Mark Stone - The Judas Line

“Harrumph.”

I swear he must’ve practiced his ‘harrumphs’ in the mirror every morning.

Minutes later the iron gate slowly started to slide to the right and we strolled on through, up the driveway to the castle. Even up close it was barely visible, registering more as a darkly looming presence than a structure. Off to either side of the driveway I did manage to note that instead of crushed rock landscaping, Leslie Winchester managed to maintain a rather large yard of-if the smell was any indication-very lush grass. Tall trees formed ominous shapes here and there. They were most likely cottonwoods, the heartiest and tallest trees in the region.

Before we could get too close to the castle, floodlights came on with the kind of suddenness that has adrenaline pumping through your body in bucketfuls, and pinned us to the spot. We shaded our eyes to spare them from the blinding light.

Jeeves’ voice emerged from speakers we couldn’t see. “Please raise your hands above your heads and turn around.”

We complied.

“Good enough. Thank you, gentlemen.” With that, the drawbridge lowered.

Yes, a real-as-can-be drawbridge with clanking, rattling chains, the creaking of stressed wood and a tremendous thud that was felt right to the bones of our feet as it came to rest in front of us. Winchester was taking the whole ancient English castle a bit too far, I thought.

A garage. A big one well lit by fluorescents, holding half a dozen cars from Aston Martins to Audis. Standing in front, hands behind his back, was the one I assumed must be Jeeves. He confirmed my suspicion when he spoke.

“Father Engle,” he said, staring up at Mike. “What is the nature of your visit?”

I took the moment before Mike answered to size up the butler. Short, maybe five-five, one hundred fifty pounds, very wide shoulders, black hair, big nose, weak chin and hairy eyebrows that looked like two caterpillars squaring off. All this was stuffed into a classic tuxedo complete with tails.

Mike took a slow step forward and I saw the butler’s shoulders tense slightly. “Sir, my business with Ms. Winchester concerns both myself and my companion.” Mike gently laid the duffel down onto the concrete. “It has to do with a certain antiquity she purchased a year ago.” A hint of movement came from deep within the recesses of the garage.

Something tweaked my ‘uh-oh’ button. I noticed Jeeves stood on the balls of his feet and then I took in again the breadth of his shoulders and the fact that his hands still were hidden behind his back. This man knew how to take care of himself and I would’ve bet my last peso that he had a pistol in his hand. This was no ordinary butler by a long shot. Right then I knew we were walking into the lion’s den smelling like prime rib.

Leslie Winchester came forward from the recesses of the garage into the light of the floods and I felt my eyes open wide in admiration. Not beautiful, but definitely a handsome woman, her once pixyish face had matured into a full blown representation of sensuality that age had not dimmed at all; in fact, my hot-o-meter was running into the red. Shoulder-length permed blond hair framed her face and her bust strained at a blue SOUNDGARDEN t-shit while her ample hips were encased in sprayed-on blue jeans. A pair of dainty white cowboy boots covered her curiously tiny feet.

“Nigel,” she crooned through nibblesome, pouty lips. “A man of the cloth is always welcome here.”

Nigel. Really? He would have been better off as a Jeeves.

“Really, madam, I must insist you stay back,” Nigel warned, mouth set in a grim line. I felt danger spill into the air, the sense you get when lightning is about to strike. Surreptitiously, I slid my hand into the front pocket of my black jeans and palmed what was inside.

“Really, Nigel, I know a good man when-” Leslie began, eyes focused solely on Mike. Maybe I moved a fraction, or she caught me out of the corner of her eye, for she suddenly swiveled her head toward me and screamed, pointing a long, blood-red fingernail. “Nigel! Watch out!”

Not good , I thought just before shit hit the fan.

Both Nigel and I made our moves at the same time; he brought the gun he’d been hiding behind his back to bear and I flung what I’d palmed in a sidearm throw as I started forward. Two quarter-inch ball steel ball bearings flew at Nigel’s skull, propelled with all the desperate strength I could muster, my heart trip-hammering in fear. The business end of his silenced pistol looming toward me like a tunnel to Hell. A Walther PPK, I observed offhandedly, how very James Bond. My lizard brain gibbered as fight-or-flight hormones flooded my bloodstream.

A quarter-inch ball bearing doesn’t seem like much-an itty-bitty little thing-but if you ever hefted one, you’d be surprised at its weight and smooth perfection. Then throw it … hard. That little ball bearing will pound into your average piece of drywall and stick. Now, imagine getting hit in the head by one. Ouch, lights out.

Unless you unload one with a wrist-rocket, it won’t kill your target, but if it hits the skull, it could put your enemy out of commission for about a week.

Nigel the Brit had better reflexes than I thought. As the two bearings left my hand, he took a half step to the side, aiming the PPK while I propelled myself forward on legs suddenly energized with adrenaline.

His first shot went wide, spoiled by a bearing hitting his left cheek with the sound of a ball-peen hammer hitting a side of beef. It rocked his head back. His second shot took a chunk out of my right ear as the other bearing sailed over his head to ricochet off the garage ceiling.

There wasn’t time for Words and if I had tried for one, Nigel would have used that pause to put two in my chest and one in my head. As effective as Words are, sometimes they’re just not fast enough.

Before the pain from my mutilated ear had time to register, I was within range of the short Brit, reaching for his gun hand. Without flinching he dropped the weapon and sidestepped, bringing his other arm to the party holding a fistful of K-bar.

As Leslie continued to scream in an ever annoying, piercing pitch, I dodged Nigel’s first swipe with the knife and punched him in the chest with a palm strike that should have knocked him ass over hat; instead it felt like slapping a brick wall. He gave perhaps an inch and smiled nastily.

Something about the way he held himself set alarm bells jangling up a storm. “SAS,” I guessed.

He nodded, not even breathing hard, the bastard. “Retired. You?”

“Sicarii, also retired.”

His eyes widened briefly. So, he’d heard of the Family business. Not surprising, considering that the U.S., U.K. and Russian intelligence agencies had known for generations, but it did speak volumes of his former clearance levels. You know, the kind usually reserved for heads-of-state.

“I’ve ’eard of you wankers,” he confirmed, all trace of upper crust dissolving into something that would never pass in Buckingham Palace. A nice little mouse was forming under his left eye. “Real bad arseholes, ain’t ya?”

“I do all right, Jeeves.”

He flicked a glance at Leslie, who had stopped screaming and stared at us in mute fascination. “The lady wants a proper butler, don’t she? So I gives it to ’er, an’ she pays well for it.”

“Jude!” Mike warned. “Don’t do this!”

“No dice, man,” I countered. “This has to be.”

Nigel’s grin contained enough purified wickedness to stun a rhino. “Too right, mate.” The tip of the K-bar moved in little circles. “Too right.”

Mike sighed and held up his hands in surrender. Leslie took a couple of steps toward the priest, as if his godliness would shield her from collateral damage.