The Blacklist--The Beekeeper No. 159 Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Coming soon from Titan Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Coming soon from Titan Books

  Coming soon from Titan Books

  The Blacklist: The Dead Ring No. 166 (March 2017)

  The Blacklist: The Beekeeper No. 159

  Print edition ISBN: 9781783298051

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781783298105

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: November 2016

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  THE BLACKLIST™ and © 2015 Sony Pictures Television Inc. and Open 4 Business Productions LLC. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  The battered white van bounced and jostled over a rutted gravel road. Every jerk and jolt poked at Mala Rudenko’s muscles until they ached. She set her teeth and shifted on the hard metal floor, trying one more time to find a comfortable position or a spot to sit that didn’t involve jouncing. All she did was bump up against the other people crammed into the back of the van with her. The stuffy air was filled with the stench of body odor and fear. Mala could smell both on herself. Fear dried her mouth and tightened her stomach into a hard knot. The van had no windows, and the windshield was tinted, so Mala had no idea where she was. Her watch and phone had been taken from her, and she had already lost any idea of time. Her only clothes were a pair of shorts, sandals, and a thin T-shirt with GRRRRL scrawled across it.

  Half the people in the van were chained to the walls, and they stared at the floor with deadened eyes. The ones who were not chained, those sitting on Mala’s side of the van, grunted with annoyance whenever Mala shifted position and invaded the tiny scrap of territory they had carved out. They and Mala weren’t chained because the driver knew none of them would try to escape. Mala huddled into herself, trying not to touch sweaty skin, trying not to bounce, trying not to be herself.

  Did Father know where she was? Was anyone looking for her? The driver of the van, the man who had no name, had said almost gleefully that she would vanish and there would be no way to trace her. Mala swallowed. Was it true? Hell, she had no idea. Criminals would say anything, right?

  At long last, the van came to a halt. The nameless driver and the guard riding shotgun—he actually carried a shotgun—got out and slammed the doors. The chained people continued to stare down at the floor. The unchained ones exchanged nervous glances. Mala held her breath. After a long moment, the back doors banged open, slamming bright sunlight into Mala’s eyes. She flung up a hand to shield them.

  “Out. Now,” said Shotgun in a flat voice. “He’s waiting.”

  The unchained people went first, groaning as cramped muscles straightened and wincing as stiff joints popped. Mala stayed in the center of the group. Her stomach growled and her legs wobbled a little, reminding her how long it had been since she had last eaten. They were a mixed bag of people, with an even division of genders, but they leaned toward young. A hot sun stared down, unrelenting, from a strip of clear blue sky above the road. Trees, thick and heavy, marched right up to the gravel. The undergrowth between the trunks was so thick, Mala couldn’t see more than a few yards beyond the road’s edge. Insects buzzed in the heavy, humid air. No houses, no telephone wires, no power lines, no cell phone towers, no sounds except an insect hum. No signs of people. Mala was seized with a desire to run, but she forced herself to stay right where she was. Where would she go? A bee buzzed past her face, and she restrained herself from swatting at it. No sense in getting stung and adding to her troubles.

  Outside the van waited more than a dozen… people. Mala couldn’t tell if they were men or women. They wore bulky jumpsuits made of some kind of green cloth, and oversized gas masks that made Mala’s mind run inevitably to the bee that had just flown past. They carried long rifles, and wicked pistols were holstered at their waists.

  One of the people, someone who didn’t carry a rifle, pulled off his mask, revealing an older man, perhaps sixty years of age, with a startling shock of white hair and round coke-bottle glasses that magnified his brown eyes to an almost ludicrous degree.

  “Sorry about our appearance,” he said. “You arrived while we were making honey.” He raised his voice. “Bring the rest off! Quickly, now! We can’t stay here for long.”

  The driver, a nondescript man with a medium build, dull brown hair and an ordinary, forgettable face, produced a key to unchain the others, and the strange soldiers hauled them off the van. Several of them cried out as their cramped bodies were yanked into motion. One woman wet herself, and the sharp smell of urine tanged the air. Mala felt bad for her, but was glad it hadn’t happened inside the van.

  The white-haired man made a curt gesture, and one of the soldiers produced a duffel bag and handed it to the driver, who unzipped it. Mala caught a glimpse of a green pile of cash inside. The driver ran what looked like an oversized cell phone over the bag.

  “Has there ever been a bug?” asked the white-haired man.

  “Just part of the process,” said the driver. He finished his inspection and tossed the duffel bag into the van.

  The white-haired man shrugged this off and brought his attention back to the assembled passengers. His movements and his voice both crackled with energy, and Mala found herself compelled to stare at him, unable to look away.

  “I’m Dr. Griffin,” he said in a rich, powerful voice. “Forget your friends. Forget your families. They’ve already forgotten you. In time, you’ll remember nothing but this place and these people, your new family. We will love you and cherish you and care for you—as long as you follow the rules.”

  “Honey,” sai
d a new voice. The little crowd moved aside, and an older woman came forward to take Dr. Griffin’s arm. Her tone was soft. “You should tell them where they are. The poor things are scared.”

  “Of course, dear,” said Dr. Griffin, still in his arresting voice, and turned back to the new arrivals. “You are in the Hive. Now come along. You too, dear.”

  They strolled arm in arm to the side of the road, where the bushes grew particularly thick beneath the trees. To Mala’s surprise, two of the soldiers trotted ahead and pulled the undergrowth aside. A large clump of bushes swung outward, and it took Mala’s startled mind a moment to work out that it was a gate, cleverly concealed to look like shrubbery. The soldiers gestured with their weapons. Mala and the other passengers nervously moved toward the path behind the gate.

  One of the new arrivals, a dark-haired man who had been chained, dashed for the trees. Dr. Griffin barked an order and a soldier aimed his rifle. Mala gasped and her heart jerked. The crack rang through the forest, but it was nothing compared to the young man’s scream of pain. He went down at the tree line, clutching his left leg. Red blood spattered the green grass. Mala tried to look away but found she couldn’t. Nausea sloshed in her stomach.

  “Bring him,” Dr. Griffin said in a deep, gentle tone.

  Two soldiers, still in their gas masks, hauled the moaning man back to the main group and dropped him at Dr. Griffin’s feet. Dr. Griffin put a gloved hand under his chin and lifted it, forcing the young man to meet his coke-bottle eyes.

  “I know you haven’t learned the rules yet,” Dr. Griffin said soothingly, “but that’s no excuse. You need to ask before you do something.”

  “I’m heading out now,” said the driver brightly. Shotgun was already in the van’s passenger seat. The driver jumped behind the wheel, and for a moment Mala was sure Dr. Griffin would order one of the soldiers to shoot him, too, but Dr. Griffin ignored him entirely. The van drove away, leaving a gray smell of exhaust.

  “This event could be useful, honey,” said the woman.

  Dr. Griffin blinked at her, then nodded.

  “Very good observation, Mrs. Griffin,” he said. “Let me demonstrate. You.” He pointed at one of the new arrivals, a woman in a red blouse. Like Mala, she hadn’t been chained. “Come here.”

  Hesitantly, the woman obeyed. The young man, white-faced and clearly going into shock, struggled to get to his feet, but Dr. Griffin jabbed his wound with gloved fingers, and he howled in pain. Dr. Griffin handed the woman a pistol.

  “He will be punished,” Dr. Griffin said. “Shoot him. In the head.”

  A murmur rippled through the group of newcomers, quickly stilled when the soldiers waved their weapons. Mala swallowed hard. Hell, was this for real?

  “I… I… can’t,” the woman said.

  “It’s all right,” Dr. Griffin said in his soothing voice. “I’m telling you to. You aren’t responsible. No one will blame you. You are part of the group, and the group wants it done.” He looked at the soldiers. “Don’t we?”

  “Do it,” one of the soldiers said in a voice that came across as a buzzy whisper beneath the mask.

  “Go ahead,” murmured another.

  “It’s fine,” said a third. “Shoot.”

  The others joined in, urging the woman to do as she was told. Their voices swirled like syrup in the heavy air, pushing and pressing with invisible hands. The woman held up the pistol, her own hands shaking. The crowd of soldiers chanted and murmured.

  Mala didn’t know what to do. She felt light-headed from the lack of food. The chanting, though it wasn’t directed at her, gave her a floating sensation, like she was disconnected from her body. For a moment, every sense was heightened. Mala smelled the sweat of the man standing next to her, felt the melted-butter sun pouring across her shoulders, heard every rustle and buzz of each insect in the emerald leaves around her.

  The woman brought the pistol around to aim at the terrified young man.

  Mala stopped breathing.

  The woman pulled the trigger.

  The sound of the shot made the newcomers jump, but the soldiers didn’t even flinch. A new wound flowered on the young man’s upper arm, and he screamed again, a high, thin wail. Glassy-eyed and panting, the woman lowered the pistol. Dr. Griffin took it from her.

  “Good, good,” he told her. “You tried, and that was very good.” Dr. Griffin removed his gloves and from one pocket produced a piece of chocolate, which he handed to the woman. She devoured it as tears ran down her face. With a smile, Dr. Griffin handed the pistol to Mala.

  “Now you,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Elizabeth Keen plopped into the coffee house chair and put her chin expectantly into her hand. “Well?”

  The other seat’s occupant, one Raymond Reddington, calmly set down the butter knife and reached for a small ceramic jar. From it he lifted a silver spoon and drizzled soft amber honey over his scone. Next to the scone plate sat a teapot and cup with saucer. Reddington’s hat, a Giotto fedora, rested on the table a safe distance from the food. Behind them at the counter, the barista operated the noisy cappuccino machine with the sound of someone strangling an anaconda.

  “You know, I’m usually more of a coffee person, but this tea is delicious, especially with the honey,” Reddington observed.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Keen said. “I like my black coffee.”

  “A deplorable habit reserved for factory workers and cab drivers named Steve.” Reddington took a bite of scone with obvious relish. “Excellent! One of the few things the English got right. Astonishing how the topping comes from an insect’s digestive tract. Did you know that some bees enslave other insects? One kind of bee creeps into another queen’s hive, lays her eggs when no one is looking, and flies away. The larvae hatch and force the other bees to do their bidding. The honey you buy at the farmer’s market might be made by slave bees.”

  At that moment, a barista deposited before Keen a cappuccino cup half as big as her head. She eyed it dubiously.

  “I didn’t order this,” she said.

  “Your friend,” said the barista, and left.

  Elizabeth Keen glared at Reddington across the table. Her dark hair and serious features gave her a good glare, and she knew it. Reddington, however, remained annoyingly immune, however much she used it on him, and she sometimes wondered why she bothered.

  “You need to learn to live a little, Lizzie,” he said in that maddeningly expansive voice of his. “Try new things. Steve the cab driver would be proud.”

  Keen, who had tried a thousand more new things than she cared to, all thanks to Reddington, continued the glare. Reddington sipped his tea. His round, close-shaved head and blunt features were schooled into a careful blandness that Keen found alternately fascinating and infuriating.

  Sure, Keen knew a great many facts about Reddington. He had topped the FBI’s most wanted list as head of one of the most powerful criminal networks in the world, and one day had walked into FBI headquarters and given himself up. For unknown reasons, Reddington had suddenly become happy to hand over information about the worst world-wrecking criminals on earth—but only to Special Agent Elizabeth Keen. Except Keen had never met him. She had, in fact, been on her way to her first day at work at the FBI, and had been more than a little startled to hear the Bureau’s number one fugitive was demanding to speak with her—and only her—about something he called “the Blacklist.”

  Within weeks, Reddington had become the FBI’s most secret confidential informant, while Keen had been sucked into a love-hate relationship with Reddington himself. A relationship that had destroyed her marriage, demolished her career, and nearly gotten her killed more times than she could count. His strange obsession with her safety—as he defined it—had wrecked her life. Yet, at the same time, he was a connection to her past, to her family, and she knew that, in his strange and twisted way, he cared deeply for her.

  Oh yes, Keen knew a number of facts about Reddington, but even after several years
of steady contact, she knew frustratingly little about the man beneath them. What drove him? What motivated him? Even now, after working with him all this time, she couldn’t get a decent read on him. He sat in the hard, eat-your-scone-and-get-out coffee shop chair, his round features schooled into a flat mask she couldn’t penetrate. His posture was relaxed but alert, a man who was aware of his surroundings but unconcerned by them. Nothing seemed to touch him or bother him—except Keen herself. Reddington showed an almost obsessive need to ensure her safety, strange when you considered her job. And whenever she threatened to walk away from their strange relationship, he inevitably did something dramatic to drag her back into it. This oddly made her feel a little better, like she had at least a measure of control.

  “To go all the way back to my first question,” Keen said, “I ask: well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Why did you call me here? It sounded urgent, but all you want to talk about is vegan restaurants and slave bees.”

  “Ah.” Reddington checked his watch and shot his cuffs while he was at it. “By this time tomorrow, we need to be in South Carolina. We’re pursuing another member of the Blacklist.”

  Here Keen came quietly alert. Even though she had personally brought in literally dozens of international criminals, more than most FBI agents collared in an entire career, the thought that hundreds of others, bad to the toenails, still walked around free after torturing, killing, stealing and racketeering continued to outrage her. Any chance to bring down one of Reddington’s Blacklisters made her ears prick up, her heart beat a little faster.

  But all she said to Reddington was, “Who?”

  “The Bodysnatcher.” Reddington refreshed his tea. “He’s making a handoff in a place that decided to nickname itself the Swamp State. Isn’t that delightful? It makes you want to pack your bags and rush right down. I can’t say that I’ve spent more than ten consecutive days there myself, but the Bodysnatcher feels no such compunctions.”

  Keen ignored the extra commentary. “What does this one do?”