by A D Davies
Jules had read that this was the correct way to drink whiskey. In Scotland, it was common for pubs to supply a small jug of water alongside their single malt. Diluting it a little at a time, rather than the macho practice of downing it, sounded similar to how much salt a person added to their soup—it varied depending on individual taste.
Jules said, “The captain thinks I might benefit from a few days’ vacation.”
Massey weighed it up. “You don’t get many. You want to use your time off for quiet contemplation, get your head straight, that’s your lookout. Personally, I wouldn’t.”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
Massey assessed Jules’s whiskey. “You not drinking?”
“In a minute.” Jules held up the glass to one of the spotlights.
The halo around the ice cubes was clearer, the water seeping into the whiskey. Jules gave the glass a shake to mix the two liquids and brought it up to his lips. Still too strong. He sipped it anyway. The burning behind his eyes that he’d experienced when sniffing it was nothing compared to swallowing the alcohol. He held in the cough that his body demanded.
Once it settled, he had to admit the afterglow was not unpleasant.
“I got some friends askin’ for help.”
Massey laughed. “Didn’t know you had friends.”
Jules watched his drink.
“Sorry,” Massey said. “Wasn’t being mean or nothing. You just never talk about people.”
“It’s okay. I haven’t seen ‘em in over a year.”
“Coming back when they need something? Don’t need friends like that.”
Jules angled his drink so he could calculate when another twenty percent of the ice had mixed with the liquor. “Ain’t like that. It’s my fault. I haven’t replied to them. Got tied up with the Academy and gettin’ used to this job. Now they got something goin’ on that they think I’ll wanna join in with.”
He considered his conversations with Bridget and Toby. They had believed his idea of joining the police was a way of sheltering himself from the stresses of living on the run—from both bad people who wished him harm and several law enforcement agencies around the world. Luckily, America was not one of those where he was a wanted man.
Jules said, “I was into archaeology before.”
“Thought you were a volunteer for NGOs,” Massey answered with the tone he used addressing a witness who’d made suspicious statement.
“It was a side thing. A hobby.” Jules positioned his mouth into another of those wry smiles that he had attempted to use on Demetriou. “I enjoyed it. I was good at it.”
Why those words felt awkward falling out of his mouth, Jules couldn’t say. It was almost like confessing a secret. The only other people he knew in the city were participants in his outdoor yoga class, various shopkeepers, and the occasional regular patron of his preferred coffee shop. He hadn’t yearned for more human contact, happier in his own company, so he couldn’t call any of them true friends. None of them people who would come to his aid, risk their lives for his or put their lives in his hands.
“You’re thinking about it,” Massey said. “Taking some days.”
Jules gave the glass another turn, brought it to his mouth, and sipped again. It went down smoother, less of an ordeal, but not pleasant. The afterglow repeated the one reason to feel good about drinking it.
“Not really.”
Massey downed the rest of his whiskey. “I don’t know. Scrabbling about in the dirt, brushing off stegosaurus bones… If you’re into that sort of thing, maybe you’ll come back refreshed.”
Jules stared at the case.
“What’s that?” Massey said.
“Something to remind me of the good times.” Jules stumbled over the word good. He took a deeper sip of the whiskey, finding the hit smoother to swallow and actively enjoying the sensation. “And they’re right about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“It’ll be easier with me on board.”
The outer doors opened, and a rabble of cops Jules recognized from his precinct hustled in. Both he and Massey twisted to greet them. The group was eight strong and six of them made their way to a horseshoe-shaped booth which would accommodate them all and then some.
“You joining us?” Massey asked as he nodded to Jenson and Butler, who were getting the first round in.
Jules, likewise, acknowledged the pair. They reacted the same way Massey had—pleasantly surprised to see him.
“Hey, Sibeko,” Butler called. “Get you a pint?”
Jules tilted his whiskey in Butler’s direction and replied, “I’m good, thanks. Rain check. I gotta go in a minute.”
Butler nodded towards Massey.
Massey held up his Guinness glass and waggled it to say yes, please.
“Good luck with it,” Massey said.
“Good luck with what?” Jules asked.
“Whatever it is your friends want you to do.”
Jules threw back the whiskey, the remnants of the ice cubes clacking against his teeth. It was too much too soon, and Jules coughed and spluttered, getting most of it back in the glass.
Jenson, Butler, and the other cops all clocked the failed attempt at a macho exit and hooted with laughter.
Massey slapped him on the back. “Wrong hole?”
Jules nodded, making mental notes for the next time he attempted to consume strong liquor this way—because he was sure there would be a next time. He’d quite liked it. Most of it.
“Did this near-death experience help make up your mind?” Massey asked.
Jules stood, wiped his mouth, and laughed at himself, his motions broad enough for the other officers to see he found his own fail amusing. That would be vital to camaraderie; joshing one another seemed to be the way these people expressed friendship. In time, Jules was sure he would get it.
He shook Massey’s hand. “Thanks for the drink.” He took the case from the bar.
“You leaving me to push paperwork alone, then?”
“I’ll think about it. Need to check something first.”
Two hours later, Jules was risking his job by scaling the down-market hotel roof. He had donned his midnight blue all in one suit, which incorporated a belt full of useful items, such as the grappling hook attached to a bungee cord. For this outing, he had added a balaclava and nonslip gloves but left behind the usual mini flashbangs, smoke grenades, and throwing knives, bringing only what he expected he would need.
Hidden in the shadows of the rooftop cornices, he watched Toby, Harpal, and Charlie catch a yellow cab. Dan waved them off and returned inside.
Jules jammed the grappling hook into a suitable nook and measured out enough tight cord to crab down the outer wall. Having identified the room in which Toby had made his presentation, he landed silently on the fire escape, used a thin, pointed slice of metal to slip through the wooden frame, and knock the flimsy lock off the window. Then he climbed inside.
The light from the street was enough to navigate by, and he located a laptop under the bed next to a suitcase that had not yet been moved. He figured he had about three minutes before Dan returned.
He opened the laptop and hit the power button.
Nothing happened.
Jules frowned. “What are you doing?”
This was ridiculous. He had no business being here. The computer was a dummy, something to hand over to robbers or nefarious agents who were competing for the prize.
That meant Harpal had lied. There were other people interested. That implied danger—the kind of thing Jules had left behind.
He closed the laptop, unconcerned to alert Dan that there had been an intruder.
Halfway to the window, intending to go home and text Massey that he would see him in the morning, a white rectangular piece of card lying at the foot of the second bed gave Jules pause.
A plane ticket. No wallet.
If they were being so careful as to provide would-be enemies with a fake computer, why leave a plane
ticket out advertising their destination?
Because they intended it to be seen.
Jules picked it up at the corner using his thumb and forefinger, as if it were a piece of soiled underwear he didn’t recognize. He angled it towards the window, a streetlight offering enough illumination to read the name on it.
Julian Sibeko.
“Arrogance, much?”
From outside the door, Dan’s deep voice reverberated. “You’re getting sloppy.”
Jules sagged, disappointed in himself. “Cameras?”
“And mics.” Dan tapped on the door. “Hey, listen, if I come in there, you’re not going to jump me and start throwing me around, are you?”
“Nah, I was just leaving.”
As Dan entered, Jules flicked the plane ticket onto the bed. Dan turned on the lights. He was holding a small firearm. It didn’t look like a conventional gun.
“I’m a cop now,” Jules said. “You got a concealed carry permit for that?”
“It’s a tranq gun,” Dan answered.
“Pretty sure you still need a permit. Planning to use it on me?”
“Like BA Baracus? Wake up in Alabama and hope you play along?”
“Who’s BA Baracus?”
“You know, like the A-Team?”
“Why is everyone suddenly into an 80s TV show?”
Dan closed the door behind him and tossed the tranq gun onto the other bed. “Harpal brought it up when Toby first came out with this theory of a gang of fighters helping out the oppressed. I just want to get back to normal. If finding this shield means we get Harpal back, maybe Bridget too, I’m all for it.”
“And me?” Jules asked.
Dan slumped in a worn-looking armchair, propping his feet on the bed without removing his shoes. “I don’t think anything I say will matter. Bridget had to go start on some college degree that her parents approved of. Economics, I think. Harpal abandoned us because his share of the take wasn’t enough to live on, so he ended up taking Colin Waterston’s offer of a retainer. Charlie sold a couple of patents to the British communications industry to tide us over for a while, but we’ve hit too many goose eggs lately. Toby is usually right, but then he normally has Bridget backing him up and talking through any gaps in his thinking.”
Jules’s throat had gone dry, accompanied by that harsh ache that he’d felt earlier. “And I chose to leave.”
“Guilt does that to people. But I get it. You didn’t mean to kill that man, but it happens when they choose to sign up with the bad guys.”
“Who’s to say we aren’t the bad guys sometimes?”
“Killing doesn’t automatically make us the villains. You might have to do it again someday. If you have no choice.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much what my T.O. and captain are telling me.”
“I guess we all have to work out how to deal with it for ourselves.” Dan placed his feet on the floor and sat upright. “If this doesn’t pay off, I’m not sure how long I can stick around either. I figured if you and Harpal had stayed, we might’ve made it work. But you were never fully committed. Harpal has other priorities. And I think Phil is pressuring Charlie into quitting too.”
Jules glanced at the laptop. Then at the plane ticket. “He never wanted her to join up in the first place.”
“He was happy for her to help. He just wanted her out of the field.”
“Now she’s flying to California to dig up evidence on a tribe of giant warriors.”
Dan shrugged and leaned back again. “It’s not exactly heading to war.”
Jules shifted himself to the laptop and closed the lid. “If it’s not dangerous, why the decoy?”
“This is New York. You don’t need a team of ninjas descending on you to worry about getting robbed.”
Jules saw his point.
“You’re still here,” Dan said.
“Yeah.”
“Are you coming?”
“Do you think it’s real?”
“The shield? Yeah. Whether some Greek warrior used it, or it’s just sitting in a museum or under some burial mound… I think it’s out there, sure. In Alabama?” Dan gave a simultaneous shrug and sigh. “So far, Toby’s calculations have paid off. He asked Alfonse for a bit more cash and learned that old flaky book was holed up at the Vatican. Alfonse called in a couple of other favors, then we were on our way to sunny England. That’s where we found out Harpal had teamed up with Colin.”
“Doesn’t sound like a team up,” Jules said. “Sounds like necessity.”
“Whatever. Colin was a real ass about it, but we explained some old trading company’s records and ended up in Central America. Then it’s the usual story: dark holes, ancient legends being brought up to date, collapsing caves, escaping by the skin of our teeth…”
“Yep, that sounds like the usual. The priest gave you the other book?”
“It confirmed what Toby was hoping for. A connection to the Carson family. Something that might bring us a bit of financial relief, and maybe even Bridget back into the fold.”
“If it’s there.”
“Yeah, if.”
Neither man spoke, the traffic outside loud through the open window.
Jules picked up plane ticket. “And you haven’t had to fight your way out of any jungles or confront some other… interested party?”
Dan gripped the arms of the chair and shook his head tightly. “Nope. Not a sniff.”
Jules could not put his finger on it, but Dan emanated the same indistinct deception as Harpal had when asked the same question. He didn’t think they would lie about this, but there was something they weren’t telling him.
Jules said, “Just talking to her?”
“Can’t hurt.” Dan relaxed. “I’m about to leave for the Yellowhammer State.” He nodded towards the plane ticket Jules now gripped. “You joining me, or do I get some decent elbow room?”
Jules could not deny it would be good to see Bridget again, but he was still skeptical as to Toby’s motivations for involving him. Sure, having a black friend of Bridget’s might help sway the Carsons to investigate an artefact linked to the slavery era. They funded a museum dedicated to recognizing individuals who played a role in fighting to end the practice in a part of the country where it was embedded into the DNA. That alone was curious enough.
Jules brandished the plane ticket towards Dan. “If I find out you’re lying, I walk. No questions, no second chances. Understand?”
Dan stood and pulled his bag out from under the bed. “Glad to have you on board. We’re wheels up in three hours.”
Part Two
Chapter Six
Aniston, Alabama
With a minor delay, it turned out to be four hours until Jules was airborne, sharing an armrest with Dan on the redeye to their connecting airport, then onward to Anniston, Alabama—the nearest hub to the Carson estate. There was a private airport a short car journey from where Bridget was living, but they agreed it would be better to surprise her than announce their intentions too far in advance.
It was morning when they picked up the hire car, and the southern heat was already building. Anyone foolish enough to venture out found themselves wrapped in a cocoon of humidity. When Dan insisted on driving, Jules did not compete, preferring to doze for the first hour on highway 78. After the snooze, Dan grew bored with the radio, and engaged Jules in conversation, mostly relating to how they would approach Bridget.
Once they pulled off the highway and traveled the road stretching in-country, they found a town to refuel both themselves and the car and called Bridget from the diner parking lot while they ate sandwiches in the blistering late morning.
“You’re here?” Bridget said.
Jules had made the call but kept it on speaker. Her southern belle inflection was more pronounced than it had been the last time she and Jules spoke, and it sunk into his brain the way feet enjoyed slipping on a familiar pair of comfortable shoes.
“Oh, yes,” Dan said when Jules failed to expan
d on his announcement that he was in the state and would like to drop by for a visit.
“Dan? Is that you?” Her voice rose an octave at hearing Dan Vincent speak.
Jules narrowed his eyes at him, annoyed at the deviation from the plan to let Jules do the talking initially.
Bridget said, “How did you know where I am?”
“Toby gave us the address,” Jules said.
“That’s not what I mean. I—” She cut herself off. “It doesn’t matter. It’s great to hear from you. How soon will you be here?”
“About an hour,” Dan said.
They said their goodbyes and Jules said nothing to Dan as they got in the car and headed back out onto the road. Jules could tell Bridget knew something was up. He got the impression this excursion hadn’t been planned as intricately as he would have insisted upon.
One hour and five minutes later, they pulled off onto a narrow approach road, bordered on both sides by railings—a road that may have been nothing but dirt had this been a conventional farm. Halfway up, they faced a double gate made from wrought iron and guarded by two cameras and several boxes that Jules knew emitted an infrared beam. He also noted the railings appeared ornate, cotton-thin strands weaving between the spires—more than likely electrifying the entire length.
Dan lowered the window at the speaker, but before he could announce himself or press any buttons, Bridget’s voice sang through.
“Drive right on up. If there are any dogs running loose, ignore them, but don’t get out of the car until I say so.”
There was a static squelch, and the gates swung open.
Dan drove through and up the road, the hot air shimmering as it rose, which was where the house came into view. It was a mock colonial mansion, bright white in the fierce sunlight, with a lower annex off to the left. The fields to two sides spanned the landscape to the horizon, rising out of view, while the east side ended in woodland.
Bridget stood on the top of three redbrick stairs under the colonnaded awning. The only thing that looked odd, from memory of such houses on TV and cinema screens, was that she was not surrounded by servants or gun-toting bodyguards. It reminded Jules of Alfonse Luca’s villa on Sicily, only this was three stories instead of one, and the heat was damp, not dry.