• Gray clouds blanketed the skies above London as night seeped in, bathing the city in a shower of cold slivers of water. On the streets, pedestrians bustled to and fro, intent on returning to the warm, dry interiors of their homes. Tiny pinpricks of light from towering skyscrapers and street lamps ripped through the night’s dark mantle, shattering some of its oppressive feel. The golden fingers of the lights, however, failed to reach to depths of the many threatening alleyways of London, providing the perfect environment for the scum of Britain’s criminal world to reside. To a man like 28-year-old Max Conrad, it was the most ideal form of obtaining information while still staying under the radar.

    The pouring rain beat relentlessly against Max’s thick, leather jacket as he strode purposefully down a smoke-filled alley. The smell of the rotting trash strewn carelessly next to rusty dumpsters assailed his senses, causing him to wrinkle his nose in disgust. A stray raindrop trickled down the right side of his pale white face, running over a lengthy scar that lay on his cheek, a reminder of a particularly rough era of his childhood. Near the end of the alley, Max took a sharp left turn and approached and old, rickety doorway, his gloved hand reaching out to turn the cold brass doorknob. With a low groan, the door swung open and Max stepped casually inside.

    Almost immediately, the overwhelming scent of cheap ale and cigarette smoke began to invade Max’s lungs and he let out an involuntary cough. The pub was crowded this time of the night and Max had to shoulder his way through the mass of drunken bodies as he made his way to the bar. “What’ll it be?” the greasy, heavyset bartender asked as Max took a seat on a creaky barstool.

    “A pint of ale.” Max replied.

    “What kind?”

    “Bitter.”

    The bartender nodded and slung the filthy rag that he had been using to clean off the bar counter over his left shoulder as he turned to the beer tap located behind him and began to fill a glass with the alcoholic liquid. While the bartender poured, Max scanned his surroundings with his blue eyes for any signs of the contact that he was supposed to be meeting, using his six-foot frame to peer above the heads of most of the people that filled the bar. The bartender returned with his drink and Max gave him a quick nod of thanks.
    As he slowly sipped his ale, Max sensed another person sit down on the barstool beside him. “You’re late.” He said, his gaze still fixed straight ahead.

    The other man chuckled slightly, “You must know by now, my friend, that Blake McDonald can’t ever be late. It’s a physically impossible concept.”

    Max then turned and looked at Blake with a raised eyebrow, “I have yet to see any kind of proof pertaining to that. I believe you have something for me, am I right?”

    “Ah! Yes I do indeed.” Blake said as he dug into a pocket of his black leather jacket. A few moments later, he withdrew a browned document weathered by the passing of time and handed it to Max, a broad grin upon his thin white face.

    Max took the parched paper curiously and unfolded it, careful not to tear the fragile object. He then laid it flat across the bar counter, studying the crude faded drawing of the British countryside with growing excitement. “Where did you bloody get this?” he asked anxiously.

    “That is for me to know and you not to know, mate.” Blake answered simply, “Mind you it wasn’t easy to come by.”

    “This is a map of what England used to look like back in the 12th century,” Max explained, “the time when King Arthur ruled the Britons.”

    “Wait,” Blake interjected, leaning forward as his interest grew, “you mean the King Arthur? That chap who supposedly saved the kingdom with that super-powered sword of his?”

    Max nodded, “Right.”

    “There are plenty of those kinds of maps in museums all over London.” Blake said with a puzzled tone, “What makes this one so exciting?”

    “Because, unlike the other maps, this one has directions inscribed on it.” Max told him.

    “Directions to what?”

    Max’s grin widened, “To find the city of Camelot and the final resting place of Arthur and Excalibur.”

    There was silence between them for several seconds as the full meaning of what Max had said steadily impacted Blake. Leaning back in the barstool, Blake let out a whistle and shook his head in astonishment. “Wow. Can you imagine what the finder’s fee on something like that would be? I’d be living in a mansion outside of Beverly Hills instead of this bloody dumpster.”

    “Always thinking about the money, eh?” Max said with a smirk, “Well, I’d better get going. Arthur’s not gonna wait forever.”

    With that, Max stood up, paid his tab, and was about to leave when Blake caught his arm, “Oh no. If this thing is as big as you say it is, I definitely not going to just sit by and let you take all the glory for it. Count me in.”

    Max rolled his eyes in amusement, “Alright, fine. Come on, we’ve got a train to catch.”
    Suddenly, the front door of the pub was violently shoved open and a group of six heavily armed men in black business suits stormed in followed by an extremely burly man, a thick cigar sticking out of his mouth. “I know you are here, Conrad.” The man, presumably the leader, called out as his men aimed their M-16 assault rifles towards the crowd, “There is no point in trying to escape. Give yourself up now and I might lessen the severity of what I have planned for you.”

    “Who is this guy?” Blake asked quietly into Max’s ear.

    Max frowned, “Dimitri Pachoval, a Russian crime boss with way too much time on his hands. He’s been after me for a long time, wanting me to lead him to where Excalibur is because he’s convinced it would give him supernatural powers. Let’s get out of here before he decides to blow this place sky high just for the fun of it.”
    Blake nodded earnestly, “Yeah, I think you’re right. Out the back."

    As quietly as they could and without causing too much of a disturbance, the two of them made their way towards the back of the pub, away from the watching eyes of Dimitri’s men. They quickly opened the back door, only to find them selves staring down the barrels of several automatic rifles. “Blast.” Max muttered as he and Blake raised their hands, “Should’ve known they’d cover all the exits.” Seconds later, he felt the butt of a rifle hit the side of his head and the world went black.
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    Max woke with a start as a bucketful of freezing-cold water was dumped onto his head. His vision was blurry, but he could barely make out the form of Dimitri sitting on an old wooden chair across from him. “Welcome back, Mr. Conrad.” The Russian kingpin said, “I was afraid you had suffered a bad concussion. Chekov is known for being a little too careless with his blows.”

    Max stretched against the ropes that bound him to the chair he was sitting in, unfortunately not making any progress thanks to the extremely tight knots. “Well, that’s very kind of you.” He replied sarcastically, “Have you been taking your meds today, Pachoval? Last time I checked, you weren’t jumping to be the first on board the train of compassion.”

    Dimitri’s laugh had no humor within it, “Ha! Always ready for sarcasm even in the face of your imminent demise, eh Conrad?” his expression suddenly turned serious, “Now, you know of what I seek, and you are going to help me obtain it.”

    Max shook his head, “No can do, Pachoval. I like to keep my helping-people-with-a-gun-at-my-back ordeals down to once a day.”

    “I thought you might be resistant,” Dimitri growled, “so I brought a bit of extra insurance to help motivate you.”

    The tent entrance flapped open and two mafia thugs strode into the enclosure, a short, slender person with bound hands in tow. Their prisoner wore faded blue jeans and a red T-shirt underneath a white hooded sweater, the facial features concealed behind a brown burlap sack draped over the head. Dimitri stood up and walked over to the prisoner, an evil grin spread across his face, “I believe you two have met.” He said.

    The burlap sack was ripped off and the face revealed was that of a 23-year-old young woman, with straight brown hair and piercing green eyes. Max caught his breath in surprise, “Jen?”

    Jennifer Smith, Max’s old girlfriend and former partner, looked equally as surprised, her battered face taking on a new light, “Max?"

    “Aw, what a touching reunion.” Dimitri crooned menacingly, “But all this ‘love’ is upsetting my stomach. Let us get down to business, shall we?” he took out his semi-automatic pistol from his belt and touched the left side of Jennifer’s head with the cold steel of the weapon’s muzzle. “Lead me to Excalibur, or I blow your girlfriend’s pretty little head off. Are we clear?"

    Max struggled once more against his bonds but gave up seconds later, hanging his head in defeat once it became apparent that there was no other option. “Okay, I’ll do what you want, on one condition: When we find Excalibur, you let Jen go. She’s got nothing to do with any of this.”

    Dimitri grinned with satisfaction, “Very well. You have my word.” He then turned to one of his tugs and ordered, “Take them to the holding tent.”
    The thug nodded and moved towards Max, untying the ropes and roughly shoving him towards the tent entrance. Max stopped near Dimitri and glared savagely at him, “If you harm but a single hair on her head, I swear there’ll be nowhere on this earth that you’ll be able to hide.”

    Dimitri matched Max’s glare, “I am looking forward to it.” He gestured to the thugs and Max and Jennifer were forced out of the tent and into the night.