CHAPTER TWENTY THREE: A GENTLEMAN IN LONDON

Sir Guyson was no stranger to pain, but there were times when he forgot how immensely intense it could be. When he came to after being knocked out, his head felt akin to a hurricane: spinning, rumbling, a possible threat to his life. Walking through Regent's Street was spectacular in the sense that it had been converted into a minefield, with every jolt, slip, and trip sending that hurricane into a frenzy. When paired with Guyson's age—even he knew he was no spring chicken, as disheartening as the thought was—it made for the longest walk he ever had.

What was supposed to be a ten-minute walk up to Mr. Xing in his casino became something of a pilgrimage.

It was long, hard, and filled with the epiphany that if it wasn't for his loyal falcon, he might well have been dead. Heracles cleared the way for Guyson's half-hour-long trek through Piccadilly Circus, making sure no Blighter came even remotely near him. They were few and far between—most opting to leave London in search of easier prey—but still, of course, very much dangerous. When he finally got to the Hippodrome, he was greeted with the sight of yet another burly man with a foul disposition. He stood at the casino's sole entrance.

"Sir, may I come in? I need to see Mr. Xing. Urgently."

The man only shook his head, puffing out his chest and straightening up in an attempt to tower over Guyson.

"Sorry, but he's preparing for a business trip right now. You can't go in."

Guyson sighed, rubbing his forehead, "I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I briefly tell him something. That's it. Then I'll be right out."

"No. Please leave the premises before I have to remove you myself," the man said, taking a step towards the old man.

"Do you want to know what happened to the last loutish oaf who denied me free passage, sir?"

The man nodded, knowing that this might be the quicker way to deal with things. Guyson promptly drew his sword, the tip of the blade resting an inch or so away from the man's eye.

"You see, I cut him down with this blade. Now, sir, do let me in."

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Jack Ahlquist awoke to the sound of gunfire and screaming at his front door. Whilst this was nothing out of the ordinary, it was still cause for concern. What was very much cause for concern was the sound of frantic footsteps down the hallway.Jack sat up, reaching for the Glock he kept under his desk. He couldn't afford to sleep in a bed, with all the work he had to do. He picked that up from his days at Alco.An old man kicked open the door, holding a man's decapitated head in one hand and an honest-to-god claymore in the other. He pointed the blade at Jack, who did likewise with his gun.

"For the love of—put the sword down, Mr. Godwin!"

"No—not until I get to see Mr. Xing!"

Jack sighed, putting the gun down. For a senile old fart, Guyson knew how to be scary when he wanted to. The angry falcon on his shoulder certainly helped.

"Okay, okay," Jack stammered, "He's in his office. Mind waiting for him to finish packing, sir?"

Guyson sighed for a moment, his shoulders relaxing as if some weight had been taken off them. What a relief—he didn't have to chop through another set of men to get to Xing. All is good finally, he thought triumphantly as he threw the severed head into Jack's dustbin.

"Not at all. That's what I've always liked about you, Jim—"

"Jack."

"Same difference—though I do suppose I may be thinking of my own assistant. Jimmy Roberts. Jimmy Bob to his friends. Anywho—what I'm trying to say is that you're easy to work with."

Guyson sheathed his sword, using the free hand to stroke his bird, who glared at Jack.

"Thanks. I always thought my line of work calls for me to be easy to work with—it shouldn't take five or so emails to get to me, y'know?"

Guyson stared at Jack like he was some sort of lunatic."I beg your pardon—an email?"

"You know... err, the electric letters? That go beep beep and all that?" Jack said, miming jazz hands for effect.

"Oh, of course. Those new-fangled fax machines, how could I forget. They remind me of the telegraph—you should really get some installed, actually. I doubt anyone here understands Morse. You'd be able to say damn well whatever you want to your allies—if you'd pardon my language, of course."

Jack was about to respond before the door opening yet again cut him off. There, in that doorway, stood Mr. Xing, armed with his Type 56 assault rifle.

"Ahlquist! Get up—half of our bodyguards are dead!"Jack nodded earnestly, looking at Guyson.

"Yes, they are. Anyway—"

"Don't change the subject, those were our best men!"

"I'm getting to it—you see, Mr. Guyson wanted to speak with you."

Guyson crossed his arms, clearing his throat expectantly. Jack rolled his eyes.

"Forgive me. Sir Guyson wanted to speak to you," he said, straightening up at his desk.

"As a matter of fact, I did. I wanted to tell you that I can confirm the Prime Minister's whereabouts. Hamley's, Regent's Street."

"The late Prime Minister, I hope?" Xing lowered his gun.

"Unfortunately not yet—but I'm sure that problem will solve itself soon enough. With all the firepower you're supposed to be purchasing off that Yank infected, it should be no problem."

"I see. Thank you for your intel, Sir. You may leave."

"I will, in due course. I would quite like that handsome reward I was promised, even if I didn't kill Mr. Chamberlain."

"You mean Maxwell," Jack asked before Xing could get too confused. He was sure Xing was at least somewhat used to the English way of things—but not as much as Guyson would be.

"I guess I do. But it still stands that I heavily wounded his best fighter—the sergeant, I believe."

The two men stared at him in disbelief. Xing was the first to speak.

"You're telling me that you, with all due respect, probably the eldest man I know, took on an SAS sergeant and lived?"

Guyson nodded, as if that much was obvious.

"In fact, if it wasn't for his little friend sneaking up behind me and rendering me unconscious, that soldier would've been only a minor inconvenience."

"I see. Jack, you can sit this one out—and so can Mr. Havelston at Scrubs, he's looking after Howard. If you're able to, sir, I'd like you to come with me."

Guyson nodded, still stroking Heracles.

"Of course—though my bird does get a bit antsy around new people. If he pecks you, you'll have to excuse him for that," he said, standing up.