Lost Sons: The Battle of Manhattan

By Greg Ballan

Clash of the Titans!

Duncan Kord has traveled the world for many lifetimes. The thousand-year-old Viking warrior was given immortality by an advanced race of beings who literally snatched him from the brink of death on a battlefield in Norway centuries ago. Not only did they save him, they infused his body and mind with the essence of a powerful dragon. Despite his powers, Kord kept mostly to himself, wandering the world, guarding his secrets. Kord’s life changed when he discovered the invader responsible for killing his wife and family and destroying his village all those years ago, is alive and well, and living in New York.

William Jefferson Sagahr has amassed a fortune over many lifetimes. Now living in Manhattan, the powerful magnate is head of a multi-national oil company. The thousand-year-old mercenary warrior was also given immortality and special powers by the same beings who gifted Kord. But Sagahr is nothing like Kord. A twisted evil resides within him, bursting out to wreak havoc on low-income neighborhoods in New York.

Kord travels to New York to confront his ancient nemesis and avenge his Nordic people and his dragon brethren. Sagahr wants to avoid his immortal enemy and hold onto his financial empire while feeding the darker urges burning inside him. A clash of these immortal titans in the heart of Manhattan would mean thousands of deaths and billions of dollars in destruction. Industrialist Brian West and police Lieutenant Robert Mackey must corral these two ancient warriors and keep their powers from leveling the Big Apple.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Lee Summers
• Release date: Aug 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005433802

Greg Ballan

Greg Ballan is a graduate of Northeastern University holding bachelor’s degrees in Marketing and Management. Greg enjoys several outdoor activities such as hiking, archery and shooting. Greg was an avid MMA fighter but realized after fifty, getting punched hurts ... a lot! He discovered the safer hobby, learning the acoustic guitar. When he’s not working his full-time job as a financial analyst or exploring some unknown woodlands, he’s crunched over his laptop putting his warped imagination into words or penning a column about the outdoors or his latest misadventure avoiding house and yard work.

Book preview

LOST SONS

The Battle of Manhattan

Greg Ballan

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1. Bruised Egos and Broken Trust

Chapter 2. Hunting the Hunter

Chapter 3. The Price of Deception

Chapter 4. Meeting an Old Foe

Chapter 5. Deconstructing a Demi-God

Chapter 6. Burns and Bloodshed

Chapter 7. Casualties of War

Chapter 8. Hunting the Hunter Again

Chapter 9. Costs in Blood

Chapter 10. Prelude to Oblivion

Chapter 11. The End of an Eternal

Chapter 12. Closing the Net

Chapter 13. Going Home

Chapter 14. Home

Chapter 15. The Death of a Good Intention

Epilogue. Special Operations, Homeland Security

About the Author

Lost Sons: The Battle of Manhattan

Hadrosaur Productions

First Edition: August 2022

hadrosaur.com

Copyright © 2022 Greg Ballan

Cover Copyright © 2022 Laura Givens

Hadrosaur Productions

P.O. Box 2194

Mesilla Park, NM 88047-2194

www.hadrosaur.com

Hadrosaur Productions and Hadrosaur Productions Logo are trademarks of Hadrosaur Productions.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be distributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

Creating a novel is not a task done by the author alone; at least not for me. I pick people's brains, chat annoyingly and endlessly about characters, plot points and motivations to anyone whose patient enough to endure my rantings for more than a few minutes. God blessed me with an amazing son, Thomas. He has been my inspiration, sounding board and silent partner. We've spent countless hours at the local coffee shop bantering back and forth how this story should play out … happy ending, tragic ending… being true to the overall themes etc. No writer has ever been blessed with such an amazing and insightful muse. Thomas, this story would never be without your encouragement and patience as I prattled on over at least fifty cups of Honey Dew iced coffee and hours of conversation.

I draw inspiration for my characters from those around me. Detective Becky Kirk in this story is a tribute to my sister Becky Sirna. She is the strongest, most intelligent and driven woman I know. There is nothing she can't accomplish, and she proves that daily. Becky, you truly are my hero. I am so blessed to be your brother!

Also, where would I be without my amazing editor, publisher and most importantly, dear friend and brother in writing, David Lee Summers? David, you have been such a great mentor, you've made this story sparkle like a brilliant diamond. I am forever grateful for your wisdom, guidance and friendship. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to bring 'Lost Sons’ to life.

Prologue

I've had five calls in the last two weeks from Andrew Morgan, our Plestex rep, regarding Duncan Kord. Sheriff Milles' gaze burned through his deputies. That last call was a threat to stop all contributions to our department and the town's general fund. I pay the two of you to keep the peace. I know Westcorp pads our payroll and has leverage with the local council but we get a nice chunk of change from Plestex to keep their operations running smooth and trouble free. We have to walk a tightrope keeping our agency funded while keeping the peace. We don't seem to be doing that.

Milles tossed a thick manila folder on the table in front of his deputies. Two Plestex rigs crippled in one evening! We have no clue how they were destroyed. But Duncan Kord is at the top of our suspect list. The sheriff leafed through another folder. These are sworn depositions from a dozen longshoremen from the Criebart Dockworks. Two Plestex tankers are out of commission in their facility. The docks can't service ships until those hulks can be raised and towed. One of the ships is in pieces. I'm told it'll take a month of working 24/7 to get the dockworks back to normal.

Deputy Henderson picked up the folder and leafed through the pages. Deputy Mitchell shifted in his chair uncomfortably.

Henderson tossed the file back on the table. Morgan has his own axe to grind and his own agenda. Plestex and Westcorp are slugging it out and we're caught in the middle. We can't keep the dual loyalties much longer. The influx of revenue helps us and the town but the price for this charity is turning a blind eye to their conflict. We questioned Mr. Kord. We know he's hiding something but we can't bring him in without evidence. He's cagey unlike the drifters we've dealt with before. He's some sort of Nordic Ninja Knight!

He's a what? Milles' voice jumped an octave.

Henderson blushed. It's the best term I can use to describe him. He put a dozen riggers in the hospital, tossed Deputy Mitchell like a rag doll and beat the tar out of our dear Mr. Morgan and his fellow Plestex stooge when we raided his apartment. The man carries a freaking sword that could cut you in half. He claims it's an ancestral blade that goes way back in his family history. He got real touchy when I wanted to examine it.

Mitchell jumped in. The raid was a fishing expedition. If Kord was involved, I'd like to know how. He was exploring that curvy waitress the night of the incident and what little we got from the dock workers on shift seemed more like a drunken fairy tale.

Milles nodded. Yeah, the whole flying reptile bullshit. I read the report. Whatever happened, no one wants to talk about it. The sheriff sighed. We need to get a firm grip on the reins of this town. We're the law, not Plestex or Westcorp. Despite the money they send our way, the taxpayers contribute more. We need to do our jobs or we're not worthy of the badges we wear.

Henderson shook his head. Agreed. The deputy picked up the file again. For one man, he's caused a hell of a lot of trouble in a very short time.

Mitchell cleared his throat. Tell him about the shooting.

Milles tilted his head. Shooting? What shooting?

Henderson rolled his eyes. For Christ's sake he was involved in a shooting? What kind of backwoods, Wild West town are we running?

There was another incident at North Star Tavern a few days back. Henderson rubbed his forehead recalling the bizarre event. Kord fought three men from Plestex. They were part of the original dozen men he'd thumped earlier. He also took down some well-trained hired muscle. One of the perps decided he'd fare batter with a gun and shot Kord five times.

What! Good Lord, is the man dead?

Henderson and Mitchell squirmed.

Well? Go on, Milles ordered.

Kord had five bullet holes in his shirt and was holding the remnants of a Desert Eagle .44 Magnum pistol.

Milles slapped the desktop. Come on! You expect me to believe he got shot point blank five times by a large caliber pistol and simply shrugged it off.

Not only did he shrug it off, he crushed the gun with his bare hands … at least that's what Bardon, one of the guys we brought in, claims. The gun was a useless pile of junk when we confiscated it. It's in the lockup and the DA will be using it as evidence.

I don't buy it. Five rounds and he just walked away. Did you see the bullets? Where are they?

Henderson and Mitchell exchanged another uncomfortable glance and then looked toward the floor.

Milles pounced. For the love of God, please tell me we have the slugs!

Mitchell cleared his throat. They were on the countertop. We saw Kord take them out of his shirt and place them there. After we detained our suspects, the bullets were gone and the counter was wiped clean. We think one of the waitresses pocketed them, specifically Veronica Hansen.

Henderson continued. We inquired, and she denied having them and we weren't about to have her arrested after the fiasco in Kord's apartment. She left to check on Kord after he walked out of the diner. We suspect she palmed the slugs and brought them to him.

Milles groaned. You suspect. He snapped, "What am I paying you for? You give this guy free reign? He's shot five times and you don't bring him in for a medical exam. You believe he's responsible for tearing up Plestex assets and causing millions of dollars of property damage, not to mention closing down the dockworks until the Patero can be brought to the surface and scrapped. He's committed assault against a police officer at least twice, disturbed the peace and a case could be made for assault against our guy, Morgan."

We couldn't lay a finger on him! Mitchell screamed. "I took a swing on the bastard and he tossed me across the diner like I was a nerf football. As for a medical exam, what would we tell the examiner? 'This man who just walked in here under his own power was shot five times, check him out will you?' The doc would throw us in the padded room! Kord's an enigma, a walking one-man army we give a wide berth simply because we have no way to stop him. If he sank that tanker and destroyed those platforms, what would he do to us if we pushed the issue? Would he level all of Caribou Point? The deputy took a breath. There's something not right with that one. He's… Mitchell hesitated, Damn it I'm just gonna come out and say it. He's superhuman, like one of those comic book figures! Call me crazy but that's the best analogy I can make."

Henderson nodded in agreement. I'd have to agree. He's built like Atlas and has the skills of freaking Bruce Lee!

Milles' eyes rolled. A Ninja Knight … right? His fist slammed the table. I want Duncan Kord in my office today. If you need ten more men, I'll get them from Anchorage in forty minutes. We're going to get to the bottom of all these little mysteries before the sun goes down.

Henderson was visibly perspiring.

Milles shook his head violently. Now what?

Kord's gone. Ms. Hansen said he caught a charter to Seattle and is on his way to New York City. Brian West has a corporate jet hangered in Seattle. He's 3,300 miles away, out of our jurisdiction. Henderson prepared for another verbal thrashing.

You're sure?

The room he was staying in is empty, Mitchell added.

Sheriff Milles shook his head. Good riddance and God help New York!

Chapter 1. Bruised Egos and Broken Trust

Hector Devery popped another 800 milligrams of Motrin while his icy hard eyes remained fixed on a laptop computer screen. He adjusted his position on the large sofa fiddling with the cumbersome neck brace. Several rows of financial data scrolled up the screen. Carlissa struggled to get a read on her lover's emotional state.

Are you sure you don't want to see a chiropractor?

No. Angry eyes never left the series of numbers. I'll be fine.

She knew he was lying. Sagahr did more than wound him physically. He'd damaged her lovers' male pride, humiliated him in front of dozens of co-workers. Carlissa knew Hector wouldn't rest until he'd evened the score and made his employer pay for the affront to his dignity. I know you, Hector. Don't do anything rash that'll get us in trouble. Our esteemed boss is a verifiable lunatic. We've seen the lengths he'll go to get what he wants. Let's keep an even, cool head and we'll be out of this in a month with enough cash to live like royalty in the Bahamas or Hawaii.

Devery looked up from the screen, his face etched with a hint of fear.

She caught the look. What? What's on your mind?

When he kicked in the door, he literally knocked it off the hinges, and his eyes… Devery's body shuddered with palpable fear. I swear to you his eyes were burning – a burning yellow, like two small suns. Devery took a deep breath. I weigh a little over 190 pounds and he tossed me like a paperweight.

Rage, steroids and adrenaline, hun. He was an enraged bison. Blind fury gives a man almost superhuman strength. I'm just glad you're okay. She took note of the neck brace. Well, not too seriously hurt.

"This last transaction took some of the sting out. We're another hundred thousand richer thanks to our burly, short-tempered employer. Since he no longer desires charitable donations, I'm bilking his payroll by setting up false direct deposit accounts in multiple local banks using ghost employees. Every electronic payroll will net us more cash. In a month, we can simply disappear. Sagahr can have his dirty little war with Westcorp, the government, and whoever else he damn well pleases. He's a wrecking ball and eventually his whole empire will come crashing down around him in ruins. As much as I'd love to be around to enjoy the fireworks, I'll get almost as much enjoyment reading about his demise in the papers over a Mai Tai cocktail with my toes dipped in some tropical ocean.

* * * *

Lieutenant Mackey walked through the desolate alley in Spanish Harlem doing his best to avoid the trash and piles of dog crap. He was disconcerted over the type of help recruited by the Bronx Zoo and the New York Wildlife Commission to solve his unorthodox problem.

You're sure this is going to work?

The large, muscled man in the cowboy hat smirked, his heavily tanned face wrinkled. I've used these nets before, once in India and again in central Africa. The charges we've set will launch the nets and barbed-wire snare lines inward from a fifty-foot circle. If this bugger takes the bait, he'll be wrapped up like a Christmas goose ready for the taxidermist. He looked over his shoulder. Remember India, Mike? How big was that bastard Bengal we reeled in for the zoo? Five hundred? Maybe six hundred pounds?

The slender greasy man in the black leather vest tilted his sunglasses and raised an eyebrow. A good six hundred pounds easy. I was able to make five alimony payments with that take and still have enough to keep me in wine and women for a couple months.

Ya see! Relax Mr. Mackey. We'll nab your kitty easy enough. Though how in the hell a cat of that size found its way to New York defies any and all logic. Some douche bag released it here. That's the only possible explanation.

Mackey shook his head in disagreement. From what the evidence suggests this is no normal animal. You're sure those nets are strong enough.

I'd stake my life on it!

Mackey tilted his head. You're doing more than that. You're staking your life, his life and my life plus the three officers that are going to be nearby with .30-06 rifles in case this thing does manage to break free. Mackey took a sip from his ever-present cup of coffee. The lukewarm dregs slid down his throat doing little to satisfy his caffeine addiction. My gut says we have one shot at this. Let's not screw it up by being over confident.

The large man studied the officer while rubbing his left arm, tracing the indentations of a deep purple scar. I've been hunting cats all over this world, I got this particular memento from being up close and personal and I'm telling you, there's no monster creature the size you folks claim, let alone doing the disgusting things you said. Big cats aren't interested in women. Somebody, for whatever god-forsaken reason, is playing some sort of sick, perverted game. And if I get my hands on the bastard, he will live to regret it. No man does that to a woman!

Mackey nodded his head, grunting. On that last point we agree. I just want this thing caught and killed. Mackey glanced at his watch. He needed to be at the forensic lab for a final consult with Mitchell Applegate. This evening, he'd be on a pseudo safari in El Barrio. Mackey hoped these two characters were as good in real life as they appeared on paper. He'd love to rub Councilman Mencia's nose in it for once.

What time shall we set our trap?

The last attack was at dusk but I guess it depends, officer. What are you planning to use for bait?

Mackey winced. He'd lined up a tough-as-nails female police detective and two narcotics officers for decoys. The creature seemed drawn to conflict and perversion, a mock mugging in its hunting ground would hopefully draw it out. I have that covered. Just let me know when we need to be here.

The large man shot him a look, not liking the answer he'd been given. I don't know what kind of game you're playing, cop, but if you plan on using live human bait you can just forget that shit! I'll have no part of it!

Mackey spun around and moved toward the hunter. You'll do exactly as you're told, mister. The decision and the responsibility aren't yours. That's my burden. You just do your job and focus on catching this damn thing. You bail now and I'll have you and your partner detained for forty-eight hours in the filthiest shit hole I can find.

Tension electrified the air. The large man's hands balled into fists. Shoulders squared as he took a step closer. Mackey opened his trench coat offering a clear view of the Glock pistol on his hip. His hand deliberately slid to the holster freeing the retaining snap. Let's not do this. Save your energy for tonight, 'Safari Joe', you're going to need it.

Easy. The leather-clad hunter put up both hands in a placating gesture. Let's not start the party early. You wanna use people as bait, that's your call and your ass. We won't be held responsible if they get hurt or killed. You give us indemnity in writing and we'll see this through.

Mackey's hand slid off his holster. You'll have it. He turned, his stomach burning with guilt. Using cops as bait sickened him. The trap was his best chance to end this nightmare before it got out of control. If the press got hold of the wild story, there'd be a PR nightmare.

* * * *

Brian West refocused his eyes on the dry financial reports. This was the boring part of being an executive. The phone was a welcome diversion. He picked up the receiver. Yes.

Mr. West, I have an incoming call from Caribou Point, Alaska. The man insists on speaking with you immediately.

Trouble? His brother looked up from a computer screen.

I hope not. I've had enough of Alaska for a while. Brian reached for the telephone. "Pipe it through to my conference line, please, and thank you, Margaret.

This is Brian West.

Greetings, Brian. I apologize for disturbing you, the familiar voice boomed.

Kord? Is everything okay? Brian shot his brother a confused shoulder shrug.

There are no problems from Plestex. I, however, find myself in need of a favor.

What's going on? Brian flipped off the speakerphone blocking his brother from hearing any more of the conversation. He ignored Ben's angry gesture. The portly industrialist placed a hand over the phone. I'll fill you in after.

Kord explained as much as he could regarding his breakup with Veronica and his desire to come to New York and confront Sagahr. Brian was reluctant to lose his best asset up North but knew there was nothing he could do to force his friend to stay in Caribou Point. The tiny port town had little to offer most people.

There's been a lot of visibility regarding our little war with Sagahr and Plestex, Kord. The situation here is volatile. Alaskan 'frontier-style' justice won't be easily tolerated here. We're under a forced cease-fire with Plestex at the moment. I don't believe it's going to last.

I understand, Brian. My differences are of a personal nature and have nothing to do with business matters. All I require is transportation. If that's a problem, I will get there another way.

I'm not saying that, Kord. I can have a jet ready within the next three hours and have a limousine pick you up at LaGuardia when you land. I'm just apprising you of the situation at hand. Brian sighed. We just can't have any Plestex ships sinking in New York Harbor or their corporate buildings blown apart in the middle of the night.

I assure you I have no intentions of wreaking any more material havoc. My grievance is with a single man, not material property or anybody else.

Brian scratched his head. The fallout with Veronica must have been bad to cause him to leave so quickly. Have your stuff packed. He glared at his watch. I can have a limo waiting for you outside your apartment in two hours. I'll arrange a private charter to get you to Seattle and one of our corporate jets will take you to New York.

Thank you, Brian. I believe the saying goes, 'I owe you one.'

I'm not keeping score. I'll have a limousine drop you off at my apartment complex and you can bunk in my guest suite.

Kord's voice sounded relieved. Thanks. I didn't know where I'd be staying once I got there.

Well now you do. I'm looking forward to seeing you.

And I you.

Brian severed the connection. He grabbed a donut off a nearby pastry dish. Kord coming to New York was an unforeseen complication. Kord's face-off with Sagahr could, and most likely would, get ugly. He needed to act as a buffer and keep his friend in check. If he brought his weapon to bear on Plestex, the destruction could devastate a city block. A heavy sigh escaped him. It was time to come clean with his brother and father. He wondered if they'd believe the tale he was about to spin.

Brian looked up at his brother. Ben, get dad and let’s move to the big conference room. We may have a problem.

I gather this is about your large blond 'gorilla' associate, Ben snorted.

Your intuition amazes me brother. Really, it does. Brian watched as Ben left the office. Always the smart ass. He shook his head.

Later, Brian settled into the thick leather conference room chair grappling how to share some of what he knew about Kord's unique abilities while maintaining his oath of confidence. In the end, family loyalty won out.

I owe you both an apology. There's more to Duncan Kord than I initially let on.

Michael West's brow furrowed. Just how bad is it?

Dad, I honestly don't know. Let me tell you what I do know. I'm convinced he destroyed those two Plestex rigs single handedly. Brian took a deep breath. "And he did it with a broadsword. He also crippled the Orion and Patero, and I suspect he used the same weapon."

Oh come on! Ben spat indignantly. What kind of bullshit tale is this?

I'm telling you, I saw the weapon and had a chance to examine it closely. It's a perfect example of photogenic metallurgy only at a level thousands of times more advanced than anything we've even theorized is possible. Kord wears a large pendant around his neck and I suspect it has similar properties. Brian inhaled another deep breath. His brother's and father's looks of disbelief and chagrin bore heavily on his tired body. On the night Sagahr's ships were destroyed, the reports I received from my sources claimed several greenish colored beams shot out of the water and blew through one of the tanker's hulls before she sank. There were similar reports from the informants I have working at the sabotaged Plestex rigs. Brian dropped his truth bomb. I was working with Kord and told him how to cripple both ships.

Are you insane!! Michael smashed a nearby water glass out of anger. Jesus H. Christ! What the hell were you thinking? The last thing we need is more aggravation from that mentally unbalanced maniac and you're running around provoking the crazy bastard!

The plan wasn't to sink them, just disable them. Let me finish, please! Brian insisted.

Ben picked up some shards of glass while his father mouthed a silent apology for his outburst. You're off your rocker, brother! What other bonehead stunts are you pulling?

Ben, shut up! You like to sit in your lab and your cushy office chairs but rarely venture outside these corporate walls. Don't you dare judge me or question my methods. It's my fat ass out in the real world that lets you tinker in your little test tube and computer paradise! Brian slammed his fist on the table partially out of anger and in a desperate attempt to regain control of the dialogue. Just hear me out!

Ben sat back, stunned at the bitter attack. Brian sipped from a glass of water and tossed several napkins over the stream approaching his papers. He described the events leading up to the attack and the subterfuge he'd devised to allow Kord to slip away unnoticed by the Plestex spies.

About a half hour after the explosions, Kord came back to the apartment looking like death warmed over. He was soaked and nearly frozen. Veronica and I did our best to warm him up but he was at death's door. He mumbled for us to hand him his sword. I didn't argue. She grabbed it and I could tell she was struggling with the weight. I helped her bring it to him and watched as he drew the weapon from its scabbard. I swear to you the blade seemed to glow for a second, and it passed something on to him, some kind of biokinetic energy or a bioelectric feed. I'll be damned if I know what it was but it gave him more life. His face wasn't deathly pale and his body temperature easily rose out of critical hypothermia. After that, he fell into a deep sleep. The blade formed a large sag in the mattress suggesting it weighed a great deal more than a conventional sword. We've theorized metals with photogenic energy properties would possess an incredibly dense molecular structure. That sword is no mere steel alloy. Brian gave his brother and father time to digest his words.

What about the cockamamie bullshit about a dragon attacking those ships? Ben asked.

I don't know what those men saw. I wasn't there and no video recordings exist to prove or disprove the dockworkers' stories. Kord went there, the ships were destroyed much like the ventilation shacks and exhaust stacks at the Plestex rigs. Kord didn't come right out and say he destroyed the rigs but he is the only variable that ties the two incidents together. Plus, Harrison is convinced he's involved. Harrison can be a pain in the ass at times but he has a nose for detective work and he's pretty much put two and two together.

Brian drained his water glass. The deputies and a few of Sagahr's henchmen paid a call to Kord's apartment the next morning and mixed it up with him. From what Harrison told me, Kord tossed them around like rag dolls. When I saw him later that morning, he was picture perfect – not even a scratch or a scar on him to indicate any kind of trauma. Let me assure you his body was a latticework of cuts and bruises just hours earlier. It was as if nothing ever happened the night before.

If this weapon is as dense and heavy as you claim, how can it be effectively used as a sword? An object weighing as much as you claim can't possibly be handled like a traditional long sword or even a Scottish Claymore for that matter. Michael West wasn't ready to accept his son's fantastic tale.

He's a mountain, dad. I imagine he has very little problem handling the excessive mass. The man is built like Hercules.

This is giving me a Hercules-sized headache. The elder West fumbled with a bottle of Excedrin, popping three pills followed by a large swig of water. I saw the size of your blond friend on the video screen. Granted he is big, but this doesn't add up.

Brian sighed. There's more.

There's always more, Ben grumbled.

Brian shot his brother a nasty glance. Kord is on his way to New York. He'll be here, Brian glanced at his watch, computing the travel time, early tomorrow morning and will be staying in the guest quarters in my suite.

Are you out of your mind? You just implied this man single-handedly wiped out two rigs, two tankers and supposedly wields a 'Sword of Doom' ... so what's the next logical move ... bringing him here?

If you'd zip your lip and let me finish. Brian returned fire. Kord called me to tell me he was heading to New York to settle accounts with Sagahr. He asked me if I'd provide him transportation and said if not he'd get here himself. At the surface, it seems crazy but consider this. If I fly him here and give him a place to stay, I can keep tabs on him. I can talk with him; find out what he's got in mind and how whatever he's planning may impact us. If I refused, he'd get here anyway, maybe in a few days, maybe in a week or two and we wouldn't know where. We'd have no idea what he's up to or where in New York to even begin looking for him. There's an old saying, 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' I consider Kord a friend and you two consider him an enemy. Keeping him close allows us to learn more about this mysterious man and exactly what he's capable of doing. Brian understood why his father and brother were skeptical. If the roles were reversed and it was Ben pitching this wild tale, he'd have the exact same doubts. I know you have no reason to trust him, but for God's sakes have a little faith in me. He's an asset we can use. I spoke with Wilma and Peter Scoggins. They run the Inn where Kord was staying. Peter told me Kord said he and Sagahr know each other well enough to want each other dead by their own hands. What does a drifter and a corporate mogul have in common that could make them such bitter enemies?

Benjamin West leaned back in his chair. Intense eyes studied his brother. As much as I don't like the idea, your reasoning is sound. I'd like to meet this man and see if he lives up to your hype. He turned toward his father. What say you, dad?

Michael West's face was an unreadable blank slate. He crossed his arms, gazing out the large window. Several seconds passed in silence. Agreed, the four of us meet here tomorrow at 6:00PM sharp. I'm also curious about Mr. Kord. If he's as lethal as you claim, then by all means let's exploit him to our benefit or at least do our best to keep him out of trouble and more importantly not get us in any deeper with the local constabularies. I've worked a deal to keep us in their good graces and I don't want to take any heat for what your blond friend is concocting, whatever that may be.

Fair enough. Once he checks in, we'll grab some breakfast, catch up, and he can rest, then get acclimated to the city. After that we'll have dinner brought in and we can get down to business. Brian stood and moved toward the door. Ben followed close behind.

Gentlemen, we can piss, moan and argue in private behind these doors. Leave the hard feelings and bruised egos here. Once we walk out there, we are a unified, cooperative front. Am I clear? The elder West raised his voice to emphasize his warning.

Clear, dad, both sons said in unison.

I don't hide in my lab. Ben elbowed his brother lightly as they departed,

Oh please, when do you ever leave your test tubes and computers? Mom was right to be worried about you, Brian jibed,

Don't start that again!

* * * *

The lighthearted teasing faded down the hallway. Michael West's sons were fine men, but often needed a reminder about letting things roll. There was still a great deal of work to be done. Something in the back of his mind told him Sagahr wouldn't be content with the forced peace. The maniacal industrialist's ego wouldn't allow it.

Chapter 2. Hunting the Hunter

William Jefferson Sagahr sat in his penthouse studying the contents of several manila folders. He was satisfied the majority of his stock was now out of Westcorp possession. West beat him soundly. If not for the act of charity, his company would have succumbed to a panic sell-off spiraling out of control. Instead of feeling gratitude or relief, anger burned his soul. He'd been humiliated and needed to avenge himself against his rival. Rage tore at the pit of his stomach, threatening to burn his insides with hate and vitriol. The industrialist needed to lash out at something, anything to unleash the pent-up fury. He considered instructing Jeffrey to arrange female companionship but knew that type of physical activity wouldn't diffuse his darker urges. The desire grew stronger. Stiff fingers clenched, digging into the armrests of his chair. Breathing heavily, he reached for his glass of scotch and downed the remains in one swallow.

His right hand shook, vibrating his forearm. The feline inside urged him to hunt and unleash his frustrations as he'd done before. Sagahr closed his eyes forcing back the darkness, struggling to focus on the paperwork before him. The desire increased, a persistent burning itch needing to be scratched, an unquenchable hunger unfulfilled.

Okay, damn you! He addressed his darker side. Tonight I hunt!

Sagahr walked toward the large sliding glass doors. A glowing yellow nimbus reflected in the large glass panes. The burning aura surrounded his body. He surrendered, allowing the beast to take over. Seconds later, the tiger was silently bounding over rooftops approaching his hunting grounds in Spanish Harlem.

* * * *

A sharp, burning pain singed Robert Mackey's gut. Anxiety and guilt decorated the stress lines in his forehead. He studied the tiny blond detective from the 15th Precinct. She was an enigma – fearless and aggressive by reputation. The way she carried herself reminded him of his own overzealous youth. She exuded confidence, an almost borderline cockiness he didn't like to see in his detectives. Overconfidence was a slim line away from recklessness. Recklessness, tonight, could get her killed.

Detective Kirk, a word, please. He motioned her to follow him and they walked away from the small group.

Lieutenant, what can I do for you?

"Detective, you have a reputation for being