Back at Londale Street, two inconspicuous looking sedans pulled up. It was the middle of Saturday, so the likelihood of being identified was high, with everyone out and about. Mr. Willard was making tea and getting ready to watch a documentary on the Nephilim on the History Channel. Five men got out, dressed in casual clothes. Two of them carried cooler boxes, as to sell the charade of a group of blokes coming to watch a football match with James Willard. Having had a good look at the house and yard structure via satellite, they knew where to go. Major Rian’s men briefly swept the yard area to make sure that there were no witnesses or possible interference.
The impressive yard was very private, giving the assassins a perfect opportunity, however, there was an anomaly. “Where are the others?” one of the men asked.
“Probably inside,” the team leader guessed. “They are scheduled to leave in thirty minutes from now.”
“Only one car in the drive, belonging to Willard,” another man reported. “You think the other one is in the garage?”
“Go check,” the leader said. “Make sure.”
Two men went round the front to enter the garage, expertly picking the old school lock and handle to gain access. Inside there was another car belonging to Willard’s late wife, which the men mistook as belonging to one of the principal’s guests. “There was a Jeep in the driveway What if it was their vehicle?” one told the other.
“If they have left, they are lucky, but let us concentrate on Willard first,” his colleague replied. “After all, he is the prime target. Look, a door into the house.” Not surprisingly, the door was locked, but they could breach such mundane security measures in their sleep. Behind them, the roller door suddenly activated, closing them in. They were unable to wedge it open, but while they labored to pry it open, the vents began to hiss.
“What is that?” one asked, sniffing and wiping his eyes.
A powerful cloud of white covered them within a few seconds.
“I think the fucker is gassing us!” the other said. “Did you bring masks?”
“Why would I? It was a straight hit,” his colleague snapped, holding his gun up at him.
“Fuck! Cover your mouth and nose,” the other urged, but it was too late. Their bodies began to convulse as they asphyxiated slowly, dropping to the ground.
Around the back of the house, the other three men quietly unlocked what they thought was the back door. It was, in fact, a false entrance to the Willard residence, merely leading them into a separate room, a closed up porch.
“There,” one whispered, pointing at an interior door that led to the kitchen. “The actual back door that goes through to the house.”
“Close the exterior door behind you, in case someone looks over the fence,” the leader said. As they closed the door, the sound of an automatic lock caged them in. From the other side of the door, they heard Willard whistling merrily in the kitchen, a repetitive and annoying old tune.
The leader switched on his flashlight to pick the lock of the interior door, having no idea that Willard’s natural security system was closing in on him and his men. A low growl ensued from the dark. He swung his flashlight to investigate, and his beam fell right on the grimacing face of a hideous thing.
“Attack dogs!” the leader shrieked, but they were too slow. Gunfire lit up the room like lightning, but Major Rian’s men could not hold off the pack of dogs, trained to kill at the sound of a certain whistled tune. Apparently, they were as annoyed by it as the intruders were. Inside the kitchen the principal smiled, retrieving his popcorn from the microwave. With a mouthful, he sat down on the couch. “Nice try, Johannes. Nice try.”
33
Like the Lady of Shalott
Arriving over the coast of Arran’s island, Ava gasped at the beauty of the Scottish island. The day was gray, but mild, allowing them to appreciate the green majesty enclosed by a dark and calm ocean. Below them, the island was divided up in odd ends of farmland and small forests in patches in different hues of green, bordered by roads and tree lines.
From the coast, smoky spray permeated over the small town of Brodick. The blade slap of Purdue’s helicopter got louder as the air craft tilted to turn into the wind, heading north towards the castle grounds. Purdue was going to land the helicopter on a patch of land near the castle grounds, where it could sit until the party of four returned. He had arranged it with the landowner over the phone and wired the agreed funds to the man’s account.
Sam, Ava, Kostas and Purdue stretched their legs after the turbulent, but pleasant flight down to the Isle of Arran. From where Purdue touched down, the view was wondrous.
“It really does look like a scene from King Arthur,” Purdue remarked as the mild wind swept his white hair.
“Aye,” Sam agreed, enjoying some libation from his flask to keep the cold at bay. “I just hope there is something out there to look for. Even if this sword is actually real, it would hardly be handed to us by a hot woman in a lake. How will…?”
Purdue leaned in and hushed Sam. “Listen, we just get a goddamn sword and give it to them so that we can get Nina back. It is a weapon from a fictional book, Sam. We might as well be looking for a fucking unicorn.”
“Look at the castle!” Kostas exclaimed, gesturing up for Ava to see. “The Viking age lords knew how to build.”
Atop an elevated cascade of rolling green lawn, the striking castle perched. It had overlooked the Firth of Clyde for centuries, even since the medieval times, born from a fortress that originally stood on the site. These days it resembled a more stately estate than a hardy castle, holding off enemies and protecting the town adjacent.
“Too many tourists, even when the bloody castle is closed for winter,” Sam lamented, and slung his bag over his shoulder. “Shall we?”
“The day is still young. If we focus, and the scabbard is accurate, we should find the key before nightfall,” Purdue said. They proceeded through the immaculate gardens of the castle grounds. Kostas wished he could spend more time admiring the landscaper’s work, but he had to admit that the prospect of holding the sword of Arthur was far more engaging. They walked in silence, finding other people roaming the stunning gardens, but they had a mission. According to the scabbard, they had to measure the paces, fifty-four in total, from the castle’s most northeastern corner stone to reach the channel under the clump of trees. Purdue’s satellite phone rang in his backpack’s side pocket.
“Who the hell would that be?” Ava asked, looking vexed. Kostas kept count of the paces.
“The devil,” Purdue teased, and answered the call. “Yes?”
On the other end of the line, a familiar voice said, “This is your mother, calling from France.”
Only Sam noticed that Purdue was shocked. The playboy explorer had a magnificent poker face, but his closest friends could instantly tell different. He stuttered, “Bonjour Mama!”
Ava rolled her eyes. “His mother is French?” she asked Sam.
“Oui,” Sam smiled. “His father is Scottish, so he was born and raised here, but his mother is French. Since his father’s death, she has chosen to live in her motherland.”
Ava bought Sam’s fabrication, while Sam’s heart raced warmly in his chest. He knew that it was Nina. The French mother was her code between them. In turn, Sam realized that Ava did not speak French, otherwise she would have known that Purdue mentioned that they were in the company of enemies.
Sam rejoiced that she was alive, and if she could make a call, she had to have found a way out. However, Sam kept his feelings well hidden, as did Purdue, who was rambling on in French. Nina told him that Bernard was dead and that he was surprised by Johannes Rian, the main cock of the pen.