Hollow

By Sloane Swinton

"We only become aware of a void when we attempt to fill it."

That had long been the mantra of Major Warren "Ren" Chevalier, a decorated former soldier, now working security and logistics at the Chinese Embassy in D.C. Over the years, Ren developed a reputation for solving problems before they had the chance to develop.

Since the passing of his late wife, Ren tried everything humanly possible to compensate for that loss by being the best father he could to their only son, Noah. Despite his efforts, it never seemed to work.

Against his wishes, Noah relocated to Asia, hoping to blaze a new trail. The one person he tried to keep closest, was the same one who wanted to be around him the least.

As their conversations became more infrequent, Ren's worst fears were realized when he received a phone call that his son was missing and answers were in limited supply.

Intent to locate his boy by any means necessary, Ren arrives in town ready for action; his vicious inquiries leading him down a rabbit hole of havoc. With the world (he so desperately tried to keep from falling apart) crumbling all around him—the only thing left was to pray for his enemies.

"There's nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darn Pretty Books
• Release date: Aug 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781955476294

Sloane Swinton

A native New Yorker, writing has been a passion for Sloane Swinton since pubescence. Instructors in high school and college alike noticed the raw talent and creative enthusiasm Sloane displayed, encouraging the author to pursue fiction as a trade. Little did the author know that a bohemian lifestyle of low wages and even lesser praise awaited. Swinton is an avid basketball fan and lover of mathematics, classical music, sweatpants, Black Cherry soda, Fruit Punch Snapple, fried plantains, the New York Mets, and the occasional ham, egg and cheese on a French roll for breakfast. For the latest information regarding this author and more, please be sure to follow @darnprettybooks on Instagram and X.

Book preview

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

Copyright © 2023 by Sloane Swinton

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

First Edition: August 2023

Cover Design by Mad Wlad

Library of Congress: 2023915580

ISBN: 978-1-955476-29-4 (e-book)

ISBN: 978-1-955476-30-0 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-955476-31-7 (hardcover)

Published by Darn Pretty Books

Instagram: @darnprettybooks

Hollow"A one-way ticket to oblivion..."Sloane Swinton

Preface

The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for.

– Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Appreciations

There is a distinct possibility that if you are reading this, you have probably read one of the three previous thriller books I’ve written.

Now, whether the above statement is true for you or not, I remain grateful to the readers who are enjoying the tales that have been curated thus far. There are so many great stories in the queue, but alas, they can only be written one at a time.

So for those of you who love to be thrilled by my prose or the characters and/or plots I’ve been able to come up with, I thank you. Even if your true intention is to throw a little shade my direction, I still hope this story takes you on an emotional rollercoaster.

Thank you all for keeping this artist’s dream alive.

​​-SS-

Chapter One

FLURRIES fell all over the metropolitan area. Thanksgiving weekend had just concluded and the Beltway was already receiving an early taste of winter. The time on the dashboard computer read two minutes to five in the AM and the Sports Club wouldn't officially be opening its doors until those two minutes were up.

Ren sat in the driver's seat of his Genesis sports sedan—quietly counting down the seconds. His vehicle had been idling for almost an hour—wasting gas. The sedan’s wiper blades brushed away the accumulating frosted flakes that had blanketed the windshield, revealing the facility’s rear entrance.

On the non-snow impacted days, the staff seemed pre-determined to arrive at least a half-hour early—which was something Ren had grown to appreciate. The proximity of the fitness center to downtown Washington, D.C., made it a tough ticket if ‘workout efficiency’ was the goal.

The blades wiped the windshield once more. Ren spied someone straggling towards the entrance wearing a hooded puffer coat. That was his cue. He turned off the car and got out with his duffel. He carefully walked across the parking lot as the snow was still wet. The last thing he was interested in doing was losing his balance and possibly tear a ligament. The club employee unlocked the door and entered without looking back. He caught it right before closing and followed the employee inside. He stamped out his winter boots on the rug to keep from tracking water into the building.

How’d I know you’d be the first one in this morning? They’re saying it might be a blizzard and yet, here you are. In a tracksuit, no less.

Ren removed his skull cap and turned to see Felipe, the club’s morning manager, unzipping his bulging coat. This guy had more layers than a birthday cake.

Same as you. Ren answered.

Yeah, but I actually have an excuse. This is how I gotta eat.

Well... I don’t have an indoor pool so... I don’t know what to tell you. This seems like a conversation you should have with the owner, don’t you think?

Felipe raised his eyebrows and sighed. Surely, a witty retort would be following.

Like I said, this is how I gotta eat.

Felipe walked around the reception desk to a private door with a sign that read ‘EMPLOYEE’S ONLY’ above it—leaving Ren all by his lonesome. Being a regular did have its perks. He couldn’t recall the last time he was asked to show his identification. He was usually able to leave his wallet and any other prized possessions in the trunk of his car.

Ren entered the men’s locker room. The countertops were spotless. The white towels were clean and folded. And last but most importantly, there weren’t any cheeky senior citizens with their shriveled up scrotums exposed for his viewing displeasure.

He walked to his locker and punched in the four digit-code. He pulled out his bath slides and dropped them on the floor. He stripped out of his tracksuit and boots and put all of his belongings inside the locker. He always wore his swim trunks under his clothes. Even as a child, the nudity of a locker room made him feel awkward. There tended to be a lot of gratuitous machismo floating around the gym. As masculine as a lot of these dudes purported themselves to be, they didn’t seem to mind walking around each other butt ass naked.

Somehow, in the last thirty years, the sports club had become synonymous with the bathhouse. Ren didn’t fancy himself a homophobe by any stretch, he just preferred not to see male phalluses on a recurring basis—especially ones that didn’t belong to him.

Classical music began playing faintly over the speaker system as he was gently guided back to reality. The tune was Gymnopédie No.1 by Erik Satie. Ren smiled and scoffed.

Good ole Felipe.

He closed the locker and keyed the four-digit code to lock it. He nabbed one of the fresh towels and draped it over his shoulder before exiting to the swimming pool. Right upon entering he noticed the digital temperature gauge. It was a robust eighty-two degrees. Perfect. He kicked off his slides and dropped the towel on a chair. He walked to the deep end and stood on the precipice—his toes dangling off the edge. The water was so pristine and here he was again—about to disrupt it. He placed his hands high above his head to stretch.

The sound of his arthritic bones sent shivers down his back. Middle-age was in his rearview. In ten to fifteen years’ time, he would be getting discounts at movie theatres, zoos, museums or the local waffle house. He took a deep breath and exhaled before diving right in. He kept his head above the surface—pounding away as his muscles contracted from his toes to his neck.

He counted fifteen laps from one end to the other before wading to catch his breath. A few years back, he would have been good for at least another eight to ten laps in the same amount of time.

Anyone ever tell you—you swim like you're trying to wash those tattoos off your back?

Ren opened his eyes and looked towards the entrance. Of course, it was him. Without fail. Even in the worst kind of weather, this pudgy senior never missed a day. He never worked out. He never swam. The old man held a newspaper in his left hand and had one of the larger towels draped over his protruding gut, like that would ever be enough to hide it.

How many laps is it this time? The man went on.

Ren stared at him for a moment. There was a small piece of himself that felt for the old timer. He had once cornered Ren in the sauna and regaled him with stories from his not so glorious past.

Apparently, getting older wasn’t that great now that he was the only one remaining of his former crew. However, whatever happened in his past that prevented the old man from seeking out new friends—had absolutely nothing to do with Ren. Befriending every bored Tom, Dick and Harry— just because they shared a sports club membership would never be in the cards. If the old man needed friends that bad, he would have been better off joining a book club at the local library.

Ren submerged once more and fell to the bottom of the shallow end. The quiet was just what the doctor ordered. It was in these moments where he could truly remain at peace.

Chapter Two

DOWNTOWN Seoul. South Korea. In the evening hours, this part of the city could be considered one of the most electrifying, yet underrated gatherings in all of the world, let alone the Far East. There wasn’t much that an adventurous person would be unable to get into—as long as they were willing to keep an open mind of course.

Nearly four hundred meters from the congested streets of the Myeong-dong shopping district sat the Mindeulle Art Studio. Owned and operated by the renowned Eurasian sculptor, Leon Musina, his modest gallery possessed an eclectic assortment of creation—from artisans all over the Asian continent. If any piece brought to him didn’t possess a connection to the culture and tradition of the region—Musina would simply decline to showcase it.

Following in the footsteps of his mother, Musina was born and raised in the Korean city of Incheon. His father was a highly decorated soldier from the Soviet era—in the free republic now known as Kazakhstan. His unique back-ground and talent brought him to the United Kingdom for a brief stretch during the late 1990s. To be candid, the man was utterly brilliant. By the time Shetty had first become acquainted with the inscrutable Musina, he had already become fluent in four dialects. Russian, English, Mandarin and his native Korean.

Musina could have done anything if he put his mind to it. Live the glamorous life in international business or even better—travel the world as a UN translator. And even with all that going for him, Musina still chose to become a lowly sculptor. While he certainly wasn’t starving at this point in his life, he definitely had become the living embodiment of an artist. Fashionably late wasn’t a cliché. It was the rule. The concept of being on time was merely another one of civilized society’s irksome constructs.

Shetty shook his head and grinned. Just thinking about his old friend brought back memories. Good ones. They had more than their fair share of fun running the mean streets of central London during their university days. Two good-looking Asian blokes on the come up. The noble-women of Kensington and Chelsea never knew what hit them.

Those were the days.

Shetty tilted his head approximately forty-five degrees, trying to decipher the significance behind the colorful medley that hung before him on the gallery wall.

You know, in all the years I’ve known you, I never would’ve taken you for an art connoisseur.

He scoffed. He turned to see one of his MI6 consiglieres, Piper Goodenough, standing beside him. While she would have liked to believe that she was the poster child for being inconspicuous, the truth of the matter was that Piper stuck out like a sore thumb around these parts and not simply due to her blanch skin tone. Her posh disposition, clothing and upbringing, on the other hand, were oozing out of her pores. She was more comfortable in an environment like this than he ever was—and this gallery belonged to someone he considered almost like family.

Well, you know what they say about instincts, don’t you?

What’s that?

They’re rarely wrong. Shetty leaned closer to her and whispered. The truth is... I know fuck all about art.

Piper giggled.

You know—that’s what I’ve always admired about you. You’re never afraid to say what’s on your mind.

Is that a good thing?

Perhaps not to our superiors, no. But I appreciate it.

Shetty smiled.

Karan ‘Kal’ Shetty.

They both turned around to see Musina and his baby-faced associate, Chun-Mau, approaching them. His old chum’s hair was silver, albeit, it appeared as if this were a stylistic choice rather than father time sapping him of his vibrancy. Musina was clearly far beyond leaning into his artistry at this point.

To what do I owe this appearance? Musina smiled.

My better half and I were in the neighborhood—and figured we should stop by and say hello. I hope that’s all right.

Of course, it is. Leon Musina.

He extended his hand to Piper, which she accepted.

Piper. You have a lovely studio, Mr. Musina.

Please, call me Leon. Only my students call me Mr. Musina. He laughed, before turning his attention back to Shetty. So, what can I do for you, my friend? Still working for the crown?

Shetty shrugged and chuckled with his mouth closed. His eyes moved side to side, taking an inventory of anyone who may have been within earshot of Musina’s inquiry. He tapped his index finger against his lips and grinned.

Might you have somewhere less public for the three of us? I can assure you this won’t take long.

Of course. Follow me.

Musina whispered something to his associate before pivoting and heading towards the gallery’s rear. Shetty and Piper followed him through an opened door—which led to a hallway. On their right was a stairwell that led to an open-floor layout lounge area on the second floor. His collection downstairs was but a fraction of the gallery’s wares. Many of the pieces up here were sheeted to keep their condition mint.

Looks like you have quite the selection of expensive pieces downstairs. Shetty said.

And yet… I doubt you’re going to buy a single one.

Shetty and Piper exchanged eye contact. At least his old friend knew who he was talking to.

Musina plopped down on a dusty sofa and spread his arms wide. In this environment—he was the king.

So... what can I do for you? Musina went on.

Are we alone?

We are, but now I’m getting uncomfortable.

And why is that?

Because you’re still working for the crown. Believe it or not, I could see it way back when. During university. They ensnared you the first chance they got and they were never gonna let you go. It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long—considering your line of work.

Shetty and Piper exchanged glances again. Try as they might, there simply was no hiding their background from him. He was far too perceptive.

Leon, we’re not here for you. Shetty said.

Oh. Well, that’s comforting.

Musina began fiddling with his fingertips. Apparently, they were boring him.

We’re here for one of your patrons. Piper said.

Hmm. That sounds ominous. The British government has interest in one of my patrons. Well, I have to admit, you have piqued my curiosity. Then again, I’m not sure if I even want to know who it is.

Cong Hai-Gao.

The smile dissipated from Musina’s lips as quickly as his eyes narrowed. If they didn’t have his attention before, they certainly did now.

We know that he’s commissioned more than a dozen pieces from your studio over the last eighteen months. We also know that he’s made a sizable donation to your studio. He’s the reason you’re able to keep the lights on, is he not? She went on.

Musina stared at Piper. His poker face had dramatically improved over the years. If he was upset, he was doing a fantastic job hiding it.

You need to leave. Both of you.

Leon. Shetty said.

I would like you to leave now. I’m not interested in having this discussion. I’d rather not be put in a position where I have to call the authorities.

Shetty sighed and nodded. There was no point in trying to change his old friend’s mind. Musina was too much of a stubborn bastard. He signaled Piper to come on and down the stairs they went without even saying goodbye. They re-entered the gallery and headed straight for the exit.

Once outside, they made a hard right and immediately held hands. They walked in lockstep to the next corner before rounding onto an adjacent street where their rental was parked—about halfway down the block. They released their hands and separated. He went to the driver’s side, while she went to the passenger. He pulled the keys from his jacket pocket and unlocked the doors. Piper entered first as Shetty took one more glance around to make sure they hadn’t been followed. He got inside and shut the door behind him.

So much for that. Piper said.

He started the car while Piper fastened her safety belt.

It was still worth exploring.

Maybe, but was it really worth burning your relation-ship with him in the process?

There’s a reason we hadn’t seen each other in many years. The fact that he knows who my employer is—being one of them. Trust is a two-way street, I’m afraid.

Shetty exhaled and leaned his head back against the head rest.

If we’re being honest here, him assisting us would have surely painted a target on his back if anything went left. I can’t blame him for declining.

Well—a lot of good that does us now. You think he’ll talk?

What? About us? Not in a million years. If the Sino’s get one whiff that he’s been even in the same room as us—they’ll cut off the tap. If not worse. And all Leon cares about is his art. He wouldn’t want to jeopardize that.

Here’s hoping your instincts about the man prove to be correct.

Agreed. In the interim, you and I are going to have to come up with another plan. If your contact really wants to see this through, he’s more than likely going to have to soil his hands in the process. There’s too much risk on our end so far and not enough on his.

Piper sighed and shook her head.

It’s never easy, is it?

No. Not in this part of the world anyway.

Chapter Three

MARCEL nearly stumbled over a crate filled with knickknacks as she shut the door to her D.C. studio apartment. She maneuvered around the ubiquitous clutter and dropped her freshly pressed and dry-cleaned uniform on her unmade bed. Tonight was a big deal. High-rollers from all over the world were coming to the Marriot Marquis—which meant generous tips were on the horizon. Something she could have used in spades.

She noticed her closet door was ajar. There were clothes spilling out of it onto the floor. She sighed and shook her head. Living like this was really affecting her mental. If only she could afford a housekeeper. Then again, if she could afford one, she’d probably get a much nicer spot instead. She unzipped her overcoat and threw off her clothes. She grabbed her cell phone and entered the bathroom.

Marcel pulled the shower curtain across the tub before turning on the hot water. She slid her hand underneath. It was freezing. She shuddered and shook the cold water off of her left hand. Her landlord was such a slumlord, but due to all of the gentrification in D.C., she didn’t have much in the way of options—unless she was interested in tripling or quadrupling her commute.

She dried her hand and unlocked her cell. She landed on an EDM playlist and clicked shuffle. She set the phone down on the toilet seat and moved back to the shower. The water was steadily rising—but as molasses. She stripped out of her skivvies and hopped in.

The water touched her skin as Marcel shivered. She fitted her left hand with a Korean body mitt before grabbing a bar of peppermint soap with her right. She built up a nice lather and commenced to rinsing the dead skin and filth that had built up over the course of the day. She scrubbed from the back of her neck down to the bottoms of her feet. She gave herself another once over before removing the mitt and locating her bottle of shampoo. She massaged the goop into her hair and turned the faucet for the hot water up a little bit more. She placed her head underneath the nozzle and let the shampoo cascade down her body.

Her playlist shuffled from one tune to the next. Marcel hummed along to it. The longer she was able to remain in her own private sanctuary, the better off she would be. In a few short years, she would have saved enough money to go back to school and pursue a degree in hospitality. With her work experience added to a college education from George Mason, her career prospects would grow exponentially.

The only thing she needed to do now was be patient and not sweat the small stuff. She was on the right path.

ZENAIDA peered out of the disaster of a closet and looked around the studio. The shower was running and music was blasting from the bathroom. Her target, a hotel employee named Marcel Alcantara, had disappeared inside. Zenaida stepped out of the closet with her backpack in hand and sat on the unmade bed. Time was of the essence and if she expected to be compensated, her only option as far as this mission was concerned, was success.

She unzipped her backpack and removed a cylindric taser disguised as a pink perfume bottle. She zipped it back up and put it on before lowering her ski mask to conceal her identity. Zenaida approached the door and touched the knob. Thankfully, it wasn’t locked. She quietly turned it and entered the muggy milieu that smelled of fresh apricot.

Her target was still showering, while her smart phone rested on the toilet seat. Zenaida slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind her. She approached the phone and picked it up. The display was active as Marcel was listening to music via YouTube. She grabbed the phone and looked at it for a brief moment. If she paused the video, the screen would eventually go dark and cause her to need a password. Instead, Zenaida lowered the volume until she could no longer hear the music and set the phone back down. An elongated sigh ensued as she turned to the shower.

Of course. Marcel said. Can’t have a single minute of peace in this world.

Zenaida noticed her body shift towards the decorative shower curtain. Before her target was able to react to her presence, she pulled the curtain open and lunged towards Marcel with the taser. It landed against her wet skin and down Marcel went like a falling raindrop against the base of the porcelain tub.

Droplets of blood began to fill the tub as Marcel was out cold. Zenaida turned off the taser and stuffed it inside of her pocket. She switched from the shower to the tub faucet before removing her ski mask to let her hair down. Zenaida located a stopper and plugged the drain before switching from hot to cold water. She moved closer to Marcel and felt around her neck for a pulse. Her target was still breathing, albeit barely. Zenaida placed Marcel’s phone on top of the sink and took its place on the toilet. She slid her backpack to the floor and unzipped the main pocket.

Inside were a pair of fingerprint smart gloves. These bad boys were the black market’s finest—capable of scanning a target’s fingerprints in seconds. Zenaida put on each glove and moved back to the tub. She knelt over it and noticed that the water was covering approximately half of Marcel’s body—which was still not enough. She reached into the tub and pulled Marcel’s hands out of the water and placed them on top of her chest.

Zenaida felt around her neck for a pulse for the second time. Marcel remained unconscious, but wasn’t dead yet. She pressed a button located on the topside