Conquistador

By Richard Turner

When the sister of a billionaire is kidnapped in The Philippines, Ryan Mitchell and Nate Jackson are sent to bring her home safely. However, things are not as they appear and before long they are drawn into a deadly family secret which reaches back centuries. From Italy, to The Philippines, to North Africa and the Amazon, Ryan Mitchell's team are up against a driven foe who will stop at nothing to possess what he is after.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Turner
• Release date: Jul 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370237531

Richard Turner

Richard Turner proudly served his country for more than thirty years, all across the globe.He wanted to try something new and now spends his time writing.I am an avid reader and especially like reading all about history. Some of my favourite authors include: James Rollins, Andy McDermmott and the many novels of Clive Cussler.

Book preview

The Amazon Rainforest

December 12, 1536

Fernando Cardero’s one chance to escape was narrowing.

The clouds parted, allowing the silvery light of a full moon to shine down. From out of the darkened jungle, a figure staggered out onto a narrow game path. With his long, black hair matted to his dirt-covered face, Cardero stopped to catch his breath. His bare feet sank into the muddy ground. It had been raining on and off for days, and Cardero was soaked to the bone. His ragged linen shirt and ill-fitting pants hung off his emaciated frame. He held a curved sword in his hand. Cardero had long ago disposed of his cuirass and his distinctively shaped steel helmet.

A voice called out from somewhere off in the darkness.

Cardero’s heart began to race. The native warriors must have found his tracks. He looked around and saw he was standing at the bottom of a steep hill. Off to his right, water cascaded down a tall waterfall, glimmering in the moonlight. He forced himself to think. It seemed familiar, but he couldn’t recall when he had seen it last. His aching feet felt like stone weights in the mud. Cardero willed himself to push on, hoping he would see something that he could remember.

As he staggered down the trail, Cardero tried to recall the last time he had seen his parents’ home in Almeria, Spain. His head ached. It was hard to think straight. A voice in his head warned him that if he wanted to see the shores of Spain ever again, he had to get away from the valley and the natives who lived there. His friends’ faces flashed before his eyes. None of them had been killed by the natives. In fact, the opposite had occurred. They had been met with kindness by the villagers. One by one his colleagues forgot why they had ventured so deep into the Amazon, and had settled down. All of them had taken a local girl for a wife, and had forsaken their Spanish heritage. That was when Cardero’s troubles started, for he and another man had fallen in love with the same beautiful young girl. His fiery passion got the better of him, and he challenged Alberto, his best friend, to a duel for the woman. His friend accepted, and before anyone could stop them, they came to blows. In the ensuing fight, Cardero slew his friend. The girl they had fought over pushed him aside and ran to Alberto’s side. As he lay dying, she raised a fist and cursed Cardero. He may have been in love with her, but at that moment, he saw she didn’t share his feelings. With blood on his hands, his heart told him he could no longer stay.

In the night, his pursuer called out. He was much closer this time.

Cardero swore when he recognized the voice as belonging to his old friend, Luis Morillo. Up ahead, a man burst forth from the jungle and blocked the path. He gripped a spear in his hands.

You were warned never to try and leave the village, said Morillo. Come back with me, Fernando, and all will be forgiven.

Cardero wasn’t going back. He was guilt-ridden over his friend’s death. Now, all he wanted to do was see his parents and his three younger brothers more than anything else in the world. If he died trying to escape, then so be it. His life was in God’s hands, now. He looked at his friend and said, Luis, step aside and no harm will come to you.

Morillo took a step toward him. Why do you want to leave? We want for nothing. Fernando, think about it. We live in paradise. The tribal elder has told me that you are welcome to come back.

No. I can’t.

These people only want to live in peace. Do the right thing and take my hand. Together we can return to the village.

Cardero tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. He wasn’t sure if his colleague was telling the truth or not. No. I can’t go back. I killed Alberto. Besides, I’ve had enough of this damned jungle. I just want to go home now. My father wasn’t well when we left Spain, and I want to see him with my own eyes one more time, before God takes him into his arms.

You’ll never make it. It took us months to reach here.

I have to try.

You’ll die trying.

So be it, said Cardero, raising his sword hand. Now, step aside, Luis, or I’ll be forced to make you move.

You know I can’t.

Cardero’s heart was torn in two. He so desperately wanted to go home, but he didn’t want to have to hurt his friend. Morillo made his mind up for him when he lunged at him with his spear. Of the two young men, Cardero was by far the better fighter. With a deft move, Cardero parried the spear to one side. He took a step to the side and let Morillo overstretch himself. Cardero brought his sword up slightly before smashing the bottom of the hilt down on top of Morillo’s head, knocking him out cold.

Sorry, Luis, said Cardero as he stepped over his unconscious friend and carried on down the trail. He plodded on for another five minutes until he came to a fork in the path. Cardero stared in disbelief. He couldn’t remember coming this way at all. For a brief moment, he thought about doubling back to see if he had missed a turnoff somewhere behind him on the trail.

The dull thud of a dart hitting the tree right next to his head startled Cardero. He broke out in a cold sweat, turned, and ran as fast as his feet could carry him down the right-hand path. Behind him, Cardero could hear the sound of a man chasing after him. In his weakened state, it wouldn’t be long until he was caught or shot in the back with a poisonous dart. He started to pray to God when his foot caught on a tree root, sending him to the muddy ground. Cardero rolled headfirst off the path. Before he could stop himself, he began to tumble down the side of a steep hill. He tried in vain to stop his fall. The next thing he knew, he was falling through the air. Cardero let out a cry just before he landed feet first into a fast-flowing river. The cool water enveloped his body. He swam to the surface and looked up. Cardero couldn’t see his pursuer anywhere, and he wondered if the man had given up. The strong current of the water swept him along. Cardero looked for something to hold on to before his arms became too weak to hold his head up. A broken tree branch floated on the surface only a few meters away. Cardero swam to the log and took a hold of it. He hauled his body as best he could onto the fallen branch and wrapped his hands and legs as best he could around the log. He was under no illusions about his fate. He may have escaped from the natives, but his long journey home had just begun. Cardero could feel his eyelids becoming heavier than lead. Within seconds, he was fast asleep.

On the riverbank, a solitary figure watched Cardero vanish from sight. He thought about chasing after him, but would he would soon be at the limit of his tribe’s land. To go any farther was to court death from a rival tribe. The man cursed his bad luck. He should have hit Cardero with his dart, not a tree. Still, the Spaniard’s odds of surviving were small. Just outside of the valley lived cannibals, and an untold number of wild animals, who would all happily eat Cardero. With a smile on his face, the man turned around and began to jog back toward his friends. Although he didn’t dislike the men who had come to their village and adopted their way of life, the young warrior hoped that was the last he or his children would ever see of men driven by greed to take what wasn’t theirs.

2

Portobelo, New Grenada

April 29, 1819

Flames lit the night sky.

Lieutenant Darcy Wright stood in the shadows and watched while drunken soldiers, mostly from his company, pillaged the newly liberated village of Portobelo. Men barely able to stand staggered from building to building, taking whatever they wanted, be it gold, alcohol, or women.

British soldiers were renowned worldwide for their courage under fire. However, their behavior, once the battle was over and alcohol was discovered, could at times be deplorable. Such were the men who had been recruited to help liberate South America from the Spanish crown. Most were mainly former soldiers who had fallen on hard times. The recruiters rounded them up from the fetid slums and ale houses of London and Dublin with tales of gold and beautiful native women. Their officers weren’t much better; they were the sons of Lords who stood to inherit nothing when their fathers died. Almost all of them had missed the Napoleonic Wars and volunteered to fight with dreams of glory and riches. Together, these men formed the core of the First Salabarrieta Light Infantry Regiment.

A terrified older man, with blood pouring from a gash on the side of his head, saw Wright standing there and ran toward him. Señor, please, you must put a stop to this madness. We did not fire on you when you entered the town. The Spanish garrison were cowards and fled before you arrived. Why do your men treat us like we are the enemy?

Wright ignored the man’s pleas. He looked away while he pretended to brush some dirt from the sleeve of his olive-green uniform tunic.

Señor, please! said the man, grabbing a hold of Wright’s arm.

Let go of me, you filthy beggar, snarled Wright. He pulled his arm back and struck the white-haired man across the face. You colonials get what you deserve.

Wright stepped past the stunned man and looked toward the center of the settlement and smiled. Less than a hundred meters away stood a church. He drew his pistol from its holster and checked that it was loaded before placing it back. Next, he picked up a damaged musket from the ground and smashed it against the brick wall of a house, snapping the wooden butt from the rest of the weapon. Wright held the long, heavy iron barrel in his hands. It was a bit cumbersome, but it would do. With the barrel balanced on his right shoulder, Wright walked toward the stone church.

Hey, sir, would you like a drink? called out an inebriated soldier, staggering down the dirt road.

Wright tried to ignore the man and kept on walking.

Oy! Sir, I said would you like a drink?

No, thank you, replied Wright, taking a step to the right to avoid walking into the drunkard.

The soldier held up his bottle. Do you think are you too good to drink with the likes of me? What’s your problem, Lieutenant? Did dear old daddy die and not leave you an inheritance?

Wright let his hair-trigger temper speak for him. He snarled like an enraged animal as he swung the musket barrel at the soldier’s head. With a loud wet thud, the man’s skull split open. Blood and bone flew from the wound. A second later, the soldier fell to the ground, dead.

Two other drunks saw what happened, turned around and walked back the way they came.

Wright spat on the ground beside the dead man’s head. Yeah, you’re right, I didn’t receive a damn penny. My spoiled older brother took it all. But don’t you worry none. Because in a few minutes from now, I’m going to be filthy rich.

With a fire burning in his eyes, Wright walked to the Church. The wooden front doors were wide open. Wright placed the barrel on the ground and drew his pistol. He pulled back on the cocking handle and made sure the flint was securely in place before stepping inside. The light from dozens of candles hanging from the roof lit up the interior of the church. At the front of the church was a tall wooden statue of Christ holding a wooden cross over his shoulder. Unlike the depictions he had seen back home, the dark wood made Christ appear black. Wright wasn’t shocked to see a priest lying on his back in between some pews. A river of dark-red blood ran from underneath of the body. Wright may have been a man with an angry disposition, but he could never imagine hurting a man of God. He bent down to close the priest’s ripped-open robe, when he noticed a tattoo over the man’s heart. It was a sword with a serpent wrapped around it.

The sound of something metal hitting stone made Wright spin about on his feet. He looked toward the back of the church and saw an open door. Wright crept to the doorway and peered inside. There, two soldiers were standing over a stone ossuary. One of the men held a bayonet in his hand. The other man had pushed the lid off the box, and reached inside to pick up something.

Which one of you killed the priest? asked Wright, startling the soldiers.

Both men stopped what they were doing and straightened. The soldiers were both in their early twenties. The man with the bayonet was slender and had long, blond hair. The other soldier was balding and had a pockmarked face.

Wright aimed his pistol at the men. I asked you a question. Which one of you killed the priest?

The soldiers exchanged a look of guilt and surprise at getting caught.

We found him dead, sir, said the blond-haired soldier.

That’s right, agreed his partner. The poor old man was dead when we walked in the front doors.

Then why does your bayonet still have blood on it? Wright asked the blond.

What, this? replied the man, looking at the blood on the blade. It’s from a fight we had earlier in the night. You gotta believe me, sir, I’d never harm a priest.

That’s the problem, I don’t believe you, said Wright. He brought up his pistol and pulled the trigger. The sound of the gun firing in the small room was deafening. The blond-haired man’s body snapped back. His feet buckled underneath him as his body fell to the floor.

The other soldier saw Wright’s pistol was unloaded and went to draw his bayonet, but he had drunk too much earlier and was in no shape to fight Wright.

With one smooth motion, Wright stepped back, slid his sword from its scabbard, and thrust it deep into the balding man’s innards. Wright’s blood-smeared blade stuck out of the doomed man’s back. With a hiss through his clenched teeth, the soldier dropped to his knees. He wrapped his hands around the sword stuck in his stomach. Wright placed a boot on the man’s shoulder and pushed him back. The bloody sword slid out of the soldier’s body. Wright bent down and wiped the blade clean on the dead man’s tunic before sliding it back into its scabbard.

Now, what did you two find? said Wright to himself. He looked down into the ossuary, and let out a low whistle. Inside, there weren’t any bones. Instead, there was a plain-looking, wooden box. The lid was open, and Wright could see dozens of pieces of gold and fistfuls of precious stones. There was also a small, black, leather-bound book in the treasure box. Wright slammed the lid shut and picked it up. He was a strong man, but even he had trouble with the weight of the box. Wright walked out of the room and placed the box on a table. He grabbed a hold of a sheet and wrapped it around the container. Before leaving, he reloaded his pistol and hefted the heavy chest onto his right shoulder.

Wright walked calmly to the beach where a rowboat was waiting to take him to a sloop anchored in the harbor. A warm, salty breeze came off the water.

Did you find what you were looking for, sir? asked a man with sergeant stripes on his uniform.

Wright put the box down in the middle of the boat and nodded. I most certainly did, Sergeant Jones.

Is there enough in there to get us back home?

Wright nodded. The stories were all true, my good man. The church held a treasure unlike any I could have ever imagined. Not only will we get back home, but we’ll both be set for life.

Greed glistened in Jones’ eyes. I like the sounds of that, sir.

Wright placed his hands on the stern of the boat. Come on, Sergeant, let’s push off before Colonel Rafeter realizes that we’ve deserted.

The rowboat and its occupants were soon pulling away from the shore. When the sun came up the next day, the sloop and the treasure were long gone. Sergeant Jones’ body washed ashore two days later, his throat cut from ear to ear.

3

Apricale, Northern Italy

Present day

As the sun began to set on the horizon, turning the sky a bright pink, two black Mercedes SUVs turned off a narrow road, heading toward the town of Apricale. The medieval village with its red-bricked roofs looked as if it were clinging precariously to the side of a mountain.

Grace Maxwell looked up at the houses. It surprised her how tightly packed all of the homes were in the community. She rode in the backseat of the lead SVU, covered by a man with a 9mm pistol aimed at her heart. If it was meant to intimidate her, it was a wasted effort. From the moment she had been picked up in Genoa until they began to drive the winding streets of Apricale, she had been studying the men sent to bring her to the negotiations. What she saw didn’t impress her at all. The men were a mix of different nationalities. There were two Italians and one American in her vehicle. In the other were an Irishman, a Serb, and two Germans. They all wore expensive suits and Rolex watches. Most of them looked as if they had spent their lives in the gym pumping weights. As far as she was concerned, they were all show. In her world, the ideal killer was the person who didn’t stand out in the crowd and struck before anyone knew what had happened.

Near the top of the town, the SUVs slowed down and pulled off into a courtyard. One of the hired guns jumped out of the vehicle before it came to a halt and ran back to close the wooden gates behind them.

Get out and don’t do anything foolish, warned one of the Italian mercenaries.

Grace smiled at the man and opened her door. She climbed out of the SUV and stretched her arms over her head. Before stepping away from the vehicle, she checked herself out in the passenger side rear-view mirror. Her flame-red hair had recently been cut short above her ears. Her emerald green eyes shone back in the mirror. She pulled her form-fitting, light-gray leather jacket down so it fit better on her athletic body.

That was a pleasant drive through the Italian countryside, said Grace, adding a splash of extra burr to her Scottish accent. But I’d really like to wrap things up so I can catch a flight back home to Geneva tonight. So where’s the merchandise?

This way, said one of the Italians. The man wore a dark-blue suit with an undone shirt. Grace tried not to giggle when she saw the man had several gold chains hanging around his neck. It was as if the man couldn’t decide if he were a mercenary or a male model.

As three of the mercs armed themselves with silenced MP9 machine pistols and began to patrol the courtyard, Grace followed the Italian inside a two-story home. They walked down a narrow flight of stairs into the building’s expansive cellar. The room was well lit. Several empty, dust-covered wine racks sat against the far wall. The air was damp and cool on Grace’s skin. Her pulse began to race when she spotted a woman tied to a chair with a canvas bag over head, in the middle of the basement. The woman’s head hung low. Her posture made it appear as if she had been drugged. Behind the chair stood a handsome man with a smug smile on his face.

Ah, Ms. Maxwell. I have so longed to meet you, said the well-dressed man. His accent was Slavic. He was in his early thirties, with short black hair. In his hands were two champagne flutes. The man stepped forward and offered one to Grace. Your reputation precedes you. Please let me introduce myself. My name is Anghel Popescu.

Grace took the glass. Your accent gives you away. You’re a former Romanian Special Forces officer, who likes to be called the Angel of Death by your competitors, aren’t you?

Popescu bowed, slightly. Your file on me is quite accurate. Now, to what shall we toast?

Grace smiled. Let’s toast to a smooth business transaction.

Yes, let’s, said Popescu, raising his glass in the air. To a smooth and very profitable business transaction.

Grace took a sip of champagne. She was impressed. The brand was unmistakably a Moët & Chandon Dom Pérignon White Gold. You have expensive tastes, Mister Popescu. If I’m not mistaken, this usually goes for around twenty-five-hundred U.S. dollars a bottle.

This one cost me slightly more than that. But who’s counting small change when so much money is about to change hands.

Grace looked over at the woman in the chair. I want to see the merchandise before we seal the deal.

One of Popescu’s men walked over and yanked the hood off, and then held up the woman’s head so Grace could see her face.

A white-hot flash of anger surged through Grace. She fought to keep her emotions in check when she saw how badly Samantha Chen had been beaten. Her face was covered with bruises, and her right eye was swollen shut. Both of her lips were split.

It’s her fault this had to happen, said Popescu. She resisted one too many times. Two of my men are in hospital with broken bones because of her. It’s really her own fault that this had to happen to her.

Grace shook her head. I really wish you hadn’t done that.

Why do you care? General O’Reilly is paying you a small fortune to bring her back to him. You’ll get your money regardless how roughed up the package is.

You people should learn to do what you’re capable of and nothing more. Which, in your case, wouldn’t be a lot. Buffoonish amateurs like you who accidentally kill their hostage and then grab another to try and recoup your losses make the rest of us in the business look bad.

A hint of anger shone in Popescu’s eyes. Ms. Maxwell, I’ll tolerate that kind of talk from you only because of your reputation. If you were anyone else, you’d be dead for what you just said to me in front of my men.

You could try, replied Grace with a small smile.

Three of the men from the second SUV walked into the cellar. One of the men carried a hard-cased laptop under his right arm. He sat down at a table in the corner of the room and opened the computer. The other two men drew their pistols and stood a couple of meters behind Grace, with their arms crossed in front of them.

Popescu said, Now, Ms. Maxwell this day is getting tiresome. If you would provide the bank identification code and your account number to my associate, we can conclude our business here and be on our way.

Grace looked over her shoulder at the man waiting to input the data into his laptop, and then back at Popescu. "I’m sorry, there seems to be some misunderstanding here. I’m not here to give you any money for Miss Chen, I’m here to offer you your lives. If you hand her over to me, I’ll take one of the SUVs and be out of your lives forever. If you don’t, none of you

Reviews for Conquistador

[thomas rea · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Now with a baby on the way what will our team do now , will someone retire or will the adventures go on