by S. C. Stokes
“Do we?” I replied, playing his game. “I think you must be mistaken. We have a mask, but it's not your mask. I have it on good authority you yourselves stole it. Now I know, you were planning to return it. After all, it is such a significant piece of cultural history, but there is no need to panic. Fortunately, I know its rightful owners, and will see it safely returned to them.”
“Stolen?” the director replied, sounding wounded. “You have been misinformed. We liberated a mask from some zealots who were plannin’ to destroy it. I like to think we played a vital part in its preservation, but we haven't stolen anything now, have we? I’m going to need you to return it before departing our airspace.”
Slipping into the seat beside Murdoch, I decided to push the envelope. “And if we don't?”
Rain drummed on the windshield, beating a steady staccato but the line itself went silent.
“Ah, Seth, he's pulling back,” Murdoch said, pointing out the window. Sure enough, the FA-18 on our left flank had withdrawn, and our escort on the right was slowly distancing himself from the Gulfstream. “They're moving into firing positions.”
The Texan cleared his throat loudly. It was akin to a cat hacking up a fur ball. “Well, Seth, that would put us in a difficult position. You see, that mask is of vital interest to the United States government and has been designated as a threat to national security. If you attempt to flee with it, we will be forced to bring you down. You can bring it back of your own accord or we can send down divers to recover it. I don’t mind either way. What matters is, it’s ours. We intend to keep it.”
The good old national security angle, the two words that seemed to be a get out of jail free card for breaches of civil and legal protocols. The director might be bluffing, but there was no way to know for sure.
I could try to force his hand, but the pit in my stomach told me he planned to keep to his word.
I could keep stalling, try and see if he would be equally cavalier once we reached international airspace.
“I must say I'm impressed, Director. I didn't think anyone would find us this quickly. You run a tight ship.”
“Why, thank you,” he replied. “I must say, you put on quite the show. Flooding us with that little fake news tirade. I would like to take all the credit, but you see it was a team effort. We ran this one up the flagpole, got a few friends involved and for the last hour or two, Mr. Caldwell, you have had the unique and singular privilege of being the most wanted man in America. How does it feel to have the whole weight of the federal government huntin' you down?”
So much for limited resources. I had hoped that Section 9 with its unique mandate might operate independently from the other government branches, making our lives that much easier. Unfortunately, the director seemed to have no issue dragging in reinforcements.
Most wanted man in America. For a moment, I felt a little professional pride, just for a moment until the more sensible part of my brain took over and registered the repercussions. If the director had put my name on the bulletin, he’d drawn a double-edged sword. The Caldwell name carried weight, but could I rely on that fact to save our lives?
With each moment that passed, we climbed higher, steadily making our way out over the Atlantic. Could I buy enough time? Would such things as international airspace even matter to the director?
In my heart, I doubted it. The director didn't feel like he was bluffing and while I might be reckless enough to bet my own life on my instincts, I couldn’t wager Murdoch and Dizzy's lives on them.
“Seth? Are you there?” the director probed. “I know you might be hoping that we will let you go once you clear our airspace. I'm going to have to disappoint you. I have no problem whatsoever shooting you down and frankly I’d prefer you were far enough out, we don’t have to deal with the cleanup. Tomorrow’s headline will read billionaire playboy crashes his private jet. I won't lose a minute’s sleep over it. That said, I would much prefer not having to scramble a vessel, and wait for the divers to find the mask. So, if you could be so kind as to turn around and bring it back, we'll let you off with a stern warning.”
There was one advantage to being a wizard: while the world had recently become acutely aware of my existence, most normals still had no understanding of how our power functioned or what limitations it might have.
“You can try, Director. You seem awfully sure of yourself. Those poor pilots flying into a storm, it would be a tragedy if something were to happen to those aircraft. You've only had a taste of what I can do with my magic. Do you really want to witness it first-hand? I’d love to hear you explain that one to your boss.”
“Why don’t we find out, Seth? Call it an experiment. In the name of science, of course. Let us discover together if a wizard in a private jet is a match for two FA-18's who have him dead to rights. I've been wondering, can wizards fly? I mean, I wouldn’t have thought so, but in this exciting new world, I’m eager to discover new possibilities.”
The Texan had called my bluff. Much as I wanted the mask, there was a price I wasn't willing to pay and he'd found it.
“Are you still there, Seth? I'm ready to start our experiment when you are.”
There was a pause, as I weighed my choices.
The Texan continued. “X-ray Two-Three, ready an AMRAAM, X-ray Three-Three-Zero, light him up with your M61A2. Let's find out whether a wizard fairs better against a gatling gun or a missile. Aw shoot, this could be fun.”
“Roger that, mission control,” a calm east coast accent replied. “Ready to fire on your command.”
Murdoch tapped me on the arm, but I ignored it. I only had seconds to defuse the situation before the strike craft turned us into a terminally depressing fireworks display.
“Any last words, Mr. Caldwell? If so, now would be the time,” the Director said.
I racked my brain for a solution but was coming up short. There was a chance—a slim chance—that I could throw up enough of a shield to take the hit, but magic functioned by law. The more energy it deflected, the more energy would be required to feed the shield. It wouldn't be long before the power required would simply overwhelm me. There was a reason wizards had lived in secrecy for centuries. Guns killed wizards just like everyone else. Sure, a determined wizard could do some damage on the way out, but numbers and firepower were more than capable of leveling the battlefield.
Murdoch grabbed my headset and with all the subtlety of a linebacker, yanked my head toward him.
Lifting my hand off the transmission button, I shouted, “Murdoch, what the hell?”
He simply held up his mobile phone. With satellite signal it was operating just fine, but it was the face on the display that caught my eye. A man in his late fifties with a furrowed brow and a wave of brown hair beginning to give way to gray. I didn't need caller ID to tell me who it was. I'd recognize my father's face anywhere.
“Take it in the back,” I replied. “I've got this.”
Murdoch raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He didn't need to. I had this about as much as an amateur matador stepping into the ring with a prize-winning bull. Add to that a night spent drinking on the town and a set of bright red trousers with a target painted on their ass.
With a faith greater than my own, Murdoch stuck the plane on autopilot and headed out of the cabin. A call from my father was seldom a good thing. They were infrequent and his timing couldn't be a coincidence.
“Seth?” the director said.
Straightening the headset, I mashed the transmit button. “Apologies for the interruption, Director. We had someone on the other line. Where were we?”
“We were deciding whether or not your private jet would make a pleasant marine habitat,” the director replied. “Any thoughts on the matter, or shall we find out?”
It was impossible to shake the timing of my father's call. When it came to Frank Caldwell, there were no coincidences. I had to trust my gut.
“Sorry, Director, just to backtrack a moment, you did say it was a joint effort to find
us, didn't you? The whole might of the federal government, if I remember correctly.”
“I sure did, son. What of it?”
“Well, Director, that was your mistake. Do you really think that after spreading my name around like that, there won't be at least a little bit of backlash when my jet goes down? The public might buy it, but your bosses won’t. I think you've vastly underestimated our influence.”
“There isn't anybody who's going to shed a tear over the loss of another one percenter.”
I shook my head. “Oh, I'm not talking about the press, Director. I'm talking about those in your government with whom the Caldwell name still holds sway. I may have friends in low places, but rest assured, Frank Caldwell has friends everywhere. In fact, I imagine you will be hearing from them very soon. You won’t want to do anything…premature.”
The director let out a long low breath. “You are starting to sound desperate, Seth. Last chance.”
“Wait for it,” I replied.
“I think we're about done here, X-ray Two-Three—”
The director cut out mid-sentence. When the line cleared, he bellowed, “Tell them I'm in the middle of something.”
A quiet but insistent voice in the background cut in, “Sir, it's the Director of Clandestine Operations. He said, now.”
I couldn't help but smile. There were things Frank Caldwell was good for.
“You might want to get that, Director. Sounds important. Don't worry, I'll wait.”
The line went silent. I leaning back against the padded seat, my heart still pounding away. I took a deep breath and tried to calm my nerves.
After what felt like an eternity, the director came back online. “Well, that was an interesting call.”
“I bet,” I replied, “Never fun to be called to the principal’s office, is it?”
“You insufferable little pile of—” The Director rattled off an impressive array of expletives before collecting himself. “I can count on one hand the amount of times I have fielded a call from Andrew Lynch, and I'm left wondering just how the Director of Clandestine Operations came to know of your plight, and why on earth he would save you from becoming the headline of tomorrow's news cycle.”
“As I said, friends in high places, Director. Don't be upset though. It happens to the best of us.”
“Watch yourself, Seth. I might not be able to pull the trigger, but there are plenty of folks who will, and well, maybe we'll just have to let them know just who has what they're looking for. You have a nice flight, Seth,” the director said with all of the sincerity of a coiled rattlesnake waiting to strike.
The line went dead.
Taking off the headset, I sat it on the console and breathed a sigh of relief.
That was close, too close for comfort.
Slowly my heart, which had been threatening to hammer its way out of my chest, returned to its normal pace. We'd dodged a bullet, or more likely a missile. Either way, things were looking up. The unyielding director had been left behind. The mask was safely in my possession, and every minute we were climbing higher as the aircraft followed its chartered course home.
As for the director, I had no misunderstandings as to what had occurred. Section 9 had us dead to rights. If it hadn't been for the timely intervention, the Gulfstream's debris would be littering the Atlantic right now. Or I'd have been forced to come about to save lives, returning to New York with all the inevitable unpleasantness that would bring.
I had little faith in the director's ability to keep his word. Something about them being a clandestine sub-segment of the CIA just failed to fill me with confidence. If Section 9 was interested in the mask, then they would be even more interested in their own pet wizard. And there was not a snowflake’s chance in hell that I was going to spend the rest of my life in a whatever cell they deemed fit enough to keep a wizard in.
Fortunately, there had been a steady hand to rein in the director’s brutal disposition. Unfortunately, I knew exactly from whence our boon had come. Now it was time to pay the piper.
I stood up and trudged back into the cabin.
“Nice of you to join us, son.” A booming voice filled the room.
I turned to find my father's face filling the large TV screen that dominated the wall.
Frank Caldwell was approaching his sixtieth birthday. His light brown hair had given way to gray but it was tidily parted on the left and swept around in a wave that resembled the hairstyle of a newsman. He had the pale complexion of a Londoner that was aware of the existence of the sun but was winning a lifelong battle of hide and seek with it. The creases at the corners of his eyes were beginning to deepen, and the black bags beneath them spoke of overexertion and a lack of adequate sleep, neither of which was particularly uncommon for the master of the Caldwell dynasty.
That said, it was hard not to notice the obvious passage of time on my father's face. Each year was wearing on him, and it served as a reminder that my time was rapidly approaching.
Frank was a large man. At six foot three, he towered over most around him, broad-shouldered and in good health but for the curse which wore relentlessly on his mind.
Flopping down in one of the large weather recliners, I let out a sigh. “Good to see you too, Dad.”
The color rose in his cheeks, his pale complexion turning a slight tinge of red.
His temperament certainly hadn’t changed.
“What the hell have you been up to, boy?” he growled.
Oh, this was going to be one of those talks. I'd expected as much, but it was always nice to know where one stood.
“I was missing home. I thought I would pop in for a visit. See the family, catch up on a few odds and ends, grab some real fish and chips.”
Frank shook his head. “It's all just a grand joke to you, isn't it? Imagine my surprise when I receive a call from Andrew Lynch telling me that an alert had just been issued for my son. How often do I need to tell you, your actions have consequences?”
“You already have,” I replied, raising a hand as if to slow his rant. “The day you brought me into this world, you taught me that lesson. I was born with an expiry date. Those were your actions. I had no say in them but I'm not going to spend my life waiting for it to take me. Like I told you in Rome, I'm going to find a cure or I'm going to die trying.”
“Well, Seth, congratulations. You just about succeeded today. What type of blistering arrogance does it take to break into a government facility and steal their classified property? Are you eager to die? They are not playing around, Seth. These men are dangerous.”
I scratched at the scalp at the nape of my neck. “Well, to be fair, I wasn't aware that it was their facility when I planned the heist. Secondly, it's not their property. They stole it. Last but not least, I am closer than we've ever been to finding answers. So yeah, if it's my fault, I'm happy to take the blame, but the win was worth the effort. We have a tangible lead now.”
“Still the same old Seth.” He did little to hide the disappointment in his tone. It was something I'd gotten used to over the years. It was early in my teens that I had realized that some things would never change. My reaction to my foreordained death, my father's determination to build a legacy, and his bitter disappointment in me were as constant as the North Star. I might have been an unrelenting force, but Frank Caldwell was an immovable object. It was the source of constant friction in our family, and the driving reason behind why we seldom spoke.
“You don't even know what you do not know. If it wasn't for the Brotherhood's intervention, I'd be burying what was left of you in a matchbox, and what good would that do you, huh? You can't carry on this crusade if you're dead. You need to pull your head in and understand that your actions bring consequences.”
His labored delivery of the word consequences didn't bode well. He was not one for melodrama, but something about his tone resembled a doctor giving a bad prognosis. There was more to his cranky demeanor than usual. Something was bothering him, something greater than my usu
al defiance.
“Dad, what's wrong? Is Mum okay?”
“Your mother is fine, or at least she was until she realized you hadn’t invited her to your wedding. Good luck with that one by the way. I dare say you would have fared better against the missile than your mother.”
My stomach sank like a rock. My mother deserved better than such a careless oversight, and my father was not exaggerating my predicament. Jillian Caldwell was a formidable matriarch, every bit the match for Frank. Hailing from old wizarding stock, she was a prodigious witch, with a keen intellect. More importantly, she was a great mom.
She'd been a determined supporter of my life's work, encouraging me to pursue what Frank had already written off as inevitable. In truth, every man would be blessed to have such an angel for a mother. Or at least they would think so, until they had to face her wrath. Slow to anger, but terrible in fury, mother would exact a fearsome price for my carelessness.
In truth that was all it was. Lara and I had only been engaged a few weeks and in my fixation on the mask I hadn’t got around to telling them. Honestly, I hadn't been sure how they would react. While I wasn't the first wizard to marry a normal, it was unusual. It was a fact that our whole family line had begun with such a union, but the world was in commotion and magic was at the forefront of that upheaval. It was difficult to predict how people would respond to their new reality, and in the face of potential persecution, most in the magical community tended to search for love among their own kind.
Whether such a course was wise or not was doubtless a topic both of them would feel a need to weigh in on, and I wasn’t much for being told what to do. In my heart I knew what mattered most. I loved Lara, and I wasn't going to have anyone else dictate the terms of our affection.
No, screwing up our relationship was something I was perfectly capable of doing all by myself.
“An oversight that I'll make right,” I replied.
“You better. Your mother is a saint, but she's been fuming for days. We could use a little peace, at least here at home. She still blames me for you leaving. Naturally this latest omission is just another tally on the scoreboard of things that are my fault. We may not see eye to eye, Seth, but you are my son. As much as I would normally be keen to see you learn the consequences of your actions, the director’s reach exceeds his grasp. I had to intervene before he killed you or worse.”
