CHAPTER ONE
“I really need to see you, Max. Now.”
The fear in Anthony’s voice shot right into Max’s ear and sent a shiver down his spine.
Max squinted at the speaker that Anthony’s voice was coming through over the phone line. “What’s going on?”
“I—I have to talk to you and I can’t do it over the phone. Please.”
Max held his breath, his brow furrowing while he considered Anthony’s words. Urgency filled the pause and seemed to pulsate like an electric current against his cheek as he puzzled out why Anthony DeMateo, the most self-sufficient, even-keeled man Max had ever known, sounded as if the snap of a twig would send him into hysterics.
He rubbed his hand against his jean-clad thigh and eyed the security monitors that displayed the storm raging outside. There was little that would draw Max out of his mountain home even on a good day. Anthony was one of those exceptions.
A wave of guilt for not keeping in better contact with his mentor dried out his throat. Whenever Max was in need, Anthony had been there. Well, except for that one occasion. But even then he had stayed by his side until Max was ready to stand on his own. Besides, it wasn’t as if making the effort for a friend would kill him.
“Yeah. Okay. I’m leaving now.”
“Thanks, Max,” Anthony replied with a palpable sigh of relief. “See you soon.”
Max turned back to his virtual reality game and grinned when he saw the number of open dialogue boxes flashing on the jumbo LED television that served as his monitor.
“Yo man, where are you, M3?”
“Where are you?”
“We’re waiting on you.”
“Sorry, guys,” Max said after he engaged his headset. “Reality is calling. Have fun storming the castle without me.”
“Man, that’s lame. We need you to get past those Arasai.”
“You’ll be fine. We’ll do it again another day.”
As he held his fingers over the keys to terminate the game, he paused, suddenly reluctant to disconnect from the one place he felt at home. On more than one occasion, Anthony had voiced his concern about Max’s life of complete solitude, even though he was never entirely cut off from society. When he wasn’t dealing with his software buyers, he was in contact with hundreds of people a day playing online video games.
Yeah, yeah. Max was not blind to the irony of his choice of escapism. And just as in real life, gamers sought out his avatar for his power and abilities. The only difference was in the gaming world they were upfront with what they wanted from him, instead of playing coy games of false flattery while they plotted how to exploit his intelligence.
What would the people in both of his worlds demand if they had any idea of what he was really capable of? A general distaste for the world at large warred with his amusement over that mental image. His blood, his life, his soul?
Didn’t matter anyway. Never again would he allow another to take what was his. Never.
In the quiet of his home built deep in the side of a mountain, he closed his eyes and the silence began to weigh on him as if he were lying on an inflatable raft that kept expanding around him, bulging in giant bubbles until it hugged him in a suffocating grip. No one would even know Max Madden was no more as he withered away in his man-made cocoon.
He sucked in a sharp breath and tried to shake the oppressive loneliness from his mind. His life was shaped by his choices, the way he wanted, and it suited him just fine. These occasional…misgivings were probably signs of cabin fever. A change of scenery would take care of the cobwebs right quick. Yeah, all he needed was some fresh air.
He logged out of the game and raised both hands in the air. The familiar sizzling sensation gathered in his chest and radiated down his arms to his fingers. Waving his hands as if he were conducting an orchestra, he gestured at the keyboard and watched it levitate. As it traveled across the room and slid gently onto the shelf, the television turned off and the cabinet doors closed with a flick of his fingers.
With a small smile of satisfaction, he got to his feet and rubbed his hands together before searching for his coat and keys. It had taken him years of moving objects to and fro before the use of his telekinetic powers stopped leaving him fatigued and battered. Carving out his mountain home had almost killed him. But just like with any set of muscles, the more he used his powers, the stronger he became. If only he had more use for them than tidying up his place.
On his way out the door, he set the elaborate security system that monitored his property. Although his lair had yet to be found, it wasn’t for lack of people trying. When your net worth was in the billions of dollars, everyone wanted a piece of you.
Max slid behind the wheel of his black Ferrari 488 GTB—affectionately nicknamed the Beast—and squinted into the dark rainy night as the two-inch-thick galvanized garage door disappeared into the rock face.
The scents of exhaust and wet earth filled the tight, posh interior of his car as he pressed down on the accelerator. The thick tires caught on the cement with a squeal, leaving hot rubber on its surface before the car took off in a plume of smoke.
The Beast was a phantom in the night, hugging the slick curves of the mountain highway like spandex on a stripper. The growl of the monster V8 echoed in the downpour, clearing its way of both animal and machine. Vibrations shot through his body, making him giddy with the rush of handling such a powerful machine. It was almost as good as sex. Almost.
God, he loved this car.
In less time than was legally allowed, Max arrived at the gate surrounding five acres of forest and lawn that sat at the base of Cougar Mountain. Before he touched the button on the call box, the gate swung open, allowing him entrance. He pulled the Beast to a stop in the circular driveway, then cut the engine.
The rain continued to hammer down as if Mother Nature was seriously pissed off at the world and decided to engage in a cleanse. Max grimaced at the deluge. He’d be soaked in seconds in his leather coat. The duster wasn’t practical for this type of weather, but it suited him. Fortunately, it wasn’t as if he needed to impress anyone with his appearance.
He stepped out of the car in quick movements to minimize the amount of water splashing into the Ferrari’s black leather interior, then jogged up the front steps of the log cabin–style house. As with the gate, the door opened before he lifted his hand to knock.
Anthony stood at the door with a highball glass full of ice in his hand. Behind him, the house was dark. “Come in, come in.” He gestured with his free hand and scanned the front yard with fear in his eyes before shutting the door behind them. “Thanks for coming, Max.”
“How did you know I was at the gate?” Max asked, pushing the wet fall of his hair out of his eyes.
Anthony shot him an ‘are you kidding’ expression and gestured at the door. “The entire county can hear that monster of an engine. Were you followed?”
“No,” Max drew out slowly. He blinked rapidly as his vision struggled to focus in the dark entryway. Unease coiled in his gut as he took a good look at his friend in what little light streamed in from the windows.
Even in his late forties, Anthony had retained that youthful, healthy appearance that came with being an avid outdoorsman. But tonight he looked exhausted. His blond hair stuck out as if he had been repeatedly running his hands through the strands. The top button of his shirt was open, his tie loose around his neck, the cotton rumpled. Anthony was always immaculately dressed, even if he were out on the soccer field or in the woods on a hike. Never anything less than tidy. Something was wrong.
“You got here fast. I thought you were home in that mysterious cave of yours.” Anthony’s dry chuckle cracked. He led the way past the large, open living room and down the hall. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thanks.” Max followed him into his study and frowned as he took in the odd setup in the office. A linen handkerchief covered the Tiffany lap on the desk, muting the light, and the blinds and curtains on the massive window were drawn shut, the sides held together with binder clips. “Anthony, what’s up?”
Anthony swallowed hard and took a seat behind his desk. He traced a distracted line on the smooth mahogany surface with the tip of his well-manicured finger. “I don’t know, Max. I don’t know.” He made another pass through his hair with his shaking hands. “Have you spoken to your father lately?”
Max stilled as he fought the surge of violence that roared through his blood at the mention of that rat bastard.
Matthew Maxwell Madden II. A man whose name was as big as his ego and ambition. Max’s father and Anthony’s boss.
Max preferred to forget that the man who had supplied DNA to him even existed, but Anthony always held out hope that they would reconcile. Family is forever and all that sentimental shit. Pigs would write code before that ever happened.
“You know we haven’t,” he replied in a low tone.
Anthony nodded, his eyes downcast. “I was hoping that one day you two would be able to put the past behind you. Maybe if…” He turned the open laptop on the desk around to face Max. “I guess it won’t matter now anyway. I was hoping I was wrong, but I don’t think so. You know how the economy is still tanking? Government bailouts aren’t helping. Domestic markets are as unstable as ever. Hell, the world is on the brink of nuclear war.” He shook his head. “Madden Financial stands to lose big.”
Anthony sat on the board of Madden Financial, a conglomerate of financial institutions owned by Max’s father. When it came to business, Anthony stood by Madden 100 percent. But the way Madden had treated Max and his mother, as though they were his personal property as opposed to human beings, had caused more than one heated argument between the two men.
It had been ten years since Max had broken ties with his father. If Anthony was worried enough to get him involved in Madden business, it had to be bad.
Frowning, Max crossed his arms. “How much damage are we talking?”
His mentor’s Adam’s apple bobbed twice. “A billion. Give or take a hundred grand.”
“Ha-ha. Funny.”
“Ha-ha. Not funny.” Anthony’s blue-eyed stare was as impenetrable as stone. “I’m serious, Max.”
“Th-that’s impossible,” Max exclaimed as his knees buckled and he fell hard onto a chair. “A company isn’t set to lose that much money without there being talk somewhere on the internet.”
“That’s just it. There hasn’t been talk because we’re doing better than we should be.” He swallowed again. “Much, much better. Look at this.” He clicked open several files on the desktop and arranged the spreadsheets side by side for comparison. “I’ve been monitoring the situation, and for some reason, money that Madden Financial should have lost isn’t gone, so I dug deeper and found this. Something seemed off with these ten investors here.” Anthony pointed to the middle spreadsheet.
“Off how?”
“On the surface there is no connection. This company makes handguns, this one here is a pharmaceutical company, and this one here develops automobile engines. They’re not publicly traded, nor are they sole proprietorships. They are owned by conglomerations, yet I can’t find a board member or contact information anywhere in our files or online. It’s almost as if they’re run by ghosts. I asked your father, but he said that he’s working with the owners and their investors personally. Look, when hundreds of millions of dollars are on the line I need more than a ‘Trust me,’ so I—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I broke into your father’s office.”
“How the hell did you manage that?”
Distaste tightened Anthony’s lips. “I used that hidden entrance to his office from the hallway that leads into the parking garage. I waited until he was…occupied elsewhere in the building to go through his things. His computer was still logged on.”
Max didn’t need an explanation of what had kept Madden “occupied.” Anthony’s expression said it all. It was a well-known fact that the only thing Madden loved more than money was women. His political power and wealth made him the ultimate babe magnet. A pretty young thing in a tight skirt and a down-to-there sweater was like waving the green flag at Daytona. Madden made no excuses for the behavior he claimed was compelled by his colossal sex drive, and his exploits had become the stuff of legend in his social circle.
“Anyway,” Anthony continued, well aware of the damage Madden’s sex life had had on Max’s mother. “It took me a few attempts, but I found emails, and those emails led to documents I found hidden in his office. Matthew is the sole owner of all these companies. Not Madden Financial, but Matthew personally.”
“So you’re saying that my father is using Madden Financial as his own personal piggy bank to develop other companies?”
“Not just that, he’s using those companies to hedge his investments against each other. So when one defaults, the others collect on the original investment, plus the base points, all at the expense of the bank’s shareholders. And there’s more.”
Max dropped his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. Of course there was.
“Funds from these companies are being deposited into off-shore accounts tied directly to Matthew. I found statements that show there’s more sitting in those accounts than what he’s earning as the head of Madden Financial and these companies combined. Lots more.”
“How much?”
Anthony swallowed again and looked away. “Billions.”
Max couldn’t have heard that correctly. “Billions? As in plural?”
“Almost one hundred billion total.”
“That’s impossible. Someone would have had to notice at some point. You can’t have that much money changing hands without the FDIC, SEC, and IRS catching wind of it.”
“I know. That’s why he stole it.”
“What?” His father was cold, calculating, and manipulative, but master bank thief? No way. “How?”
“Come on, Max.” Anthony barked and jumped to his feet. “You know how. With computers. You broke into every US satellite system with nothing but a PC and dial-up when you were thirteen.”
“Hey.” Max held up his hand. “They asked me to check their firewall. It was perfectly legal.”
Anthony grunted. “He’s been doing this for years, and the other financial institutions have been covering it up. Did you honestly believe that many mortgage lenders and banks had practically every loan they issued default at the same time? If you were Fannie Mae or Merrill Lynch, what would you say? That you had thousands of homeowners default on their loans or you had ninety billion dollars stolen from you? It was all stolen, but they covered up. Think of the worldwide hysteria that would cause. There would be a run on every bank in the world.”
“Why would Madden—hell, anyone—need that much money? You couldn’t spend that in several lifetimes. And he sure as hell wouldn’t leave it to me if he died.”
Anthony didn’t say anything, just slid several sheets of paper across the desk.
Max looked at a series of emails and charts, his lightning-quick brain processing the words on the page as disbelief grew into a mushroom cloud of epic proportions.
Madden Sr. had gone on a purchasing spree of obscene amounts of weapons, chemicals, and large pieces of land in locations all over the world. Missives arranging those transactions were written in Russian, Spanish, Korean, and Arabic.
That rioting ball of what-the-fuck sparked again in Max’s gut. “Are you telling me that my father is planning a terrorist attack?”
“No. Total world domination.”
A full minute ticked by before Max let out a huge belly laugh and melted in his seat. Intense relief drained into his frantically beating heart, leaving him dizzy.
“Man, you really had me going.” He slapped the papers across his thigh. “My father bilking people out of millions of dollars I totally believe, but ‘total world domination’?” he repeated in a spooky the-end-is-near voice. “That’s funny. I almost bought it. Almost.” He sighed and wiped the tears from his eyes, getting to his feet. “Now, where’s your Scotch?”
“Max.” Anthony latched onto his wrist with a bruising grip. “I’m not joking. Exaggerating, maybe, but he’s working on something huge, like military coup huge. Matthew is building an army. Look at what’s happening in Portugal, in Greece. Brazil! Jesus, man, who backed 65 percent of the eleven billion dollars in loans they took out to fund the Olympics? And who’s going to foreclose on them?”
“Madden,” Max mumbled.
“Greece and Brazil were just the test runs. Look at how divided our country is now. The West Coast states are threatening to secede, for Christ’s sake. When the United States collapses, there will be chaos and desperation the likes of which we have never seen. He is setting himself up in the ultimate position of power. I’ve seen him go off to closed-door meetings with leaders of third-world countries. He claims it’s to negotiate the conditions to help them rebuild their economies, but I know that’s a lie. He’s providing them with money, weapons, and drugs in return for their loyalty. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is dealing with terrorist organizations. Max, I—I don’t know what—” he broke off and tugged at his hair again.
The reality of the situation sank into Max like a bad sunburn. His father, the man who for years tried to fleece every ounce of brain power Max produced, who used his wife’s family connections in the government to further his own financial agenda, who walked upon the earth as if it were created just for his pleasure, was setting himself up to take over the world.
Max stood before Anthony, and for the first time lacked a smart comeback or ready answer. Staring at his friend, he now understood why the man looked as if he had stuck his finger in the light socket after a night of heavy drinking. Actually, that Scotch was sounding pretty good right then.
“What do you plan on doing?” Max asked, the softness of his voice at odds with the enormity of the situation. “Who else have you told this to?”
Anthony shook his head. “No one. I didn’t want to risk endangering anyone else. And you’re the only one I trust not to betray me.”
“Have you contacted the authorities?”
“I can’t. Do you think they can protect me from that?” Anthony looked at him, his eyes shiny with helplessness. “Max, I’ve been marked for death.”
“What?”
“I think your father knows I’ve been collecting evidence. He’s been shutting me out of discussions about the company all week. Today was the first day I spoke with him and he asked me about my plans for the weekend, about whether I would be home or not. He said it was in case I would be up for a round of golf.” He tittered with borderline insanity. “Can you believe that? Golf? He has to be sending a hit out after me.”
Max’s heart sank. If he believed only a morsel of what Anthony was saying, then he knew that Madden would do whatever it took to stop the evidence against him from getting out.
Max leaned over, bracing his hot hands on the cold desk. “Then what the fuck are we doing here? You have money. Why are you not on the first flight out of here?”
“I needed to talk to you first.”
“No, no. Skip town and then call me. That’s what phones are for.”
“I’m sorry.” Anthony tossed his hands up in defense. “I didn’t know what to do. I’ve never been marked for death before. I’m a little out of my element here.” He removed the flash drive from his laptop and held it out. “Take this. If anything happens to me, you have to get the word out. You have to stop him. How many different governments and agencies have sent men after you to convince you to work for them? And you’ve outsmarted every one. If anyone can stop Madden, it’s you.”
Max placed the drive in his coat pocket. “Look, Anthony, I can protect—” The shrill ring of Anthony’s cell phone cut him off.
Anthony stared at the display, his eyes widened in horror. “Oh God, already?”
“What is it?”
He held a finger up to his lips and whispered, “I set the security alarm so if anyone crossed the barriers around the property it would ring to my phone. Someone’s approaching the house.”
Max aimed his palm in the direction of the office door across the room. It shut with a bang, the lock clicking into place. The wet bar slid smoothly in front of the door as he waved his other hand in the direction of the lamp, turning it off and plunging them into darkness. “I’m not going to let you die.”
Anthony stared at him in shock as the swirling glow of the laptop’s screen saver painted his face to look like a Salvador Dali painting. His mouth opened and shut twice before he wheezed, “How—”
The ping of breaking glass made them both drop to the ground as bullets shredded the windows and heavy curtains.
Max rolled across the floor. With his back flat to the wall, he inched up the plaster to peek through the tattered rain-soaked curtain and out the broken window. A shadow ghosted sideways across the lawn. He glanced at Anthony, who lay sprawled on the ground, his hands covering his head.
“Are you hit?” Max whispered.
Anthony cautiously lifted his head. “No. You?”
Max shook his head. “I saw one outside. Can your security system detect how many there might be?”
“No. You were still working on that program when you installed the system.”
Max grunted and leaned against the wall. His brain fired, racing to form a plan. Plans were good, plans kept you alive.
He considered the layout of the house and where the Ferrari was parked near the garage. If they could get to the Beast, they could outrun anything. His breath let out in a low growl. Oh, if those assholes touched his car…
Max reached out and grabbed Anthony by the back of the collar and heaved. “Stay close to me.”
They crawled along the floor to the door. When they got there, Max slid the wet bar over and strained to hear through to the other side. When nothing but silence met his ears, he eased the door open.
A barrage of bullets ricocheted above his head, showering him with bits of splintered wood.
“Holy shit,” he exclaimed. White spots danced in his vision as a second spike in his adrenaline burst through his system.
Focus, focus. Pretend it’s just a video game and get the fuck out of there.
He sucked in a breath, then another as the tingling began again in his hands. He peered through the slim opening. In the shadows, two figures dressed in black huddled near the front entrance. The smoking AK-47s in their hands glinted in what little light came in through the windows.
From his position, Max spotted the heavy, buttery leather couches in the living room. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the furniture soaring across the room toward the assailants. The crash of broken wood and smashed plaster drowned out their howls screams of surprise and pain.
“Now, now!” Max shouted, bursting out into the hallway with Anthony. Racing toward the kitchen, Max kept Anthony in front of him as he watched out for more gunmen who might have followed.
The kitchen had two escape routes: to the patio or to the garage. Without knowing how many others were out there, Max figured both could be covered. Which to choose? Enclosed space or out in the open?
The moment his feet hit the tile of the kitchen, the patio door in front of them shattered. He pushed Anthony to the floor behind the island then raised both hands. Using the deck chairs outside as missiles, he hurled the furniture toward the direction of the attack just as a grenade sailed through the doorway to land at his feet.
He shouted in surprise as his reflexes took over and he kicked the grenade back out the door as if he were lobbing the winning goal in the World Cup.
Seconds later the explosion rocked the log house as a choked yell ripped through the dark. The stench of burnt flesh confirmed that another gunman was taken care of.
More shouts, in Russian and Italian, came from the front of the house.
“Who the hell did they send after you?” he asked Anthony.
Anthony struggled to his feet, his eyes bulging. “What the fuck, Max? How are you doing that?”
“Not now.”
On their left, the door to the garage flew open, followed by another volley of bullets. Anthony grunted and fell into Max. Blood seeped through his shirtsleeve.
“Anthony!” Max locked his knees to prevent them from collapsing.
Juggling Anthony’s taller frame, he frantically looked around the kitchen for a weapon and spotted the knives sticking out of the wood block across the way. The moment the gunman cleared the door, Max launched every knife in the man’s direction, embedding one deep into his torso. A giant butcher blade nearly decapitated him as it lodged into the wall.
God damn. Well… that was way nastier than it looked like in the movies.
Oh no.
Bile rose in his throat and his abdominal muscles clenched, threatening to unload the contents of his stomach as the stench of blood filled his nostrils.
It had been years since he had been witness to so much blood. Years since the acrid metallic scent had flooded his senses and robbed him of thought.
“Come on,” he choked as he tamped down the nightmarish memories. Hefting Anthony under the arms, he dragged him to the garage.
Heavy footsteps pounded down the hall after them as Anthony’s shoe caught on the top step, tumbling both of them down the short flight of stairs. Max landed flat on his back, his head smacking on the concrete. Stars flashed in his eyes, blinding him for a moment.
The patter of rain on asphalt drew his attention. The garage door was up, but the rain and blackness made visibility shit. In the dark, he could barely make out the sleek outline of his Ferrari near the bushes. He dug into his pocket for his keys and pushed the start button on the fob. The engine roared to life and ignited a spark of hope. The loud pounding of his heart drowned out the din of rain as he waited to see if the car had been rigged with explosives. When his baby remained in one piece, he whispered a prayer of thanks.
He reached out a hand and willed the car closer. Anthony was in no condition for a dash across the driveway.
“Come on, come on, come on,” he grunted.
The three-and-a-half-ton machine barely moved an inch. Max slumped on the ground, exhausted, his lungs burning with exertion. Damn, that thing was heavy.
Anthony struggled to his knees with a groan, his back to the door of the house.
Goddammit, didn’t the man have any instincts for self-preservation? Max hauled the bleeding man behind Anthony’s shiny blue BMW as more shots were fired from the kitchen.
Max flung everything within range at the door with what was left of his powers: tools, shovels, bags of fertilizer. “Come on, Anthony. We just need to make it to my car.”
“Okay,” he panted, wincing.
“Follow me. Shit,” Max muttered as his knees started to buckle, but he forced the starch back in his legs. “On three. One, two, three.”
They popped up and sprinted for the Ferrari in a macabre version of three-legged race, Max supporting Anthony around the waist.
Rain soaked Max’s hair and his soggy bangs flopped into his eyes, further obscuring his vision. Next to him, Anthony yelped and went down, hitting the asphalt hard. Max turned to see a cable around Anthony’s ankles stretch taut as he was pulled back into the inky black of the garage as the articulated door began to close. The metal came down between them as Max dove for Anthony’s outstretched hands.
“No, no, no, no, no!” Cement scraped the skin off his knuckles as Max tried to jam his fingers under the door. Shit, it was locked. He scrambled back to use his powers to lift the steel. Metal grated on metal, screeching like a banshee.
Never had he been tasked to use his powers to such an extreme. With his energy depleted, his powers were shot. His head ached and his limbs felt as substantial as a deflated balloon, but he kept going. He had to keep going.
He was not going to lose another one. Not again. Never again.
Suddenly, it was as if all his senses fired at once as the rest of the world seemed to fall silent. A ringing filled in his ears while his vision sharpened, and it was as though a million needles pricked his skin. A second later, the world tore asunder as an explosion rocked the earth.
Anthony’s house rent in two, the mushroom cloud of debris and flames briefly turning night into day. The concussive wave sent Max flying through the air. Instinct kicked in, but the last of his powers barely cushioned his fall into the rose bushes near the driveway. The thorny limbs tangled in his clothes and hair as he struggled to stand.
His stomach twisted as he watched ash and rain fall from the sky. Orange and white flames consumed every piece of wood and fabric like a gluttonous monster.
Nothing but the sound of the rain and the crackle of the fire met his ears. No screams, no cries for help. No sound of life.
Anthony was dead. His friend gone.
With a bellow of rage, he flung his arms out wide. All around him the foliage flattened as if it were all smashed to the ground by an avalanche of boulders as his screams were swallowed by the roar of the fire.
The light of the yellow and orange flames danced across the slick leather of his coat as if they were celebrating the creation of a new breed of devil. A demon forged with a hunger for revenge only one man could satisfy.
The sins of the father demanded restitution. And the son would see it done. No cost was too great. No sacrifice too big. The death of his friend would not go unavenged.