Murder Island

by James Patterson, Brian Sitts

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

They thought they found heaven on earth. They discover a living hell.

When professor turned crime-fighter Brandt "'Doc'"Savage and his girlfriend Kira Sunlight land on a desert island in the middle of the Atlantic, they think they've found a perfect utopia. An escape from their tumultuous pasts.

But they don't have long to enjoy their newfound peace before they are violently separated and dragged to opposite ends of the Earth.

Doc's search for Kira takes him from the coast of Brazil to northern Europe and the jungles of the Congo, and he discovers they are entangled in a global conspiracy that is bigger he ever could have imagined.

Release date: October 8, 2024

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 416

Sample

The Bahamas, 1902

IN THE THICK of a midnight squall, a piercing scream burst from the cabin of the tiny schooner. It sounded as if a woman were being murdered. The Orion was tucked into a shallow cove, but there was no shelter from the blasting rain. Wind rocked the hull, and lightning struck so close it threatened to split the mast.

Belowdecks, a young woman was lying on a thinly padded cot. Her knees were bent up and spread wide. Her hair was lank with sweat, and her lips were pinched tight with pain. A sturdy brown-skinned midwife leaned over the woman’s bulging belly.

“Push!” she shouted. And again: “Push!”

The expectant father stood against the opposite wall of the cabin, his head brushing the ceiling beams. He was a physician, but he had assisted in only a few births during his training, and that was years ago. Better to let the island woman take charge. She had delivered hundreds.

The boat creaked, and saltwater spit through the seams around the portholes. “Look at me!” the midwife commanded the expectant mother. “One more push! Do it now!”

The father steadied himself and moved across the tiny cabin. He could see the curve of the midwife’s back and, above it, his wife’s face, sweaty, eyes squeezed shut. And then he heard a small whimper, followed by a lusty cry. The father stepped to the side of the cot. Between his wife’s legs, the midwife cradled a bloody pink baby.

“It’s a boy!” she proclaimed.

The midwife sliced the umbilical cord with a pair of scissors and laid the squirming bundle between his mother’s breasts. The young woman kissed her child on the head, just once, before his father took him.

Holding the slippery infant tightly in both arms, the father walked up the short staircase onto the pitching deck. The pelting rain washed the baby clean. The father steadied himself. Then he marched to the opposite rail—and dropped his son into the roiling water.

The baby disappeared beneath the waves. A few seconds later, he bobbed up again, arms and legs churning in the foam. The father tipped his head back and howled with pride. At one minute old, his son was already a swimmer! He reached down and scooped up the dripping infant, then turned back toward the glow of the staircase.

Suddenly, there was a lull in the howl of the wind. Another cry burst from the cabin below. The father gripped his son tight and hurried back down the staircase. His wife’s head was tipped back in exhaustion. The midwife grinned as she held up another squirming bundle.

A second baby.

The swimmer had an unexpected brother.

Chicago, not long ago

THE AIR IN the tunnel was fetid and stale. I felt like I was suffocating with every step. Just five minutes earlier, I’d been walking with Kira in the fresh autumn air. Now we were both underground, running for our lives.

If we hadn’t been together, I would have been chased down already. Kira knew the city tunnel system by heart—every entrance, every exit, every turn. She knew me inside out, too. After all, she was the one who trained me. She pulled me to a stop and listened. Slimy wastewater rose up to our calves. I could hear the trickle of fresh runoff from the streets above. And then—the splash of footsteps behind us.

“They’re still coming,” I whispered.

“No shit,” Kira whispered back. “It’s what they do.”

We both understood who was chasing us. They were operatives from a Russian school for killers—the same school Kira had escaped as a girl. That made her a prime target.

So far, our maneuvers hadn’t shaken our pursuers. We’d just managed to outpace them. Now we were in a section where the overhead work lights were off. The dark made for good cover, but I could barely see the curve of the tunnel ahead.

“There should be a branch about thirty yards up,” Kira said. She pulled me along by my sleeve. “C’mon, Doc. Move!”

The nickname still jarred me. I still thought of myself as Brandt. But to Kira and the people trying to kill us, I was now Doc.

Doc Savage.

The name alone made me a wanted man.

The splashing behind us was getting louder. We’d seen a pack of ten or twelve up top. Clean-cut. Young. Like a bunch of college students out for a walk. Except for their sick little smiles. It was a trademark they all seemed to share. When they came for us on the street, we had to move fast. We dodged traffic all the way south from Hyde Park. At first, I thought we’d lost them at the tunnel entrance. I didn’t think they saw us go down. I was wrong.

And now I was mad.

I grabbed Kira by the arm and turned her around to face me. “Hold on!” I said. “Maybe we should stand and fight. Get this over with once and for all. We can take them. You and me. Right?”

She looked at me like I was demented. “Did you bring guns?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Me neither,” said Kira. More splashing behind us. “But I guarantee they did.”

A blast went over our heads. In the tight space, it sounded like a cannon.

We took off again.

Kira was right. They had the advantage. There was no telling how many had followed us down into the tunnel, or how many others were still waiting for us above. They were excellent trackers. I knew that. Kira knew it, too—even better than I did.

A flashlight popped on behind us. All I could see was the center beam and a hazy halo. I turned back toward Kira. Her copper-colored curls now showed bright against the curved tunnel wall.

“Get down!” I grunted.

A bullet hit just above her head, sending chunks of brick flying. We got up again. We were half running, half crawling through the muck at the bottom of the tunnel. Then, there it was! The tunnel branch, right where Kira said it would be. A three-way split.

I looked back. Two lights now. Another shot! The water in front of us exploded in a big white geyser. The next shot would be right down the middle. High-caliber ammo. A round like that would blow right through both of us.

Kira got to the junction first. “C’mon, c’mon!” I knew she was trying to keep her voice low, but even her whisper echoed. She stopped and stared back down the tunnel for a second.

Then she reached down and ripped a button off her blouse.

The splashing was getting closer. Flashlight beams waved across the tunnel.

Kira held the button flat in her palm and slapped it hard against the bricks. A thick curtain of vapor surrounded her. She pulled me into the cloud. I pressed my back against the curved wall next to her and held my breath.

I heard footsteps approach, then pause, then splash down another branch. By the time the fog cleared, the footsteps were fading into the distance.

Safe. For the moment.

I let my breath out slowly. Kira shot me a little smart-ass look. Okay, her button-sized smoke bomb did the trick. But I felt I deserved part of the credit.

Hell, my ancestor invented it.

Three hours later…

“THEY GAVE UP, right?” I said it. But I didn’t really believe it.

Kira shook her head. “They won’t stop. Not until the mission is complete. Defined as you and me dead.”

The two of us were hanging on a metal ladder high above the bottom of the tunnel. We’d been there for a long time, waiting for night. Right above us was a metal street grate, anchored in cement. I watched as darkness slowly settled overhead.

Finally, it was time.

Kira swung herself to the side of the ladder like a trapeze artist. “Okay,” she said. “It’s all on you now.”

I edged past her and pressed one hand up against the grate.

“Use your back, like I taught you,” she said. “Remember?”

“We never practiced with a flimsy ladder and a deep-set storm drain,” I replied. “It’s a unique situation.”

I pressed up as hard as I could. I felt the ladder rung starting to buckle under my feet. I moved up two steps, redistributed my weight, and pressed my shoulder up against the grate. I took a deep breath and jolted my body upward. Once! Twice! On the third hit, I felt the near side of the grate loosen. Crumbs of black gravel rained down on our heads and dropped into the tunnel below with distant plinks. One more shove and the whole edge popped up.

“My hero,” said Kira. “Now move!”

I strained and pushed until a one-foot gap opened up between one side of the grate and the roadway. Kira swung back to the center of the ladder just below me and eyeballed the opening. “You first.”

I shoved my head through and then pressed my torso up. I felt like a human can opener. The rusted edges of the grate shredded my shirt and carved grooves in my shoulders and back. But anything to get out of that hole. A few seconds later, I yanked my legs and feet through. As soon as I was out, Kira followed, worming her hips through the narrow opening.

“Where the hell are we?” I asked. Our run through the tunnel had taken us a long way from my neighborhood.

“About five miles from home,” said Kira. “My home.”

I stared at her. “The loft?”

She nodded. “It’s our only chance.”

I really hated that idea.

The loft she was talking about took up the whole tenth floor of a converted factory building. The loft was a total secret—and an architectural illusion. According to the city files, the building had only nine floors.

I spent the most agonizing six months of my life in that place. That was before I had any idea who Kira really was or what she wanted with me. The training she put me through was brutal. It nearly destroyed me. She did it to turn me into a replica of my great-grandfather, the legendary Doc Savage himself.

Not my choice. But she had her reasons.

“If we can get there,” Kira said, “we can buy some time, get some weapons.”

That damned loft was the last place on earth I wanted to go back to, but what choice did we have? I was sure the killers had the address of my apartment. They were probably waiting there right now.

“Lead on,” I said.

I thought I knew Chicago pretty well. I’d lived there since grad school. But I didn’t know it like Kira did. She knew the city the way a rat would. Every grimy little path. She pulled me through alleys and underpasses I never knew existed. I got totally turned around.

A few minutes later, we stopped. “Wait here,” said Kira. I huddled under a rusted bridge while she checked every which way, making sure we weren’t being followed.

After another hour of ducking and dodging, things started to look familiar. Then I saw Kira’s building straight ahead. Just looking at the place gave me the creeps. But Kira was already heading toward the rear entrance.

I followed her through the metal door behind the loading bay and down a basement hallway. We stepped into the service elevator. She pushed the button for the ninth floor. When we got out, we walked down a corridor to a fire door. Kira pressed a code to bypass the alarm. One more turn and we were on the hidden staircase that led to her loft. Kira took the stairs two at a time. I was right behind her. The door was ten steps up. Solid steel.

The next instant, a huge blast blew it away.

The stairwell went white, then dark. I hit the landing on my back, with Kira on top of me. There was smoke everywhere. I felt blood trickling from my nose. Kira rolled to the side. She looked stunned. We were both covered in plaster dust.

For some reason, I started crawling toward the staircase, even though it was broken off at the top. My ears were ringing so hard I could hardly hear Kira shouting.

“Doc! Stop!”

I started climbing. The steps were twisted and bent. The railing was scorching hot under my hands. When I got to the last rung, all I could see were flames and bare beams and open sky. The entire loft had been leveled. Walls, doors, windows—all destroyed. I climbed back down. Dazed. Aching. Eyes burning. Kira grabbed for my arm as I got to the bottom step.

“Everything’s gone,” I said.

The city of Chicago never knew Kira’s floor existed.

Now it really didn’t.

SHIT! WHAT NOW?

We staggered through the back corridor together and headed down the back staircase. Fire alarms were blaring. Residents from the lower floors poured out of the doorways onto every landing. People were shouting, crying, asking what the hell happened. Gas explosion? Terrorists? Earthquake? Nobody knew.

I knew. So did Kira. But we didn’t say a word.

We elbowed our way through the crowd and hurried down to the basement level. We pushed through the loading bay doors. My ears were still ringing. Fire trucks were rolling up out front, but the sirens barely registered.

I looked at Kira. I knew we were both thinking the exact same thing. The assassins thought we were already in the loft. And we almost were. If we’d gotten there just ten seconds sooner…

All we had now were the clothes on our backs. We were covered in dust. Our shoes and pants were still crusted with tunnel slime. We reeked of smoke and sewage. But we were still breathing.

Kira pulled out her cell phone and tapped out a quick text.

“We need to change,” she said.

“Clothes?”

“Everything.”

I followed her down the alley behind the building and across an empty parking lot. We worked our way past dumpsters and loading docks, staying off the main streets as she led me on another rat’s-eye-level tour of the city.

After about twenty minutes, we stopped across from a small commercial block near Douglas Park. I saw two hole-in-the-wall bars, a pizza shop, and a small beauty salon. The other businesses were buzzing, but the salon was dark. A CLOSED sign hung on the inside of the glass door.

Kira led the way across the street. The salon was named Diva. Kira rang the bell twice. A few seconds later, a light came on inside. A lanky Black woman made her way from the back toward the door. Early thirties. About Kira’s age. Thick, beaded dreadlocks dangled around her shoulders. She flicked the lock and pulled the door open. When she saw Kira, she rocked back.

“Whoa, honey!” she said. “How many lives you got left?”

WE STEPPED INSIDE. The woman wrapped Kira in a tight hug, then backed off and held her at arm’s length. She curled her nose and turned her head to the side. “What the hell, girl! Did you do a swan dive into a cesspool?” Then she looked over Kira’s shoulder at me and lowered her voice. “Okay, now,” she said. “Who’s the hunk?”

Kira turned and did the intros. “Denise, this is Doc. Doc, this is Denise, an old classmate of mine. We got our personal trainer certifications together way back.”

“I cheated off this girl the whole time,” said Denise. She did a spin and waved her hand around the salon. “Then I decided I was more into the appearance aspect than the muscular aspect, if you understand me.”

“This is your place?” I asked. It was a compact setup, with three styling stations, a reception desk, and a small Aveda retail section. The place smelled like lavender and lemons, with a slight undertone of ammonia.

“Three hundred square feet of prime Chicago real estate,” proclaimed Denise. “At a rent I can almost afford.” The beads at the tips of her locs clicked together as she talked.

“Thanks for opening up,” said Kira.

“You said it was an emergency,” said Denise. She looked us both up and down. “You did not lie.” She pointed to the back of the shop, which was separated from the salon space by a thin wooden partition. “There’s a shower back there. Please use it. Both of you.” Denise held her hands up, palms out. “I can’t work my art on a dirty canvas.”

I still didn’t know why we were here, but before I could ask, Kira disappeared behind the partition. After a few seconds, I heard a flimsy door opening and then water coming on. I sat down in one of the salon’s vinyl waiting chairs, exhausted.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” said Denise. “If I remember, that girl takes the fastest showers in the Western Hemisphere.”

She was right. I was barely settled in the seat when I heard the water turn off in the back room. About ten seconds later, Kira reappeared, wrapped in a towel. Her wet ringlets were dripping down onto her pale shoulders. I could smell her shampoo and body wash from where I sat. I stared at her. Couldn’t help it. Before that afternoon, Kira and I had been apart for nearly twelve months.

I’d almost forgotten how beautiful she was.

Kira tipped her head this way and that to jostle the water out of her ears. “Careful with the hot tap,” she said. “It comes on strong.”

I stood up and slipped past her into the back. Behind the partition, there was a simple fiberglass stall alongside a massage chair and a pile of cardboard cartons. A stack of fresh towels sat on a wooden stand. As I stripped off my filthy clothes, I could hear Denise and Kira talking out front. Denise wasn’t even trying to be discreet.

“What’s the situation with the male model?” she was asking. “Bodyguard? Bouncer? Boyfriend?”

“It’s complicated,” Kira said. “Let’s just leave it there.”

I don’t know what I expected her to say—or what I hoped she would say. Complicated. To be honest, I probably would have used the same word.

“Okay, Miss Kira,” Denise went on. “None of my damn business. Let’s get started on you, okay? How radical?”

“Full on,” Kira replied. . . .