Installment 27 of my featured novel “Relentless” is here!

I am publishing the novel in small installments, so it takes only minutes to keep up with the story. Many years ago, I was a fan of Stephen King’s installment-based publishing of “The Green Mile” over many months, so I am following in that vein as a feature on Moteventure.

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RELENTLESS – D.S. FACTOR

Chapter Ten 

The metro hummed with the rhythmic clatter of wheels against tracks, its dimly lit cars crammed with commuters. 

Among them, a young man stood swaying, his pallor ashen. His coughs echoed through the narrow space, each one more violent than the last. Passengers exchanged worried glances, but he pressed on, determined to reach his destination.  

As the train pulled into the Louvre station, he stumbled out onto the platform, gasping for oxygen. The iconic glass pyramid loomed ahead, its sharp edges slicing through the misty evening air. He staggered toward it, clutching his arm, until he collapsed at the base of a marble statue—a silent plea for help amidst the grandeur of art and history.  

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Amidst the clamor and confusion, a woman slipped surreptitiously into the crowd that had gathered by the young man’s side. Her cell phone captured several photos, focusing on both his face and the bruise spreading across his upper bicep and down his arm. With the stealth of a ghost, she slipped on dark glasses and vanished into the subway station. 

“Écartez-vous s’il vous plaît! Faire de la place!” shouted a Louvre security guard, the crowd parting to allow him through. He dropped to his knees, cradling the man’s head with his suit jacket, offering a sip of water. The confusion on the man’s face began to clear. 

“What happened?” the man mumbled, grabbing the bottled water and gulping it down in nearly one swallow. 

Pausing to collect himself, the guard seemed to translate his thoughts on the fly from French to English. “You stumbled across the courtyard. Fell here. We’ve called 1-1-2 for assistance, and I believe those sirens sounding are for you. 

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As the sirens wailed in the distance, the young man’s memory began to piece together like shards of a broken mirror. The courtyard—the ancient sculptures, the men following him on the Metro, the dude shoving him hard, the sudden prick of pain running up his arm – the one hurting now, the mysterious woman in the crowd. But why? His bruised arm throbbed, his oxygen level seemed to be rebounding, and yet the woman’s enigmatic photos haunted him. 

The Louvre guard leaned closer, his eyes searching. “Shall I help you up?” he said, voice low. “That arm’s not looking good.” 

The subway station beckoned, its mouth gaping like a portal. The young man hesitated, torn between curiosity and fear. The woman’s ghostly presence lingered, urging him forward. And so, with the sirens growing louder, Cooper Kennedy stepped into the shadows, ready to unravel the mystery that had found him. 

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Caroline Kramer first keyed, then stepped into her room at Relais Du Louvre, clicking the arrow on the wall thermostat several times to get cool air moving in the room. She tossed her shades onto the desk, their lenses reflecting her determined yet exhausted expression as she liberated her feet from the confines of heels, which lay discarded on the parquet floor. 

The photo app on her phone beckoned, its pixels craving revelations. Caroline pinched her way through close-up images of the Louvre man’s arm—knowing the bruising was a clue etched into flesh, centered around an object subcutaneous and clandestine. 

“MARQ. Maxwell Thrasher, you are a…” Her voice trailed off, swallowed by the plush embrace of the recliner in the corner. The name hung in the air like a dual sided coin flipped high, one side the philanthropic humanitarian and the other, quite simply – a monster. 

But her laptop held no answers. Articles yielded nothing—no mention of the Louvre incident, no whispers of Thrasher’s latest escapades. And the high-security hospital across the Atlantic remained silent, its secrets locked away. 

Thrasher, MedAmerica One, and the man at the Louvre: a triptych of enigma. Caroline leaned back, her mind weaving threads of connection. Was it conspiracy or coincidence? The link eluded her, a shadow slipping through the gaps in her digital search. 

Perhaps, she thought, the truth lay not in pixels or print, but in the pulse of the city itself—the man’s detour to the Louvre whispering secrets to those who dared listen. And Maxwell Thrasher and his connection to MA1? His name echoed like a distant malevolent bell, tolling across continents. 

Caroline resolved to delve deeper, determined to untangle the web of mysteries that had so far eluded her. In the vibrant heart of Paris, where art and intrigue wove their timeless dance, she knew that the truth lay hidden, waiting for those bold enough to uncover it. The city whispered secrets to those who listened, and Caroline was ready to hear them. 

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After several uneventful hours, punctuated by a few “Netflix & chill” moments with the Bryan Cranston-led thriller “Your Honor,” Caroline lounged on her bed, multitasking with more research into the day’s events. She began to nod off, but was jolted awake by her pink iPhone, which suddenly blared her Thompson Twins ringtone. 

Glancing at the screen, she saw “No Caller ID” with no further explanation. Curiosity piqued, she hesitated momentarily before tapping the green icon to accept the call. 

“Hello?” she answered. 

“Dr. Caroline Kramer?” came the reply. 

“Who’s calling?” Caroline asked, her interest now fully engaged. 

“This is Abi Spencer,” the woman said, her voice breathless. 

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