Chapter 3. | Cards and Caviar

As a child, Silas Thorn was fascinated by the sea. He would stand at the edge of the Atlantic and imagine that he was a sorcerer, conjuring and dispelling waves with the gestures of his hands. He no longer imagined the sea as something under his sway, but as something ancient, indomitable, and indifferent.

The runabout skimmed across the surface of the Mediterranean without resistance, a testament to the craft itself as well as the pilot’s familiarity with the waters. Thorn reclined in the stern, watching the sunset ignite the clouds, and regretted the journey. He had not traveled by boat since Potocki died. The runabout had been the most pragmatic route to the Casino Leroux, but Thorn found himself wishing he had found another way.

Upon arriving at the casino’s dock, Thorn passed the pilot a generous tip with a curt word of thanks. He checked that his midnight navy wool suit was in good order and made his way inside. Thorn winced as the recycled, musty air hit his nostrils and the obnoxious jangles and whirring of the machines assaulted his ears.

The Casino Leroux was a dying beast of the Belle Époque that had somehow limped into the present century, though Thorn suspected that it would not survive another. It had been built for a European elite willing to squander fortunes on the green baize, but the world had changed much since those days. Now, the old gambling industry was bowing under the weight of virtual prediction markets and sports betting. The Leroux was flailing in its search for new clientele.

The casino had been owned by one family for the majority of its lifespan, and, as Thorn was concerned, the current heir was making a mess of things. Thorn was not an avid gambler nor a lover of risk, but he felt profound sadness in watching a historic institution strip itself of its dignity, trading traditional games for flashing lights of themed pachinko machines that clashed against the velvet and brass of the Leroux’s interior.

Thorn hurried past the machines to the Salle Privée in the back, one of the last sanctuaries of the casino’s former glory, reserved for high rollers and ghosts. Thorn gave his name to the attendant and entered.

At the table, Thérèse sat behind a fortress of plaques. Age will sometimes add more than it takes away from a face. So it was with Thérèse. The slow, relentless erosion of seven decades had laid bare her intelligence and humor.

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Chapter 2. | Dubious Scales

The wind was capricious, but Vincent Lorin had its measure. He compensated for the drift, and, in the hollow space between his heartbeats, pulled the trigger. The shot broke clean.

The boat disappeared from view, leaving only the wake to testify to its presence.

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Chapter 1. | Voices of the Dead

Devereux promised fireworks.

His guests had received invitations, printed on fine Italian paper and hand-delivered by courier, requesting their presence for an evening of spectacle and pleasure. Many knew precisely what to expect. Devereux, a man who confused possession with accomplishment, was exceedingly eager to show off his Sicilian palazzo, and threw a party of this scale at least once a year.

As the gala’s attendees waited for the foretold fireworks, they wandered the corridors and chambers and gazed upon the treasures within. If they were entranced by what they found there, their enthusiasm failed to register on their faces. Boredom and inebriation were more discernible.

Deep in the cellars, wait staff scrambled to retrieve more champagne. As they passed crates to one another, they were wholly ignorant of the history of those stone walls, the remnants of a fifteenth-century fort that had once peered out from the seaside cliff where the palazzo now sat. Had they known, they would have remained indifferent. In Italy, where the dust of the Caesars coats windshields, history is a commodity entirely taken for granted.

As they ported the crates through twisting corridors, their soles passed over rust-colored stains in the porous stone, the lingering memory of blood spilled when the estate was requisitioned as a military hospital in World War II. In the daylight, damage from the artillery shells could still be glimpsed on the palazzo’s exterior.

Upstairs, staff poured the champagne into delicate flutes, which the servers hastily collected for distribution. The trays passed a cluster of hedge fund managers who stood bathed in the pale glow from their phones, blind to the magnificence that hung above their heads: a Gustave Moreau painting of a lithe Salome clutching the severed head of the Baptist. The group had thoughtlessly repurposed a low stone altar, inscribed with ancient Hermetic symbols, as a dumping ground for empty martini glasses, used hors d’oeuvre skewers, and crumpled napkins.

That altar, along with the considerable occult ornamentation scattered throughout the estate, was the leftover imprint of the palazzo’s prior master, an idiosyncratic American millionaire who, in the early twentieth century, had transformed the estate into a monument to esoteric spirituality. That occult resonance was precisely what had drawn Devereux to procure and restore the estate. Devereux had an appetite for the mythological.

Devereux had dedicated this gala to the great Greek icon of filicide: the sorceress Medea. He did this to commemorate a triptych of paintings depicting that same sorceress, an acquisition which had been hidden away until it could be unveiled this evening. To further underline the theme, Devereux hired an orchestra to perform two pieces dedicated to Medea: Cherubini’s overture to Médée and Barber’s Medea’s Dance of Vengeance. The promised fireworks would serve as a grand postlude.

In the vast chamber of the palazzo, which had served many purposes over the years and was now branded by its current owner the ballroom, Devereux hovered beside his triptych of Medeas, each canvas resting on its own mahogany easel. The host’s knotty fingers danced in the air as he pontificated to his glassy-eyed audience. He shifted languages to pander to his multilingual audience. Devereux’s French was fluid and melodic, as one would expect from a Frenchman, but his English was stiff and his halting Italian approached incomprehensibility.

Silas Thorn observed this pantomime from the periphery, standing by an open window that bled a desperately needed sea breeze into the room. Thorn was already running warm in his dinner jacket. He could not imagine how suffocated he would feel in the one Devereux had chosen for himself, an emerald velvet jacket that was an altogether preposterous choice for a summer night. The heavy perspiration greasing the host’s forehead suggested he might be regretting his choice of ensemble.

Thorn blended neatly into the crowd. His black, double-breasted dinner jacket fit very well, with strong shoulders and just enough elegant drape to accommodate the SIG Sauer P365 holstered under his left arm. Beneath his right, he carried an Odessa-9 modular silencer and a spare magazine of 9mm subsonic ammunition.

Like the rest of Devereux’s guests, Thorn was bored, though not for lack of interest in the palazzo or its contents. His was the restless fatigue of anticipation, sharpened by a simmering contempt for Devereux and his friends. To keep his edge, Thorn had intended to avoid the alcohol that was in abundant supply, but as the night dragged on, he found the siren call of champagne irresistible.

He took a slow sip from his flute, turning his gaze out the open window. Below, flaming torches tore holes in the darkness of the manicured gardens. A couple stumbled through the sculpted hedges towards the old estate chapel, groping at each other as they disappeared inside the dark sanctuary.

Potocki, Thorn’s partner on this assignment and a dozen others, materialized from the chattering throng. The deep corners of Potocki’s mouth turned upwards when he noticed the glass in Thorn’s hand.

“I never developed a taste for champagne,” said Potocki.

“That could prove hazardous to your spiritual well-being,” Thorn replied. “I have it on the authority of a particularly pious bishop that fine champagne is a vessel of divine revelation. Of course, the Catholics would feel that way. They invented the stuff.”

“When we’re back home, you should recommend a bottle.”

“Gladly.” Thorn glanced down at his watch, letting the light from the chandelier catch the dial of his Longines GMT that peeked out from under his cuff. Forty-three minutes until eleven. “Nearly there. I’m going to stretch my legs.”

“Don’t get lost,” Potocki said. “This place is a labyrinth.”

“I’ll keep my eye out for the minotaur.”

Thorn deposited his champagne glass on the tray of a passing server and drifted away from the crowd.

The dim light in the corridors cast odd, distorted shadows against the elaborate molding and ornamentation on the walls, floor, and ceiling: Egyptian hieroglyphs, gargoyles, Templar crosses, and all-seeing eyes peering out from the stone and plaster. The distant echoes of the orchestra’s dissonant tuning seeped up from the central courtyard.

He sought refuge in a small, quiet gallery momentarily devoid of the herd. The walls were a claustrophobic collage of gilt frames, hung in the cramped, floor-to-ceiling style of the old aristocracy. One monumental canvas still managed to dominate the room.

As Thorn approached it, he was overtaken by a wave of vertigo.

The painting was a vision of apocalyptic judgment in full Cinemascope: John Martin’s Belshazzar’s Feast. In the far distance, lightning struck the ruins of the Tower of Babel. In the foreground, Belshazzar and his court dined on a raised platform, frozen in theatrical gesticulations of terror. They cowered from a glowing apparition: the words of God, cut by His almighty hand into the palace’s entablature. In the center of the painting, Daniel the Prophet proclaimed their ominous meaning.

The hairs on Thorn’s arms stood up as he heard the Aramaic utterances of Daniel the Prophet reverberate in his ears:

“Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.”

A pause of indeterminate length passed before Thorn registered that he had not imagined the words. He was not alone in the room.

He turned to see a man with dark eyes and an impish, knowing smile. A linen dinner jacket in a warm cream tone contrasted with rich brown skin.

The man continued in an accent that Thorn could not place: “The eternal words of God, written with holy fire. ‘God hath numbered thy kingdom, and finished it,’ as the Prophet Daniel interprets it. I prefer this version of the scene to Rembrandt’s.”

“It’s been years since I’ve seen the Rembrandt,” Thorn replied.

“I’m often in London, but haven’t taken the time to visit it in some years. I may be doing the Rembrandt a disservice. It has a grandeur all its own.” The man extended a hand. “I’m Vincent Lorin.”

Thorn took it. The grip was dry and firm. “Carter Thompson.” It was a remarkably bland alias, the sort of name that could belong to an ambitious, forgettable venture capitalist. “Our host has an impressive collection.”

“Do you collect art, Mister Thompson?”

“Please, call me Carter. No, I’m more of an admirer.”

“I urge you to reconsider. Ownership enables the cultivation of a sustained, personal relationship with art. The insight it brings is invaluable.”

“What insight has it brought you?”

“That it is more worthwhile to attend to the voices of the dead than to the voices of the living.”

“But the dead don’t always speak in languages we understand.” Thorn gestured to the painting. “Even God requires an interpreter.”

Lorin smiled, a slow parting of the lips. For a fraction of a second, the polite veneer slipped, revealing something sharp and surgical, but Lorin quickly resheathed it. “True enough. I have left my companions alone for too long. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mister Thompson.”

“Likewise.”

As Vincent Lorin’s footsteps faded down the hall, Thorn checked his watch. Twenty-seven minutes.

The layout of the palazzo was intricate, even nonsensical, in the way that architecture tends to be when it mutates over centuries. Thorn had memorized the floor plans. The documents had been acquired from the offices of Devereux’s contractor some weeks prior with alarming ease. After a moment’s mental review, Thorn oriented himself and set on his way.

The murmur of the crowd and the strains of the orchestra faded as Thorn made his way toward the outer wall of the palazzo. He found the double-doors he sought. He tried the brass door handle and slipped out onto a balcony overlooking the sea.

A silver moon illuminated stray clouds over the Mediterranean, which stretched out to a black horizon. Thorn unbuttoned his jacket and inhaled the humid, briny night air. Far below, dark water battered a rocky shore.

Thorn closed the doors behind him and looked up at the roofline, fifteen feet above. Stone leaves and lions framed the balcony. Gripping the weather-pocked masonry with his bare hands, he hoisted himself up onto the balustrade. He was an experienced climber, and the stonework was uneven enough to offer ample handholds. The tactical rubber soles applied to his dress shoes provided some assistance, though they were a poor substitute for climbing boots.

Reaching the lip of the slanted, tiled roof, he pulled himself up and crouched low. Knowing the old roof tiles were likely to be unstable, Thorn maneuvered carefully towards his objective: a turret (one of four, each at a corner of the palazzo), which lay only yards away.

The hum of activity swelled from below as the partygoers filtered into the central courtyard.

The glass of the turret’s window was too thick to cut quietly; it would be more efficient to break it. Reaching into his coat, Thorn produced a rolled sheet of adhesive film. He peeled away the backing and smoothed it against the pane. Drawing a heavy aluminum pen from his breast pocket, he drove its hardened tungsten tip into the glass. The glass spiderwebbed instantly, but held in place by the film. A few more surgical taps finished the job. He pulled back the adhesive, taking the broken shards with it, and dropped the heavy sheet into the sea.

He reached in, grasped the window latch, unlocked it, and swung it open.

Below, in the courtyard, Devereux’s voice boomed, amplified through a sound system. The acoustics rendered him unintelligible. Thorn crawled in through the frame, swung his legs over the ledge, and dropped into darkness.

His feet met the carpet with a gentle, but firm, thud. The room, Devereux’s private office, was dominated by an immodestly large desk adorned with lion’s feet. A smattering of dead-eyed marble busts looked on from the walls. A large globe, held aloft by a sculpture of Atlas, rested in the corner. It seemed redundant given the enormous map of the world covering the far wall.

Floor plans were not the only intel Thorn had procured from the offices of Devereux’s contractor. Additional documentation identified the presence of a Boltmann X31 vault. Formidable as the Boltmann X31’s encryption was, it harbored an administrative failsafe backdoor. Its presence was not disclosed to purchasers, existing solely for emergencies. A touch of light blackmail against a Boltmann engineer had provided Thorn with the activation key.

Thorn ran his fingers under the map’s frame. It slid upward on pneumatic struts toward the ceiling, revealing the Boltmann’s gunmetal casing.

The dramatic first strains of the overture to Médée came in through the window.

Thorn’s fingers danced across the keypad, executing the complicated sequence of button presses with precise timing to unlock the keypad’s administrator mode.

He fumbled his first attempt. The second attempt gave positive results. The LCD screen beside the keypad flickered to life with the message: RESPONSE: 8492-1104-7731-0092.

Thorn reached for his phone, a burner provided by his organization’s resourcing division. It housed a bespoke application designed to run the numerals through the required algorithm. The app chewed the numerals and, agonizing seconds later, spat out a new set of sixteen digits. Thorn keyed it in. Motorized tumblers clicked into alignment. The vault door swung free.

Piles of documents and bound ledgers crowded the shelves. The only object of interest was a black, impact-resistant case of some size, nearly three feet long. Thorn hauled it onto the lion-footed desk. It was sealed with its own powerlock, but Thorn was not intimidated. From his jacket pocket, he produced some lockpicks and went to work. Not even thirty seconds passed by the time he broke the lock.

The briefing materials given to Thorn in advance had indicated what the contents of the case would be, but he was still stunned when he saw the case open before him.

Thorn looked upon Van Gogh’s ode to Adolphe Monticelli: the lost painting Poppy Flowers. The thick, violent impasto of the yellow and red blooms seemed to project off the canvas, even in the shadowed room.

Thorn considered cutting the canvas from the frame. It would be easier to transport. Still, this was a sin he was unwilling to commit. He sealed the case.

Outside, the orchestra concluded the Cherubini piece to modest applause. After a brief pause, the musicians resumed with the plaintive, tender, and ominous strains of Barber’s Medea’s Dance of Vengeance.

Thorn’s best route out of the palazzo would be to move down to the docks below, where Potocki would be waiting with a boat. Getting there could be difficult. There would be security and cameras. He would not be able to conceal the case.

Still, thefts are generally not anticipated, even when a significant infrastructure has been developed to prevent their occurrence. Paintings by Dalí and Kuindzhi had been stolen by museum visitors who simply removed the paintings from the walls and walked out the door, painting in hand.

Thorn debated drawing the SIG Sauer. He left it holstered. A gun in the hand is a liability; it magnifies the temptation to use it to solve problems when other avenues may be more advantageous.

Thorn resealed the Boltmann, waiting in the dark until Barber’s Medea concluded in a tumult of frantic, anxious rage. As the guests once again broke into applause, Thorn opened the door to Devereux’s office and slipped into the shadowy outer corridor.

The fireworks began to erupt. Gold, red, and green light burst through alcove windows, painting the walls.

He descended the back stairwell, angling for the kitchen exit.

He rounded the landing and stopped.

“What are you doing?”

It was a guard, stocky and swarthy. Australian accent. Ex-military.

Thorn’s face was a mask of mild, deferential irritation. “Devereux asked that this be brought for display.”

The guard was unmoved. “Oh? Where is it to be displayed?” His right hand moved to his thigh holster.

“In the drawing room. He wants to show it to a guest.”

The guard’s thumb popped the snap of his retention strap.

Thorn moved with sudden, steady instinct. He swung the case at the guard in a vicious, upward arc as the guard raised his weapon. It fired. The bullet punched through the case, the impact radiating through Thorn’s arm.

Thorn quickly adjusted the case’s trajectory, driving it into the guard’s head. The guard reeled backward. Thorn swung a second time, a forceful, horizontal strike. The guard’s head snapped violently against the stone wall, and he collapsed to the stone floor.

The fireworks had obscured the sounds of the scuffle.

Thorn was uncertain if the guard was still alive. He knew that, in his profession, it was likely, and perhaps inevitable, that he would die at someone else’s hands. His death might occur during an encounter such as this one. It would probably be an unremarkable scuffle with a man with a gun, or perhaps a knife, out of sight in an alley or back room. Afterwards, Thorn’s body would not be found or, if it was, it would not be identifiable. So many of his colleagues had gone missing over the years, trapped in a quantum state of perpetual uncertainty: Schrödinger’s secret agents.

If all things that can happen do happen in the infinite seas of the multiverse, then there were many universes in which Thorn died at this moment. In other universes, Thorn and the guard both died at each other’s hands. In some more curious universes, Thorn convinced the guard to become a co-conspirator, and they exited the palazzo together, eventually growing into lifelong friends.

But, here and now, there was little point in checking the man’s pulse. Thorn examined the case. A jagged hole marred its shell. A cold spike of dread hit him: the Van Gogh. He excised the thought. Survival first.

He shifted his grip, flipping the case so that the bullet hole pressed flat against his trousers, and stepped over the body.

The adrenaline coursing through his veins encouraged him to run, but he resisted it, forcing himself to breathe steadily and deeply. With patience and calm, he continued down to the kitchen. None of the staff looked at him as he moved through, but the back exit seemed crowded. He pivoted towards the palazzo’s main entrance, only a short walk away.

A tired guard leaned on the wall beside the open double-doors.

Thorn smiled warmly at the guard as he moved to exit, offering a deferential nod. “Buona notte.”

The guard’s brow furrowed as his eyes fell on the case. A cluster of fireworks detonated overhead, bathing the entrance in a blinding flash. The guard hissed a sharp “Merda!” and threw a hand over his eyes.

As the guard blinked away the burn, Thorn looked up and offered a theatrical, long-suffering eye roll, a conspiratorial signal that he shared the guard’s exasperation.

The guard huffed a dry laugh in return. He waved Thorn past. “Notte, signore.”

Thorn mouthed a silent, unaddressed prayer of thanks as he crossed the threshold.

The stone staircase to the boat dock wound down the cliffside, illuminated by strands of festive electrical lights. The fireworks above bathed the palazzo’s exterior and the pathway in a vivid, unearthly green.

Thorn passed some dockhands as he quickly moved to the dock. A fleet of idle yachts bobbed in the dark water, their crews smoking in the shadows.

Potocki waited in a sleek four-seater motorboat, the outboard motor idling with a low, vibrating hum.

“Any difficulties?” Potocki asked as Thorn stepped aboard, sliding the marred case beneath the passenger console.

“Yes. Let’s go.”

Potocki nodded, knowing better than to ask questions, and unmoored the boat.

High above, a mortar boomed, and the sky shattered into a cascade of weeping gold glitter.

The echo faded. Then Thorn heard another crack from high above. No firework accompanied it.

Potocki’s head snapped to the left. A mist of blood painted the white fiberglass of the console. The tension vanished from his frame, and he slumped to the teak deck.

Thorn lunged towards the console, slammed the throttle forward, and threw his weight against the wheel. The hull slapped the water, tearing a scar through the Mediterranean as he banked hard around the cliff’s edge.

Only when the darkness of the open water swallowed them did Thorn look down at Potocki, crumpled on the deck. Potocki no longer had a face.

In the days that followed, when, unbidden, this moment replayed through Thorn’s mind, he would once again hear the howl of the engine and the crash of the waves against the prow.

Meet Silas Thorn, codename: Vagabond.

He is a precision instrument wielded by the Obscurati, a stateless entity operating in the margins of the geopolitical order. He has been sent to hunt a shadow network of posthuman cultists determined to engineer the next stage of human evolution.

The pursuit plunges Thorn deep into a modern underworld where the analog and digital violently collide. Decoding a conspiracy built on art forgery, data brokers, billionaires, and specialized killers, Thorn traces the threads to their ultimate convergence: a doomsday vault designed for a future where language itself is obsolete.

This is the story of Tomorrow Comes the Bullet. It is the first volume in an eight-book series I call The Vagabond Cycle.

HOW TO READ TOMORROW COMES THE BULLET

The first chapter will be available tomorrow, May 31st, free of charge.

Moving forward, Tomorrow Comes the Bullet will continue as a monthly serial reserved for paid Substack subscribers. New installments will arrive each month.

The complete archive of published chapters for Tomorrow Comes the Bullet will be found here.

The paywall applies strictly to the novel itself. My usual essays, dispatches, and periodic updates will continue to be freely accessible.

WHY WRITE A SPY NOVEL?

Every once in a while, I see commentary that the “spy” has lost its usefulness in our age of perpetual digital surveillance. I have never felt that was so, either in the real world or in fiction.

The spy is ultimately an existential figure, a human being in crisis, existing at the fringes of nation-states. In some ways, this simply describes the modern human experience. We all inhabit an environment of virtual communities, tap-dancing between performative identities, obscuring ourselves behind digital masks. The spy’s profound alienation and detachment have become somewhat universal. So, to me, the spy feels more valuable as a narrative vessel than ever.

Unfortunately, our spy fantasias feel increasingly boxed-in by expectation in comparison to the genre’s heyday in the twentieth century. Most modern spy thrillers feel to me a bit like prefabricated houses, ruthlessly economical but devoid of life. In writing Tomorrow Comes the Bullet, I wanted to recapture the lush, vital strangeness the genre possessed in the 1960s and 1970s, but in a way that could speak to a present moment in which what was once science fiction is a present reality.

Beyond mere survival, the spy is a seeker of knowledge. They are both witness and detective, the one who uncovers the forbidden truths at the heart of the systems that govern us.

Fans of the genre will recognize the ways in which Silas Thorn was born of childhood daydreams inspired by the grand spy narratives of pop culture. Though, at heart, I think of him as being akin to the protagonist of G. K. Chesterton’s The Man Who Was Thursday: a metaphysical detective hunting a sinister cabal not because that cabal had broken the law, but because the philosophy they embraced was (to Chesterton, at least) an assault on existence itself.

Silas Thorn is engaged in exactly this kind of hunt. During the Cold War, the primary adversary was the nuclear state. Today, the adversaries are decentralized and ephemeral. As rapid technological evolution upends human consciousness and global power, the great threats may not be individuals, but simply emergent, unpredictable causality and feedback loops that steer humanity towards its own erasure.

At the center of these disruptions is the very concept of identity and authenticity. The novel’s inciting incidents, the trafficking of art forgeries, raise a fundamental question: What is the difference between a masterpiece and its perfect copy? What happens to art, language, and human identity in a future where everything can be synthesized through pattern recognition and engineering?

I don’t want to suggest the book is an academic treatise (it is very much an outrageous, high-stakes spy fantasy, the likes of which would cheer my inner adolescent), but I believe the modern reader is starving for an adventure served with a dash of philosophy.

THE DOORS ARE OPEN

Now that I have said my piece, it is time to formally invite you inside.

The title is a promise and a warning: Tomorrow Comes the Bullet.

Let us begin.