The Thirteenth Skull (Alfred Kropp 3)

“So why didn’t you stop him?”

“Do you still understand so little about the Company, Alfred Kropp? We are not a private security company. We are interested in only one thing as it relates to you and that one thing is not your personal welfare. And if you fail to deliver that one thing, we shall leave you to your fate at the hands of Mogart’s son.”

He brushed past me and righted the motorcycle. “Now come, you ungrateful little drag queen; they are waiting for us at the airport. I’ve had my fill of this godforsaken town and more than my fill of you.”

I climbed onto the seat behind him.

“Give back my weapon,” he said.

“I think I’ll just keep it, thanks.”

He started to say something, seemed to think better of it, and then opened up the bike full throttle. I clung to his waist, closed my eyes, and hung on for dear life.

05:02:34:26

Nueve took us straight to the airport. I didn’t know if any back roads existed, but I wish they did: Alcoa Highway is one of the busiest streets in Knoxville, and at every stoplight more than a few drivers stared at the big kid dressed like an old lady on the back of a mud-spattered police motorcycle. And I worried we might run into a real cop. What clever cover story could Nueve invent to explain this?

I closed my eyes, pressed my cheek against Nueve’s back, and tried to organize my thoughts. That was an exercise I struggled with even in the best of circumstances, but I gave it a try anyway.

Mogart had a son. A son who, like me, had no idea what kind of business his father was wrapped up in until he was dead. Then somebody brings him his father’s head and tells him a kid named Alfred Kropp chopped it off with the sword of the Archangel Michael. So Jourdain comes to Knoxville looking for a little payback . . . or something else called the Thirteenth Skull, because somebody promised if he got it he’d get Excalibur back . . . Or did killing me have anything to do with the Skull and Excalibur at all? But if killing me didn’t have anything to do with it, why tell me about the Skull in the first place?

What did he say? She has promised me and I believe her.The gift shall be given again to the true heir of Camelot, but not before the Thirteenth Skull is borne home.

The gift of Saint Michael must be Excalibur, and he must have been referring to himself as the true heir of Camelot, but who was this she he was talking about? The Lady of the Lake?

According to some accounts, Sofia is the Lady of the Lake who brings Michael’s Sword to Arthur.

Sofia. Sam had said her name in his sleep and later argued with Nueve about her. Did Sam know Jourdain was after me? Did he know the whole time and, if he did, why didn’t he tell me?

At the airport, Nueve drove to a hangar set off by itself in the corner of the airfield and surrounded by a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire. A couple of big guys dressed in blue jumpers with 9mm Glocks strapped to their waists patrolled the compound. They met us at the padlocked gate, and one hit the button on his radio.

“Alice is up from the hole,” he said. “Repeat, Alice is up.”

He unlocked the gate and Nueve rolled the bike into the compound. I walked beside it with rubbery legs and an aching butt from the horse ride. I wondered who “Alice” was, me or Nueve. I was pretty sure who though.

Nueve walked rapidly toward the hangar. I lagged behind. I was tired.

“Come, Alfred Kropp,” Nueve said without looking back. “Journey’s end.”

“She’s here,” the guard huffed at Nueve. “And she’s not happy.”

The pedestrian door to the hangar was padlocked and the guard fumbled with the keys.

“Who’s here?” I asked.

He popped the padlock and pulled open the door for Nueve. He gave me a look as I followed Nueve inside.

“What?” I asked.

“Thought you’d be prettier.”

A black Learjet sat facing the hangar doors. Guys in gray coveralls were messing all around it, getting it ready for takeoff, I guessed. Just a couple more flights, I told myself. Three tops, and then I’ll never fly again.

A woman approached us, the click of her cherry-red high heels on the polished concrete echoing in the vast space. She was wearing a pin-striped business suit and her blond hair was piled on top of her head.

It was Abigail Smith, the director of OIPEP, and the owner of the most magnificent orthodontics I had ever seen.

“Alfred dear, so good to see you again, alive if not particularly well.” She was beaming. She kissed me on the cheek. She turned to Nueve and the beaming went away. “Another botch, Nueve.”