The Lost Throne(2)

Payne used to lead the MANIACs, an elite Special Forces unit comprising the top soldiers from the Marines, Army, Navy, Intelligence, Air Force, and Coast Guard. Whether it was participating in personnel recovery, unconventional warfare, or counterguerrilla sabotage, the MANIACs were the best of the best. The boogeymen that no one talked about. The government’s secret weapon.

Yet on this night, Payne wanted no part of his former life.

He just wanted to get some sleep.

“Hello?” he mumbled into the hotel phone, expecting the worst.

A dial tone greeted him. It was soft and steady like radio static.

“Hello?” he repeated.

But the buzzing continued. As if no one had even called. As if he had imagined it.

Payne grunted and hung up the phone, glad he could roll over and go back to sleep without anything to worry about. Thrilled it wasn’t an emergency. He’d had too many of those when he was in the service. Hundreds of nights interrupted by news. Updates that were rarely positive.

So in his world, wrong numbers were a good thing. About the best thing possible.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case here.





Several hours later Payne opened the hotel curtains and stepped onto his private veranda at the Renaissance Vinoy in downtown St. Petersburg. Painted flamingo pink and recently restored to its former glory, the resort was a stunning example of 1920s Mediterranean Revival architecture. The type of grand hotel that used to be found all over Florida yet was quickly becoming extinct in the age of Disneyfication.

The bright sunlight warmed his face and the sea breeze filled his lungs as he stared at the tropical waters of Tampa Bay, less than 10 miles from many of the best beaches in America. Where the sand was white and the water was turquoise. Where dolphins frolicked in the surf. Born and raised in Pittsburgh, Payne rarely got to see dolphins in his hometown—only when he went to the aquarium or when the Miami Dolphins played the Steelers at Heinz Field.

In many ways, Payne looked like an NFL player. He was 6’ 4”, weighed 240 pounds, and was in remarkable shape for a man in his late thirties. Light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a world-class smile. His only physical flaws were the bullet holes and scars that decorated his body. Although he didn’t view them as flaws. More like medals of honor, because each one stood for something.

Of course, he couldn’t tell their stories to most people, because the details were classified, but all the scars meant something to him. Like secret tattoos that no one knew about.

The droning of a small aircraft caught Payne’s attention, and he watched it glide across the azure sky and touch down at Albert Whit-ted Airport, a two-runway facility on the scenic waterfront, a few blocks away. It was the type of airfield that handled banner towing and sightseeing tours. Not large commuter jets. And certainly not the tactical fighters that he had observed during the last forty-eight hours. They required a lot more asphalt and much better pilots.

Every few months Payne visited U.S. military installations around the globe with his best friend and former MANIAC, David Jones. They were briefed on the latest equipment and offered their opinions to top brass on everything from training to tactics. Even though both soldiers were retired from active duty, they were still considered valuable assets by the Pentagon.

Part expert, part legend.

Their latest trip had brought them to Florida, where MacDill Air Force Base occupies a large peninsula in the middle of Tampa Bay—8 miles south of downtown Tampa and 9 miles east of St. Petersburg. All things considered, it wasn’t a bad place to be stationed. Or to visit. Which is why Payne and Jones always looked forward to their next consulting trip.

They picked the destination, and the military picked up the tab.

“Hey!” called a voice from below. “You finally awake?”

Payne glanced down and saw David Jones standing on the sidewalk, staring up at him. Jones was 5’ 9” and roughly 40 pounds lighter than Payne. He had light brown skin, short black hair, and a thin nose that held his stylish sunglasses in place. Sadly, the rest of his outfit wasn’t nearly as fashionable: a green floral shirt, torn khaki cargo shorts, and a pair of flip-flops.

“I’m starving,” Jones said. “You want to get some chow?”

“With you? Not if you’re wearing that.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Honestly? It looks like Hawaiian camouflage.”

Jones frowned, trying to think of a retort. “Yeah, well . . .”

“Well, what?”

“Maybe I’m looking to get leid.”

Payne laughed. It wasn’t a bad comeback for a Sunday morning. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”