Ernest Dempsey
Red Gold
For my loyal supporters.Savannah, Georgia
Sean saw the man’s gun peek out from under a gray windbreaker. The stranger in sunglasses and baseball cap was walking towards him quickly. Since it was the summer in southeast Georgia, the jacket was more than a little conspicuous. Sean Wyatt had been sitting outside of a bar on River Street, enjoying the warm afternoon breeze, the vibrant colors of sunset, and a freshly brewed glass of sweet tea. It was his way of treating himself to a nice relaxing afternoon after a hard day of work.
A hard day of work wasn’t actually that hard. Not compared to what he used to do, back when he worked for the government. The research he had undertaken in the area had been relatively painless. He’d not even had to change out of his khaki cargo shorts and light blue t-shirt. He tried not to think about his previous gig, something that was difficult to do, seeing that there was a man walking right towards him with a gun hanging under his jacket.
Whoever the approaching man was with the gun wasn’t doing a very good job of trying to keep it hidden. That could have meant one of two things. In Sean’s experience, people either showed off their weapons because they were making a statement of intent or because they were sloppy. Based on the guy’s appearance, he figured it was probably a little of both, but heavier on the latter.
Sean was armed. He always was. Even though he had quit his job in the Justice Department, he still carried his trusty Ruger .40 caliber. Well, that day he’d left it in the hotel. It was a weapon that could draw too much attention. He preferred to be discreet when possible. Unlike the guy with the hand cannon twenty feet away and closing fast. No, today Sean carried his backup piece, a Glock 9 millimeter sub-compact.
Glocks had always impressed him. But everyone in his old agency had used them. He wagered it was more of a social acceptance thing than anything else. Glocks were the new black in weapons. Like a weapon hipster, Sean preferred to go with the thing that wasn’t the trendy, cool item of the month, which was his Ruger. That, and he’d been shooting Rugers since he was a young man. He was loyal, even to a cold piece of steel. Or in the case of the gun on his ankle, steel and ceramic.
He’d hoped that the days of chasing spies and looking over his shoulder had come to an end. The day he’d submitted his formal resignation to the Axis Director was to be the last he would ever have to worry about such stresses. He’d served the United States government for six long years. Not as much time as some, but enough for him. He couldn’t imagine how the old-timers were able to post career numbers in the thirties. When his long-time friend Tommy Schultz had offered him a job as a recovery specialist with the International Archaeological Agency, he’d jumped on it and never looked back.
Sean loved his new job with the IAA. What wasn’t to like? Travel the world, see exotic locations, dig up buried treasure; sounded like a good gig to Sean. And it paid more than the U.S. government by a mile. Sure, he didn’t have the pension they had, but a tidy 401k would work just as well.
Despite quitting the secret agent game and walking away from the stressful life of counter intelligence and espionage, there he was, face to face with another potentially deadly situation. It figured. He was just beginning to get the hang of the whole relaxation thing.
“Mr. Wyatt?” the man in the jacket said as he approached, trying to look casual.
Sean hated it when people called him that. He was in his mid thirties for crying out loud. Way too young to be called “mister” yet. At least that’s what he told himself.
“And who might you be?” Sean asked, raising his glass of amber tea and taking a long sip. He set the glass back down and tried to appear curious. A situation like the present would have probably unnerved most people, definitely ordinary citizens. But Sean Wyatt was no ordinary citizen. He’d stared down a barrel from some of the world’s worst and lived to tell the tale.
The man sat down in the green metal chair across from Sean and leaned back. He had a toothpick in his mouth and kept flipping it from one side of his mouth to the other. Underneath the ball cap, the man’s hair was black. He looked Italian, and his New Jersey accent did nothing to prevent that assumption. The stranger was strong, but slender. Sizing up a potential adversary was something Sean did from habit.
Being six feet tall and a hundred and eighty pounds put him at about the same height as the stranger across from him, and maybe ten pounds lighter. Nothing he couldn’t handle.
“Don’t worry about my name. My employer wants to have a word with you,” the man answered, pinching the toothpick on one side of his mouth while he spoke.
Sean nodded in mock understanding. “I see. Your employer got a name?” He set down his glass of tea after asking.
“You’ll know soon enough,” he answered.
Sean stretched out his hands over the table for a moment, causing the stranger to shift uneasily. He’s a jumpy one, Sean thought.
“Well,” he said, “I’m a little busy right now. You see, I just got my tea and put my order in for a steak. This place has great filet mignon.”
The man stood up and hovered over Sean. He pulled back the jacket, further revealing the ridiculously large weapon. “I’m afraid he insists.”
At that moment, the server returned with a small basket of bread wrapped in a red cloth and set it on the table. The stranger closed his jacket quickly and looked awkwardly at the young man in the apron.
“Will your friend be joining us this evening?” he asked, hopeful the check just doubled, and thusly, his tip.
“No,” Sean answered. “In fact, I’m going to have to eighty-six that steak. Turns out I have to leave.” He pulled out his wallet and left a fifty on the black metal table. “You can keep the change, kid.”
“Thank you, sir. Are you sure you don’t want me to box up some of this bread for you?” The server was persistent. Sean had to give him that.
Sean had started to walk away, but turned around, surprising the stranger in the ball cap. “You know what? Go ahead and box up that steak for me. I’ll come back and get it in a few minutes.”
The stranger snorted as if to say, unlikely.
“Ok, sir. It will be waiting for you at the bar,” the young man replied. “Thank you again.”
Sean turned and started walking towards the middle of River Street where the walkway merged into downtown. He didn’t have to look behind to know the man with the gun was following closely.
“So, where are we going?” Sean asked, feigning curiosity.
“You’ll see soon enough,” was all he got as a response.
The two rounded the corner of a bar and headed towards the stairs leading up to the downtown area. Inside the building, a local band was getting set up for their concert on a small, corner stage next to the windows.
“Not sure why you told that waiter to box up your steak for you,” the man said as they reached the winding stairs. “You ain’t goin’ back there.”
Sean spun around and jammed his hand into the man’s jacket. He yanked out the hand cannon quickly and in the same motion, thrust the base of his palm into the man’s neck.
The move caught the stranger completely off guard and sent him staggering backwards, clutching at his throat.
Sean tossed the gun onto the ground and stepped towards his assailant. His face seemed calm but inside, old fires began to stir. He launched a fist into the man’s abdomen, causing him to lurch over. As he bent forward, his face was met by Sean’s knee.
The man crumpled to the ground into a heap, his nose was already spurting blood. His ball cap rested on the ground a few feet away. Sean stood over him menacingly and shook his head.