The Hunt for Excalibur

3 Seizure

As the yellow street lights pulsed across the Corsica, Court felt like crying. He was in deep already, with no way out. True, he did not yet commit a crime, but if he backed out now he would lose more than he would if he got caught. According to Paul, there was a slim chance of anything going wrong anyway, but he was not the most trustworthy of men to rely on for peace of mind. Besides, if he wanted out, Court was already too late. The drive from the workshop to Whitecraigs took all of ten minutes.

“Here, turn after the reservoirs and then park at the Waitrose supermarket,” Paul instructed, as they rounded the circle and turned.

“But with only my car in the lot, it is bound to look suspicious,” Court argued.

“Just fucking do it, Court,” Paul hissed. “We are not going to be long. Relax!”

Court parked his car in the far corner of the abandoned slab of tarmac behind the delivery side of the supermarket. From there, they stealthily stole across the schoolyard, toward the main road. It took them less than seven minutes to get to the main road, crossing it to get to the residential area.

“Now we just walk down the street, mate, like we live here,” Paul grinned as they strolled along the street to the crossing.

“We are hardly dressed like we live here,” Court remarked, looking at his old jeans, work boots and tatty cardigan. The dark was welcome. More so, the fact that very few people of this financial bracket ever walked anywhere, apart from doing so for exercise, was unlikely. The two new criminals were unlikely to run into pedestrians at this time of the evening, or so they thought.

“Oi, can I help you?” a man cried from the porch of his home. He was cleaning his pool after work.

Court felt the panic strike, but Paul was a quick-draw liar. “Yes, sir. Do you know where Dr. Lindsay Harolds lives? We are supposed to get her gate open for her. She is locked out, you see.”

“Never heard of her. What street?” the man frowned. Again, Court held his breath. From his pocket, Paul’s cell phone rang. It was a ruse, of course, and he pretended to answer as if it was the fabricated lady. After a few quick stutters, Paul successfully fooled the man on the porch. “That was her.” He looked at Court. “Would you believe, we took the wrong turn at the T-junction.” Then Paul waved at the man. “Thank you. Now I know where we went wrong.”

Satisfied, the man waved and carried on.

“Hurry up,” said Paul. “We cannot be seen.”

They took a brisk walk up the street and turned left into Harris Street. Paul winked and gestured to the sign, confirming to Court that this was their street.

“I’m nervous,” Court whispered.

“No worries mate,” Paul comforted him. “Anita is letting us in. We take what we need and we scarper. She closes the door ad come with us.”

“But they will know,” Court protested.

“Nope, she gave them a fake name and address, the whole shebang,” Paul boasted.

It was all too easy, Court thought, but by now, all he could do was trail along into Cock-Up River and grab an oar. He had so many questions about the getaway, about the loot being divvied up, but he dared not spoil the plan with technicalities. In silence, they passed two more properties before they arrived at a large house, concealed behind thick weeping willows.

Paul paused and took out his cell phone, dialing a number. All he said was “We are here.”

The lock on the gate opened and Paul looked back proudly at his accomplice. “See? I told you.”

Anita appeared at the window on the second story. She leaned out the window and softly said, “Go through the garage.” The two men obeyed, and, as they reached the flat cement drive in front of the house, the garage doors opened automatically. Again, Paul glanced back at Court. “I told you so, mate.”

“Holy shit, look at these cars!” Court gasped as the glinting automobiles came into view behind the lifting door like a beautiful woman opening her eyes to reveal her charm. “A Bentley, a Shelby… and is this… a Porsche 911?”

“Aye,” Paul chuckled. “Come on, we have to hurry.”

Hastily they entered the premises, making sure that the neighbors did not catch wind of what was going on. Anita said nothing, and gave them each a strong flashlight before simply slipping back into the corridor of the house, while Court followed Paul into the dark hallway. There, Paul opened a trapdoor and motioned for Court to follow.

“Pack as many small trinkets as you can find in this suitcase,” he told Court.

“Just a suitcase?” Court asked.

“We are not raiding the place, mate. We are just taking a few very valuable things. That way, the Halls will not notice that anything is gone until we have already sold it,” Paul explained.

Court went through the plethora of objects and relics strewn about the room. It reminded him of a typical treasure room from some Egyptian palace. He filled the large suitcase with pearl necklaces, pure silver goblets and regal rings, adorned with seals of kings encrusted with precious stones. Paul seemed to be getting more of the antique dagger collection, and Court followed suit. From an umbrella holder, he pulled an Egyptian khopesh, two cutlasses and a corroded spear. There were similar leather articles with it, so he just shoved everything in the suitcase, except a belt he found. He could use it to carry more stuff, so Court flung the belt and sheath around his waist and slid the cutlasses into it quite comfortably.

“Hurry! I hear something!” Anita’s voice urged from the top of the stairs. “They are coming home early!”

Court’s heart exploded. Somewhere in the dark, he heard Paul cussing profusely. If the ever so cool criminal was losing it, Court knew they were in trouble. He wanted to run, but he knew that bolting upstairs would lead him right into the path of the occupants coming home.

“Paul, what do we do?” he whispered.

“Shut the fuck up and sit still,” Paul grunted.

Upstairs they could hear a male voice vehemently questioning Anita about two men entering the house. The man from up the road had seen two suspicious men from his vantage point on his porch and he followed them right up to the Hall family’s house. Anita played the victim.

“Mr. Hall, they threatened to ambush you and the family if I did not let them in,” she pleaded. “I thought I could warn you before you came in, instead of risking them killing you and your family outside!”

Down in the cellar, the two men sat listening to her story. It was a shock to hear Anita turn on them like that, but they were not leaving empty handed. Yes, they were leaving, and that was final. Court could stay behind and try to explain if he wished, but Paul was not going to be caught. Not again. Above the ceiling of the cellar, a hard trampling ensued. Three women shrieked hysterically as the owner, Mr. Rufus Hall, shoved his wife and daughter into the drawing room and slammed the doors shut. Only Anita was left and they could hear her desperate sobbing and begging as he dragged her along the hallway.

Paul and Court followed the sound above them as it oved from one side to another. Their torchlights were off, but both knew that the other was genuinely terrified. Anita was begging and explaining as she was slapped around, but her pleas fell on deaf ears. A heavy thump abruptly halted her crying, prompting both men in the cellar to perk up.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, tell me that was not what I think it was,” Court murmured. Another muffled blow sounded, then another, before they heard the man’s heavy footfalls return up the corridor. To avoid being discovered Court thought quickly, and jumped up to unscrew the bulb from the hanging wire.

“Eileen, have you called the cops? You two stay in there until the police arrives,” Mr. Hall thundered furiously. Paul grabbed the suitcase to shield himself as Mr. Hall opened the trapdoor. Court was frantic, with nothing to hide behind.

“Hope you made peace with your gods, you fuckers!” Mr. Hall roared, but Paul let loose a 9mm hollow point into his thigh from behind the shelter of the suitcase. Court’s heart was pounding madly at the developing bloodbath as a screaming Mr. Hall drew on Paul, clipping the suitcase twice and missing the target in the dark.

The homeowner stumbled down the stairs, and all Court could think of was escaping. Now, while the wife and daughter were hiding in a locked room, all he had to do was get past Mr. Hall. He waited for Paul to engage the sadistic Hall, so that he could slip around them and head up the steps.

‘Stay calm. Stay… calm,’ Court advised himself. ‘If you panic you are going to end up dead. Wait. Just wait. It is dark enough.’ With the suitcase in Paul’s grasp Court had nothing to sell but the cutlasses and the belt, but at least he would escape with his life. Flashes from both barrels momentarily lit up the room as the wounded bear of a man raged after the intruder shooting at him. Court saw his chance as Mr. Hall fell hard on the suitcase, trapping Paul underneath. He took two more of Paul’s hollow points in the shoulder and neck, but he was too angry to feel anything.

Court looked back from the steps as he crawled nearer. Mr. Hall planted a bullet firmly in Paul’s head before he collapsed.

‘Go! Go! Go! You can still get away!’ Court’s inner voice shouted. He scrammed up the steps, barely hearing the panic-stricken Hall women in the drawing room. They had no idea who was being shot, but they had specific instructions to stay in the room. From a distance away in the bloody night, Court Callany could hear the approaching police sirens as he exited the house and laboriously scaled the stone wall and fence.

He ran. As unfit as he was, he braved the stabbing pain behind his clavicle and in his side and he ran for his life. Two squad cars stopped in front of the house. “There!” he heard one officer shout.

“This is the police! Stop or we will open fire!” another officer yelled, but Court was not going to get caught. If he had to go to prison, his wife would never get the help she needed and his grandson would end up in a shelter or worse. He had to escape.

At once, a rain of bullets erupted in the normally quiet neighborhood and hit the fleeing suspect in the knees, spine and back of the head.

“What the fuck?” the officer gasped. His colleagues were as shocked as he was. “Shoot him!” he shouted, and another cluster of gunshots rang through Whitecraigs, hitting the suspect at least twice more. “Are we shooting blanks?”

Court gasped for air as he fled across two unfenced yards to reach the main road. The bullets that struck him felt like pelting rocks, but there was no blood. In fact, there were no entry wounds. He had no idea what was going on, but he kept running until he could not feel the pain anymore. Across the parking lot, his car came into view and it was then that Court Callany began to weep hysterically. As he unlocked his car behind the supermarket building, he removed the belt and swords and threw them on the passenger seat.

Back at the Hall residence, the police found Mr. Hall dead on top of the intruder he managed to slaughter. They still could not explain how at least a dozen slugs hit the running suspect, yet left him unharmed.

“Anything stolen from the premises?” the officer asked the distraught Mrs. Hall.

“Not that I know of. That was all of it,” she sobbed over her husband’s body as they emptied the suitcase back onto the shelves. She neglected to note that the umbrella holder had been ransacked, but not being the antique dealer her husband was, she had no idea that a priceless relic had indeed been lifted — a relic of legendary power.