Read Online The Ghost Rebellion by Tee Morris Pip Ballantine - Free Book Online
Authors: Tee Morris Pip Ballantine
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territory?”
“ Again, your ingenuity will out,” Sound offered with a smile Bruce interpreted as a smirk.
“ Oh, this mission is getting more and more promising as we go,” Bruce seethed.
Leaning forward Brandon took the crystal bottle out of Bruce’s grasp, refilling his glass. “Worst Case Scenario—not too much of a stretch as we are heading into the Russian Empire in winter—what if we can’t find these Firebird feathers, or they are not readily available? What then?”
“ Then the fate of the empire,” Sound stated, his voice distant and dark, “remains uncertain.”
“ Right then, no pressure, just the fate of the monarchy and the British Empire hanging in the balance, another day on the farm, eh wot? Cheers.” The Canadian gulped back a generous swallow of the brandy.
“ Lads, I know what I am asking of you appears difficult, but I know you can handle it.” Sound returned to his own chair before the two agents. Bruce knew the Fat Man was well within reach of a right hook, but he was concentrating on holding his glass. Apparently, the drink was beginning to take hold.
The beautiful thing about brandy when drunk like beer—it worked quickly. He glanced over at another decanter. “I take it that is scotch?”
Sound glanced at the crystal bottle, nodded, and removed its stopper. He took in a deep whiff of the dram. “Fifty years old. Usually reserved for my counterparts abroad and visiting dignitaries.”
“ I have no doubt,” Bruce said, taking the bottle out of Sound’s hands, “but today it is the select drink of Agents Bruce Campbell and Brandon D. Hill, Saviours of the Empire.”
“ Dear Lord,” Brandon muttered as he tipped the brandy decanter upside-down, draining it of its final drops, “we’re all done for.”
Interlude
Wherein a Charming City Hides a Spider
There was no place more beautiful or irritating in the whole world than Bruges, Agent Beth Case thought as she was paddled through the historic canals of the ancient city by a glum gondolier. Everywhere around her were tourists, carrying parasols, rifling through maps, and making cooing noises over their quaint surroundings. The sky, even overcast as it was, served as the perfect backdrop to the breath-taking gothic architecture all around them. If there was a lack of sunshine, it was more than made up by the people of Bruges, smiling and welcoming to a fault.
Meanwhile Beth sat in the back of the boat, keeping her arms wrapped around herself, as they passed under little arched stone bridges, the scowl on her face deepening.
The Ministry had sent her orders once Phantom Protocol was lifted, to ferret out any agents still in deep cover, and such had been her life for the last four months tromping around Europe. The fate of eight agents still remained uncertain. Her objective: Bring these brave agents in from the cold.
As she stared miserably around herself, she considered how she might have been back in London, enjoying a proper high tea, if only she could tell the director his brave agents—all eight of them—were dead. Unfortunately, Beth would then have to tell him how she knew that. This was where her plan became complicated. How did she know these agents were dead?
She had done it, and it had been easy. They had trusted her, and that had been their mistake.
It was hard to calculate how much longer she would have to linger in this godforsaken sewer before she could return to London and give a reasonable story as to why she’d been unsuccessful in finding the underground agents. Beth thought longingly of the airship port only a few miles outside Bruges, which had to be drier and better appointed than this particular conveyance.
The canal boat finally reached the dock, and Beth joined the tourists clambering off. She bought some fresh chips from little friterie by the canal, adorning the delicacy with a touch of aoli. Then, holding the paper cone close to warm her hands, she popped a few into her mouth
“ Again, your ingenuity will out,” Sound offered with a smile Bruce interpreted as a smirk.
“ Oh, this mission is getting more and more promising as we go,” Bruce seethed.
Leaning forward Brandon took the crystal bottle out of Bruce’s grasp, refilling his glass. “Worst Case Scenario—not too much of a stretch as we are heading into the Russian Empire in winter—what if we can’t find these Firebird feathers, or they are not readily available? What then?”
“ Then the fate of the empire,” Sound stated, his voice distant and dark, “remains uncertain.”
“ Right then, no pressure, just the fate of the monarchy and the British Empire hanging in the balance, another day on the farm, eh wot? Cheers.” The Canadian gulped back a generous swallow of the brandy.
“ Lads, I know what I am asking of you appears difficult, but I know you can handle it.” Sound returned to his own chair before the two agents. Bruce knew the Fat Man was well within reach of a right hook, but he was concentrating on holding his glass. Apparently, the drink was beginning to take hold.
The beautiful thing about brandy when drunk like beer—it worked quickly. He glanced over at another decanter. “I take it that is scotch?”
Sound glanced at the crystal bottle, nodded, and removed its stopper. He took in a deep whiff of the dram. “Fifty years old. Usually reserved for my counterparts abroad and visiting dignitaries.”
“ I have no doubt,” Bruce said, taking the bottle out of Sound’s hands, “but today it is the select drink of Agents Bruce Campbell and Brandon D. Hill, Saviours of the Empire.”
“ Dear Lord,” Brandon muttered as he tipped the brandy decanter upside-down, draining it of its final drops, “we’re all done for.”
Interlude
Wherein a Charming City Hides a Spider
There was no place more beautiful or irritating in the whole world than Bruges, Agent Beth Case thought as she was paddled through the historic canals of the ancient city by a glum gondolier. Everywhere around her were tourists, carrying parasols, rifling through maps, and making cooing noises over their quaint surroundings. The sky, even overcast as it was, served as the perfect backdrop to the breath-taking gothic architecture all around them. If there was a lack of sunshine, it was more than made up by the people of Bruges, smiling and welcoming to a fault.
Meanwhile Beth sat in the back of the boat, keeping her arms wrapped around herself, as they passed under little arched stone bridges, the scowl on her face deepening.
The Ministry had sent her orders once Phantom Protocol was lifted, to ferret out any agents still in deep cover, and such had been her life for the last four months tromping around Europe. The fate of eight agents still remained uncertain. Her objective: Bring these brave agents in from the cold.
As she stared miserably around herself, she considered how she might have been back in London, enjoying a proper high tea, if only she could tell the director his brave agents—all eight of them—were dead. Unfortunately, Beth would then have to tell him how she knew that. This was where her plan became complicated. How did she know these agents were dead?
She had done it, and it had been easy. They had trusted her, and that had been their mistake.
It was hard to calculate how much longer she would have to linger in this godforsaken sewer before she could return to London and give a reasonable story as to why she’d been unsuccessful in finding the underground agents. Beth thought longingly of the airship port only a few miles outside Bruges, which had to be drier and better appointed than this particular conveyance.
The canal boat finally reached the dock, and Beth joined the tourists clambering off. She bought some fresh chips from little friterie by the canal, adorning the delicacy with a touch of aoli. Then, holding the paper cone close to warm her hands, she popped a few into her mouth
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