Kevin Anderson - The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

Quatermain glanced down at a small leather case that he thought one of the four assassins had been carrying when they'd entered the room. He frowned, wondering why the killers would have tucked it under a small table by the bar — but he turned his attention to the immediate problem at hand. The last of the four assassins was getting away.

Eyes gleaming, Reed followed him through the doorway onto the shaded porch of the Club.

"Our bolter may have answers." Quatermain inspected and then shouldered the elephant gun.

"But he's so far away," Reed said. "You'll never hit him."

Quatermain ignored the remark, taking aim. He squinted, shook his head and lowered the gun.

"Yes, I thought he was—" Reed said, nodding with a trace of smugness.

But Quatermain wasn't finished. He took a pair of wire glasses from his shirt pocket. "God, I hate getting old." He put the glasses on, adjusted them, and took aim again. The elephant gun belched a roar like a cannon, and Reed flinched, squeezing his eyes shut and clapping his hands over his ears.

The bullet covered the distance to its target at incredible speed. The wounded assassin glanced back, thinking he'd gotten away — and the projectile slammed into his unprotected shoulder, shattering bone and flesh. He yelped and fell to the ground, sprawling on the trampled dirt of the road.

Quatermain lowered his gun and put his glasses away. He cracked his neck, surprised and exhilarated. "Well then, let us see what that fellow has to say for himself." He went to the hitching post and swiftly untied one of the waiting horses. He handed the reins of a second to Reed. "Nigel wont mind if you borrow his horse."

The two men approached the downed assassin, riding hard. Many locals had already left their market stalls and huts, gathering to stare at the bleeding killer, who was dressed as an Englishman.

Reed shook his head, his face paler than usual. "They must have learned I was coming for you. They wanted to kill you before you could offer to help."

"Obviously," said Quatermain.

They dismounted, striding forward like conquerors. The wounded assassin looked at them with fanatical determination, then used his one good arm to fumble desperately in his pockets. His other shoulder was a smashed and bloody ruin from the elephant gun.

"It's no use, man," Reed told him. "We'll get you to a doctor, and then to jail."

Finally, the assassin found a pill in his rumpled pocket and pulled it free with blood-spattered fingers.

Quatermain rushed forward. "Step him! We need the information!"

He grabbed the mans wrist, but it was too late. The assassin bit down on the pill with a smug smile that instantly transformed into a pain-wracked grimace as he died.

Cursing, Quatermain dropped the man's wrist in disgust. The crowd looked at him in awe, but the old adventurer wanted no part of them.

After all that had happened, Reed did not forget his primary mission. He cleared his throat. "You may have no love for the empire, Mr. Quatermain, but I know you love Africa." He gestured around him, as if there might be something admirable to be found in Nairobi. "A war in Europe will spread to its colonies—"

Suddenly, behind them, the Britannia Club exploded.

Flames erupted through the door and roof; windows shattered. Splinters flew up into the air. The support beams toppled, and the whole structure groaned, then collapsed into an inferno.

Quatermain stared, his lips curled downward in a frown.

No longer interested in the assassins motionless body, the crowd of natives turned their attention to the explosion. Shouting with excitement, they rushed toward the Brittania Club to help, or at least watch from up close.

Quatermain's eyes were steely as he watched his home burn.

"It appears the war has already arrived here," Reed finished. "You cant hide from it, Quatermain."

"All right. I'm in," the old adventurer said. "Damn…"

Reed smiled. "Excellent. Pack for an English summer."

With a smug look, the young bureaucrat strode away to the waiting buggy. The driver hadn't moved from his seat, watching all the excitement with bemused interest.

As he took two steps to follow, Quatermain hesitated, then looked back toward the African veldt, with its open skies and waving grasses. Thunderheads were gathering over the windswept plains.

Near the burning wreckage of the old Britannia Club, the forlorn, crumbling graveyard stood against the magnificent vista, and Quatermain thought of all the friends, acquaintances, lovers he had buried there.

It was time to leave.

Under torrential rain, a hansom cab drove north from Oxford Street. The driver tilted his derby, and cold water poured off the brim onto his already drenched lap. The rubberized fabric of his mackintosh was proof against the downpour, but the water found ways to creep between the folds of his coat and down his trouser legs into his shoes.

Nevertheless, the driver maintained his good cheer. His grin was sincere as he called down into the cab at his fare. "Nice day for doing, eh sir?" As if anyone could carry on a conversation with the din of the drumming rain and the clopping and splashing of the horses hooves on the wet cobblestones.

"Yes… absolutely idyllic," said Quatermain. His voice was the only dry thing on the whole street.

The cab had as many leaks as it had uncomfortable lumps on the seat, and more than its share of groaning, creaking noises. He felt very far from home, and comfort. After his long journey from Africa, he had hoped to nap in these last few moments before attending the meeting that Sanderson Reed had arranged.

But as with so many others, those hopes had been dashed.

The hansom cab pulled up outside the stately Albion Museum in London, where Reed waited, holding an open black umbrella. Moving as if he was afraid of being attacked at any moment, the bureaucrat hurried forward into the rain. He opened the cab's door, and muddy water sloshed from the sideboard. "You made good time getting here, Mr. Quatermain."

"Not as good as Phileas Fogg." The old adventurer stepped out of the cab and stood in the rain, taller than Reed's umbrella. "Fellow went round the world in eighty days."

He had been in monsoon seasons before, and had spent many a night in swamps or huddling under baobab trees for shelter. Monsoons on the veldt had a purity, cleansing the air with fresh moisture; here, confined in the city, the downpour simply turned the grime into muck.

"No need to go around the world. Coming to London is sufficient, sir." Reed paid the driver, meticulously counting out the appropriate amount in coins and intentionally forgetting a tip. Then he took the umbrella's protection for himself, even if Quatermain didn't want it. "This way, please. Your contact is waiting."

Quatermain had the impression he was being watched, a sense he'd developed from long years as a hunter and explorer. A glance over his shoulder showed him a young man across the street who wore an overcoat and cap to keep the rain off him. The clothing also succeeded in hiding the young mans face, making him seem up to no good; he was clearly enduring a soaking just to catch a glimpse of Allan Quatermain.

Alas, he no longer had Nigel's playacting to cover him.

"If you please, Mr. Quatermain?" Reed said, urging him along.

They ascended the steps toward the museum. Passing between the museums stone columns, under the ornate arches, and through the door into blessed dryness, the two men walked with echoing, squeaking footsteps on the polished floor. Reed snapped the umbrella shut and shook it. Rainwater running off their clothes made the marble tiles treacherously slippery.