“Suit yourself, Harry. I suspect that I shall not be long. I’m just dropping off a letter for Uncle Alexander.”
“Very good sir, I’ll try not to wander off while you’re gone and try not to have too much fun without me, sir,” Campbell said dryly.
With that, Sheppard left Campbell to his own devices. He casually sauntered up to the front door and rang the bell. Feeling fatigued after the long drive, he stretched out his tall, muscular frame and then absentmindedly ran his fingers through his thick, unruly sandy brown hair in a vain attempt to try to look decent for his host. His skin was tanned and had a healthy glow to it. Sheppard’s green eyes shone with an intensity that showed his keen intellect and drive. Barely thirty, Sheppard came from wealth. Born in New York, he had grown up all around the world. As a child, it was not uncommon for him to be found traipsing the countryside wherever his family had land instead of diligently applying himself to his schoolwork. He was preparing to go to university in New York City, when the Great War broke out. Not wanting to miss out, Sheppard took a train north into Canada and joined the fledgling Canadian Army where he soon found himself in the trenches with the Canadian Expeditionary Force fighting in France. Wounded twice, Sheppard was lucky to survive the war with nothing more than a few nasty scars on his chest and his legs. Returning to his grandmother’s estate on the outskirts of New York City, he re-enrolled and finished his degree in geology before taking a position in his father’s growing oil company. A committed bachelor, Sheppard was about to take a tour of his father’s holdings in China when news arrived that his older brother, Thomas, had been killed in a motor vehicle accident. His mother was devastated at the news and went into seclusion. Putting his plans on hold, Sheppard knew he had to come to England to tidy up his brother’s affairs before heading to the Far East.
Shivering slightly in the cool, damp country air, Sheppard pulled his old army khaki greatcoat tight around his neck for warmth while he waited for someone to answer the door. Dressed in warm brown wool pants, polished knee-high boots and a loose-fitting white fisherman’s sweater, Sheppard was dressed for a drive in the country, not a posh evening soiree.
After what seemed like an eternity to Sheppard, the door opened, though only slightly. A thickly accented Russian voice called out from inside. “State your name and the purpose of your visit?”
“Good evening, my name is Captain Christopher Sheppard, retired, and I have an appointment with Prince Alekseev,” Sheppard replied in fluent Russian.
No sooner had Sheppard finished answering when the door was abruptly closed in his face, once again leaving him outside alone in the cool dark evening. Sheppard was growing increasingly frustrated with being left outside. He thought that he was taking a simple drive through the countryside to take his mind off the work of dealing with a never-ending stream of solicitors and lawyers. Loud music and laughter could be heard coming from inside the manor, prompting Sheppard to wonder why a late-night party had been planned at the same time that he’d been requested to drop off a letter, and by the sounds of it, there was quite the shindig going on inside.
After a couple of minutes, the door suddenly flung open. Bright light flooded out, blinding Sheppard. Blinking his eyes, he saw a short, muscular man with a thick long beard, dressed in a full-length blue Cossack Kaftan jacket carrying a pistol as he warily walked out onto the steps. He suspiciously eyed Sheppard up and down, then walked past him and onto the driveway, where he looked around in the dark as if searching for someone or something unseen, before quickly returning to usher Sheppard inside the manor house. Sheppard looked over at Campbell, who shrugged his shoulders in bemused disbelief. He felt the same way, but decided to carry on and followed the burly Cossack inside the warm and brightly lit front hall.
The oddly dressed servant put his pistol away and took Sheppard’s greatcoat. Seeing his casual attire, he shook his head and then ushered him off to a side room, far away from the other guests, and curtly told him to wait.
“Am I not invited to tonight’s soiree?” Sheppard asked half-jokingly, as he looked past the Cossack at the well-dressed partygoers.
“No! Now, sir, please wait here,” said the Cossack brusquely.
Sheppard had barely registered what was going on, when the door was closed and locked from the outside. Letting out a deep sigh, he looked around at the nearly empty room and then deposited himself in a leather-bound chair and wondered what on earth was going on? He had only accepted this task as a favour to his uncle. It had worked out well so far; he got out of London for the first time in months, and had the opportunity to take his brand-new car for a long drive in the countryside. However, Sheppard was now starting to wonder if he had somehow made a mistake. Perhaps someone else other than him should have come out here and delivered his uncle’s note. Reaching inside his pants pocket, Sheppard made sure that the letter for the manor’s owner, Prince Viktor Alekseev, was still there. Finding it right where he had left it, Sheppard started to relax and made himself as comfortable as he could in the luxurious and no doubt unbelievably expensive antique chair.
Fatigue from the long drive in the crisp country air caught up with Sheppard. Suppressing a yawn, Sheppard looked down at his watch and saw that he had been waiting for close to ten minutes when suddenly he heard a single shot fire, quickly followed by two more. Sheppard immediately came to life. Jumping up, he ran to the door, pulling at the doorknob, and turning it furiously but found it locked. Damn! Why the hell would someone lock me in? thought Sheppard angrily.
“Hey, someone out there open this door,” Sheppard yelled loudly, banging as hard as he could on the door, hoping to get someone’s attention over the growing sounds of confusion and screaming coming from the other side of the securely locked wooden door.
More shots rang out.
The sound of people panicking became louder and more frantic.
Sheppard realised no one was coming to help him. Stepping back, he threw himself against the door and with a loud crash, he broke the lock, throwing the door wide open. Sheppard went with the door and spilled out into the hallway, smashing straight into a beautiful, young, blonde-haired woman wearing a long, red evening dress.
“Pardon me,” Sheppard apologized as he helped steady himself and the woman.
“The prince…the prince has been shot,” said the blonde-haired woman haltingly, pointing down the hallway to a small knot of people gathered around the bloodied bodies of two men lying face down on the polished marble floor.
Sheppard released the girl and then strode towards the bodies. Looking over the group of people hovering nearby the bodies, he could see that an older gentleman wearing an old white Imperial Russian military dress uniform had been shot twice in the head, as had the Cossack, who just had minutes ago let Sheppard into the house. Blood began to pool under the dead bodies. People began to step back in revulsion. Sheppard had witnessed his fair share of death during the Great War, but he had never seen anyone murdered at a party before.
Confusion reigned. Why would anyone would want to kill the prince and his servant? pondered Sheppard.
“Did anyone see what happened? Did anyone see who shot these men?” Sheppard asked the closest couple of men.
No one answered.
Realising his error, Sheppard asked again, this time in Russian. An older man with a long white beard, dressed in a military uniform much like that the dead prince was wearing, raised his head and stepped forward. “A woman shot the prince. He caught her stealing something from his study, and when they both came out, she pulled a pistol from her purse and shot the poor man, and then his bodyguard, right in front of all of us.” Tears streaked down the man’s aged face as he spoke.
“Which woman?” Sheppard asked, quickly looking around the crowd of hysterical dinner guests.
“The blonde girl, the girl in the long red dress, she shot them both,” said an older woman, as she hurriedly pointed towards the front entrance.
Sheppard looked back over his shoulder to
where he had smashed into the young woman in the red dress, barely a minute ago. She was gone, and the front door to the house was wide open.
“Damn,” Sheppard muttered to himself. “I’m such a fool. Call the police now!” he said to an elderly Russian gentleman, as he turned on his heels and sprinted for the front door.
Furious at himself, Sheppard bolted outside into the darkness, nearly tripping over a red gown lying discarded on the manor house steps. Bending down, Sheppard picked up the dress. He instantly recognized it as the blonde-haired woman’s. None of this made any sense. Again, he wondered what was going on. The sound of a car’s engine starting up suddenly caught his attention. Looking over, Sheppard saw a dark red sports car quickly pulling away from the manor house. It was the car driven by nervous driver that Sheppard had noticed earlier. Swearing under his breath, Sheppard dropped the dress. Taking two steps at a time, he darted back towards his own car. Harry Campbell was nowhere to be seen.
“Over here,” called Campbell, as he stood beside another car, chatting with its driver.
“Get over here Harry, we have to go,” Sheppard yelled as he jumped in and started the car, which instantly came to life with a loud roar from its finely tuned engine.
“Hey, I thought I was driving, sir,” moaned Campbell, as he made his way back to the car.
“Change of plans, Harry,” replied Sheppard, as he turned the steering wheel over and drove towards Campbell. “No time to waste, hurry get in…we have to go. They're getting away.”
“Who’s getting away sir?” said Campbell sounding quite confused, as he climbed into the passenger-side seat.
“They are,” Sheppard said, pointing towards the fleeing car as he stepped on the accelerator, changed gears and sped off. The car instantly responded, surging forward, its tires spraying gravel skyward behind it as they clawed at the ground for traction and speed.
No matter what happened, Sheppard knew he had to stop the woman and her accomplice from getting away. He had to find out who they were and why the prince and his servant had been murdered.
The road ahead was narrow and winding, bordered on both sides by tall old oak trees. Through the fog, Sheppard could see the lights from the other car slightly ahead of him. Changing gears, Sheppard pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor. The engine responded and the silver Bentley Sports-Tourer quickly sped up, the force pushing Sheppard and Campbell back into their seats. Sheppard had only purchased his new car barely one week ago and was still not fully comfortable with how it responded to his touch, especially at high speeds. Gripping the steering wheel tightly in his hands, Sheppard felt his heart race as he fought to keep the vehicle from sliding off the road and into a tree as he chased the blonde woman’s car through the dark countryside.
To his dismay, Sheppard soon saw that the gap was widening between the vehicles. Though Sheppard did all he could on the meandering road, his opponent was obviously a very skilled driver and was pulling further away from him. Turning a sharp corner, Sheppard saw a long stretch of mist-covered road. His car was fast…very fast. He smiled at the chance to catch up to his prey. Changing gears, he felt the car respond to his touch as it picked up speed; the wind whipped past the car as he recklessly drove as fast as he could. Turning a narrow bend, Sheppard suddenly became worried…he could no longer see the other car in front of him.
“Sir, over there, it’s them,” said Campbell, pointing off into the distance.
Looking off to his right, Sheppard saw a set of lights rapidly fade into the distance. “Damn! They must have turned off somewhere back on the road and are now going cross country,” Sheppard said to himself. “Hang on Harry, things are about to get bumpy.”
“Bumpy…why?”
Seeing a narrow dirt lane coming up, Sheppard pulled up on the park brake and then sharply turned the wheel hard over. Physics had other ideas as Sheppard took the turn too fast and felt the car struggle to remain on four wheels. His heart leapt inside his chest when for a second he thought the car might flip. However, somehow, it managed to stay on the dirt road and Sheppard let out a deep breath as he felt the tires grip the soft dirt beneath them. Glancing over at Campbell, Sheppard saw that his companion was hunched down in his seat, absolutely terrified by Sheppard’s manic driving. The car shook up and down and vibrated loudly as Sheppard seemed to hit every hole and rut in their path. He briefly considered slowing down, but knew that no matter the cost, he needed to keep the vehicle moving as fast as he could, even if it meant he wrecked a few things on his new car. Christopher Sheppard could always buy another one.
The lights from the other car grew brighter.
Sheppard grinned to himself. They were slowly closing in on the other car; however, the country path was leading them both down into a valley that was split by a wide, fast-flowing river that Sheppard knew from driving earlier that day could only be crossed at a railway bridge a couple of miles away. Suddenly, things turned more difficult. No sooner had they descended into the valley that they were engulfed in an even thicker fog coming off the cold river. Biting his lip in frustration, Sheppard cursed his luck. The mist was so dense that he could barely see ten yards in front of the car.
Turning off the dirt path, the car’s tires gripped paved road and picked up speed.
Both Sheppard and Campbell were happy to be on more solid ground, especially if they were going to continue to drive recklessly through the pea-soup thick fog. Sheppard knew his adversary would never slow down, so he pushed on, silently praying to himself that there was no one else foolish enough to be on the road that night.
Negotiating an unexpected sharp bend in the road, Sheppard's eyes widened when he suddenly saw the rear of a stationary car rapidly race towards them. Slamming on the brakes, Sheppard turned the wheel over and broke out in a cold sweat as his car came to a screeching halt. Peering over his steering wheel, he saw that he had narrowly missed smashing into the back end of a parked car. Sheppard did not need to be told that it was the car that he had been chasing. Letting out a low whistle to calm his racing heart, Sheppard let go of the wheel and looked over at Campbell.
“You okay, Harry?” Sheppard asked his unimpressed passenger.
Like a turtle, Campbell raised his head out from under his voluminous scarf and just nodded. Cautiously, he peered into the fog for any sign of the other vehicle’s passengers. “Where are they?” he asked. “If you ask me sir, this is all really unnerving.”
“Yeah, I have to agree with you,” replied Sheppard, when suddenly, a spectral figure seemed to emerge out of nowhere. In an instant, the figure raised a pistol and opened fire. Sheppard’s windshield exploded, spraying shattered glass fragments inwards towards his face. He barely reacted in time, shielding his face with his hands. Sheppard’s ears registered the sound of a pistol firing. He felt a rush of air on his face as one of the bullets missed the side of his head by mere millimeters.
“Sir, reverse…put the damn car in reverse,” yelled Campbell, over the sound of gunfire and breaking glass.
Instinctively, Sheppard threw himself down on his seat, as did Campbell. Throwing the car’s stick shift into reverse, Sheppard stepped on the gas. The car responded, its tires squealing loudly as it quickly backed away from the other car and disappeared into the relative safety of the fog and the night.
Sheppard, with his heart pounding in his ears, blindly drove backwards into the fog for about a hundred yards, and then he hit the brakes. With a loud squeal, the vehicle skidded to a halt, Sheppard and Campbell both quickly sat up in the car. They saw that most of the car’s windshield was missing and that a couple of bullets had gone straight through Sheppard’s seat; they would have hit him squarely in the chest had he not ducked when he did. Looking disbelievingly at one another, the sound of the other car starting up made them both look back into the impenetrable curtain of fog and darkness.
“Would you mind telling me just what the hell is going on, sir?” asked Campbell, calmly brushing shards of glass off his thick gre
en woollen coat.
“Harry, I honestly don’t know. I just know we can’t let those people get away,” answered Sheppard, as he reached over and pushed his destroyed windshield down. Throwing the car into gear, he took off once again after the mystery vehicle, wishing that he had the foresight to bring a sidearm with him.
A brilliant light penetrated the fog from behind them. Looking quickly over his shoulder, Sheppard saw a long passenger train moving down the tracks running parallel to the road. He grinned—now he finally had an opportunity to catch the other car, remembering that the only decent crossing over the river was the train bridge, now at most maybe a kilometer or less away. Depressing the accelerator as hard as he could, Sheppard changed gears and raced on, hoping that he wouldn’t be too late to stop the other car from escaping. With the windshield gone, the cold night air rushed against Sheppard’s face, forcing him to scrunch his eyes to see.
Less than a minute later, he could once again see the taillights from the other car. It was moving quickly. The driver seemed oblivious to the fact that Sheppard was once more closing in on them as they raced through the narrow confines of a small village street, the sound of their engines echoing off the brick buildings. Sheppard knew that the bridge was now only a few hundred yards outside of the village. He angrily banged his hand against the steering wheel, willing his car to go faster.
The Last Eagle (A Christopher Sheppard Adventure Book 1) Page 3