him as his arm wrapped around the man’s neck. And as they hit the jungle floor, Hovath’s neck snapped from their combined weight.

With no regard for the bodies, Cristos stood and stared at his father, who was recovering.

“This is your fault,” Cristos said.

His father looked at the twisted bodies of the two dead priests. He turned and looked upon Nadia, finally stepping toward his son. “Take her away from here. Never return. You are no longer my son.”

Cristos slowed his breathing, focused, reaching out to feel any other attackers, but none came.

He looked back down at Nadia, shards of moonlight refracting off of the bejeweled hilt of the knife that protruded from her lifeless body. He finally realized that she would not have wanted to be saved; he had taken away everything she loved in the world. He accepted that she had used him with no regard for his heart and in so doing permanently destroyed it, killing his emotions, his feelings, his true self.

And in that moment, Cristos knew that his future was sealed.

He crouched down, wrapped his hand around the jewel-encrusted blade, and withdrew it from her chest. No blood poured from her body, its flow having long since ceased. He looked down on the face that had caught his eye one year earlier, its solemn innocence so contrary to the callous, selfish heart within. His father was wrong. Cristos had not succumbed to fate, had not followed some preordained path. His soul had been turned by Nadia, a woman of two faces, whose evil had infected his own heart.

In that moment, he vowed never to love again. Never to become a pawn of his own heart.

And in a lightning move, one too quick for his father to react to, Cristos plunged the blade into his father, lifting him upon the blade into the air, his powerful muscles flexing with effort.

He looked at his father, and his father stared back; there was no pain in his eyes, just pity, resignation at what his son had done to him.

Cristos sat in a cafe on the Champs-Elysees sipping tea, watching the Parisians passing by. He was dressed in a custom-made suit, his green tie set off against his white shirt. He had left Cotis and the Asian continent behind one week earlier and headed to Zurich, Switzerland, where he bought a townhouse and began to formulate a future.

“We would like to avail ourselves of your services again,” Riley said. He and his silent partner sat across from Cristos, each sipping coffee.

Cristos nodded.

“How will we contact you?”

“You won’t. When in need of my services, you will place a memorial posting to Nadia Desai in the obituary section of the Sunday edition of the London Times. I will then contact you.”

“Very well,” Riley said.

“I have a question for you.”

“Yes,” Riley said with a smile.

“Who paid for my treatment at the hospital?”

“I thought we discussed that.”

“Did Nadia visit me while I was in a coma?”

The two men looked at each other. The silent man nodded.

“Yes, she did,” Riley said without any display of contrition or embarrassment. “Every day.”

Cristos picked up his napkin, wiped his mouth, and placed it on the table. He finally stood. He looked directly at the tall, silent man. “I will be available, but understand that if you ever lie or betray me again, you will end up like your friend here.”

“I don’t understand.” The man spoke for the first time.

Riley looked at Cristos with a curious smile. “What do you mean?”

And as if drawing a pen from his pocket, Cristos pulled out a gun, quickly placed it against Riley’s right eye, and pulled the trigger.