Cobra De Capello

By Jaylen Florian

One night stands are nothing new for Zachary, a professional MMA fighter with a craving for a peculiar type of amorous encounters.

But some strangers are riskier than others.  When deceived and ambushed by a kilted gunman in one of San Francisco's most exclusive hotels on Nob Hill, Zachary and his savvy bodyguard, Aleksey, scramble into hiding.  They scheme to avoid capture and grapple with the mystery of the attack.  Who is hunting them?  Who betrayed them?  How can they eliminate the threat?

Gustavo, a promising young painter, gets entangled in their quest.  Immediately prior to witnessing an altercation between strangers near a secluded mountain trail in Los Angeles, Gustavo was secretly entrusted with a precious package.

The journey undertaken by the three men becomes ever more intricate.  Zachary, adamant that true romance must wait until the conclusion of his fighting career, struggles with his budding feelings for another man.  Also complicating matters is the realization that the item in Gustavo's possession may actually be the fabled and bejeweled "cobra" of Hollywood legend.

Cobra De Capello — "Hooded Cobra" — is a thrilling mystery and romantic suspense story with shocking twists. (A previous, abridged version was published under the title, "Guarding His Desires.") The novel (50,000 words) contains passionate and romantic themes intended for mature audiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jaylen Florian
• Release date: Jul 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386397557

Book preview

Chapter 1

Alcatraz Island, fully exposed in the bright afternoon sun, looked like a mound of secrets.  Aleksey Nabokov visualized himself ejecting from the helicopter and parachuting down onto one of the building rooftops so he could explore all of the hiding places, ledges, corners, and camouflaged chambers. 

Aleksey liked to imagine his escapes.  It was the way his mind had always worked.  Even as a kid he had understood his family's rescued felines and shared their need to discover every household nook and cranny for possible concealment and getaway.

The famous, cigar-shaped island may have been only twenty-two acres in size, but Aleksey saw clearly from this bird's eye view that the former prison was still inhabited with abundant veils and disguises—a bonanza for the criminals who had once planned their escapes and an everlasting quandary for the prison guards who had been tasked with monitoring every square foot.  The challenge of being either man—the one fleeing or the one maintaining order—appealed to him.

The nudge of an elbow from the man beside him abruptly ended Aleksey's reverie.  Zachary Fellini, his boss, was pointing at a much larger island ahead. 

I want to hike there, Zachary said.  His voice was drowned out by the sound of the helicopter's engine and rotor, but Aleksey read his lips and captured every word.

Angel Island, lush green and speckled with clusters of trees, structures with terra cotta rooftops, and serpentine roadways, appeared like an emerald emerging in the bay.  Watching Zachary excited and studying its topography, Aleksey wondered if he was searching for the camping grounds, the bike trails, the ferry terminals, or the relics from the island's military history.

The helicopter continued north over the Raccoon Strait and the southern tip of the Tiburon Peninsula before descending and landing on a helipad.  A man with a shaved head, handlebar mustache, and casted leg welcomed them as they climb out of the aircraft. 

Nate, Zachary said, greeting his friend with a firm handshake and slap on the shoulder.  You look well.  How's your recovery?

It's nothing, Nathaniel Balder answered, waving one of his crutches in dismiss any concerns about his healing.  Just time and patience is needed.  I have become an expert at mastering both.

Aleksey did not speak to Nathaniel and remained a few feet behind Zachary, as deemed appropriate when his employer interacted with close friends and family.  Nathaniel Balder, a former world champion mixed martial arts (MMA) fighter, politely nodded at Aleksey to acknowledge his presence and help him feel welcome.  Aleksey watched the two MMA titans—one surging to greatness and on the verge of becoming a championship contender, the other injured and likely past his prime—and knew that more than anything the common ground of their friendship was respect for each other's immeasurable tenacity.  Because of this trait, both Nathaniel and Zachary defeat men in the cages who best them with strength, agility, cunning, and fight preparation.

I had no doubt, Zachary said.  The champ is never down for long.

How was your flight? Nathaniel asked him.

Perfect, thank you.  Let's take a ferry to Angel Island this afternoon.

Another day, sure.  But you are here now to get blown away by artwork, my friend.

I will try to keep an open mind, Zachary replied.  But you know I think the whole art world is mostly a sham.  The biggest con of nonsense ever.  You insisted I come though, so here I am.

I know your skepticism well, Nathaniel said.  But keep an open mind.  If you cannot, then just keep your mouth shut and be a friend.

Fair enough—and worth a helicopter trip across the bay.

Zachary and Aleksey joined Nathaniel and his two bodyguards in a large sports utility vehicle and traveled to a waterfront home on Belvedere Lagoon.  Nestled among houses with modern and Mediterranean designs, it was a traditional Cape Cod-style home with second story dormer windows jutting from the slanted roof.  They were welcomed inside by the artist herself—a tall and lanky woman in tight jeans, knee-length boots, and a denim jacket.  She amiably led them through her home and onto her back patio without speaking. 

On a deck of wooden planks cantilevered over the jewel-toned and still water, seven curvilinear vertical poles soared seven feet high on a square platform.  Nathaniel charged ahead on his crutches, glancing over his shoulder for Zachary's reaction.  Zachary and Aleksey followed Nathaniel to the deck, while the artist and Nathaniel's bodyguards remained on the patio. 

What is it? Zachary asked, trying to keep the dubiety out of his voice.  Something abstract?

Take a closer look before passing judgment or asking questions, Nathaniel answered.  Let it make an impact on your senses.

I just see rusted poles.  How old is it?

It's brand new.  I commissioned it.  This sculpture was created just for me.

The metal already rusted this much from the ocean air? Zachary asked.

The metal is not rusted at all, Nathaniel answered.  It is actually pristine.  The corrosion, which is purposeful, is only on the iron-laced primer.

Aleksey, uncomfortable that his boss might inadvertently ignite Nathaniel's legendary temper, walked away to the side of the artwork for a different perspective.  Reaching a forty-five degree angle from the front of the sculpture, he noticed the poles aligned into a hazy and familiar shape.  Aleksey motioned to Zachary, who joined him, and together they regarded the rusted sculpture from a new vantage point.

The Buddha? Zachary asked Nathaniel, identifying the shapes materializing among the poles.

It could be, Nathaniel answered. 

Why are you being so coy?

A masterpiece is like a mountain.  You behold something new from every angle, shadow, and position of the light.

Zachary and Aleksey, eager to cloak their opinions of what they both considered to be an atrocity and a gimmick, let themselves become distracted by a pack of swimmers who were gliding away around a bend in the lagoon. 

As if on cue, Brandon, one of Nathaniel's guards, interrupted the men by getting Nathaniel's attention and pointing at his watch.  Brandon was a burly man with a broad nose, gravelly voice, and wide-set eyes.  Are you ready now, Boss?

Do it, Nathaniel answered, glimpsing up at the sky and stepping back so Brandon could take the lead coordinating the ground operation.

As they heard the helicopter approaching, Nathaniel, Zachary, and Aleksey retreated to the patio.  The chopper hovered directly above the deck and dropped steel cables.  Brandon carefully fastened the cables to the sculpture, then motioned to the helicopter pilot that the endeavor was ready for lift off.

Nathaniel and the artist held their phones up to capture video of the helicopter hoisting the sculpture over the lagoon, then westward over Belvedere Island and Richardson Bay toward Sausalito. 

Chapter 2

Nathaniel's SUV traveled north on Tiburon Boulevard and stopped at a park.  Aleksey exited the vehicle, which then headed in a U-shaped direction—northward, westward, and southward—  toward Nathaniel's hideaway on a hill high above Sausalito's commercial strip of bayside shops, restaurants, and ferry terminals.

Aleksey descended a steep slope to reach the park's primary footpath that wiggled along the coastline.  A few miles across Richardson Bay he could see one of the colossal red towers of the Golden Gate Bridge peeking over the Marin Headlands.  He put his hands in his pockets and slowed his stroll to a leisurely pace.

Aleksey was relieved, not disappointed, that he was barred from knowing the exact location of Nathaniel's hideaway.  According to Zachary, Nathaniel kept it a secret from everyone but his primary assistants and some close friends and family members.  The former champion blasted like a rocket to the highest level in the professional fighting world with a plethora of enemies in his wake, due largely to his prickly trash talking, heinous threats and crimes against his opponents in and out of the cage, and incessant grudges.  Along with the money, fame, endorsements, and glory, Nathaniel had acquired a furtive lifestyle and fear of constant retaliation by countless combatants.  Zachary had once told Aleksey that there may be no bounds to what Nathaniel is capable of to ensure his hard-fought privacy and safety.

Zachary occupied a similar world and took precautions for himself.  But Aleksey knew Zachary, his boss, was far less controversial than Nathaniel.  He suspected that Zachary's greatest source of animosity from opponents and others was due to his longtime friendship with Nathaniel.  Whereas Nathaniel could not travel without a full security team, Zachary usually roved only with Aleksey, his foremost bodyguard.

Aleksey wandered past a soccer game, a birthday party, and a group of people throwing flying discs for the joy of their leaping, athletic canines.  Behind a knoll and adjacent to a playground, he discovered a small art fair.  Paintings were displayed on makeshift walls and cloth-covered tables under pop-up tents.  Children ran about with their faces painted to evoke animals and superheroes.  Several booth stations prominently featured award ribbons they had presumably won earlier in the day from judged contests.

An artist with a long beard, tie dye tunic, and moccasins offered affordable portraits created on the spot.  Aleksey, impressed with the realism of his sample works, handed the man twenty-five dollars and took a seat across from him.  The artist requested that he smile, but Aleksey refused and opted for an expression conveying a ruffian.  The artist studied Aleksey's face and clothes as he sketched with color pencils and completed the portrait in less than a quarter of an hour.  Finished, Aleksey stood behind the artist to review the drawing.

Here you are, the artist announced.  Where will you display it?

I don't know that I will, Aleksey answered, aghast at the vicious portrayal in front of him.

The artist rolled up the sketch and Aleksey hesitated to accept it.  He considered just leaving empty-handed or asking the man why he made such a cruel impression of his likeness.  Aleksey grasped the paper with only two fingers, as if the mere act of touching it was offensive, and traipsed away with a sneer.

Finding a secluded site under a tree atop the knoll, Aleksey unraveled the drawing and placed rocks on the corners to keep it displayed.  He moved back a few feet and squinted his eyes, yet still found it galling.  His dark blond hair, slicked back over his head, looked contrived and silly.  His pleasant facial features appeared too soft and boyish to belong to a security guard twenty-five years of age.  His bomber jacket, portrayed accurately, seemed ill-suited to his character. 

The portrait is of a man more like a clown than a brute.  Aleksey shook his head in revulsion.  A bodyguard cannot look so sensitive and fragile, he thought. 

However, there was something that kept him from tearing the paper to shreds.  Aleksey had doubts that the artist deliberately intended mischief.  Aleksey photographed the sketch with his phone and sent it to Rafael Pena, his boyfriend.  Seconds later, his phone rang.

It's awesome, babe, Rafael said.  Will you give it to me when you are back from your trip?

You are kidding, right? Aleksey asked.

No.  What's wrong?

I don't look anything like this sketch.  I hate it.

I disagree.  Who painted you?

Some hippie-like dude here at a half-ass art fair.  It is only a drawing.  But I thought he was being a jerk.

Be nice.  He did a good job.  I hope you give the drawing to me, Aleksey.

So, you are telling me that this is what I look like to you? Aleksey inquired.  A teenage pop star?

Call me tonight, babe, Rafael said and laughed, disconnecting the call.

Aleksey sat on the knoll and stared at the errant ripples on the water in the bay.  The breezes and winds pushed the liquid around at will, but only on the surface.  The depths remained unaffected.  Aleksey thumbed through his saved photographs, certain he could be reassured that the sketch held no truth.  But he now saw himself through the eyes of the artist and he was appalled.  His hairstyle, in particular, earned most of his scorn. 

Aleksey ripped the portrait in half, discarded it in the park's nearest trash can, walked south on Tiburon Boulevard, and located a unisex hair salon in the commercial district near the southern end of the peninsula. 

What are we doing today? the stylist asked, combing her lithe fingers through his fine hair.

Starting fresh, Aleksey answered, shrugging his shoulders and taking a deep breath.

All right.  What does that mean?  A new style?

Please cut it off.

All of it?

Every single strand.

Chapter 3

Zachary Fellini, standing on Nathaniel Balder's second story terrace, realized his friend's art purchase complemented his personal sanctuary.  The sculpture's rusty colors, lines, and textures contrasted well with the dense foliage that nearly encompassed the home.  From this angle, the poles appeared abstract, rising from a ground-level garden, not interfering with Nathaniel's resplendent views of the bay.  Oriented toward the southeast, all of the rooms faced the distant Treasure Island and San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge.  Closer, and to the left, was Angel Island, Belvedere Island, and Tiburon.  To the right, Alcatraz Island and the North Beach neighborhood of San Francisco. 

I had my doubts seeing it by the lagoon, Zachary said, but it belongs up here.  The piece is a good fit, apart from even knowing the private meaning it must have for you.

As always, I appreciate your candor, Nathaniel replied.  I think the meaning is apparent enough that I don't need to verbalize it.  This place is my home base.  My refuge for healing.  My quiet retreat.

You probably violated a hundred state and local codes having the helicopter deliver it here.

Ah, who cares?  It was the quickest and most efficient way to transport it.  Nobody could find me and give me a ticket even if they tried.

Zachary agreed with his friend's assertion.  Nathaniel's home, tightly burrowed in the trees and foliage, existed like an optical illusion to any neighbors.  While most of the other hillside homes were near the streets, Nathaniel's entry was a nondescript driveway that slithered around a bend and out of view.  Anyone entering would be startled to suddenly come upon an iron gate attached to a hut where two armed guards were stationed with a console of security cameras. 

What about your own oasis? Nathaniel asked.  You have to make a change.

I know I do, Zachary answered.  What are your thoughts?

Zachary followed Nathaniel down to a deck Nathaniel used for lazy reading or secret discussions.  Its base and walls were weathered planks from a ship that had sunk off the Sausalito coast a century ago.  The men leaned back on lounge chairs and heard nothing but the creaking of old wood, the rustle of leaves, and the pleasant rhythms of birds and insects in the forest-like perimeter.

Get out of Phoenix entirely, Nathaniel said.  No matter how much you love the city, you will always be looking over your shoulder.  Your assumption should be that all of my enemies could be trying to find you there.

I am leaning toward that, Zachary responded,