Royal Venom

Royal Venom

by

LC Cooper

Copyright LC Cooper, 2014 - 2016

Published by LC Cooper at Smashwords

Cover image courtesy of cjd.sign@yahoo.com

LC Cooper's Publicist is CJD.sign@yahoo.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

* * * * *

Here is the list of my titles, published at many fine retailers:

Novels:

Christmess

Diary of a Reluctant Vampire

Collin Roggero Adventures:

Legacy

Royal Venom

Fortune Island – coming in 2016

Man Cave

My Slice of Heaven

Simmering Consequences

The Voices of Cellar's Bridge

Anthologies & Collections:

LC's Shorts, Vol. 1 – a collection of LC's first 8 short stories

Robin Williams: My Comic Inspiration ebook Box Set

When the Lights Go Out – collection of Halloween-themed tales—some macabre, some thrillers, and a few laughs

Short Stories:

Barefoot Homecoming

Dan's Accidental Convertible

Halloween's Perfect Storm

Heart's Lust

Loving Reflections

Of Yellow Snow and Christmas Balls

One Lousy Wish

There Was a Knock at the Door

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Table of Contents

Royal Venom

Author's Note

Introducing Legacy, the first Collin Roggero novel

About the Author, LC Cooper

* * * * *

Chapter 1

Mirrikh Amirmoez stumbled along the dune's crescent peaks. The coarse, dry sand scoured the patina off his Italian calf-leather shoes. Having expected a day of opulence, his formal attire bore the brunt of his poor judgment. Mirrikh no longer grumbled about his ruined Zelli shoes, though, or the super-heated sludge smeared within his drenched socks and pant legs. His attention was on keeping his balance.

Mirrikh avoided looking directly at the steeply sloped dune wall, but his peripheral vision kept tracking little balls of crumbled earth rolling down, disappearing into the hazy shadows. The fear and finality of tumbling into one of the deep pits put an end to his complaining, much to the relief of Mirrikh's traveling companion.

Pausing their march, both men sipped from their hip flasks. Mirrikh swatted at some gathering flies and attempted to shake loose the sand and sweat from his long-sleeve, button-down shirt. His sports coat was, once again, hanging over a shoulder. It, too, was sand encrusted—the outcome of wearing the coat atop his head for shade. He flailed the coat in the air, amused at the horde of flies that scattered in reaction. Mirrikh adjusted the coat to settle it onto his head.

Don't do that again. You're embarrassing me.

You'll get over it. I am no longer acclimated to such extremes, and my poor head can't take much more of this.

Decades of sedentary living within mist-laden hedgerows, hills, and dells left Mirrikh sticky, exasperated, and wheezing as he shuffled along their latest obstacle, a scorched, broken mud flat pocked with sand-filled pits. Mirrikh scratched at a rash that festered in between two of the folds of his belly fat. Couldn't have done this in a showroom, like the rest of the world?

Not for the price you're paying, my friend. This is why my overhead is so low and my deals are … quiet.

The point wasn't lost on Mirrikh—he needed this transaction more than the smaller man knew. During the remainder of their march, Mirrikh did keep somewhat quiet, though he mumbled and silently cursed the bony man who seemed oblivious to the hostile terrain.

Did this on purpose, did you, Piri? Mirrikh gulped hard, unable to dislodge the congealed sand in his throat. He reached for his hip flask and gave it a violent shake.

Piri turned around and strolled back to where Mirrikh stood, all the while keeping the handkerchief to his face, not to block the swirling mix of flies and abrasive dust, but to conceal his smirk.

Clad in lightweight linen and sporting wide, flat sandals, Piri skimmed past the obstacles, delighting in his customer's misery. I cautioned you against wearing Western fashion. This land devours such fine garments. Bet your feet are roasting. He tucked his handkerchief into a pocket, revealing his grin. Never have I seen anyone wear such attire for a journey into the desert. He shrugged, adding, No matter—we rest now. Here, fill your flask.

Mirrikh snatched the shoulder flask, slopping drops of water onto the cracked, dried mud. The smoldering water created fumes of wispy contrails, causing Mirrikh to wrinkle his nose at the dirty stench.

Piri frowned at the waste of water. Amplifying his silent derision was the vision of Mirrikh lapping at the flask Slow down. You'll vomit.

What do you care? You staged this—this travesty. Hope you got what you wanted.

Revenge? Perhaps—after all, you did screw me on our last transaction.

I-I didn't know it was a fake.

Me neither, but my customer did.

What are you up to, then? If you were going to leave me out here to die …

I certainly wouldn't have wasted my water on you,. No, no, Mirrikh, you mean more to me alive than dead. I told you, I have exactly what you're searching for.

After swatting a handful of persistent flies away from his sand-encrusted eyes and nostrils, Mirrikh yanked the jacket off his head, and smeared his face dry with it. Then, he scraped a handful of the sludge crammed between the folds of skin on his neck and whipped it at the blistered ground. His gaze moved away from the blob lying in the sand to a bright glare down the hill ahead of them.

Come along. It's up ahead.

Mirrikh scanned the bleached relics and tattered wreckage within the penned yard below. None of those could possibly match my requirements. They're all junk and scrap. What happened to …

Hold your tongue, please. I am proud of my museum, as you are of yours.

Museum? This is a bone yard of wrecked aircraft. Sand mixed with sweat on his arms refused to be swept away, making Mirrikh swear with rage. "I never agreed … "

Piri snorted and shrugged. Perhaps my time should be better spent assisting other customers.

Mirrikh clamped his swollen hands on his meaty hips. Sorry, this heat—this infernal heat. He centered the coat atop his head, but it kept slipping off to the left.

Piri stifled a laugh. The vision of such a powerful man reduced to a cartoon-ish mess was more than he'd hoped. Under different circumstances, Piri would have had Mirrikh killed for selling him counterfeit antiquities, but different circumstances called for different measures. Piri needed money—a lot of it—and this sale was priced to eliminate his troubles. So, instead of leaving Mirrikh to wander the desert to die, he wore Mirrikh down with this phony trek through the wasteland. His thoughts shifted to the chilled scotch and chocolates waiting for him in his limo on the other side of the compound.

Let's get on with this, Mirrikh said, tossing the nearly empty shoulder flask back to Piri.

"Right, then come along, old friend. Your quarry rests no further than another 30 meters."

And so it was. Mirrikh stood in awe of the silhouetted work of art. Its graceful lines and perfect curves made it so much greater than merely a commercial airliner.

Will she do? Piri studied his customer's face.

Mirrikh dropped his awe-struck gaze, realizing Piri was staring at him and not at the jet. Um, I suppose so. He stifled a fake yawn. He looked down at Piri and startled.

Piri was hopping from one foot to the next, and his nose twitched to the same cadence of his fluttering eyelids. Beady eyes, furtively glancing back and forth between Mirrikh and the massive jet, betrayed Piri's casual demeanor.

Unwilling to acquiesce and so easily close the sale, Mirrikh crossed his arms against his belly. I dunno. This airliner is rather … plain. Probably needs a lot of work, too.It was then that he saw the limousine almost hidden behind the remains of a C-47's undercarriage.

Playing me for a fool, traipsing me through the Godforsaken desert, all in an effort to wear me down? Mirrikh pointed at the limo. Haggling, or was this your idea of a practical joke—some sick, twisted way to get even with me.

The price remains firm. Further negotiations are unacceptable.

Whomever said, 'Revenge is a dish best served cold,' then, never endured a hellish trek through the desert with you. Mirrikh's scowl softened into a wry grin. Bloody well done, old man. You got me. I'm covered in sand, sweat, and who knows what else, my suit is ruined, I'm sunburned to a crisp, and yet I'm still standing here getting ready to buy an insanely expensive jet from you.

Oh, I already built my revenge into the sales price. Making you slog across the desert was my bonus.

"Not buying it with my money, Piri, so relax. If this Triple-7's interior is in as good condition as its exterior, I'll pay you your original asking price."

Piri's attempt to conceal his glee was too late. Mirrikh ignored It, though, because his gaze remained fixed on the majestic Boeing 777. Are you certain this one …

Piri tapped his forehead. Details, full of details. He then pointed at the airliner. This Triple-7 carries the number of seats you require—it's not the cargo version. The interior's still in good shape, too. Want to see inside?

Mirrikh smiled slightly. No, not necessary. My boss should be pleased. Good work. He turned to face Piri and then frowned. He noticed Piri's hand moving slowly beneath a billowing sleeve of his thawb, toward something at his waist.

Really, Piri, your Jambia … or is it A GUN? No tricks up my sleeve this time. You will receive full payment once the 777 is loaded onto my barge.

Piri grinned and shook his head. He finished sliding his phone out of its pocket. He chuckled. You should see the look on your face—priceless. Not mugging you, Mirrikh. I'm calling my secretary. Once she confirms that your deposit's on my desk, we'll head for the cooler clime of my limo.

~~ ** ~~

While Piri gave instructions to his driver, Mirrikh settled into a seat. He smiled and breathed in deeply. The limo's interior reeked of a pungent mix of new leather, roses, and sandalwood incense. After taking a swig of the scotch, Mirrikh watched the sun begin to set, silhouetting the Boeing 777. He grimaced slightly and shook his head. Paying so much for such a magnificent aircraft, only to …

What's that? Piri asked as he turned away from the driver.

Oh nothing. Very stout scotch—what year is it?

~~ ** ~~

The courier struggled with the hefty canvas bag in his arms. Piri's secretary rushed to open the door for him.

You can leave it here next to my desk. I'll sign for it.

I'm sorry, Miss, but my instructions were to deliver it directly to Mr. Piri Yılmaz or ensure that it's locked up in his office.

The secretary gestured toward Piri's office door, and then shoved it open. She watched the courier struggle to lift the bag and carry it to Piri's desk. Her phone rang, and she hurried to answer it, forgetting to sign for the delivery.

A week had passed since Mirrikh and Piri's desert meeting, and the delivery was already a day late. Piri held off his financial backers, but they were out of patience. During lunch with one of these investors, unsuccessfully begging for more time, Piri's phone rang. It's-It's her, my secretary. I'm sure it's good news. He excused himself and rushed to a quiet corner in the bar.

What do you mean, you don't know if … I-I don't care about your excuses. Is it locked … good, good, it must be the package. No, leave it alone. I'll be there soon.

Piri abruptly ended his lunch appointment. Honking and gesturing rudely at the drivers of cars he passed, he almost caused two accidents. To avoid a construction delay, he drove onto a sidewalk, caring only if the pedestrians scratched his car's paint job

Not now! he bellowed at his secretary during her attempt to hand him a stack of messages. None of it matters, he mumbled before slamming his office door shut. As long as Mirrikh kept his word and paid me in full, then …

Piri grinned and took in a long, deep breath. The sack of gold was finally there—on his desk. While cutting away the security tag and removing the contents from the burlap sack, he imagined living the life of a very, very wealthy man. The alluring red-velvet bag was cinched closed with a braided-golden colored rope, adding to Piri's thoughts of riches. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the knot. The first thing I shall buy is …

His broad grin became a puzzled frown. He heard an unfamiliar noise, something that didn't sound like gold bars clanking against each other.

There it is again, he said while opening the bag wider. Probably some sort of receipt or note of gratitude. He paused to recount the dirty trick he played on Mirrikh at his aircraft bone yard, chuckled, and then returned to rummaging inside the bag.

Amid the jumbled stacks of gold bars was, indeed, something different—something … pliable, warm, and slick. Piri pawed at it, but then yanked his hand free of the satchel. It was too late

A burning hot pain, followed by an angry hiss, told Piri that he'd been double-crossed. Usually paranoid, due to his business dealings, He always carried a kit containing an assortment of anti-venom and medicines, but in his haste to count his money, he accidentally left the kit in his car. Desperate, he heaved piles of papers onto the floor and out of his desk's drawers, vainly searching for a vial of serum.

Collapsing back into his seat, gasping for air, Piri saw a ghostly vision of Mirrikh's face appear—contorted and evil—laughing at him.

He clutched at his heart, every muscle, his brain, his throat, everything felt afire. A quick set of convulsions, and Piri was dead

His secretary found the body hours later, as she was leaving for the evening. The detective assigned to the case confiscated the gold. Once home, though, he discovered scratches on the bars that revealed lead hidden beneath gold paint. His own plans for an early retirement vanished as quickly as Piri's life force.

The only trace that remained of the snake was the wounds on Piri's hand. As elusive as the snake, the courier could not be found. Suspicious of the secretary's sketchy description of the delivery man, and the fact that she couldn't recall the name of the courier service, the detective grilled the secretary for hours, convinced that she knew where to find the real gold—and possibly even Piri's killer. Bruised and limping, the secretary was eventually released, much to the anger of the detective.

Equally evasive, Mirrikh's container ship, Flora Bonita, left the harbor with the Boeing 777 safely on board. A month later, Mirrikh submitted an insurance claim for the ship, stating it never arrived in port and was lost at sea. Insurance fraud was one of Mirrikh's profitable lines of business.

As planned, days after its departure, the Flora Bonita disappeared into a massive stationary fog bank off the coast of Portugal. Four days later, a similar vessel steamed out of the northern edge of the murky front. Similar in size and design, the Icelander was mistaken for the missing Flora Bonita and boarded by the coastal patrol. Upon evaluation of its registration, identifying papers, and bills of lading, the ranking inspector declared that the ship could continue on its journey. In exchange for his favorable report, he accepted a bar of gold. The Icelander arrived in England with its manifest modified to state that its cargo was parts and decor salvaged from ships in India's scrapyards. After a modest customs inspection and the payment of import duties and bribes, the disassembled 777 was on its way to its new, but not final, home.

~~ ** ~~

Mirrikh's niece, Tomi, flung open the door to her uncle's home office, wildly waving a sheet of paper and ranting about poor-quality parts. Not finding Mirrikh seated behind his desk, as expected, stoked Tomi's fiery temper. Uncle Mirrikh, she hollered several times, with each time being louder than the last, until she was practically screaming his name. Crumpling the paper into a ball, she drew back her arm to throw a strike into the fireplace, but the ringing telephone startled her, and the shot skipped across the velvet sofa and disappeared into the umbrella stand. Frustrated, yet in awe of her weirdly successful toss, Tomi was sufficiently distracted to answer the phone calmly.

Shock, though, caused her usually energetic jaw to fall open. Her chapped and peeling lips were unable to form the words necessary to express her astonishment, disbelief, and sadness—after all, she had known Piri for nearly twenty years.

After an unsuccessful search of her grimy overalls, she found a pen in Mirrikh's desk drawer and jotted a phone number onto the desk calendar. After thanking the caller and tearing away the scribbled note, Tomi resumed her search for her uncle. This time, however, her angry stride—at being conned by a supplier—was replaced with the melancholy shuffle of losing a dear family friend. She headed toward the portico at the mansion's center—her uncle's favorite place to rest and meditate.

Tomi stood outside the open-air conservatory and breathed in its mix of fresh flowers, the morning's Dewey chill, and the cherry perfume of her uncle's pipe. After this mind-clearing exercise, she softly rapped on the slightly opened door and poked her head in.

Uncle Mirrikh, Tomi said with a crackle in her voice., uncertain how to proceed.

Setting the morning paper beside his cup of coffee, Mirrikh stretched and looked up at his niece. What is it? What has you so troubled on such a beautiful day?

I—I called to check on the jet's progress … then I got a faxed invoice from … and then Piri …

Slow down, Honey. He took her hand in his and rubbed it gently. Take a deep breath and try again.

Oh, so much of this other stuff doesn't matter, but your friend who owns the salvage yard in Turkey …

Piri? Are you speaking of Piri Yılmaz, child?

Tomi bowed her head and then stared at their held hands. He's-He's dead! Tomi's gaze met her uncles, and she studied his expression, yearning to see sincere compassion. She received a blank stare instead. It was his customary look—the one given when he had something to hide. She waited for her uncle to open up to her. Once again, she would be disappointed.

Listen, my dear, people die frequently and unexpectedly, especially in that part of the world.

But a cobra's bite? In his office?

To Tomi's surprise, Mirrikh chuckled. He explained his reaction by saying,, Does seem a bit passé … quite the cliche, isn't it? His death is, indeed, unfortunate, but what became of my dear friend was God's will.

Tomi stood with arms folded across her chest, astounded by her uncle's callous demeanor.

That's it, Uncle Mirrikh? It seemed that Piri …

Had a nasty habit of making deals with the devil. Apparently, someone decided to put a stop to his profiteering. Mirrikh raised an eyebrow when meeting Tomi's stare with his own. What did you expect? Certainly, there were times when Piri and I appeared close, but he was not an honorable man. He was particularly nasty during our last meeting. Mirrikh abruptly stopped talking.

Tomi watched her uncle's body language, expecting it to betray his words, but Mirrikh remained stoic. He broke their standoff by grabbing the rolled-up newspaper at his side. He then ruffled it open with enough noise to make his aggravation obvious. From behind the newspaper, he said, It was God's will, not mine. I'm offended and dismayed that you come into my peaceful garden to imply that I am somehow responsible …

Tomi gasped, and Mirrikh stopped talking—both realizing Mirrikh's gaffe—that Tomi never directly accused her uncle of anything. Peering over the top of the opened paper, Mirrikh said, I think it's time for you to get back to work on those museum restorations. I will notify you when the sections of the Boeing 777 arrive.

But … Piri was …

Yes, my dear, he 'was,' but 'is' no more. His abilities will be missed. Now, please do as I directed and return to the airfield. That little Cessna must be airworthy by Thursday.

Tomi refused to be dismissed so casually. What's going on, Uncle? Many of the phone calls lately …

Remain none of your business! Be a good girl and run along and stay out of trouble. Soon, very soon, we shall have a fine specimen of a Boeing 777. I hope you will dedicate your energy and focus to its restoration instead of prying into situations that are none of your concern.

Tomi frowned, threw her hands up in the air, and slammed the door behind her, which caused Mirrikh to wince.

Hell hath no fury …, he mumbled, wondering whether it would be clothing or an expensive bauble that would put him back in his niece's good graces. Whatever it may be, this was an unexpected close call—one that his detail-driven customer would not appreciate.

As soon as Tomi was out of sight, Mirrikh hurried into his office, locked the doors and closed all window shades. After dropping into his desk chair, he called the customer.

Yes, The thorn was removed … a pity, I suppose …On a better note, restoration will begin … No, tomorrow, but then we have to unload the two trains and get all the parts to the hangar. Mirrikh winced and pulled the phone away from his ear. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, wondering if the money was worth the trouble