by Tim Waggoner
Poppy moved back to give Charlie room, and he stepped up to the lane.
“Just wish I’d had a second chance at killing Eggy myself,” he said.
“Aw c’mon, Charlie. Look on the sunny side. He’s dead along with the rest of them. And you dodged any chance of failing again and becoming part of my next recipe.”
Charlie had begun his approach as Poppy spoke, but upon hearing her say recipe, he stumbled and threw a gutter ball.
Poppy laughed. “You’re such a nervous Nellie! You really think I’d go to the trouble of finding you, recruiting you as my intelligence consultant, and then cooking you before my project’s even started?”
Charlie walked back to join her. “Can I be honest? Yes. Maybe? I mean, you mainly seemed interested in mining my knowledge about where Valentine went wrong. And now that Kingsman is out of the way…”
Poppy made a pouty face to show Charlie that she was disappointed in how little faith he had in her. She walked over to the benches, reached beneath one, and pulled out a large golden box. Charlie gave a little squeal and flinched, as if he thought the box was some sort of weapon that Poppy intended to use on him. Poppy walked back to him, and although he cringed a bit as she approached, he didn’t move away.
“Then how about asking yourself: if I didn’t plan to keep you on, why would I have got you… this!”
Poppy removed the box’s lid in a grand gesture and hurled it away. Inside, packed in molded foam rubber, was a new robotic arm. But this was a huge upgrade from his last one. It was larger, sturdier, and equipped with all kinds of deadly-looking accessories. Poppy almost wished she was missing an arm too so she could use it. Charlie’s eyes widened as he took in the prosthesis, and he slowly smiled.
“You like?” Poppy asked. “My guys made it just for you. Bigger, better, and badder. I call it… ARMageddon!”
Poppy laughed at her joke—one of her best, she thought—and Charlie chuckled again, this time sounding more genuine. He removed the arm from the box and affixed it to his stump with a click. The arm whirred to life, and Charlie flexed it and wiggled the fingers.
“Let’s see if your game improves,” Poppy said.
Charlie’s ball emerged from the ball return. He walked over to retrieve it, lifting it with his new arm as if it weighed nothing. Then he stepped up to the lane without making an approach, pulled his arm back, and hurled the ball toward the pins. The ball flew through the air as if shot out of a cannon, shattered the pins to pieces and smashed through the back wall, making a hole large enough to see the jungle foliage outside.
Charlie turned to Poppy and grinned.
* * *
Eggsy—his steamer trunk sitting on the ground next to him—stood in the street outside where the tailor shop had been since 1849, long before Kingsman established headquarters there. The entire building had been reduced to rubble, and he could see through to the street on the other side. It was raining, and he stood beneath his open umbrella. He still wore the red velvet smoking jacket Tilde had picked out for him, and he knew the rain would likely ruin the fabric, but right then he didn’t care. It was a two-and-a-half hour flight from Stockholm to London, but for Eggsy the trip seemed to take an eternity. He’d thought about his friends and colleagues, prayed they were okay, feared they weren’t. He’d thought of Tilde and the massive cock-up he’d made of dinner with her parents and vowed to make it up to her when he could. Once he was back in town, he’d caught a cab—a regular one—and gone straight to the house to find it in a similar state of destruction. He’d taken the cab to Roxy’s apartment building and saw it too was destroyed, along with all the residents, not just her, and then he’d come here. He’d paid the driver and sent him on his way after that. He had nowhere else to go.
On the parallel street, a silhouette of a man came into view, open umbrella in one hand, a canvas bag in the other. He stopped when he saw Eggsy and looked at him a moment before speaking in a familiar Scottish accent.
“Galahad?”
Eggsy lowered his umbrella and thumbed the switch on the handle to activate weapons mode. The bulletproof umbrella flared open and the inner AR display came online. Eggsy pointed the umbrella, which was capable of stunning or killing an opponent depending on the holder’s wishes, at Merlin. Eggsy had the device set to kill.
He spoke loudly so Merlin could hear him over the rain:
“Someone decided to wipe out every Kingsman property, every agent, even the trainees… And you conveniently weren’t home.”
Merlin paused a moment before answering. “I could say the same thing to you.”
Fury gripped Eggsy. “You think I’d kill Roxy? And my mate Brandon? And my fucking dog?”
“No,” Merlin said calmly. “Do you think I would?”
The two men stared at each other for several moments. Finally, Eggsy deactivated weapons mode, and his umbrella became a device solely for keeping rain off one’s person. He raised it over his head—not that it mattered much now, given how soaked he was—and picked his way through the rubble to join Merlin.
When Eggsy had reached him, Merlin reached into the canvas bag and removed the robotic arm that Charlie had left behind in the cab when he’d tried to kill Eggsy.
“This fucking thing hacked us,” Merlin said. “Never seen technology like it. Clearly it can be remote controlled. I’m only alive because my address isn’t on the same database as the agents’. Apparently whoever Charlie’s working with doesn’t consider mere ‘staff’ missile-worthy.”
Merlin’s joke struck Eggsy as wildly inappropriate given the circumstances.
“That ain’t funny. Everyone’s gone. Dead. Do you even care?”
Merlin bristled for a moment, but then a deep calm settled over him. “Pull yourself together. Remember your training. There’s no time for emotion in this scenario. Now that all surviving agents are present, we follow the doomsday protocol. When that’s done then you may shed a tear in private.”
Eggsy nodded. Merlin, as usual, was right. They had a job to do, and they’d best get to it. It was what their fallen comrades would’ve wanted.
“Okay. What’s the doomsday protocol?”
“We go shopping.”
* * *
Eggsy and Merlin entered a quaint old shop called Berry Bros. and Rudd: Wine Merchants. Bottles of wine were arranged on shelves, displayed atop barrels, and the shop was lit with soft light intended to suggest candlelight. The place smelled of ancient, musty wood, and Eggsy wouldn’t have been surprised if it was even older than the tailor shop had been.
A man in a suit was arranging bottles on one of the shelves, turning them so their labels were perfectly aligned. OCD much? Eggsy thought. Merlin headed straight toward the man.
“We’re from Kingsman,” he said. “Here to use the tasting room, please.”
The man turned to look at them, glancing at a grandfather clock in one corner.
“This early in the morning?”
Merlin and Eggsy had been up all night inventorying the assets that remained to Kingsman. Unfortunately, there weren’t many. A couple off site weapons caches that hadn’t been used for years and were in desperate need of restocking, and several vehicles—none technologically enhanced—stowed in various garages throughout the city. And that was about the sum of it.
“Or late in the evening,” Eggsy said.
At first the man seemed at a loss for words, but then he composed himself.
“Follow me, gentlemen.”
* * *
The tasting room was located in the cellar. It was long and narrow, with stone walls, brick floor, mahogany wine racks filled with bottles, and a large table with numerous chairs beneath a metal chandelier. Normally the man would’ve remained to pour for them, but he said Kingsman had a standing account with their shop—a very lucrative one—that came with the stipulation that anyone affiliated with their organization could conduct their own tasting in private whenever they wished. It was an unusual request, but one with which they we
re happy to comply.
He smiled, then left, closing the door behind him. Merlin lost no time. He began searching the cellar, running his hands over bottles, shelves, the wall…
“None of my predecessors has ever found himself in this situation,” Merlin said as he continued searching and Eggsy watched, perplexed. Then Merlin stopped, as though he had found what he was looking for.
Embedded in the stone near one of the racks, so small that it was barely noticeable, was the Kingsman logo. Merlin pried it loose and held it out for Eggsy to inspect.
“Remember this?”
It was a Kingsman pin, just like the one Harry had left with Eggsy’s mother after his father died.
“How can I forget?” Eggsy said.
Merlin returned the pin to its place in the wall and pressed hard, at the same time giving it a turn. A rectangular panel of stone slid upward, revealing a black iron safe with a combination lock.
“Whatever’s in this safe is meant to be the answer to all our problems,” Merlin said.
Merlin began working the combination. No biometrics here. A few seconds later, the lock disengaged and Merlin pulled the door open to reveal an old bottle of liquor. Whiskey, to be precise, with a label that read “Statesman”. It was a brand Eggsy had never heard of. There was nothing else in the safe.
Merlin stood looking at the whiskey for a long moment before speaking. “I suppose that’s… upper-class humor. I never really did get it.” He sounded disappointed and lost. Eggsy knew exactly how he felt.
“Me neither, mate. What the fuck are we supposed to do now?”
Merlin didn’t answer at first, but when he did, his voice was strong and determined.
“We toast to our fallen comrades.”
Merlin removed the bottle, carried it to the table, and opened it. There was a small side table containing glasses of various kinds, and Eggsy selected two tumblers and brought them over for Merlin to fill. They stood and lifted their glasses.
Eggsy made the first toast. “To Roxy.”
They drained their glasses, and Merlin refilled them.
“To Arthur,” Merlin said, and they drank again.
“For Brandon,” Eggsy said after another refill. They drank, and then he added, “Should we do one for JB?”
“I think we should,” Merlin said.
Merlin refilled their glasses, and they toasted again. And again. And again, until—sooner than Eggsy expected—the bottle was nearly empty. By this point, Merlin was hunched over the table crying, his sweater and glasses off, tie loosened. Eggsy—jacket off and tie loosened as well—patted him on the back, attempting to comfort him.
“I should have seen it. Charlie… the taxi… the arm… This is all my fault.”
Eggsy’s thoughts were clouded by an alcoholic haze, but he knew Merlin was being too hard on himself.
“Bullshit, Merlin. It ain’t. You’re the best, bruv. If you weren’t here, I’d have lost it.”
Cheered a bit, Merlin said, “I think we should drink to Scotland.”
“Fried chicken?” Eggsy suggested. “I love fried chicken.”
“No,” Merlin said. “Country music. I fucking love country music.” He began singing John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” and reached for the bottle, but Eggsy moved it away before he could get hold of it.
“I think you’ve had enough,” Eggsy said. He glanced down at the bottle, debating whether he should finish off the dregs so Merlin couldn’t. As he considered, he noticed the label on the back of the bottle: “Distilled in Kentucky.” He looked away, but a sudden realization hit him, and he did a double-take. The K in “Kentucky” had a circle around it, just like the Kingsman logo.
Eggsy grinned. He’d been in the spy business long enough to recognize a coded message when he saw one.
“Merlin, I think we’re going to Kentucky.”
Kentucky, USA
Eggsy had never been to a distillery before, but as he and Merlin pulled up in a rented car—Merlin at the wheel because Eggsy had no experience driving on the wrong side of the road—it was impossible not to know they were in the right place. For looming over all the other buildings was one constructed in the shape of a gigantic Statesman whiskey bottle, resembling the one from the tasting room at Berry Bros. and Rudd. The other buildings were nothing special—box-like utilitarian structures—but the grounds were beautifully landscaped with elm and birch trees, and the entire facility lay on the banks of the Kentucky River. It was quite a lovely place for what essentially was a factory that made a product people used to get shit-faced.
The lot in front of the main building was nearly full, and they had trouble finding a space. According to the distillery’s website, tours ran daily, and evidently they were quite popular. They parked, went inside, and paid a fee to join the next tour. Eggsy had considered wearing civvies for this visit, but since they had no idea what they were heading into, he’d donned his Kingsman suit and eyeglasses, and he carried an agent’s preferred sidearm: a modified Tokarev TT30 pistol. He imagined Harry voicing approval. A good agent is prepared for anything at all times. Merlin wore his usual outfit—military sweater and slacks—but he also wore a pair of Kingsman eyeglasses.
As the tour commenced, several tourists snuck curious glances at Eggsy. He supposed he was dressed a bit formally for the occasion, but they soon forgot about him as their guide led them through the Statesman facilities, keeping up a lively spiel as they went. The woman wore a blue polo shirt with the Statesman logo on it, and she spoke with a silky southern drawl that Eggsy found charming.
“Now, some believe ‘bourbon’ refers to Bourbon County, or the Bourbon dynasty of old-time France. But truth be told, folks just liked the name because it sounded classy.”
Several of the group chuckled. Eggsy and Merlin hung back at the rear of the crowd, pretending to pay close attention to what their guide was saying, but in reality they were looking for any indication that this place was more than it appeared to be on the surface. She took them to Grain Receiving, the Mash House, the Dry House, and the Main Bottling Hall. As they continued toward what for many of the tourists was their real destination—the gift shop—they passed an extremely, almost absurdly, hitech security door.
“Through here is where we leave the casks to age,” she said. “Unfortunately, we can’t go in, as it’s a temperature-controlled environment.”
She smiled apologetically and continued down the hall, the group following her obediently. All except Eggsy and Merlin, who hung back to check out the door. It was the first thing they’d seen that didn’t appear to belong with the rest of the distillery, and it was worth a closer look. There was a security panel next to the door, and Eggsy recognized some of the equipment.
“Biometric retina scanner just to protect some old barrels of whiskey?” he said. “Pull the other one, love.”
Merlin had brought his computer tablet with him. He opened a program, entered several commands, and a second later there was a loud clunk as the door’s locking mechanism disengaged. The door opened, and Eggsy and Merlin hurried inside—
—only to find a cavernous hall filled with barrels, just as the tour guide had said.
Merlin looked around the room, using his eyeglasses’ sensors to scan the area. When he looked down, he said, “Hang on. There’s a huge underground structure beneath us.”
Merlin looked around some more. His gaze fastened on a particular barrel, next to which a large cooper’s mallet was propped against the wall.
“I think this is the way in.” He stepped over to the mallet, picked it up, positioned himself in front of the barrel, and swung at it with all his strength. The wood split, and a stream of whiskey jetted out.
“Fucking hell,” Merlin muttered. He dropped the hammer and pressed his hand against the leak, sealing it temporarily, like the Little Dutch Boy. Little Scotch Boy, more like, Eggsy thought.
“Shame it’s not scotch,” Merlin said.
Eggsy was debating how they cou
ld seal the leak for good—or at least long enough for them to get out of here—when a voice came from nearby.
“My momma always told me the British gave us southerners our good manners.”
Eggsy and Merlin turned to see a man in his thirties dressed like a true all-American male: camel-colored cowboy hat, denim jacket, denim jeans, crisp white shirt, cowboy boots, and the crowning touch: a silver flask belt buckle. But the man’s outfit didn’t concern Eggsy as much as the shotgun he was aiming at them.
He had a mouthful of chewing tobacco, and he turned his head and spit some excess saliva onto the floor. He looked at the pool of spilled whiskey and then turned to face them again.
“Ain’t that a pity,” he said. “You didn’t keep any for yourselves.”
“Actually, we had an invitation,” Eggsy said. “In the shape of a bottle. We’re from the Kingsman tailor shop in London. Maybe you’ve heard of us?”
“Kingsman, huh? Y’all look damn sharp. Did they make that fine suit and those fancy eyeglasses?”
“Yeah,” Eggsy said.
“And do you think it’s normal for a tailor to hack through an advanced biometric security system? That dog don’t hunt.” He spun the shotgun around to cock it. “Get on your knees—and tell me who you really work for.”
“He just did,” Merlin said. “Look, why don’t you lower the gun and we can talk.”
“Cut the crap and do as I say.”
Merlin shrugged, removed his hand from the broken barrel, and a stream of whiskey jetted out at the cowboy. He pulled his head back, then thrust it forward, spitting a large wad of tobacco as if he were a cobra spitting venom. The tobacco splattered onto the hole in the cask, instantly sealing it.
“That’s 1963 Statesman reserve,” the cowboy said. “You just made it personal.”
