One Day in New York Read online

  Contents

  Title page

  Quotes

  - Chapter 1

  - Chapter 2

  - Chapter 3

  - Chapter 4

  - Chapter 5

  - Chapter 6

  - Chapter 7

  - Chapter 8

  - Chapter 9

  - Chapter 10

  - Chapter 11

  - Chapter 12

  - Chapter 13

  - Chapter 14

  - Chapter 15

  Thank you (Amazon)

  - Author's Note

  Want some more adventure?

  - About J.F.Penn

  - Acknowledgements

  - Copyright page

  One Day In New York

  An ARKANE Thriller Book 7

  J.F.Penn

  "The Nephilim were in the earth in those days, and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bore children to them; the same were the mighty men that were of old, the men of renown."

  Genesis 6:4

  "And the angels who did not keep their positions of authority but abandoned their own home – these he has kept in darkness, bound with everlasting chains for judgment on the great Day."

  Jude 1:6

  Chapter 1

  FOR ALL THE HYPERVIGILANCE of New Yorkers at the slightest possibility of terrorism, they embrace anything that could be construed as modern art. That's why no one reported the man constructing a strong wooden cross on the High Line that afternoon, next to a section that overlooked the Hudson River to the west. He was young and good looking with an easy smile, his Mediterranean skin burnished by the late sun. He caught the attention of female joggers as they ran past, noting his strong, muscular arms as he sawed the wooden planks. There was a handwritten sign on a cardboard rectangle propped up near his workbench: Performance art in progress. That was all the passers-by needed to know, answering any questions that came to mind about his actions.

  Later that day, as workers began to stream out of the local offices on the commute home, an older man stopped for a moment. He looked down at the rough wood as the man fixed the cross piece, banging in long nails to hold the planks together.

  "You've got that wrong, you know," the man said. "All evidence suggests that the cross Christ died upon would have been more like a T-shape."

  The carpenter paused a moment.

  "The emphasis of this particular piece is more about emotional resonance than historical truth." He had a slight French accent, but in this city of diversity, that was not markedly unusual. The older man nodded slowly, rubbing his fingers across his beard before he moved on, just another walker enjoying the evening sun.

  The High Line was a disused railway track, raised above the streets of Lower West Side Manhattan and transformed into a boulevard of wild grasses, flowerbeds and wooden seating where bees buzzed and birds sang in the heart of the city. The views out across the city landscape and the wide river made it a tourist draw as well as a haunt for local runners and walkers, desperate for a moment of peace above the throng. There were places on the High Line where nature had reclaimed a little corner of the metropolis, and those who craved escape came here to temporarily relieve the itch of the city. Buskers played along these sections, the sound of a jazz saxophone easing the evening into night, and still the carpenter worked on, building a base to hold the cross steady when he raised it into the sky. When that was done, he fixed pieces of rubber tire onto the cross at jaunty angles, the black material lending an urban grittiness to the simple wooden frame, a dark foil for the sunset.

  As the night grew darker and the bars began to fill up below the High Line, street food vendors set up stalls to cater to those who wanted dinner with their nature walk. Far more convenient than the wilderness any day and just a stroll from Midtown. The carpenter bought a taco and watched people as they passed. His sign on the ground had gathered a few dollars over the day, perhaps a manifestation of guilt from the city elite for the artlessness of their own lives, briefly assuaged by paying another to be creative on their behalf – like doubting believers paying tithes on a Sunday. Several people had taken photos as he worked, and later those pictures would find their way into the papers. But the carpenter had no fear of discovery, for soon he would be heading back to the monastery – beyond the reach of the tentacles of this sinful city. He understood the necessity of what was to come, but he longed for peace and solitude.

  He looked at his watch. Only one more part of the structure remained to be built, a simple pulley mechanism that would help lift its weight so the cross could be drawn upright and seen from the city streets below. The carpenter turned back to his work, clearing his mind of the sounds of the sinners around him. When the relic was recovered, they would be screaming soon enough.

  After the final nail was hammered in, the carpenter sat in the dark, waiting, his breathing a calm meditation. As the clock neared two a.m., this area of the city was quieter. Most of the bars were closed but, of course, New York is the city that never sleeps. An audience could be guaranteed for their spectacle at any time.

  He heard a car pull up on the street below, the bang of a door and the sound of several pairs of footsteps followed by a dragging sound and the shuffling of feet. The carpenter remained still, every sense heightened. Then a whistle came from the dark in the agreed pattern. He relaxed. The time had come, and now they would need to move fast.

  The carpenter pulled a large holdall from beneath the bench he sat on. Unzipping it, he lifted out several cans of gasoline and began to douse the base of the cross. He poured the liquid up around the cross piece, making sure the fragments of tire were coated. The stink of the accelerant made him cough, and he tried to stifle the noise.

  Two men ascended from the nearest staircase, half dragging a figure between them wrapped in a voluminous cloak. All three had their heads covered. As they came closer, the men pulled back their cowls. The carpenter looked away from the taller figure, his once handsome face disfigured by rubbled and lumpy skin, dark in places where the pigment had changed. There were rumors of an assassination attempt, a power play gone wrong. Many had tried to kill this man, and all had failed. He wasn't a Confessor, but the carpenter had heard of his relationship with the upper echelons, and knew his orders must be obeyed. The other man was the Monseigneur, the most senior Confessor in New York, with closely cropped white hair and wrinkled skin, but eyes that were as hard as the stone he knelt to pray on. The carpenter crossed himself, bowing towards his superior.

  The two men dragged the captive forward. The figure tripped and fell sideways, staggering a little. The cowl slid off and the carpenter stifled a gasp. He hadn't expected a woman, even as he knew the servants of evil came in all forms. The woman's head drooped on her chest, her long grey hair loose about her face. She had been badly beaten, and blood stained the clothes he could see beneath the folds of the cloak. Her face was swollen and mashed, and a stained gag was wrapped around her mouth. She opened her eyes as the stink of gasoline roused her, and the carpenter was hypnotized by the piercing blue. He crossed himself again as the two men dragged the woman to the cross.

  "I hope you've prepared well," the Monseigneur grunted. "She would only speak of the ivory artifact. The location of the corpus is still unknown, but it's a step in the quest. For now, she will be a sign to those who know how to look."

  He pushed the woman down. She tried to crawl a little way and the Monseigneur grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back to the cross, forcing her to lie upon it.

  They used rope to tie her wrists to the cross piece and her feet to the shaft. The carpenter doused a long strip of linen with more gasoline and then wound it around her waist and torso, further binding her to the wood. She didn't make a
sound as they worked, and the carpenter avoided her gaze, crossing himself repeatedly. This was for the glory of God, wasn't it? He had been told that this action would help the Confessors with the mission to this city, for if something wasn't done, the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah would take down this island of iniquity. But he hadn't expected that the sign to the world would be this old woman.

  A siren came from the road below. The men froze in their work, waiting for it to pass before they continued. When the woman was finally well attached, they hoisted the cross up so she hung there, silhouetted against the backdrop of the city lights.

  "God spoke to Moses through a pillar of fire," the Monseigneur said. "Tonight he will speak through this sacrifice."

  The scarred man held up a smart phone and activated a camera, focusing it on the crucifix. The carpenter pulled a lighter from his bag along with several tapers. The men each took one and the Monseigneur began to pray aloud in Latin, his voice unwavering. They lit the ends, their faces illuminated by the flaring light. The woman finally seemed to realize what was happening and she began to thrash on the cross, the bonds loosening a little at her wrists as she moaned against the gag.

  The Monseigneur leaned forward with his taper, touching the flame to the accelerant on the base of the cross, and the scarred man stretched up to apply his to the end of the cloth wrapped around the woman's torso. His smile spoke of dark desires and the carpenter crossed himself again as he touched his own taper to the base of the cross. He averted his eyes from the woman, who twisted as the flames caught the folds of her gown and billowed around her thin legs. The smell of cooking flesh weaved through the air, mingling with the gasoline. The first of the tires caught and black smoke billowed into the sky.

  "Beautiful," the scarred man said with a sigh, zooming his camera in on the woman's tortured face. The whoop of sirens cut through the crackling of flames. "It's a shame we can't stay until the end."

  The three men walked away from the burning cross, but the carpenter turned back as they reached the stairs. For a moment, he thought he could hear the beat of huge wings fanning the flames into brightness, but there was nothing behind the sacrifice. The woman writhed in her bonds, her hair on fire, scarlet orange against the black smoke – like the spirit of the elements alighting upon her. She was a human torch with the pitch of Hell and the flames of Satan. The carpenter could hear her screams behind the gag and he hoped that she would succumb to the smoke before the fire consumed her flesh. He crossed himself one last time and followed the others down to the streets below.

  Chapter 2

  HISSING FILLED HIS CONSCIOUSNESS, the head of the viper bobbing and weaving as it reared to strike. He tried to back away but he was cornered in the tunnel, the rock trapping him. The snake darted forward and sharp pain blossomed on his skin, setting his blood aflame as he felt the fangs sink into his flesh.

  Jake Timber woke with a start, heart racing, sweat on his skin, breath coming hard. He ripped the eye mask from his face with a gasp.

  "Are you alright, sir?" An air stewardess leaned over him.

  Jake shook his head, clearing the vision of the nightmare. "Yes … I'm fine, thank you."

  "Then would you please fasten your seatbelt?"

  She smiled and walked on to attend to other passengers as the announcement came over the tannoy.

  "Cabin crew, prepare for landing."

  Jake looked out of the window as the plane descended through the clouds. He craved coffee, but it would have to wait now. He couldn't seem to get enough rest at the moment, and he knew his body still suffered the residual poison from the snake bite he'd suffered in Israel on the last mission. He rubbed at his arm; the puncture marks had faded, but the memory still lingered. The nest of snakes deep in the caves of Sodom appeared in his nightmares now, mingling with his memories of Africa.

  His ARKANE partner, Morgan Sierra, was still in Israel, sitting shiva in mourning for a friend who had been lost in their last battle. Jake pushed down the guilt he felt for leaving Morgan alone, for not being the partner she needed. Instead, he had been medically evacuated from Israel as she pursued the Key to the Gates of Hell on her own. But mourning was something she needed to do alone, and Jake had welcomed the chance to come to New York on what was supposed to be a quick mission – a favor for the local office, which was busy at the best of times. He needed the distraction.

  Jake pulled the smart phone from his bag and scrolled through the files that Martin Klein had sent. There was a special exhibition later today at the Cloisters, part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in northern Manhattan. The central item on display was a cross of curious origin and unique carvings, hidden for generations but now on show. The Cloisters Cross, as it was known, had come up in some chatter ARKANE had detected in an extremist forum they monitored on the dark net. The Arcane Religious Knowledge And Numinous Experience Institute was a secret research center for investigating supernatural mysteries across all religions, but recently it was the rise of Christian fundamentalism that had raised red flags. This cross was supposedly connected to a relic, rumored to be the blood of a dark angel, and it had attracted the attention of a number of fringe groups.

  The museum of medieval artifacts was not considered a high-risk location, but the New York office had requested a European agent on the ground, someone who could blend into the medieval academic milieu. Jake had happily volunteered, needing something to keep his mind off Morgan, although he was usually more at home in leather than tweed.

  If he was honest, this was also about testing himself and getting his confidence back again. A string of injuries had plagued Jake's last few missions, and he found himself questioning his ability in the field. He was even considering whether he should stay with ARKANE; whether Morgan would be better with another partner. He hoped this time away would help him with that decision.

  Walking out of the security area a little later, Jake scanned the rows of people for a sign with his name on it. A little boy rushed from behind the barrier, his arms raised high.

  "Daddy!" he shouted, leaping into the arms of a man nearby who bent to embrace his son. Jake couldn't help but smile, despite the pang that clenched his heart. Airports were always emotional places for those without family.

  He was supposed to be met by one of the local agents, but he didn't know who it was going to be. Jake knew few of them by name, as he'd been focused mainly on Europe and Africa so far in his career. This would be his first time working with ARKANE stateside. Although London was the main ARKANE office, New York was a big local hub for the investigation of religious and supernatural mysteries in North America. The public face of ARKANE was academic, a research institute for religious objects, but the reality was more complicated – a battle waged daily between the forces of good and evil that most would consider myth. There were certainly enough cases here to keep the team occupied.

  As Jake scanned the crowd, he caught sight of a stunning mixed-race woman, her black hair long and shiny, her dark skin almost luminous. She smiled at him and he couldn't help but return the greeting. He was surprised when she held his eyes, waving as she weaved between the crowds of people and approached him. She wore a navy blue tailored suit that suggested she worked in the halls of bureaucracy, but still managed to flatter her curves.

  "I'm Naomi Locasto," she said, holding out a slim hand. "I'm with the ARKANE team here in New York, and I'll be working with you today."

  Jake took her hand, shaking it as he tried to stop himself staring. Her unusual features gave her the look of a supermodel, her full lips African American, her dark eyes and arched eyebrows almost Latino and her straight black hair a shade of Native American. Welcome to New York, Jake thought. Perhaps this trip would be more than just a distraction.

  "We've had a crazy morning already," Naomi said, as she led Jake towards the pickup area. "A woman was crucified and burned to death on the High Line before dawn. No one has claimed it yet, but the police notified us because of the religious overtones of the murder
."

  "Who was the victim?" Jake asked as he climbed into the passenger side of the car.

  Naomi frowned. "We can't seem to trace her. The body was burned beyond recognition. There's nothing at the scene to identify her and no matching missing persons record. All we know is that she was an older woman who hadn't given birth, and that she died horribly. To be honest, we thought about canceling our attendance at the Cloisters exhibition today, but since you're here …"

  "I'm happy to go alone," Jake said. "It's just a monitoring exercise as I understand it, and it's a good chance to brush up on my medieval history."

  "You don't really look like an academic," Naomi said, glancing sideways as she pulled out into the freeway traffic headed towards Manhattan. Jake could see she noticed his corkscrew scar, just one of the many that knitted his body together. "Can I ask where you're from? Your accent has a hint of something not quite British."

  "I'm from South Africa," Jake said. "But I've lived and worked in England a long time now. Archbishop Desmond Tutu once called my country the Rainbow People of God, but these days it's more of a shattered prism. There are engrained attitudes on so many sides that I struggle to be there … plus, there's no one left to go back for anymore." Jake stared out of the window, surprised to be sharing such intimate details about his homeland with a complete stranger. But something about this woman set him at ease. He looked back at her. "Besides, I prefer a culture of blended people, those whose history has allowed for more intermingling over time, and London gives me that."

  Naomi smiled.

  "That's why I love New York too," she said. "In this melting pot of cultures, relationships naturally happen between people of all walks of life, like my own blended family. My maternal grandparents are Eastern European Jewish and African American, and on my father's side I have Cherokee and Puerto Rican blood." She smiled with pride. "I rise above definable race categories but in this town, that makes me pretty normal. I love that."