“I don’t know who you are or who your boss is,” he said. “But it is extremely rude to interrupt a man and his steak.”
The stranger was still clutching his neck and nose, only managing a whimper.
“Now,” Sean went on, “I suggest that if your boss wants an interview, he can make an appointment like everyone else. Otherwise, people tend to get hurt.”
He reached down and picked up the gun, looking briefly at the barrel. “Hmm. Desert Eagle. Fifty caliber. Overcompensating for something?”
The man blurted out a quick obscenity under his breath. Sean just smiled. “I think you may have watched The Matrix a few too many times.” He knelt down next to the bleeding stranger while he spoke. “You see, I spotted this thing from like a hundred feet away. Not exactly a stealth weapon. And when you fire it, you’ll be lucky you don’t blow out your eardrums or dislocate your shoulder.” He shook his head as if chastising the man. “No, you definitely need to get a more practical gun.”
Sean stood up and started to walk away. “I’m going to take this. You go tell your boss if he wants to talk, he can come find me himself.”
He turned and started walking away.
“You’re a dead man, Sean Wyatt!” the sniveling stranger yelled. “You hear me? You’re dead!”
Sean never turned around. He just made his way over to the river and tossed the small howitzer into the water then strolled casually back to pick up his boxed steak.
The next morning, Sean woke up and had coffee at a place he liked in the downtown area of Savannah. It was quiet, not crowded, and afforded him a chance to get a little more research done.
The IAA had sent him to Savannah to find out whatever he could about an old legend surrounding a British shipping vessel that had vanished off the coast of Georgia.
Rumor was the ship had been loaded down with Confederate gold, bribe money to secure British assistance during the civil war. The story suggested two different endings. One said the vessel was destroyed by a violent storm that sprang up too quickly for it to return to port. The other legend told that the ship had been sank by the United States Navy towards the end of the war.
Of course, the other possibility was that the entire thing was just a myth and never really happened.
Sean figured it was likely the latter, but his job wasn’t to question the story. His job to was to check every lead, turn ever stone, and then secure the loot if there was any to be secured.
The IAA didn’t call it that, though. The word loot insinuated they were treasure hunters. While they did hunt for things that would be considered treasure, their agency didn’t do it for the money. They recovered items, lost to history, and restored them to the people and governments of the world. The idea behind the IAA was that history wasn’t something to be sold on the black market. It was something to be shared by all.
Sean sipped his coffee and smiled, thinking of his friend Tommy Schultz. Tommy had been his best friend since they were young. When Tommy’s parents had disappeared in a plane crash, the two had become closer.
Mr. and Mrs. Schultz had left behind a significant fortune to their son. With it, he honored their memories by founding the International Archaeological Agency. Sean enjoyed the work more than his previous job. He’d burned out on the Justice Department job sooner than most. Having to constantly be on edge was something that had driven him to an early retirement. He looked forward to working with IAA for a few years and then moving somewhere off the grid. There was a cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains he enjoyed visiting. Maybe he would buy it and just disappear.
He shook his head at the thought and took another sip from the coffee mug. The man with the ball cap had brought back old habits. He found himself scanning the crowd of patrons, wondering if any of them were armed, and why. Every time someone opened the front door, his eyes automatically darted in that direction. Sean tried to tell himself to relax but the fire had been started, and once it was lit, it was hard to put out.
His phone vibrated on the table and he looked down to see who had sent the text message. It was from Tommy, wondering how things were going in Savannah. Sean typed out a quick response and set the phone back down. As he did, he realized that someone had approached the table while he was typing.
The man in the gray pants and white Polo stood a few inches shorter than Sean, about 5’10’’. He had shaggy, gray hair with streaks of brown on top of a weathered, but strong face. His eyes were dark brown behind a seemingly permanent squint. Sean felt like the man’s appearance exuded wisdom.
“What are you looking at?” the man asked with a faint southern accent. One eyebrow raised as he spoke.
Sean shrugged. “Apparently, the local old folks home has lost a resident and I was just trying to figure out which one to call.”
There was a dead silence as the two stared at each other for a few seconds. Then the older man burst out in laughter and slapped his hand on the table. “Dad gum it, Sean Wyatt. You always have a good one for me.”
Sean stood up. “I’ve got to bring my a-game when I meet with Porter Sanders.” He smiled and reached out his hand, which was clasped firmly by his friend. Porter patted Sean on the shoulder and then helped himself to a seat.
“It’s good to see you again,” Porter said, smiling. “You don’t come around these parts too much.”
Sean took another sip of coffee. “Well, I’ve been busy the last few years.”
“Doing what?”
He hesitated for a moment. “Government stuff. Nothing interesting.”
Porter nodded slowly, giving Sean a suspicious stare. But he didn’t pursue the subject further. “So, you have a girl in your life? I heard you’re working with Tommy’s group now.”
“No one special at the moment,” Sean laughed. “And yes, I do work for IAA now.”
A cute waitress wearing a brown apron and a white blouse came over and asked what Porter would like. “Just a coffee,” he replied. “One cream. One sugar.” She nodded and smiled as she walked away to get him his drink.
“What about you?” Sean asked, playing with his mug with one finger. “What have you been up to?”
Porter leaned back and thought for a few seconds. “Me? Well, I’ve been keeping busy. I sold my company a few years ago. Made enough money to keep my whiskey bottle full and the lights on for the rest of my life. So, I can’t complain.”
They both laughed a little at the comment.
“Other than that, though, I’ve been doing what I always wanted to do. Playing golf and sailing boats. Fortunately, Charleston is a great place to do both.” He emphasized the last statement by pointing his finger in the air.
Sean had noticed Porter liked to talk a lot with his hands. He’d probably adopted the habit from years of making business presentations. Now Sean wondered if his friend even realized he was doing it.
“That’s great, Porter. I’m really happy for you.”
“Thanks, Kid. I feel like I’ve earned it.” Sean nodded in agreement. “So, on the phone you told me you had some historical type questions. You piqued my interest. Something you’re working on for Tommy?”
“Yeah,” Sean confirmed. He fished a piece of paper out of his cargo pocket and slid it across the table.”
Porter placed some wire-frame glasses on his nose and opened up the document and looked it over. It was a drawing of a ship. From what he could tell, it was a shipping vessel. The date at the bottom confirmed about what time he figured the boat had been made. 1862. The name next to it caused Porter to raise his chin. The Oconee.
“So,” he said after a few moments of thought. “You’re looking for the fabled Confederate gold, eh?” He laid the paper back on the table, and cast a dubious glance at Sean.