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The truck lumbered through New York City traffic as we tried to put as much distance between ourselves and the museum as possible. As far as fleeing the scene of a crime goes, it was more of a wounded hobble than a true flight, but that was part of the plan. A breakneck chase through Manhattan would draw too much attention. Instead, we needed to play the stealth card and get clear of the city.
My original scheme had been to ditch the truck in a local parking structure, disband the crew, and after a quick change, stash the mask at my New York storage facility, with the rest of my more illicit artifacts. I could hardly take it home without giving up the game.
All that meant little now, and my mind raced to reassess our options. My identity was out, and the authorities knew who I truly was. My crew were safe for the time being, but everything connected to me in New York City would end up locked down.
Angering the CIA had not been on my bucket list this morning.
“Earth to Seth? Are you with us, captain?” Murdoch interrupted. “I said would you mind filling us in on what the hell happened in there?”
I let out a slow breath to calm my racing heart. “Can they hear us in the back?”
Murdoch shook his head. “Only Dizzy if she’s kept her earpiece.”
“Well,” I began, pulling the cap off my head, “it would appear that we just robbed the CIA.”
“And people say I’m crazy,” Murdoch whispered, his fingers tightening a little around the wheel. “What on earth would possess you to do something that reckless? I thought you said it was a museum.”
“It was. Or at least I thought it was.”
“This is Rome all over again,” Murdoch replied.
I cringed. “We’re a far cry from Rome. The CIA still have their scruples, and they’re mortal.”
“Oh good. I’ve always preferred lead poisoning to being disemboweled by a demon. But I’m old fashioned that way.”
“I don’t know how I missed it, Murdoch.” I leaned heavily on my hand. “Lara is with them, Murdoch. She’s with the CIA.”
“Women, there’s always something.” Murdoch snuck a sideways glance at me. “That’s why I live alone. Less people looking to punch me in the face.”
I ran my hand over my cheek and could feel the angry bruise forming there. Lara had not been gentle.
“Is it that bad?”
“It’s going to be a shiner,” Murdoch said. “Guess that’s what happens when you’re caught with your hand in the cookie jar.”
“Hey, you’re meant to be on my side.” I checked the truck’s mirrors, making sure we weren’t being followed. “Besides, it’s not like she’s without fault. She’s running a CIA outpost and doing covert research on magical artifacts. She didn’t manage to tell me any of that while we were dating.”
Murdoch bit his lip.
“What is it?” I asked, scanning the traffic ahead for signs of danger.
Murdoch shook his head. “As far as apologies go, that’s bloody awful. I hope you plan to work on it before you run into her again.”
Run into her again. The thought was as exciting as it was terrifying. Lara had softened a little as we’d talked, but how much of that was understanding and how much of it was a covert operative playing on my emotions, it was impossible to tell. She’d fooled me once. I could hardly trust my judgment where she was concerned.
“You know it was my only choice,” I said. “I’d have preferred to buy it in the first place, but they weren’t interested. If it was any other artifact, I could have let it be.”
“You remind me of every addict I’ve ever known. Just one more, and then I’ll have enough.” Murdoch rolled to a stop at a red light. “You’ve never seen a relic you didn’t want.”
He had a point. Over the years, he and I had passed through a number of death-defying schemes in my pursuit of the arcane. It was an occupational hazard for an arcanologist. Those who possessed relics seldom wished to part with them, but often the world at large was better off for it. After all, what world wanted a dictator on whom good luck always shone? Or a serial killer with a shroud of invisibility? Whether it was in the interest of the public good, or a part of my life’s quest to cure the Caldwell Curse, there was always a price to be paid. Be it in blood or suffering, the arcane was a fickle mistress and arcanologists had the life expectancy of a goldfish in a shoal of piranhas.
We were an insurance actuary’s worst nightmare.
On most days, Murdoch would be right, but today was different. The mask was not a relic I wanted; it was one that I needed. There was a difference.
“It’s not Rome, Murdoch. This mask once belonged to my ancestors. It holds the key to the bane that has plagued our house for four centuries. It could save my life. Heck, if we’re quick, it might even save my father.”
Murdoch’s face lifted. “How so? I thought his illness was incurable?”
“We all thought that. It’s why he is such a miserable old bastard all the time. It’s hard to live when you have been robbed of hope.”
“You could do worse than your old man.”
My father was the last person I wanted to talk about. No matter how much time passed, his words never would. The thought of him made me anxious, and I brushed at some lint on the pants of my disguise.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Murdoch waved me off. “When I came back from my tour, there wasn’t anyone willing to give me the time of day. A veteran discharged on psychological grounds? People wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole. Your father took me in, and gave me a job. He gave me a life. You two might have your issues, but don’t speak ill of him to me. The man saved my life.”
“And made you my babysitter,” I countered. “Hell of a reward for a life of service.”
Murdoch chuckled. “Not all bad though, is it now? There are a few rays of sunshine between the clouds of looming death, so it’s still a rung or two higher than a padded cell. I’ll take it.”
“Don’t get too excited. There may yet be a cell in our future, albeit one with fewer amenities and considerably less hospitable staff. We need to get out of the city, now. Thoughts?”
“Well, we’re only a block or two from the parking garage. We need to drop off the crew and change vehicles anyway. We were the only ones in and out of the museum, so they’ll come hunting for this one soon enough. I took the liberty of arranging fresh transport, so we should have a few hours’ head start. We need to leave town immediately.”
“Leave town? I think we need to leave the country, Murdoch. Get somewhere out of our new friend’s reach while we sort things out. Is the jet still at Teterboro?”
“Certainly is,” Murdoch replied. “You’re not worried they’ll track it?”
“Good luck to them. It’s owned by a shell company with no connections to the Caldwell Group. It will take them days to find it and by then we’ll be long gone.”
The real question was, just how vast were Section 9‘s resources?
My extracurricular acquisitions had agitated more than a few organizations over the years, but I’d never gone to war with a government. That particular brand of suicide required a recklessness that I did my utmost to avoid. Would my Texan frenemy have the full weight of the CIA behind him? Or was Section 9 some fringe arm of the CIA? The existence of magic was a new revelation to most people, and there were plenty of folks who still thought it was a government hoax, designed to cover up the truth about the attack on New York City.
I let out a sigh. What did it matter? I could only plan for the former while hoping for the latter. Reaching into my pocket, I took out the burner phone and started punching numbers. It couldn’t hurt to take out a little extra insurance.
“Who are you calling?” Murdoch asked.
“A friend in the news,” I replied as the line rang.
Murdoch raised an eyebrow, as he flicked on his blinker.
The line opened.
“Northern News Corp, this is Alexei,” a throaty Russian voice answered.
“Alexei, this is Seth,” I said, trying to feel out his mood.
There was a pause. “Seth, I don’t know any Seths. I’m afraid you must have the wrong number. Good—“
“Don’t give me that, Alexei. I need your help.”
“What part of you’re dead to me, don’t you understand?” Alexei grumbled. “The last time I helped you, an oligarch burned down my server farm. I was out of business for eight weeks.”
“You’re not still upset about Moscow, are you?” I asked. “That was three years ago, and I made good on the farm. Tell me the free upgrade hasn’t boosted business since?”
“Svolach,“ he muttered.
I had a working knowledge of a handful of languages, but the Slavic tongues were something of a weakness. That said, his dripping tone and demeanor conveyed his feelings as clearly as a billboard.
“What if I doubled your fee?” I asked, hoping his usual greed might bring him back to the negotiating table.
“No, can do. It’s getting late,” he said. “Maybe next time.”
If there is a next time.
It couldn’t be later than 9:00 pm in Moscow, and the cantankerous programmer barely slept anyway. Making a run for the jet was one thing, but I’d feel a good deal safer if I knew Alexei was hard at work deploying his customary smokescreen. When it came to creating a distraction, Alexei and his crew at Northern News Corp were the best in the business, using the internet to generate a spider web of misinformation that would confuse pursuers and dilute their resources.
In essence, Alexei had weaponized fake news.
“That’s a shame. I had really hoped you might help. I guess I’ll have to find someone else to take these Matryoshkas off my hands. Such a shame because I thought they would have gone well with the ones in your study.”
The Matryoshkas, also known as Russian nesting dolls, were popular among collectors. The finer pieces, while not in the same value range as the famed Faberge eggs, were nonetheless sought after by collectors who gathered the different themed sets with gusto. Fortunately, Alexei had a superfluous amount of love for the handcrafted art pieces.
There was a pause on the line, and I let it ride. He hadn’t hung up, so it wasn’t strictly a no. It was now a negotiation. The longer the silence, the better my chances.
After a few seconds that felt like hours, there was a groan. “Tell me about the Matryoshkas.”
“Are you sure, Alexei? I don’t want to keep you up,” I teased.
“Now,” Alexei replied. The sound of a tankard hitting a table carried through the line. “Before I hang up.”
“Fine. Fine. Have it your way. It’s a ten-piece set. Peasant girls, in a Zvyozdochkin original style but with one notable distinction.”
I set the hook and let it linger.
“What distinction?” Alexei barked.
“The set is made of solid gold. I’d never seen anything like them. Naturally, I thought of you, my friend.”
“Seth, my friends never call me at work. It’s nights like this I wish you were one of them.”
I grinned into the phone. “Not a problem. Alexei. There was a broker in Paris who was desperate for them anyway. I’ll have her take them off my hands.”
“Svoloch. I’ll take the dolls. What do you need?”
“I’m in New York and I need to leave. I’m after a distraction. What can you give me?”
Alexei grunted. “I presume you have your own travel arrangements.”
“They’re sorted,” I said, not wanting to give any insights as to how we planned to leave. Alexei was a businessman at heart. He might want the dolls, but there was every chance he’d sell us out if the offer was good enough.
“Okay,” he said, “I have your dossier from your little visit to my country. Soon you will be everywhere. It should buy you a few hours. Courier the dolls to my warehouse.”
“Will do, Alexei. A pleasure as always.”
I killed the call.
In minutes there would be false flags occurring all over the city. Alexei utilized an extensive library of videos and images he’d compiled during my stay in Moscow to execute a series of deep fakes that even the most determined observer would have trouble seeing through.
Then utilizing a network of trolls and carefully cultivated social media accounts, the images and videos would be shared virally. One might show us carjacking someone by the central park, another would show us strolling down Madison Avenue in police uniform. Hundreds of images and videos, accompanied by false ticket purchases on planes, trains, busses, and ferries, all designed to muddy the water.
Alexei was an artist, and fake news was his canvas. Of course, Section 9 would see it for what it was, but the veritable avalanche of information would muddy the water, making it difficult, if not impossible to discern between it and any legitimate information they might turn up.
“Alexei still cranky about Moscow?” Murdoch asked as he pulled into the parking garage.
I shrugged. “He makes a show of it, but at the end of the day, Caldwells always pay. We’ll have the cover we need. The CIA will be sifting through the dog pile for days.”
Murdoch eased the truck into a loading bay and cut the engine. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he dropped out of the cab. I scooped up the duffel, swinging it over my shoulder, and followed him around to the back of the truck.
The truck was open by the time I got there. The cage was empty, with Dizzy and the crew seated on bench seats along one wall of the vehicle.
“Alright, gentlemen, that will be all,” Murdoch called. “Payments have already been wired to your respective accounts. Make sure you burn your suits and keep your heads down for a few days. You’ve all performed admirably. Keep your mouths shut, and there will be more money in it for you next time.”
“Thanks, boss.” One of the scrawny crew unbuckled himself. The others followed suit and soon the truck was empty.
“You got that change of clothes, Murdoch?” I asked, climbing up into the truck.
“The cupboard in the bulkhead. I thought you might appreciate your other uniform.”
We both climbed into the truck and Murdoch pulled his phone out with one hand and pulled the doors closed with the other.
Reaching for the bulkhead cabinet, I pulled down a bag and a set of brown leather work boots. Inside the bag was a set of thick spun khaki pants, a brown belt and a button-down shirt. It bore no logos, cost little, but brought me great comfort with its familiar feel. I was far more at home in it then the suit I’d worn earlier.
With no time to spare, I tore off the animal control uniform, pulled on the slacks and slipped into the shirt. Dropping onto the bench seat, I pulled on the boots. All I was missing was my hat, which was nowhere to be seen.
I knew who I looked like, and it was no accident. If you were going to spend your life hunting for real arcane relics, there was only one man you wanted to channel.
“Oh, Dr. Jones, it’s good to have you back,” Dizzy teased.
The good-natured jibe made me smile. She had a way of keeping me on my toes, but her presence was one of the few constants in my life. It meant more than she could know. Whether she was making fun of me, or chaining herself to a tree to protect the habitat of an endangered species, Dizzy was all in, all the time.
“Has anyone seen my hat?” I asked, resting my hands on my hips.
She gave me a lighthearted shove. “You are such a dork.”
“Worth it,” I replied, as Murdoch pushed open the door.
“Are you two done? I spoke with ground crew at Teterboro. They’re fueling her up as we speak and filing a flight plan. We can be wheels up in under an hour.”
Scooping up the duffel, I followed Murdoch through the parking garage to the elevator. Abandoning the truck was a win-win. Either it would take the police a day or two to find it, or someone would steal it and take it for a joyride, adding one more dud trail to be run down.
Riding the lift up to the next floor, Murdoch pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked a black BMW town car three bays from the lift. He took the front seat, while Dizzy and I slid into the back.
In no time, we were back in the traffic heading North-West toward Teterboro Private Airport. Rolling through Manhattan, I began to relax a little. The day had not gone at all as I had intended it, but truth be told, it seldom did.
Today had to be something of a record though, a heist on a museum of all places and it had still gone to hell in a hand basket. A CIA sponsored facility in the middle of Manhattan. It was a horrendous oversight on my part. I should have dug deeper. It seemed I was destined to make the same mistakes over and over again.
The world was changing, and I needed to adapt. In the wake of the attack on New York, the world was reacting to the presence of the supernatural, perhaps too quickly.
And Lara? A trained operative? How had I missed that? She was smart, funny, and so utterly obsessed with the ancient world that I had never even pondered the possibility. After all, with everything that had gone wrong, why doubt the thing that was most right in my life?
Well, it had been until today. It was difficult to tell where the cards would fall, but there was a solid chance I’d just burned my life in New York to the ground. The mask was the best shot I’d ever had at learning more about my curse, but at what cost? Maybe my father was right. Maybe the future I wanted was just a dream. One that was destined to slip through my fingers.
At least I had the mask. That was something.
I squeezed my feet together, gripping the duffel between my legs.
The mask was the first tangible link to the Brujas de Sangre, and if my research was correct, it would be the key to entering their lost sanctuary and discovering what had truly occurred there. My father had a theory about why the curse had been laid upon us, but neither us, nor any of our forebears, had succeeded in finding someone who knew enough about blood magic to be able to lift the hex.
When it came to blood magic, it seemed the resident experts had all but disappeared soon after my forebear’s last expedition to Panama in 1596. The timing was suspicious to say the least, but Spanish records of the colonies were spotty at best, and references to a cult of witches, if such records had ever existed, had long since been purged from their highly curated history.
Overhead, the skies were steadily darkening. The first raindrops struck the windshield with a gentle pitter-patter that was almost cathartic.
“Come off it,” Dizzy said. “I hate flying in a storm.”
“Don’t worry, dearie,” Murdoch replied. “This is hardly a drizzle. You’ll barely notice once we’re airborne.”
Dizzy sank back into the leather seat, looking utterly unconvinced by Murdoch’s reassurance. Her skepticism was justified. Murdoch considered anything less than a hurricane as perfectly suitable for flying. Hopefully, the weather would clear over the Atlantic and provide for a smooth run home.
Home. I tensed at the thought. It had been years since I’d been back there. After Rome, my father had made it only too clear that I was no longer welcome.
His thunderous words filled my mind. “You can’t have it both ways. Be a Caldwell, with all that comes with it. Or be nothing. I won’t shield you from your fate any longer. It’s high time you grow up.”
Rome had been my day of decision, and the last time my father and I had spoken. Now I was fleeing the CIA and looking for sanctuary. There was only one place in the world I knew could provide sanctuary, Weybridge Manor, the Caldwell family home.
My father’s wrath or a CIA black site. It should have been an easy decision, but it was hard not to feel like we might be leaving the frying pan in favor of the fire.
Frank Caldwell was a man of strong opinions on how I ought to spend my life. In the course of his, he had taken the dynastic wealth he had inherited and magnified it many fold. The Caldwell Group spanned the globe. With business interests in dozens of countries and partners in dozens more, there were few halls in which Frank Caldwell’s opinion didn’t rate a mention.
Our family was a force to be reckoned with. It had been so since my forebear won fame and fortune for the crown. His name was Francis Drake.
Yes, Sir Francis Drake.
As a sea captain, he had circumnavigated the world in a single expedition. He was second in command of the fleet that foiled the Spanish Armada and on receiving his letters of marque, became her majesty’s personal privateer, plaguing the Spanish treasure fleets and voraciously hounding their interests in the New World.
History reads that he caught dysentery while anchored near Portobelo and died there, buried at sea in a lead-lined coffin that had never been seen again. But history was a well-known liar.
The journals Francis kept tell a different story. During his attempted overland invasion of Las Palmas, he discovered something that would change his life forever: a woman named Ellawaya, daughter of the high priestess of the Brujas de Sangre and a prominent witch in their order.
Ellawaya was destined to inherit her mother’s title but longed for a different life. Francis and Ellawaya found a future in each other, the opportunity for a new life. After faking his death, the pair rendezvoused on shore, gathered provisions, and purchased transport to England. One weary warrior, one witch, and their unborn child.
Free of his responsibilities to the crown, Francis began to go by a new name, Francis Caldwell the First. Using his vast experience and considerable means, Francis backed the East India Trading Company and funded England’s expansion across the globe. At its height, it could truly be said that the sun never set on British soil, and Francis Caldwell had been a defining influence of the empire.
The couple had their child, Arthur, who survived his father, and reared a family of his own. Arthur inherited his father’s wealth and his mother’s arcane gifts. The half-blood wizard led a truly blessed existence but grew increasingly erratic until, at the age of sixty, he hurled himself from the balcony of his home and died ignominiously on the cobblestone street below. Mad Arthur, it seemed, would not measure up to his father’s ambitions.
It wasn’t until Arthur’s son, Garrick, also took his own life, that our family began to recognize the truth. Francis Drake had brought more than magic back from Panama. He had brought the enduring wrath of the Brujas de Sangre and a curse that seemed determined to extinguish our bloodline once and for all.
So it has been through the years, successive heirs to the Caldwell empire, each trying desperately to raise a posterity to preserve their legacy before they themselves were driven to insanity by the curse. Many had tried and failed to cure the madness, but the curse still coursed through their veins. Fortunes had been made and spent, legions of arcane practitioners had been consulted, but when it came to blood magic, the Brujas de Sangre operated in a league of their own. One that had vanished without a trace.
Now it was my turn. My father Frank, named ambitiously for our forebear, had raised the family dynasty to new heights, wielding power that went well beyond the familial fortune. Frank was connected.
Unfortunately, he had spent most of his life pursuing power, rather than finding a cure for his affliction. After my birth, my parents had tried for a second child, but my younger brother, Adam, had died during childbirth.
Now the weight of the Caldwell empire rested on Frank’s increasingly unstable shoulders. I was his heir apparent but also his greatest disappointment. Unlike my forebears, I could not see the point in perpetuating this misery on a new generation. I resolved in my youth that I would not bring a child into this world unless I could do so without also handing him a death sentence courtesy of the ancient curse. I would not repeat my father’s mistakes.
Naturally, my parents took this declaration really well.
The resulting fallout had driven me to New York and a life abroad, but the separation had also given me the freedom to hunt for answers to the Caldwell Curse. After all, my time was running out. As long as my father survived, the curse seemed to focus its efforts on bringing about his demise, driving him insane as it had those before him. The day he passed, though, I would have to contend with it in earnest. It was a competition of wills my family had been losing for close to four-hundred years.
As I said, baggage.
My life had its perks, though. There wasn’t a day I woke up a wizard that I didn’t smile a little bit as I looked in the mirror. But it was power with a price that would one day come due for payment, and all the Caldwell money in the world wouldn’t settle that debt.
Come what may, this disease would end with me. If I couldn’t stop it, the half-blood’s hex would take its last life—mine.
I couldn’t help but wonder what my father would say about the mask. It was more concrete evidence of the Brujas de Sangre than we had been able to find in years. The last clue of their existence, a Spanish doubloon rumored to contain coordinates of their lost temple, had been a forgery.
Now we had proof my forebear’s journals weren’t a fanciful recounting of his affairs in the New World. All we needed to do was find the temple, and uncover its secrets.
The BMW rolled up to the security gate at Teterboro Airfield. Unlike a normal commercial airfield, the exclusive facility was designed to accommodate luxury travel, freeing the larger nearby airports of the interruption of the smaller private planes. For those who could afford it, Teterboro was a godsend. Handling the ground support, refueling and administration of its customers, and sparing them the tedium of standing in airport security for hours on end. No more needing to show up hours before a flight was due to depart.
Murdoch flashed his ID and the guard waved us through, directing us toward the Meridian, Teterboro’s executive terminal. The Meridian was practically a high-end gas station for private planes.
We pulled into the lot in front of it and left the car behind, racing for the terminal as the rain pelted down in sheets.
It was strange to travel so light. Of the three of us, I was carrying the only bag, with the mask, the plate, and the files I had looted from the museum. There simply hadn’t been time to make any other arrangements. Fortunately, the plane had a few provisions that would tide us over until we made it home.
Murdoch led the charge through Teterboro’s sliding glass door.
“Captain Murdoch!” an officious blond clerk called from behind the counter. Her narrow-rimmed glasses had slid down her nose so that she was looking over them. “It’s good to see you again.”
Murdoch’s lips widened into a grin. “Charlaine, my dear, always good to see you. I’m sorry to call on such short notice. You know how it is, business never sleeps.”
Charlaine gave a knowing nod. “Don’t I ever. Fortunately, we’ve got a few openings on account of the storm. The boys are just finishing wheeling her out. You should be airborne in a matter of minutes.”
Murdoch leaned on the counter. “You’re an angel, Charlaine. What would I do without you?”
“You old rogue, I’m sure you say that to all the girls,” Charlaine replied, her fingers returning to the keyboard. “Head on through to the gate. She should be in Bay C, waiting.”
“Thanks, Charlaine.” Murdoch flashed her a wide grin.
Ignoring the water that was running off our sodden clothes onto the carpet, we breezed through the Meridian and back out into the rain. There, facing the short taxiway, was our Gulfstream G550, Gladys. Our ticket to freedom.
Murdoch raced over to the ground crew to check the final preparations and I pointed to the mobile stairway. “Ladies first.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Dizzy replied. She hurried up the aluminum steps to the open door of the jet.
As I stepped into the plane, I found Dizzy reclining her leather seat back. Gladys had a number of unusual features. The first was that half its seats had been removed, making room for a workbench and cabinetry along one side of the aircraft. Beyond the bench were the aircraft’s amenities and storage lockers. The plane had enough tactical equipment to outfit a small militia and an array of technology that was years away from being commercially available.
The perks of Caldwell money.
More often than not, Gladys served as our mobile base of operations, our home away from home. She wasn’t the newest plane on the market, but Gladys had got us out of more than one tight spot over the years.
I placed the duffel on the workbench for now but had every intention of taking a closer look at the mask, once we were airborne.
Murdoch bounded into the plane and shut the door, water running off him in tiny rivers.
“How are you feeling about the rain now?” Dizzy asked.
Murdoch winked, “Like I said, just a drizzle. We’re clear for takeoff. So seatbelts on, folks.”
He raced into the cockpit and set himself down.
Following him in, I plonked down in the co-pilot’s chair. Not that I had any delusions of flying the plane; I just preferred to see my death approaching.
I expected to find Murdoch readying the plane. Instead, he crossed himself and whispered feverishly, “Our Father, who art in heaven.”
“Murdoch?”
He raised his finger. “Not while I’m praying.”
I knew better than to argue with him. Murdoch was a man of faith, habit, and superstition, and while he might have walked the knife’s blade between oblivion and insanity from time to time, he did so on his terms.
Murdoch finished his prayer, and fired up the plane’s engines.
“More concerned about the storm than you’re letting on?” I asked, as he eased the plane onto the taxiway.
“Not at all. I just never take off without a quick prayer,” he replied, putting on his headset. “Well, almost never.”
“Oh, yeah?” I lifted on my headset.
“Just once. Back in Iraq, and I spent three days in the bleeding desert. Never again.”
Equal parts superstition and faith, that was Murdoch.
“Meridian Tower, this is Gulfstream G-007 ready for takeoff. Over.”
“Roger that, G-007, the runway is yours. Safe travels out there. We hope to see you again soon. Over.”
“Roger that, Meridian, proceeding to takeoff, over and out.”
Murdoch taxied the craft onto Teterboro’s runway and gave me a nod. Before I could respond, the plane launched forward, hurtling down the runway. Rain fell in sheets as the airplane’s nose rose, lifting it into the air.
Faster than any bird could fly, we rose through the air, sailing over New Jersey before wheeling left and heading out over the Atlantic.
Free and clear, I let out a breath of relief. Patting Murdoch on the shoulder, I rose from the seat determined to take a look at the mask before stealing a few hours of sleep.
I’d only made it a few steps into the cabin when Murdoch shouted, “Seth. You’re going to want to take a look at this.”
“Still just a drizzle?” Dizzy asked, biting her lip.
Murdoch ripped off his headset. “Ah, now it’s fairly pissing down.”
I ducked back into the cockpit only to find the view much unchanged. The storm beat on the aircraft but we continued to rise.
“What am I looking for?” I asked, squinting into the distance.
“Not out there, over there.” He pointed off to Gladys’ left flank.
There, matching the Gulfstream’s path and speed, was a F/A-18 Hornet fighter jet. A glance to the right revealed a second plane, flying escort.
So much for being home free. Gladys was being flanked by the pair of fighters as it rose toward the clouds.
“Where did they come from?” I groaned as a pit formed in my stomach.
Murdoch shook his head. “No idea, boss, but they want to speak to you.”