The President's Vampire Read Online Free
Author: Christopher Farnsworth
must have died and gone to Hell a long time ago. He wondered how this could happen to him. What could he have done to deserve this? And now he knew: God had abandoned him. With that knowledge, a kind of peace settled over him. At the very least, he no longer hoped for anything better.
The commander scowled. “And what did you learn here?”
The man in black looked down at Joseph. For a moment, there seemed to be a dark mix of pity and amusement in his eyes.
“Enough,” he said. “Enough for now.”
He pointed the gun at the space between Joseph’s eyes and fired.
TWO
If eyewitnesses and conspiracy theorists are to be believed, the Lizard People are still among us. Reports of reptilian humanoids range from Florida to as far north as Canada. There’s the Gatorman of New Jersey, the Lizard Man of Scape Ore Swamp, the Loveland Frogman, and the Thetis Monster, to name a few. But these Bigfoot- like monsters are nowhere near as frightening as the alien-human Reptilians (or Reptoids) who allegedly control the world through a global secret society.
—Cole Daniels, Monsterpaedia
TWO DAYS AGO, GULF OF ADEN, OFF THE COAST OF SOMALIA
A lex Howard sat in the bridge of the luxury yacht and listened to the sounds from the party below. It was past midnight and they were just getting started.
Howard drank coffee. The first part of the trip, from Miami to the Riviera, was pretty dull. His boss wasn’t on board for the long haul across the Atlantic; he couldn’t be away from his investments that long. He joined them when they reached the Riviera, bringing his entourage and a half dozen women who looked like strippers along.
At first, Howard joined the party at night. It was a huge mistake. Piles of cocaine and meth, bathtubs of liquor, a rainbow of pills, all from the boss’s seemingly endless supply. Around day five, it began to seem like a grim endurance match. Even the women, longtime experts at faking delight, were strung out and snappish. He’d started to make mistakes. Piloting a 140-foot craft wasn’t something you wanted to do hungover, even with the help of GPS and electronics.
But the real reason he was drinking coffee and not champagne was he nearly referred to his boss by his nickname, Moco.
Fortunately he caught himself in time. The last guy who’d called Jaime Carrillo by that name got a new nostril sliced into his face with a Tekna knife.
Howard didn’t fool himself; he knew what he’d signed on for when he took the job. Carrillo loved to tell people he’d had the yacht custom-built, from its bronze sculpture in the main salon to the air-conditioned doghouse with marble flooring.
The truth was Carrillo had taken it for a fifth of its value when its previous owner, a real estate mogul, needed to liquidate his assets while facing the twin threats of a financial meltdown and a nasty divorce. The crew was given the choice of working for the new owner. Most of them left, but a few—including Howard—decided to stay.
Howard, who was first officer under the previous captain, wasn’t entirely stupid. He would have known Carrillo was dirty even if his name didn’t pop up on CNN every few months. The guy paid cash for everything, wore insanely expensive clothes and was guarded by enormous men with H&K MP5 machine guns slung under their arms.
But he wasn’t currently under indictment for anything—rumor had it he owned several prominent Mexican politicians.
Carrillo was still living in the shadow of his father, a drug lord who belittled his son his entire life before dying, a casualty of cocaine and Viagra, in the arms of his nineteen-year-old girlfriend. He was the one who came up with the nickname “Moco” for his son’s habit of picking his nose as a boy. End result: Carrillo had daddy issues, high-powered weaponry and limitless funds. Never a good combination.
Howard figured he could handle it. A job’s a job, right?
He hadn’t thought it through. Howard made it a point never to look
The commander scowled. “And what did you learn here?”
The man in black looked down at Joseph. For a moment, there seemed to be a dark mix of pity and amusement in his eyes.
“Enough,” he said. “Enough for now.”
He pointed the gun at the space between Joseph’s eyes and fired.
TWO
If eyewitnesses and conspiracy theorists are to be believed, the Lizard People are still among us. Reports of reptilian humanoids range from Florida to as far north as Canada. There’s the Gatorman of New Jersey, the Lizard Man of Scape Ore Swamp, the Loveland Frogman, and the Thetis Monster, to name a few. But these Bigfoot- like monsters are nowhere near as frightening as the alien-human Reptilians (or Reptoids) who allegedly control the world through a global secret society.
—Cole Daniels, Monsterpaedia
TWO DAYS AGO, GULF OF ADEN, OFF THE COAST OF SOMALIA
A lex Howard sat in the bridge of the luxury yacht and listened to the sounds from the party below. It was past midnight and they were just getting started.
Howard drank coffee. The first part of the trip, from Miami to the Riviera, was pretty dull. His boss wasn’t on board for the long haul across the Atlantic; he couldn’t be away from his investments that long. He joined them when they reached the Riviera, bringing his entourage and a half dozen women who looked like strippers along.
At first, Howard joined the party at night. It was a huge mistake. Piles of cocaine and meth, bathtubs of liquor, a rainbow of pills, all from the boss’s seemingly endless supply. Around day five, it began to seem like a grim endurance match. Even the women, longtime experts at faking delight, were strung out and snappish. He’d started to make mistakes. Piloting a 140-foot craft wasn’t something you wanted to do hungover, even with the help of GPS and electronics.
But the real reason he was drinking coffee and not champagne was he nearly referred to his boss by his nickname, Moco.
Fortunately he caught himself in time. The last guy who’d called Jaime Carrillo by that name got a new nostril sliced into his face with a Tekna knife.
Howard didn’t fool himself; he knew what he’d signed on for when he took the job. Carrillo loved to tell people he’d had the yacht custom-built, from its bronze sculpture in the main salon to the air-conditioned doghouse with marble flooring.
The truth was Carrillo had taken it for a fifth of its value when its previous owner, a real estate mogul, needed to liquidate his assets while facing the twin threats of a financial meltdown and a nasty divorce. The crew was given the choice of working for the new owner. Most of them left, but a few—including Howard—decided to stay.
Howard, who was first officer under the previous captain, wasn’t entirely stupid. He would have known Carrillo was dirty even if his name didn’t pop up on CNN every few months. The guy paid cash for everything, wore insanely expensive clothes and was guarded by enormous men with H&K MP5 machine guns slung under their arms.
But he wasn’t currently under indictment for anything—rumor had it he owned several prominent Mexican politicians.
Carrillo was still living in the shadow of his father, a drug lord who belittled his son his entire life before dying, a casualty of cocaine and Viagra, in the arms of his nineteen-year-old girlfriend. He was the one who came up with the nickname “Moco” for his son’s habit of picking his nose as a boy. End result: Carrillo had daddy issues, high-powered weaponry and limitless funds. Never a good combination.
Howard figured he could handle it. A job’s a job, right?
He hadn’t thought it through. Howard made it a point never to look
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