The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (Alfred Kropp #1)(55)

“Man, that’s a pretty interesting theory, Al.”

“Mr. Samson trusted you to do the right thing,” I said. “He didn’t have to tell you about the Sword and you double-crossed him. Bennacio knew you were double-crossing us tonight, but he didn’t see how he had a choice. He took a vow, see . . . he gave his word . . .”

“Look, Al, no offense, I know you mean well and everything, but you’re in this thing way over your head. Put down the Sword, pal. We’ll talk about this on the plane, okay? Don’t you want to go home?”

“I don’t have a home anymore.”

“Really?” He whistled. “That’s gotta be tough. I’m truly sorry to hear that, Al. Well, we could take you anywhere you want to go. Natalia is still at the château. You wanna see her? You got kind of a thing for her, don’t you?”

I didn’t say anything, but I could feel my face get hot. Mike Arnold noticed me blushing and smiled.

“Get out of the car,” I said.

“Al . . .”

I pushed on his neck with the tip of the Sword.

“Okay, I’m getting out.”

He opened his door and stepped onto the road. I got out and pointed the gun at his head.

“Get down on your stomach and fold your hands on the back of your head.”

“You’re making a huge mistake here, Al. A heck of a boner . . .”

“Lay down, Mike. I’ll shoot if you don’t.”

“You think so? I’m sorry, Al, but I really don’t think you can.”

He took a step toward me and the gun went off. We both jumped. Neither of us was expecting that. I couldn’t even remember pulling the trigger.

“All righty then,” Mike said softly. He lay down.

“Hands on the back of your head,” I told him.

He laced his fingers behind his head.

“Where do you think you’re gonna go, Alfred? You can’t get out of the country, and what are you goin’ to do with the Sword? Take over the world? Donate it to the Smithsonian? You’re not thinking this through, kid.”

“Good-bye, Mike,” I said, and I climbed into the car and drove off. I kept looking in the rearview mirror, but I never saw Mike get up.

44

The steering wheel was on the wrong side and I had trouble keeping the car on the road; the right wheels kept dropping off the road until I remembered I was supposed to be driving on the left side. That made it a little better, but it still felt funny. I knew I needed to ditch the car as soon as possible: A Bentley’s a little too conspicuous for a getaway car.

I drove aimlessly through the English countryside, not even knowing what direction I was heading. I kept going until I came to a road that looked bigger and kept taking bigger roads until I came to a highway or whatever they’re called in England, and after a few miles passed a sign that read: “London 40 miles.”

The traffic began to pick up as I got closer to the city. I drove with both hands on the wheel, my knuckles bone white, the Sword lying on the seat beside me. I couldn’t stop yawning, and all I wanted to do was pull to the side of the road and go to sleep, but I kept driving.

The sun was rising by the time I reached the outskirts of London. I was definitely not driving into the heart of the city in a hot Bentley, so I pulled into the first hotel I saw in a place called Slough. I took off my jacket and wrapped the Sword in it, but that left the butt of the gun sticking up from my waistband in full view. I worried what to do about this and if the clerk would wonder why this fifteen-year-old kid was checking in without any bags or parents, and why I had a jacket in the shape of a large sword. But some things you can’t do anything about, so I pushed the gun all the way down, into my underwear. The cold metal of the barrel pressed against my groin.

The hotel looked old, as if it had been something else before it was a hotel, maybe a nobleman’s country estate. The lobby was very small, and just felt old compared to the American hotels I had been in. The clerk didn’t say anything about my sword-shaped jacket. He put me in a room on the third floor, and told me I’d have to take the stairs because there was no lift. He asked how long I’d be staying. I told him I was taking a walking tour of England and I’d leave when I was tired of walking. He didn’t ask anything else. He didn’t smile once, and I thought maybe he had bad teeth. I had read somewhere that’s a problem in England.

In the stairwell, I took the gun out of my underwear and kind of tucked it under my arm. The hall was narrow and there were water stains on the baseboard. The paint job and carpet looked at least ten years old and smelled of mold. My room was at the end of the hall, next to the bathroom.

My bed was narrow, about six feet long, and shook a little when I sat on it. I was afraid it was going to break. I thought about calling the front desk and asking if they had rooms with bigger beds. I put the gun on the bedside table and laid the Sword down on the bed beside me. I took off my shoes, peeled off my wet socks, and lay down.

What was I going to do with the Sword now? Mike had a good point. They’d lock down the whole country and go door-to-door if they had to. They’d find the Bentley parked in the hotel parking lot, and I hadn’t even used a fake name to check in.

I expected a knock on the door any second, but they probably wouldn’t knock, just burst in with guns blazing, because after all, I had the Sword of Kings and might use it to take over the world.