Chapter 2: The Sun, The Sand, and The Sudden Screw-Up (Flashback)
The afternoon sun of the Balearic Islands beat down. Detective Sergeant Jack, or maybe just Jack today, was operating at peak relaxation. He was sprawled in a hammock strung between two palm trees, nursing a colorful drink with a tiny umbrella, debating the logistics of reaching the adjacent hammock which was occupied by a startlingly beautiful woman.
"Now this," Jack sighed contentedly, adjusting his sunglasses. "This is what I call a goddamn professional debriefing. Sun, sand, and absolutely zero structural integrity warnings."
A few feet away, Inspector Black was trying, and failing, to look relaxed. He was sitting bolt upright on a beach towel, his dark, expensive linen shirt buttoned to his neck, reading a dense treatise on ancient cartography. He clearly believed that 'relaxation' meant merely changing locations while retaining maximum discipline. However, a local beach vendor had, without permission, draped a chain of colorful shell necklaces around Black's neck, and a very large woman in a very small bikini was currently demonstrating a complicated massage technique—right on Black's back. Black was rigid with discomfort.
"If you must insist on this 'vacation,' Jack," Black clipped out, "I would prefer if you refrained from referring to my current predicament as a professional activity. And please remove this woman. Her elbows are a health hazard."
"Hey, Black, she's just trying to ease that stick out of your ass," Jack chuckled, taking a long sip of his drink. "Besides, I'm kinda busy."
Just then, a sleek speedboat cut through the azure water and beached itself with a shower of sand. Standing on the bow was Marcus, a wiry, fast-talking smuggler and old acquaintance of Jack's, currently wearing too much gold jewelry and a perpetually anxious expression.
"You bastards! You think you can just disappear?" Marcus yelled, scrambling ashore, kicking up sand onto Black's perfectly clean towel. "I've been tracking your ass for three days! I got a job. The job. The big one."
"Marcus, you interrupting my siesta is already a felony," Jack yawned. "Unless you brought me a million dollars, the answer is 'Go away.'"
"Better than a million!" Marcus hissed, crouching low and pulling a tattered file from a waterproof pouch. "Listen up. The Royal Museum in Madrid, Spain. They just acquired an artifact—a ceremonial bronze stylus from the early 14th century. Boring, right? Wrong! This stylus is rumored to contain the final scribbled words of Mansa Musa."
Black finally shook off the masseuse and the shell necklaces, instantly alert. "Mansa Musa? The Emperor of Mali? The richest man who ever lived?"
"The one and only," Marcus confirmed, his eyes darting nervously. "The words are a riddle, a key! And every shadowy organization on this planet, including the one that nearly flattened you two on that disastrous yacht mission, thinks those words lead directly to his last, biggest, secret hoard. We get the stylus, we solve the riddle, we get the treasure. There would soon be a global race for the artifact, only if we get there first."
"Stealing from a major museum in Spain?" Black raised an eyebrow. "That's beyond risky, Marcus. That's certifiably insane."
"Insane is my middle name, Black!" Jack grinned, finally swinging his legs out of the hammock, the lethargy gone. "I'm in. But no shooting, no explosions. We make this clean. A proper, sneaky, kind of sneak."
Madrid, three nights later. As their boat approached the Royal Museum from the sea, a distant rumble echoed in the sky. Dark, bruised clouds were rolling in fast. Jack muttered, peering out the window. "Aw, shit, looks like a lightning storm. Let's just get this done before the storm hits."
They navigated the museum's service tunnels. Their path to the artifact was blocked by a Laser Hallway, a dense grid of crimson beams flooding the passage. Black, with Jack directing him, began the dangerous dance, contorting his body, leaping and twisting through the deadly light. Black almost hit a laser. Jack followed, less graceful, more frantic, grunting as he barely avoided a beam that would have sliced him in half. A sharp pain shot through his left leg, his entire body dragged forward as a beam sizzled mere inches from his head. They reached the ventilation shaft.
Black, holding a single rope, lowered Jack this time, upside-down, toward the Mansa Musa Stylus.
Jack successfully opened the thermal-locked case and retrieved the artifact. Immediately, he brought the stylus close to his face, squinting at the minute, jade-tipped script.
"What does it say, Black? Spit it out!" Jack urged, sweat beading on his brow.
Black's eyes widened slightly. He whispered the ancient words: "The river flows where the gold hides. Look for the eye beneath the mountain, where the serpent sleeps forever."
"The river flows... good to know!" Jack cheered softly. But the momentary lapse in concentration proved fatal.
The stylus slipped in Jack's sweaty, inverted grip. "Shit!" Jack yelled. The artifact tumbled down. It hit the polished marble floor below with a sickening, definitive CRACK. It shattered into three distinct pieces.
Silence. Then, Marcus's voice crackled, laced with grim amusement. "It looks like it's going to be a rough one, boys."
As Black was hauled up, alarms blared, and the lights turned blinding red. "They're onto us! Get out! Get out!" Marcus screamed over the comms.
They scrambled out of the vent and ran toward the service exit. The museum was alive with the shouts of guards and the sound of gunfire. They sprinted toward the waterfront where a small, nondescript speedboat awaited them, Marcus at the helm.
"Get in! Get in!" Marcus yelled, fighting the lines as the storm finally broke, rain lashing down.
They leaped onto the boat just as two figures in dark suits burst from the museum, weapons raised. Marcus gunned the engine, and the boat shot out into the choppy, rain-lashed water.
The water immediately erupted behind them as machine gun fire followed. A sleek, black pursuit boat materialized from under a bridge, carrying three more figures in dark suits.
"Who are these men, Marcus?!" Jack yelled over the roar of the engine and the escalating thunder.
"I told you, Jack! Global race for the artifact!" Marcus screamed back, swerving violently. "These ain't police! They're the heavy hitters!"
Jack and Black pulled their pistols, returning fire as the chase turned into a deadly dance. Lightning flashed, illuminating the chaos. A bolt struck the water mere feet from a pursuing boat, sending up a massive spray that capsized it. Another hit the mast of the second enemy vessel, erupting in a shower of sparks and metal.
A sudden, sharp crack, louder than the thunder, erupted from the lead pursuit boat. A sniper. Marcus cried out, clutching his shoulder. He staggered, losing control of the wheel, and pitched forward.
"Marcus!" Black roared, watching in horror as his friend tumbled over the side of the speeding boat, disappearing into the dark, churning water.
Before Jack or Black could react, their own boat slammed into a half-submerged rock with a sickening, grinding impact. The hull buckled, sending them flying. The world dissolved into a blinding spray of water, a symphony of splintering wood, and then—darkness.