The archers thread, p.1
The Archer's Thread, page 1
PRAISE FOR “THE ARCHER’S THREAD”
“[A] riveting storyline that will grip readers from the first pages.”
THE BOOKLIFE PRIZE
“[A] most enjoyable blend of mystery, action, and romance.”
READER’S FAVORITE
“In thrillers, love interests are usually throw-away characters meant to lend a little softness to an otherwise heartless hero. Not so here. A daring choice, for Zamot to insert a real love story into his thriller. I thoroughly enjoyed it.”
R. ALE, AMAZON REVIEW
“Immersive and Addictive”
S. ELLERT-BECK, AMAZON REVIEW
“This book was so good I'm buying three more copies to hand out to friends.”
P. J. M., BARNES AND NOBLE REVIEW
“A thinking man’s Jason Bourne.”
ALIMAÑA, AMAZON REVIEW
THE ARCHER’S THREAD
RELENTED
BOOK 1
NOEL ZAMOT
Atabey Press
New Port Richey, Florida
Copyright © 2023 by Noel Zamot
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Second Edition.
ISBN: 978-1-63837-475-6
For Diane, the inspiration for everything.
CONTENTS
Preface
Prologue
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Afterword
Did you enjoy this book?
Sneak Peek: The Feather’s Push
About the Author
Synesthesia
(noun) syn·es·the·sia |ˌsi-nəs-ˈthē-zh(ē-)ə
1: a concomitant sensation
especially: a subjective sensation or image of a sense
(as of color) other than the one (as of sound) being
stimulated
2: the condition marked by the experience of such
sensations
PROLOGUE
Kidnapped.
Kelly’s heart raced, and she found it difficult to focus. The fat man seated next to her showed no emotion beyond fake politeness.
I’m too gullible, she thought. They had approached her as she left the lecture, chatting about an overseas initiative for young girls in Turkey. She’d walked outside with them, lost in conversation, and realized too late that she was headed onto the street instead of toward the Boston gate. The man held her as he pushed her into a waiting car. Next thing she knew, two armed strangers were taking her toward the freeway.
She didn't have time to scream.
Terror kept her from calling for help. If they took her phone, it would all be over. They had not touched her since entering the car, but fear paralyzed her as they approached a parking garage.
If the men tried anything, she’d go out fighting. She took a mental inventory of her belongings, feeling sick thinking how she’d use them. Some keys, a pen, a small mace keychain somewhere at the bottom of her purse. She wished she remembered how to work that panic button on her watch.
She felt the watch vibrate as the car entered the parking structure, a text from her new phone.
Buckle your seatbelt
A wave of hope, warm and light, washed over her, and the jumble of sensory input collapsed into one task:
Buckle your seat belt.
She tugged at the belt with her left hand, hiding the message, and buckled it with her right.
“We are almost here.” The man racked his handgun and scanned outside. “You may have to take that off—”
A crash of glass cracked open the night. The car swerved and accelerated toward a massive concrete pillar straight ahead.
Oh, shit…!
The impact was brutal and violent, the aftermath eerily quiet. The fat man sat back, stunned, blood pouring out of his nose after hitting the back of the passenger seat full force. He muttered something unintelligible, and she noticed the parking garage had gone dark. Dim shadows from a street lamp spilled across the concrete ceiling.
Then the man’s window blew in, covering him with broken glass. The man yelled, trying to remove shards from his eyes. Someone undid the locks and pulled him out.
Only shadows moved in the darkness. The man crumpled to the ground screaming—she heard dull thuds and muffled cracks from where he was, someone speaking a strange language, and a desperate moan.
She undid her seatbelt in a panic, and opened the door. Her chest throbbed from the impact. The front of the car was crushed, the driver’s window missing. The driver slumped over the airbag, half of his skull caved in a bloody smear. Through the shock and nausea, she wondered if someone shot him. She stepped away from the vehicle and heard something crunching on the other side.
“Help me! Help!” She yelled at the top of her lungs, unsure where to run.
The thuds and cracking stopped. Someone spat and coughed through a moan. She heard a man’s heavy breathing, exhausted after a long run.
She stumbled around the trunk and saw him. The fat man lay on the ground in a heap, his leg sticking out at an unnatural angle. A familiar shape stood over him, eyes gleaming with something beyond hate.
In the dark, she saw his hands were covered in blood.
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
SIX MONTHS EARLIER
Boston Common reeked of weed, piss, and sweat—the smell of August in the city. All of downtown emptied in the summer, idle and forgotten in the sticky heat. The college students were gone, and the city filled with tourists, concert-goers and the unlucky few who could not escape the summer hell. Simon stayed by choice. It was a hot night in Boston, and he was looking for prey.
He walked above the Common, east on Beacon Street, and watched the evening unfold. He gazed past the east side of the Boston Green, to the short stretch of Park Street up from the Freedom Trail, seeing the darkness develop in time. Young couples—out of towners, or perhaps college interns working in the city—walked the short distance between Tremont and Beacon Streets, not knowing the scum of Boston made their home on the nasty stretch of pavement. They were easy targets for the alpha predators of the Common, the crackheads and meth dealers who got their kicks by preying on the weak. Simon hated them, but unlike everyone else in the city, he planned to do something about it.
Who will it be tonight? he thought, and let his mind wander.
There.
He stopped and gazed at the slight downhill of Park Street near Tremont, where hawkers sold Red Sox souvenirs and cheap junk. Two huge men, probably crack dealers, were throwing their weight around the junkies and homeless. They were eyeing a young couple—Asian tourists or interns, Simon couldn’t yet tell—walking a few yards beyond. The couple held hands, enjoying the stroll, unaware of what was about to happen. Simon focused on the timelines where the thugs would intimidate them and make some cash.
Perfect.
He walked down as the couple strode behind one dealer, trying to avoid them. The larger one saw them and changed his line, bumping into them on purpose, then waving his hands.
“Excuse me…” The young man looked at the thug and tried to walk away, to keep his date and self-esteem intact.
“Oh, I am SO sorry, motherfucker! Did I hurt you or your bitch?” The dealer was big, over two hundred pounds, all of it muscle. He was imposing and loud, with tattoos almost up to his ears and wild, matted red hair. His sidekick walked over, hand stuffed into his pants, faking a gun.
“Don’t you walk away, bitch! I’m talking to you, motherfucker, don’t you—”
Simon cut in front, blocking his path and allowing the couple to escape.
“Shut up, asshole,” he spat, eyes locked on the thug. The two men smelled like they hadn’t showered in days. Simon turned and smiled at the young couple, and motioned them with a nod to get the hell out.
“You talkin’ to me, motherfucker?” He turned back to his sidekick with an amused grin. “Little faggot wants to be a motherfuckin’ hero.”
“I need a score. Not here.” He nodded toward a tree in the middle of the Common, a popular place for drops. He noticed a gaggle of kids behind him capturing the aborted fight on their mobile phones. They wouldn’t capture anything in this light, he thought.
“Motherfucker wants some ROCK after disrespecting me?” The dealer inched closer to Simon. “You a fucking COP?” He weaved left and right while talking, the urban method of communicating a threat. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m not asking, dipshit. Shut up and do as you’re told.” Simon turned and walked away. He heard the jingle of chains and shivs behind him and chuckled. The sidekick went wide, by the fountain. They’d use the typical city takedown: one guy postured and threatened, while the sidekick nailed the victim from behind.
He shook his head and smiled. Idiots.
Darkness came late in the Boston summer, and it took heaven’s own time for the city to cool. Simon gazed at the night sky, replaying the next few minutes in his mind. The satellites would have a hard time seeing anything for the next twenty minutes, their prying eyes confused by the lingering summer heat. The rest of the cameras around the Common were out of commission.
Took me enough damn time, he mused.
You’d be so proud of me, Mina. I learned so much from you.
I
He took stock of the layout by the tree, then looked north to Beacon Street. It was quiet out in Back Bay. The lights of MIT and Cambridge lit up the sky north of the Charles. He felt the loneliness of the summer on the Esplanade, when everyone left for the Cape, or the mountains, or Tanglewood, and beyond. The cops were far from here, somewhere in the Theater district. They would never arrive on time.
He faced the dealer after stopping at the tree. The ancient oak was wide enough to hide the next few moments from the sidekick—and anything flying overhead. Simon crossed his arms, right hand under his chin, and waited.
The dealer arrived, waving his hands and swaying from side to side. “You sure you ain’t a cop, motherfucker? Cause I’m an upright citizen and got no time for your shit—”
“Shut up. Where’s your friend?”
“Listen, you little faggot, you disrespect me one more time and…”
He saw every thread where the man would react. He adjusted his expression and posture to lure him in, to convince the thug his victim was afraid and vulnerable.
You don’t think I’ll fight back. Catnip for a predator.
It felt like watching a movie, except you picked your own ending. As the idiot rambled on, Simon sensed threads where the sidekick would seal the deal from behind. Simon stayed motionless, which his prey mistook for fear, drawing closer.
When he could smell the man’s breath and sensed no outcome where his victim would react, Simon struck the man’s throat. He felt the cartilage break, wet and hollow, as the man’s windpipe collapsed.
The dealer’s eyes opened in shock, hands at his mangled neck. He staggered back and fell to the ground, desperate for air.
Hypoxia would set in soon. Brain damage would follow. Sidekick is coming behind me right… now.
The sidekick peered from behind the tree. Simon skipped back and kicked low and to his right, following the one thread where his boot went into the man’s knee.
Tendons were loud when they snapped. Like a wet branch.
The man crumpled to the ground in a horrible scream, his left leg bent at the knee at an impossible angle. Simon stood over him and grinned, unable to hide the delight in his eyes.
“Shut up, or I’ll cut you open.”
The sidekick fell quiet, propped up on his elbow on the filthy ground. He sobbed in silence, face twisted in pain and terror, his pants wet from pissing himself. Simon had seen this look in people who knew they were going to die.
“Motherfucker…” The man talked in breathless spurts through the pain. “When I get better, I’m gonna fucking hunt you down… fuck you up…” He was tearing up, and Simon could taste his victim’s terror as he fell from predator to prey. He knelt close to the man’s face, smelling the filth in the heavy night air.
“If I was some drunk college girl, you and your buddy would be raping me right now, you piece of shit.” He sensed the man’s fear at the unknown pain ahead. “Never threaten or hurt anyone again, you fucking scum. Ever.”
The sidekick started shaking as he went into shock. The first thug struggled for air a few feet away, his breaths shallower and weaker by the second.
You deserve this.
He sensed no outcomes where the sidekick would react. Simon clapped his hands hard on the man’s ears, rupturing both eardrums, then brought his fists down on the man’s clavicles, snapping them.
Like branches. Bones breaking inside meat.
The sidekick fell back, wailing. But Simon was already walking up toward Beacon Street, crossing onto Walnut Avenue where all the nice, white startup millionaires and corrupt politicians lived, where the Boston cops would not bother an unremarkable white boy with messy hair and earnest eyes walking at night, lost in the bowels of Back Bay.
Boston PD wouldn’t make it in time. No prints. No video. No eyewitnesses.
No one would give a damn. The two scumbags would end up in a dirty emergency room, then discharged into the ranks of the handicapped homeless on the streets of Boston. They’d be dead within months.
He climbed Walnut Street, striding over the uneven red bricks on the ancient sidewalk he had cased so many times, eyes unblinking and hot, wondering how much longer he’d do this. One street away from the hell of the Common, the stench of piss and weed and sweat and vomit was gone. The wet summer air filled his lungs as he sprinted up the hill.
He turned left on Mt. Vernon Street, leaned on a tree, and threw up.
“Any games on tonight?” The man asked without taking his eyes off his laptop.
“No clue. The only sport I follow is Italian soccer, and that’s because of Ronaldo,” the woman droned while typing away on her laptop. “When he retires, I’ll have to find something else to watch.”
Their monitors turned blue in unison as a red box popped up on their screen with a ping.
“Tag from Haystack,” the man said. “Opening. Time: 0405 Zulu. Mark.”
“Copy zero four zero five Zulu. Notification from the Haystack AI.” The woman enunciated her words to ensure they were clear in the recording.
“Haystack reports… social media hit, sixty percent correlation with a 911 call for downtown Boston.”
“Copy social media hit, correlation to emergency services, vicinity of Boston, Massachusetts. Nature of call?”
“Automated transcript is poor quality… apparently two adult males were assaulted. Collapsed windpipe on victim one, dislocated knee, collarbone fracture and possible concussion on victim two.” The man spoke in a practiced drone, ensuring the recording captured all the information properly.
“Wow. Must’ve been a heck of a fight.”
“Both en route to Mass General Emergency Room. Condition unknown.”
“ID on the victims?”
“Let’s see… transcript indicates… looks like drug dealers. Meth, weed, and cash found on the guy with the windpipe. Knife, weed… unregistered firearm on the knee guy.”
“Why is Haystack tagging this? Sounds like a dealer turf fight gone bad.”
“Not sure.” He read the additional report from the AI as it appeared on his screen. “Oh my god.”
“What?” the woman asked.
“Holy shit. I think it might be him.”
The woman turned from her laptop. “Any other cameras recording this?”
“Searching… negative.” The man sighed. “Dude’s good. If it is him, he hasn’t lost a step.”
The woman’s tone changed from routine to desperate. “How far did Haystack see him? Where did we lose him?”
“About twenty meters after he started walking to a tree in the middle of the park. Boston Common. Video seems to be from a live mobile phone recording. Minimal detail… night video with poor quality. Not enough for an ID. That explains the low correlation.”
“Network?” The woman read through a checklist normally used to track people overseas. Their organization had the rare authorization to use the same tools to track individuals in the United States. No one outside of a very small group in Washington knew they existed. Far fewer knew they had been on alert for the past month, searching for someone quite special.
“Negative. Let me see. Reports that cameras and street lamps north and west of the Common have been vandalized. I think it’s the startup millionaires. They love their privacy.”
“Don’t think any of that was accidental. Any other traffic?”
“Nothing. Should come in as the event develops. This will be a low priority for the Boston Police.”
“Overheads?”
“Negative. Hot night in Boston, and he was under a tree. Thermal crossover was a bitch tonight. No infrared or multispectral worth a damn, for low satellites or high.” He looked at her, confused. “You think he knows all that? I mean, assuming it’s him.”
