Chapter One

“The dark, handsome knight rode and tamed the wind, forever altering the fate of two men … intertwined destinies yet to unfold … today that knight seeks that which the prince possesses,” Rico said into the phone.

“Uhhh, yes, sir, but again … whom may I say is calling, please?” the prince’s secretary said. She shook off the odd statement. “I don’t recognize this number or voice.”

“Sorry, thought you were Miriam,” Jacob Rico said, feeling the fool for a moment. “I’m just calling about some cash. I haven’t called in a while. You must be new. Tell him what I said … well, the knight part, not the money part.”

“Sir, I don’t know how you came by this number, but it is used only by family members of Prince Michael, so I’ll …”

“Exactly, so please …”

“One moment …” The nervous, young secretary put Rico on hold to confer with her boss, who quickly filled her in. “Sir, you will hear a click when I transfer you. I’m sorry for the delay … Jacob.”

“Quite all right, ma’am—no harm done. Good day!”

“Well, well, HAY-cub old chap,” the prince said, painfully mispronouncing Rico’s name. “I figured you would’ve croaked by now.”

“Please, Michael, remember that for you it’s JAY-cob … in English, please! You hurt my ears otherwise!”

“Can’t be as bad as your attempts at humor, KBE Jacob Rico.”

“This insult from a man who passed drama class only because of royal blood,” Rico retorted. He remembered Michael had said Miriam would be leaving. “I guess your new assistant knows who I am now?” The prince had, in fact, breezed through an explanation that his friend on the phone was an honorary Knight of the British Empire.

The KBE after his name still felt strange—Knight Commander of the British Empire—but the rarity of it lent a private thrill. Maybe he’d mention it to his soon-to-be fiancée one day.

Maybe then she would tell him she held the title of Dame Joey Black (she despised her full given name, Josephina Erin Ysleta), by virtue of having dual British and U.S. citizenship. More likely, she’d say nothing—for modesty, and to spare a bruised male ego. The prince, who had nominated her name to Parliament, wrongly assumed Rico already knew.

 Prince Michael owed his life to Rico, who literally dropped from the sky into the middle of a battle during the Iraqi War and saved the day.

Over the years, the prince made every effort to show his appreciation, and the two had grown close. But Rico’s calls had become increasingly less frequent. He still hadn’t told the prince about the cancer he’d been battling for three years—the reason he’d distanced himself from everyone he loved.

Now another reason presented itself—harder to explain than a private fight with cancer, and one that could sever the relationship permanently.

“Yes, she is new on the job,” the prince replied, again in the proper English that grated on Rico’s nerves. For now, though, the short silence worried the Mexican American knight. Maybe they had already grown too far apart.

“All right … JAY-cob, seeing as you now only ring me in a crisis, or to borrow money, which one is it today?”

As straightforward as always. Relief loosened Rico’s chest at the playful tone. He overheard the prince telling his assistant the lords would have to wait—he had an important call. Even so, insecurity crept in; he never seemed able to feel secure in this relationship—or in most of his friendships with men.

“Prince Michael, I’m shocked! But it’s the latter, I’m afraid … I can tell you’re busy. Maybe I should call later.” Rico let the line hang. He knew he wouldn’t call back.

There was more dead air. “Well, I need about 200K,” Rico finally said.

“No-can-do … I only loan money to family. You understand.”

“Right. When can you wire it old chap?”

“Be that as it may, I can only risk 150K.”

“That’s quite all right—150K will have to do. And Michael, please keep it between us,” Rico said.

“Jacob, you are not one given to secrecy, and this isn’t pocket change.” The prince paused and frowned at the other end. “Fill me in on what you’re working on. If you haven’t noticed, the economy is a disaster. You’ve paid back the 20K from your schooling, of which you didn’t give me a clue as to how you did, and the 55K for your security business investment, so I know you’re good for it. But at least tell me, roundabout, what you’re doing.”

“Seriously, Michael, all I can say is that I’m assembling a team for a big tasking.” Rico offered the hollow explanation without a trace of doubt that it would suffice, only because of his friend’s character, not his own. The prince didn’t know Rico had closed up shop in San Diego.

Their bond had been forged in life-and-death situations. The bearded Latino and the clean-cut Englishman made an odd couple that drew attention wherever they went—back when they still went out much.

At first they stayed current on each other’s lives. After leaving the military, Rico visited Europe two or three times a year. The prince rarely reciprocated—his entourage made it difficult—though he did visit Sacramento on a quasi-official trip four years earlier. The last three years, though, even picking up the phone had felt like work for Rico, never mind crossing oceans.

It never occurred to either of them that they were two lonely bachelors who needed to get a life. Both were workaholics—one running from the supposedly joyous grind of royalty, expected excellence, and public prominence; the other running from the fear of rising above average and earning any prominence of his own.

The prince had dated many lady friends who had wanted to be more—as one would expect—but none had proven to be of much substance. Rico had dated only a couple of prospects prior to Joey, but they didn’t work out. Or rather, he caused that to happen as each of the few relationships became too constricting. But recent developments and the incredible, more permanent lady in his life were changing things for the better. However, Rico wouldn’t be Rico if he didn’t complicate matters to the point of possibly disintegrating a very good thing.

“Now old chap, I must ask. You won’t be blowing things up … right?

The out-of-context question caught Rico off guard. “Uh, no, sir—not if I can help it.” I don’t think so.

“Day trading?”

“Well … not with your money, at least. Besides, I made a good eighty thousand and …”

“And you’ve lost … ?”

“Not more than around fifty thousand of it,” Rico mumbled. “But I’ll recover it. My broker-managed stocks are over the top anyway.”

“You just make sure I get my money back before my accountant starts asking questions.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir, I work for a living.” He waited patiently for Rico to stop his guffawing laughter. “Same bank, same name and routing number?”

“Yep. By what time?”

“Noonish. See you old chap.”

“Adiós, hombre.”

Rico hung up and looked in the mirror. You? A knight? Without honor, maybe. After he finds what some of his money went for … will he still want to see my face?

The thought sickened him. He shut the door on it, quick and practiced. He would have thanked God no one could see inside—if he believed in make-believe. For now, even he preferred the darkness stayed hidden.

… Rico quietly confirms that all sectors are secure before giving his principal—or client under protection—the green light. The renowned author, speaker, environmental guru, and now leading San Diego mayoral candidate strolls up to the front of the stage and waves enthusiastically.

The crowd goes into a waving, hand-clapping frenzy. Rico fights the urge to frown at the brainless worshipping he sees. Instead, he fidgets as he mentally urges his client to get back behind the protective podium, as per the agreed-upon security protocol; she had been adamant about obeying the rules. Instead, she moves farther away.

A man, clearly not in the same jovial frenzy as the rest of the crowd—a dead giveaway of some ulterior motive for being there—casually approaches the stage. An intense stare signals ominous intent. The only slightly concealed handgun confirms Rico’s well-honed intuition. Unfortunately, Rico grows leaden feet and freezes in place, and none of his subordinates heed his commands to take the man down. Is it a conspiracy?

Rico watches in horror as his client careens backward, rounds riddling her body, blood splattering onto his face as he tries to catch her—death visiting her before he can lay the former mayoral candidate gently onto the stage.

“It was not your fault that you couldn’t respond,” the doctor says. “It was the cancer in your brain … and it was a conspiracy. Oh, and you’ll be dead by tomorrow.”

Rico awoke to a sweat-drenched pillow. The recurring nightmare—an actual event, warped and replayed—still landed with full force. It changed each time, but the pattern stayed the same: when the threat appeared, he was helpless. Inept. Or both.

In reality, he had saved the life of the prominent mayoral candidate—never mind that he’d draped himself over her because he spotted a gunman that existed only in his imagination. It happened to coincide with the moment a real sniper pressed the trigger—a fortunate confluence. The hero narrative stuck. Only Rico knew the truth: he’d been lucky. The brain cancer, unlike the dream’s paralysis, was real.

He swallowed a comfort pill and chased real sleep. Early retirement—unwanted, before its time—always followed these episodes, but the sunset could wait. Wealth was gone; so be it. Something else, he sensed, waited just over the horizon.

“Dang it … it’s ten!” Rico had slept way past his intended waking time on another typical, perfect San Diego April morning. He hurried, stuffing things into his overnight bag. Rushing to the checkout desk, he instinctively slowed down when he saw a patrol car out front. He monitored the patrolman exiting the lobby, then approached the desk.

“That Department ought to change their uniform … black’s kinda intimidating,” Rico muttered to the clerk.

“To thieves, murderers … and terrorist types, I suppose,” the surly, blonde-headed, giant ox of a desk clerk said, speaking in a faded New Jersey accent. It sounded like any other New Yorker accent to Rico. He had worked with several New York state types while in the military but had never really attended to the minor accent nuances.

The desk clerk glared at the five-foot-eight, one hundred fifty-five-and-a-half pounds of Rico, who wore a snug-fitting, white silk T-shirt, loose jeans, leather sandals, and sported a full, almost raggedy beard and mustache. Rico’s muscles weren’t what they used to be, but he was still well-defined and proportioned, with six-pack abs to boot.

The clerk was unimpressed and wondered only about Rico’s nationality.

Oops! I gotta keep my mouth shut, Rico thought. “Sí, señor. Check out, please!” he said, trying to sound businesslike and innocent. The imposing, heavy-set, six-foot-plus clerk would be a handful to tangle with if Rico spoke his mind. He didn’t appreciate being looked over like a common criminal.

“Room number two-ten. Let’s see … no additional charges besides the Internet connection fee of ten dollars. That’ll be two hundred and twenty-five even.”

“Keep the change,” Rico said, handing over $250—a steep price for the dump he chose to stay in to avoid cameras (thanks to a recent emergence of paranoia that came and went). He left with restrained haste, the clerk still glaring at him.

Rico climbed into his well-kept, classic yellow F-250 4x4 extended-cab pickup. He peeled out of the parking lot and quickly hopped onto I-5 east, leaving San Diego in the rearview mirror.

After some two hours of driving, he pulled off at a rest stop for a break. He religiously checked the trailer hitch connection and the tie-down straps securing his Honda ST 1300 motorcycle and Yamaha jet ski. The rest of his earthly possessions were secure inside the truck camper and trailer, with some junk stuffed between the two recreational crafts. Being semi-retired had its advantages, even though boredom and loneliness were too often companions. Most everyone else he associated with had a normal job; when they inquired he would claim he was semi-retired or between jobs.

At the I-5 and I-10 interchange, he took I-10 heading east. Exhausted, he considered an overnight stay in Tucson, but instead stopped at a Quick Mart. It was time for sunflower seeds and cola refills—his supposedly original trick to avoid a deadly nap at the wheel. He popped a palm full of seeds in his mouth and off he went.

Benson, then minutes later Wilcox, Arizona, came into view, and then just as quickly faded away—though Wilcox not so speedily; he never sped in Cochise County. The cops were sticklers, and one too many experiences signing tickets had made him leery of getting within five miles of the speed limit. It was a worthwhile trade-off, getting to enjoy the beautiful rock formations near Dragoon Road as he neared the speed trap. Several elephant-sized sedimentary rock boulders sat precariously, touching only inches of the rocks below them—overweight ballerinas balancing on disproportionately small toes, just one ground quiver away from toppling over.

The boulders also offered a plethora of faces for those with vivid imaginations, and Rico had a vivid one. Even if he talked someone through the face lines he was seeing, a normal person wouldn’t see what he imagined.

Daydreaming helped him push aside the less-than-comforting thoughts and fight the monotony of the desert. He drifted to the county’s namesake, the Comanche war chief Cochise. A book he’d read claimed the Comanche named Ju was the tribe’s actual chief—a role many historians mistakenly attributed to Cochise. Ju, it said, was likely the strategist behind Cochise’s successes on the warpath.

Why did it take so long for someone to find out the truth? What was it like traveling through here back then? Rough—especially for the women and kids. And what makes you think you can go home again? Didn’t that guy say you can never go back? It wasn’t really home, anyway. Didn’t she sound less interested the last times you talked? The thoughts landed before he could cut them off. Would it ever end?

Aggressively shaking his head, he managed to snap out of it. He popped more seeds in his mouth as he passed the exit sign for Lordsburg, New Mexico. He thought of zipping right through, but his bladder commanded otherwise. So, for the umpteenth time since San Diego, he pulled into a convenience store. With no time to waste, he grabbed a bag of black licorice to counter the saltiness of the seeds and refilled his cola cup.

Deming appeared on the horizon. Excitement nudged his foot heavier on the pedal. Much-needed rest waited in Las Cruces. If I had traveled this same route before eighteen forty … something … Rico wasn’t good with exact dates. I would have been in Mexico the whole time.

His truck got a break before he did—long enough to sign a welcome-back ticket that set him back $350, a mere twenty miles from home. He’d entered the dreaded Safety Corridor, where fines were doubled.

Thirty minutes later, nearing 10 p.m., Rico took the Main Street exit and pulled into Las Cruces and the Ramada hotel parking lot. After checking in and unloading his stuff in the room, he headed for the hot tub, a local paper and a USA Today in hand.

“State to take over 50 percent of public schools; even the principals can’t read and analyze!” read the Desert Bulletin’s lead story. Another headline declared, “The percentage of medically uninsured in the US stopped rising for first time in 20 years, though numbers are still dangerously high.”

The USA Today offered no emotional joy ride either. “Congress Accuses Previous Administrations of Gross Negligence: Economic Damage from Waves of Retirements Was Completely Avoidable,” the front page noted. “On the heels of excessive foreign capital control in the US, the wave of retirements broke the proverbial camel’s back,” said a prominent economist and historian.

“All hell has broken loose in the US of A … again,” he mumbled, reading about riots and attacks. Mexico was in even more dire straits, teetering toward anarchy. So much for securing our southern border, he thought.

A pang of sorrow caught him by surprise. In his heart was a growing desire to trace his roots. He felt almost compelled to journey to Mexico to personally contact any living relatives of his natural parents. Now the possibility seemed improbable. Drug lords and other sorts ruled most of the country; complete governmental disintegration seemed inevitable; the acting government in denial of course. The pain soon turned to numbness—a common state of being. 

Conspicuously absent was any news on France. Even before Mexico’s decline, France began an invisible downward spiral when, for years, the government refused calls for reform in the protection and justice for young Muslim girls who were being raped. Few seemed to listen to the graphic depictions of atrocities described by Samira Bellil in her 2002 book “Dans l’Enfer des Tournantes” (“Gang Rape Hell” in English).

On the heels of Bellil’s death from stomach cancer in 2003, an increasing disintegration of France’s social structure began in the fall of 2005; nationwide rioting gripped the nation. It represented the European Union’s first economic and social disaster. In fact, it had become more like an Arab state than anything else, and the strict enforcement of fundamental Sharia law was taking hold.

 So much for Rico’s planned return to Paris, too.

A glutton for punishment, he read on. Even the wealthy were feeling the sting of the vacillating economy through kidnappings and threats. Joey would have said the Bible had warned of it; Rico’s take was simpler: the filthy rich were getting what they deserved—Darwin’s order extended. Survival of the fittest … or the most desperate.

Rico awoke at 11:00 a.m. “Not again!” He punched the pillow. He’d forgotten to crack the shades. He always asked for an east-facing window so the bright sun could do the job whenever he finally threw off the blankets. Alarm clocks were too easy to silence; wake-up calls were an equally rude jolt back to reality.

He sighed with relief after logging in to his bank account. Thanks, old chap. You threw in the extra 50K after all. Hope I don’t mess up and leave you hanging. His thoughts drifted to what was coming. Okay, Joey—now to convince you … just as soon as I convince myself.