The Napoleon Affair

Book 18: Sean Wyatt Adventure

by Ernest Dempsey

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

.For nearly two thousand years, the Catholic Church has revered and protected its priceless, sprawling inventory of holy relics.

From the bones of apostles to pieces of the cross Jesus died on, Catholics worldwide have long viewed their cherished relics as sacred—reminders of the possibility of miracles, of the power of the Almighty.

But some of the holiest relics in all of Christendom have been lost down through the centuries to war, thieves, or worse. And the Catholic Church has spent untold blood and treasure to recover them—often to no avail.

So, when a high-ranking cardinal is murdered in his Vatican apartment over clues he might possess to the whereabouts of a relic considered truly divine, the Vatican calls in the experts.

They enlist former secret agent Sean Wyatt; his wife, Adriana; and his best friend, the renowned archaeologist Tommy Schultz, to help find both the cardinal’s killer and, if at all possible, the missing relic, thought to have been hidden by Napoléon Bonaparte two hundred years ago.

This relic—a ring worn by John the Baptist—is rumored to possess unfathomable power, rendering its wearer nearly invincible, able to wield the very power of God.

And the grand master of a once-powerful order of medieval Catholic knights wants it to help his twisted holy warriors regain their former glory.
They’ll stop at nothing until they possess the ring, kill Wyatt and his friends, overthrow the pope, and enlist believers worldwide into their unholy New Crusade.

USA Today best-selling author Ernest Dempsey delivers his most taut thriller to date. The Napoléon Affair will keep you guessing until all of its secrets are finally revealed.This archaeological thriller will keep you burning through the pages long into the night. Get into some of the best adventure fiction kindle unlimited has to offer and find out why Ernest Dempsey is one of the hottest adventure fiction authors in the genre.

Release date: August 30, 2019

Publisher: 138 Publishing

Print pages: 404

Sample

Prologue

VALLETTA, MALTA 1798

"You cannot go in there!" the old priest commanded. "This is a holy place, not a place of war and death." 

"Get him out of here," the General said. He marched through the hall, taking long strides with every step, though long was subjective for the diminutive leader. 

Two of his soldiers grabbed the priest under the arms and dragged him backward. The man yelped and shouted. He'd been speaking French before, but the curses and warnings emitted now were in Latin. As he was pulled farther from the general, the priest's angry protests faded to muted whimpers. 

The Co-Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist was crawling with soldiers rushing between cells, rooms, and offices, carelessly tossing furniture, papers, and other ordinary day-to-day items onto the floor. They moved like locusts swarming through a harvest and consuming everything in their path; never satisfied, their hunger never filled. 

The general stopped at an intersection in the corridor and looked back at his men. This was hardly the way he desired to search the house of God; then again, he wasn't a very religious person. He'd been baptized as a child into the Catholic faith, but the church's dogmatic views and guidelines had never truly taken root with him. He did, however, appreciate the measure of control religion could hold over people. In that regard, he almost admired the church, occasionally wishing that he, too, could exercise such sway over not only the nation of France but the entire world. 

He respected most religions and believed that all belief systems should be honored. The general was not only a tolerant man, but wise beyond the understanding of many of his contemporaries. He believed that people should be permitted to worship as they chose; to embrace the cultures they'd established long ago. And he also understood the strategic advantage of honoring those who dwelled in the lands he conquered. It was no ruse, no falsehood that he told his soldiers to respect Christians, Muslims, Jews, and any others of different beliefs. He truly embraced that approach. He also embraced the benefits that came with such teachings, such as the ability to control the masses. And Napoléon was all about control.

Alas, he was only a man, alone in the world as a beacon of light and hope shining toward a brighter future for all—an ideal he believed to his very core. Wars, disease, pestilence, and death had all ravaged Europe, and little mercy had been meted out to his beloved France. All the while, those at the top of society had suffered little, sending out their soldiers to do their dirty work, fight their wars, claim them new lands and titles, all of which would be taxed to the breaking point—of course. 

To the populace, Napoléon had represented change, something new for the people of France. He'd offered them hope in the unusual form of a squat general with a knack for military strategy and tactics. 

Leading the people through a series of fantastic victories, he'd set his sights on foreign territories to further expand his…interests. Napoléon had the ambition of a lion—his thirst for power unrivaled—and only a few of his trusted advisers, his only real friends in this world, knew of his ultimate goal. 

To achieve it, though, he would need something of note, a catalyst that would enable him to lay a legitimate claim to new realms, an artifact of unprecedented power and esteem. It would also have to be a holy relic, something that gave him authority—both of earth and of heaven. 

He'd known about the island nation of Malta for a long time, but it was only recently that he’d learned of the treasure housed in this very place, this temple to the Almighty. 

Napoléon often questioned loyalty to a master that seemed so uncaring, so ambivalent toward his own creations. He certainly believed that there was a higher power at work in the universe; he just didn't believe that higher power cared about him as an individual, or about his nation. 

Turning from his men he continued walking straight ahead and then turned right into the church's atrium. It was a glamorous lobby, but nothing he'd seen so far compared to the opulence of the grand sanctuary. Most of the halls—including the one in which he now stood—featured grandiose archways coated in gold filigree and separated by masterfully painted scenes from the Bible. The sanctuary was a larger version of the other corridors: much taller, wider, and grander in every conceivable way. 

For the briefest of moments, the battle-hardened general was taken aback by the splendor of the cathedral. Designed by the baroque master Mattia Preti, the interior was every bit as spectacular as the exterior was rudimentary and functional. Not that the Maltese limestone, out of which the building had been constructed, wasn't beautiful. It was, however, designed to look as much like a fortress as a place of worship. That, perhaps, was due to those who had engineered it. 

The Knights Hospitaller, also known as the Order of Malta, had been responsible for that holy task. They took it upon themselves to design and even fund the structure, with much of the money coming from their own coffers as well as from personal contributions from within their own ranks. 

While they'd made the outside look almost imposing, the interior was more exquisite than many palaces Napoléon had seen. The high, gilded archways above separated scenes depicting the life of Saint John the Baptist. 

There were nine chapels that branched out from the main sanctuary, each dedicated to various languages, peoples, and sects, but all equally as magnificent as the rest of the building, simply smaller. 

Napoléon marched through the center of the sanctuary, his boots irreverently clicking on the marble tiles underfoot as he made his way toward the front of the church where the presbytery was located.

Two of his guards stood either side of a priest who was kneeling before the altar. Napoléon focused his attention on the man, doing his best to avoid the myriad distractions of glitter and shine all around him, however he did catch something of note as he stalked toward the front. One of the columns was emblazoned with the letters RC. Another featured the letters NC in long, diagonal rows. Between the grouped letters was the easily recognized cross of the Order of the Knights of Malta, the Knights Hospitaller. They'd also been known by a few other names, the more apt of them being the Knights of Saint John or the Order of Saint John. 

The Siege of Valletta and subsequent takeover had seen resistance from the Maltese people, especially from the knights. They'd fought valiantly, honorably, and died in the same way. Napoléon knew that some had escaped, but eradicating an ancient sect of a fading chivalric order was not his primary goal here. Neither was taking over the island for any length of time. He would leave a small contingent, probably around three thousand soldiers, in the garrison on the island. That represented roughly 10 percent of his forces, enough to make it look like he was trying to establish a stronghold in the Mediterranean but not so many that it would hurt his advances in Egypt. 

His plan was to leave as soon as possible, making for Alexandria the moment he had the relic in his possession. The priest was the key to finding said relic. 

Napoléon walked the last fifty feet with his eyes focused directly on the man in the priestly vestments. He paid no attention to the marble tiles beneath his feet that marked the graves of 375 knights, all entombed within the confines of the church to be forever under the protection of God and of his servant Saint John the Baptist. 

Napoléon stopped with a click of the heels, standing at attention behind the priest kneeling between the two soldiers. One of the men in uniform was an officer, a lieutenant in Napoléon's personal guard. He was loyal to a fault, never questioning his general's orders but always willing to pose alternative outcomes for situations the general had, perhaps, not foreseen. 

"He won't move, sir," the lieutenant said. He was a tall man, easily two inches over six feet, and towered over his general. 

Napoléon didn't let that bother him. He'd learned to deal with it over the years. Most people, especially men in the army, were taller than him. It was one reason he'd had to work so hard to quickly climb the ranks. 

The lieutenant went on. "He just keeps praying, General. Saying the same prayer over and over again." 

"Leave us, Lieutenant," Napoléon said with a curt nod. 

His second didn't take the order as rude. It was how the general spoke to everyone, and all in his ranks knew not to take it personally or become afflicted by emotions over his often short and direct approach to conversation or issuing orders. 

"Yes, sir." The man nodded to the other soldier, and the two stepped away from the general, walking twenty feet before they spun around and faced the two men at the altar, just in case this priest was up to something nefarious, however unlikely that might have been. 

Napoléon stepped up to the right side of the kneeling man and lowered himself to the prayer step at the base of the altar. He was surprised at how firm the pad was—considering it had been created to ease the discomfort of kneeling when praying to the Most High. 

He folded his hands and bowed his head. His two men probably wondered what he was doing, wondered if he'd had a change of heart and suddenly become a devout, religious man.

He said nothing, instead letting the priest finish his prayers.

"You must leave this place," the priest said. "There is nothing for you here. God will punish you for such blasphemies." 

"Blasphemies?" Napoléon questioned. "I know not of what you speak, good Father. I am simply here to collect something, an item of some importance." He spoke heavily accented English to the priest, though he suspected the older man spoke fluent French. Most of the Maltese population was trilingual, able to speak French, English, and Maltese, though there were still others who knew Spanish and Portuguese, as well. 

"I know what you are here for. You're nothing more than a brigand, a common thief. You have no right to it. It is a holy relic. It belongs in the house of God." 

Napoléon looked around for a moment as if trying to find something. It was a mocking gesture, though the priest didn't really see it unless it was through his periphery. His eyes were still focused forward, on the floor just ahead of where he was kneeling.

"This house?" Napoléon asked, pointing at the tiles at his feet. "Why not some other house of God? There are so many." 

"It was brought here by our founders, the knights ordained by God through His holy church. It belongs here, on Malta. Go on your way, General. Leave the ring here, I beg you, or it will lead to great disaster for you." 

"Very well," the General said. He grabbed the priest by the collar and hoisted him up off the floor. 

The priest was surprised at how strong this small man was. While his stature may have been unimpressive, there was a hidden strength beneath his military uniform. 

"Take me to the reliquary, or I will start killing. Your monks, your other priests, your servants, and if you don't take me to it after all of that, I will start killing citizens from the city." 

That got the priest’s attention. The old man turned to the general with shock in his eyes. "You can't do that. This is a house of worship." 

"And I will not kill in this…holy place," Napoléon sneered, his comment layered in cynicism. 

He'd often wondered about the splendor of the temples and churches of religion, why people felt it important to ordain their places of worship with such riches when the deity they worshipped offered no gratitude and certainly didn't need the money. He nearly chuckled to himself at that thought but refrained since doing so would have eradicated any sincerity of his threat. It wasn't that he didn't believe God should be honored; but with so much splendor and expense? 

Footsteps clicked on the tiles behind the two men, and the priest couldn't stop himself from turning around to see who was approaching, perhaps hoping it was his savior, come to remove this outlaw general. The priest knew what was going on. He knew that the general had illegally invaded Malta—a neutral country. 

The priest's eyes widened as his heart filled with hope. One of the knights approached, though he didn't seem to be in a hurry to save the older man. His sword was still at his side, a musket strapped over his shoulder. The priest knew there were any number of other weapons hidden on the man. The knights were well armed but never displayed their full personal arsenal until it was necessary. 

Why was this guardian of Malta not rushing to the priest's aid? Instead, he was stalking toward the two men with patient intensity. 

"Ah," the General said, seeing the man approach. "I'm glad you're here. Our friend, the priest, doesn't seem to want to tell me where the artifact is." 

"Of course he doesn't," the knight said. He spoke fluent French, the accent hinting at an ancestry stemming from Toulon, the very place where this entire campaign began. "He's sworn to protect it." 

"Oh, I see. So, death it is then, Father?" Napoléon had no intention of killing a priest. Even with his lackluster fervor for religion and his casual ideologies regarding it and other customs, he didn't want to tempt fate. Just in case. 

"If you must," the priest said. "I will gladly die to keep it out of your hands." 

"So dramatic," the knight said. His name was Jean-Antoine Courture. A Frenchman to his core, he was one of the many knights in the battle for Malta who had defected to the French side, the side of their homeland. "Come, General. I will show you to the reliquary." 

Napoléon's eyebrows lifted, and he smirked at the priest. "So, it would appear we do not need you to give us the ring. Still, I would like you to accompany us." 

The knight grabbed the priest by the shoulder and motioned toward a door off to the right. 

The priest shook his head. "But the reliquary, my son, it's that way." He pointed in a different direction. 

"No," the knight insisted. "Not the one for the parishioners and the patrons of your church. Did you think I was not aware of the true location of the hand of Saint John?" 

The priest swallowed hard, afraid his mistake might have cost him everything. Then he nodded. "No, I supposed not." 

The knight led the way to the door and opened it, motioning the priest through first. He followed behind, allowing the general to take up the rear. 

The three men walked through a short corridor lined with iron sconces. Candles burned in their nests, dripping wax onto the black iron cups. The small flames flickered dimly, casting an eerie yellow glow through the passage. They proceeded down the hall until they reached another door. This one was heavy, made from oak and set in place with tough iron hinges and a matching looped latch. It was very different, stark almost, when compared to the ornately gilded door from the sanctuary.

"Open it," the knight said. 

The priest briefly considered lying, telling him that he didn't have the key. Not only would the knight not believe him, telling a falsehood was against the priest's creed, the very fiber of his being. What was he if not honest? 

He reached in a pocket of his vestment and retrieved a small key ring. There were only four keys on it. 

Napoléon imagined that one was for some of the main doors to the building; another for his private cell; the third would likely be for other rooms—offices, perhaps. The fourth, he knew, belonged to this door. 

The old man inserted the prescribed key into the hole and twisted it. The lock clicked, and the door inched open. A damp, musty smell wafted out and the scent became stronger as the gap widened. Beyond, a darkened staircase spiraled down into the bowels of the cathedral, the general uncertain as to what awaited them. At this point, he was beyond what he'd learned about this place and was in the full trust of Jean-Antoine. 

The knight reached over to the wall and took a candle from a sconce. With the wax stick still fixed to its housing, he passed it to the general and then took his own from across the hall. 

"You may proceed," the knight said to the priest. His tone was kind, reverent, and it bore no ill intent.

Perhaps the knight's demeanor set the priest's mind at ease because he gave a long nod and stepped onto the dark staircase. 

The three ventured downward for a few minutes, carefully navigating the damp steps, aware that one wrong step could result in broken bones, gashed skin, or potentially a far worse injury. 

It didn't take long for the three men to reach the bottom. They stopped at the base of the spiral staircase and found themselves in a crypt and surrounded by stone tombs, each marked with the names and titles of those buried within, their likenesses carved onto the lids, emulating the way the deceased might have looked when they were alive or newly dead. 

In the back of the crypt, the three men glimpsed  something flashing as the candlelight flickered. 

"There it is," the General said, staring into the darkness. He raised his candle to the level of his right shoulder and the dim illumination widened, carrying all the way to the other side of the room. 

He took the lead, walking across the length of the crypt before stopping short of the shrine. The table was made of pure marble, surrounded by an altar made of gold and silver with intricate carvings and reliefs adorning every inch of it. On the table was the prize Napoléon had been set on the moment he announced his plan to invade Alexandria. 

The ancient Egyptian city was certainly the target. It would weaken his British enemies in that region and would also give him claim to a vast new land, passing titles and acreage to his men. 

Alexandria, however, was only part of Napoléon's grand scheme, merely a piece of the puzzle. What lay hidden in this golden shroud would give him the ability and the power to bring all the other pieces together. 

He set the candle reverently on the marble surface. His eyes fixed on the item next to the candelabra. It was a golden glove with a matching metallic sleeve extending all the way up to the elbow. One finger was bent awkwardly toward the palm, the others remained straight and extended outward. A flap built into the backhand of the glove displayed a fragment of bone within. 

Napoléon discarded his temporary reverence and picked up the object. 

The priest gasped and instinctively stepped backward, afraid he might be struck down by the Almighty for such sacrilege.

"What are you doing?" the old man asked with a quiver in his voice. 

Napoléon didn't look back at him. "You know exactly what I am doing." 

"That is the hand of Saint John the Baptist!" the priest exclaimed. "You are not permitted to touch such a holy relic. Only those ordained by God may do so." The man crossed himself multiple times, probably whispering a prayer for forgiveness at the same time.

"I know who it is." The general slid the forearm out of the golden glove. The hand followed, grinding along the inside of the relic's housing until the fingers came free. There, on the ring finger of the skeletal hand, was what he'd come for. He reached out his left hand and with thumb and forefinger plucked a golden ring from the bone. Napoléon admired the jewelry for a moment, taking in its shimmer in the candlelight. There were no precious gems set into the metal, only words carved in Aramaic. He couldn't read them and didn't care to learn. He was here for the ring not a language lesson. He removed his leather gloves and slipped the ring onto his own finger. 

It was a perfect fit. 

"My God, forgive us!" The priest prayed out loud this time, crossing himself again. "Put that back or be forever cursed." 

The warning slid off the general's shoulders. 

"You keep the hand of the Baptist," Napoléon groused. "The ring belongs to me now."


INLET BEACH, FLORIDA - PRESENT DAY

Sean Wyatt wished he had one of those little plastic grocery baskets. No matter how many times he went shopping, he still made the same mental miscalculation from time to time. He'd pass by the grocery carts and the stack of baskets thinking all he needed was his two paws since his list of items was relatively short. 

Almost every time, he ended up in this exact situation.

Well, not this exact situation. 

Usually he was in a grocery store, this time it was a convenience store. He'd come in to get some drinks before he and his wife, Adriana, walked down to the beach. 

And it wasn't just the store that was different, it was also the fact that there was a gunman standing at the register and holding a pistol in the face of the cashier.

The terrified young woman was unable to move or even process what was happening. Her red hair wasn't natural, but colored the shade of faded cherries and cut just below the chin at an angle so it grew shorter toward the back. There was a streak of white in it that dangled in front of her left ear. She was pale, almost as if she'd never been in the sun before, which would make her a unique citizen in this part of the world. Most people who lived along the Emerald Coast worshiped the sun, hitting the sand of the Gulf of Mexico as often as they could. 

She couldn't have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two years old. She had a nose ring in her right nostril and several other pieces of metal dangling from her ears. There was also a butterfly tattoo on her neck. Now she was being threatened by a thief. 

Sean stayed quiet and instinctively bent his knees to crouch down a little, partially blocking his view of the criminal.

"I said open the safe and the register!" The masked man was yelling again. It was his initial command to the cashier that had caught Sean's attention. 

Sean had just grabbed four Cokes from the refrigerator at the back of the store to take to the beach and was heading toward the register when the shouting began. 

The gun wagged back and forth in front of the girl's face. Sean wished he had his pistol with him. That was his second regret. He almost never left home without his Springfield .40-caliber XD, but he was on vacation—at the beach no less. Surely he could take a little time off without having to go all cowboy on someone. 

Yet here he was, standing in a gas station with a clutch of Cokes in his hands and no weapon. If he’d had a basket, he could have easily set down the drinks and moved around to a better vantage point to get the thief's attention–or something like that. As long as the thief pointed the gun away from the cashier, that was all that mattered. He knew there would be a panic button behind the counter. Probably a gun, too. 

Most convenience stores operated on similar systems, where they would take the money out of the register and deposit it in a safe. Less frequently, a manager—or in some instances, an armed guard—would come and collect the money to take to the bank or to a deposit drop-off. The thief was obviously aware of this, and of the safe wedged into the wall behind the counter.

"I…I don't have access to the safe," the cashier stammered. It was the first time Sean had heard her speak since the robbery began. 

The man swore at her, calling her some unsavory names in the process. "I know you're lying. I've seen you open it before." 

There was one little clue. This guy was a regular customer. He'd been here before and watched her as she went about her tasks, probably during down times when there weren't many customers. Right now was one of those times, and Sean found himself to be the lone consumer in the store. Sure, some cars drove by outside, but none of the drivers stopped for gas or snacks. It wasn't exactly a prime location for travelers, though it was perfect for him since it was within walking distance of the IAA beach house. 

Sean could tell by the sound of the man's voice that he was nearing the end of his proverbial rope. When that happened, bad things would follow. There was a desperation in the man's voice that Sean easily recognized. His training in psychology and with the federal government had taught him not only to read body language but to interpret vocal intonation as a means of predicting a target's true aims.

There was no question in Sean's mind: if he didn't act soon, the girl behind the counter was going to die. 

He quietly maneuvered backward, careful to mind that he didn't brush up against a rack of crackers and potato chips; effectively giving away his position. He was fine with that since taking the thief's eyes off the cashier was going to be his number one priority. Doing so before he was ready, however, would not be acceptable.

Once he was at the end of the row, he stepped to the side and crouched down carefully. As he'd grown older, Sean noticed that his knees cracked more often when he bent them. Thankfully, this time they didn't make a sound. 

He set two of the Cokes down on the floor and kept two in his hand. The cold cans were frosty against his skin, but now they were no longer refreshments for a day at the beach. In his hands, they were deadly projectiles that could save a young woman's life.

Sean stepped back into full view. 

The young woman saw him and her eyes grew wide. 

Sean knew that she would express some form of surprise. That was fine. In fact, he'd planned on that. He would much rather the robber turn around as a result of something he knew she was seeing than from hearing a sudden sound from behind. That tended to startle most people, criminals especially.

This one seemed especially jumpy, and if Sean were to say anything or make the slightest sound, the guy's itchy trigger finger was apt to twitch and put a bullet through the poor girl's skull. 

Sean's awareness of the situation and his prediction of the robber's reaction were spot on. 

The second he saw the young woman's eyebrows rise slightly, he spun around with the gun leveled, ready to take out whatever threat was there. 

Except there was no threat. No one was there. Behind him, something slammed shut. The gunman spun around again, only to realize that the cashier had disappeared. She wouldn't be hidden long since there was only one place she could be hiding at that point. He started for the counter, probably to vault over it to pursue the girl, but a voice halted him in midstride. 

"I wouldn't do that," Sean said. He spoke loudly and clearly enough that there would be no mistaking his commands, or that someone else was in the building.

He assumed, which he rarely did, that this thief hadn't considered there might be someone else in the store. Thieves, while often intelligent in regard to their work, tended to be careless about other things, such as social awareness. A smart person would have assumed that there could be someone else in the store who'd walked over from the nearby beach community of Rosemary. 

This thief, however, hadn't considered that. Now he found himself alone in the convenience store facing a ghost. 

Just like before, when he turned around to find where the voice was coming from, he was presented with two empty rows. He couldn't see down the length of the other three rows, which presented a problem. Clearly, there was someone else in the building, and they were meddling with his plans.

"Where are you?" he snarled. "Come out or I shoot the girl." 

The man was playing on society’s chivalrous instincts. Despite how little of that seemed to be present in the modern day, it was still ingrained in many people, and criminals often sought to exploit that weakness. Some called it a savior complex. Others decried it as a Good Samaritan complex. Either way, criminals knew that when faced with harm to others, people would run, either to help or to get to safety. 

This robber was clearly okay with either. 

If Sean were to run, which wasn't even remotely in his bank of options, he would expose his position to the thief and make for an easy target. At the moment, Sean knew that he still had the element of surprise and the element of evasion. 

The thief was too focused on where he believed the sound had come from to notice the reflections on the glass doors of the refrigerators. Sean had shifted to his left and quickly made his way down the last row until he could get a clear view of the gunman's reflection in the last door. The guy was still pointing his gun toward the end of the row where Sean had been only a moment before. 

"I'm going to give you to the count of three to show your face, or I start shooting." 

For a moment, Sean wondered what the girl was doing behind the counter. Surely there was a gun back there, though he doubted she knew how to use it. Maybe if she had been a few years older she might have had some kind of training, even if it was as simple as a basic firearm safety course. He didn't blame her, though. This was a difficult situation, terrifying for someone who'd probably never had a gun pointed in their direction before, much less in such a threatening manner and at such close range. 

Sean plucked a stick of beef jerky from a rack in front of him and waited for a second. 

"One!" The gunman shouted with a grunt. His accent was local, probably from one of the farms or small towns a little north of there between the Florida and Alabama border, perhaps a few miles across said border. 

Where he was from didn't matter to Sean. All that mattered was taking him down. 

He flicked the jerky through the air and watched it sail over three rows before it disappeared from view just a moment before striking what he assumed was a bag of chips.

The crinkling sound may as well have been a grenade going off in the otherwise suddenly quiet convenience store. The man twisted slightly to his right and fired the weapon twice. Bags of tortilla chips exploded, sending corn fragments into the air and spilling into the next row. 

The sound was deafening in the confined space, but Sean remained calm. He’d been in more gunfights than he could count and figured himself fortunate not to have a bad case of hearing loss at this point in his life. Those two reports probably wouldn't help with that, but there was nothing he could do about it. The situation was what it was, and he'd have to make the best of it. 

He picked out another stick of jerky and waited, watching the man's reflection in the refrigerator as the criminal stepped toward the second row. Sean flung the second stick through the air, this time letting it sail higher and farther than before, but his trajectory was different. Noticing the gunman was near the end of the row, Sean had thrown this one toward the counter. It struck a rack of chewing gum in front of the register and rattled to the floor. Again, the gunman turned, though this time he didn't fire any shots. 

Sean was thankful for that. There would be no sleep for the rest of his life if the young girl behind the counter was somehow accidentally shot. 

By the time the man had spun around to see where the second noise came from, Sean had already taken a third stick of jerky. He threw it hard toward the front-right corner of the store and listened as it struck something plastic, probably the stack of bottled water in that section of the store. 

The man fired the gun again, this time charging back to his left and nearer to the exit where the first row came to an end. 

That was Sean's chance. He rose as the guy reached the end of the row and, clutching one of the Coke cans in his right hand, reared back. He'd never had a great arm in baseball. He'd pitched some, but only because he could throw strikes. It had little to do with his ability to generate velocity. In this instance, accuracy was also paramount. If he missed, he had one projectile left, and there would be little time to take a second try. 

He took a step as if throwing a baseball from third base to first, and whipped his arm forward. The can was out of his grip by the time the gunman saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The Coke flew through the air, streaking straight for the guy's head. He fired his weapon, probably out of fear, and the bullet bounced harmlessly off the ground and struck a quart of oil on the nearest row. The thick golden liquid immediately began leaking, but the thief never saw it. 

Sean's aim had been true, and the base of the can struck the guy square in the right eye. 

The gunman had been both lucky and unfortunate. Getting hit in the eye by an aluminum cylinder full of cola was excruciating. As the base of the can hit his face, the hardened rim crunched the bone, fracturing it and causing the eye to droop within a second. That was the unlucky part. 

The fortunate part was that he could have been hit in the temple and died right there. Then again, that might have been preferable. 

The man howled in agony, dropping his weapon to the ground as he grasped at the wounded eye. 

Sean didn't wait for an invitation. He leaped from his hiding place and sprinted across the room, plowing his shoulder into the man's ribs even as the guy was still moaning from the wound to his eye. 

A loud "oof" escaped his lips as Sean tackled the gunman and drove him into a metal frame between the huge windows that made up the store's façade. The left side of the guy's face hit the metal column with an audible crunch, no doubt shattering more bones on that side. 

Sean felt the body go limp in his arms and he slowly lowered the thief to the ground. Blood was oozing down the side of the guy’s face where the Coke can had struck his flesh, cutting a deep gash into the cheek. 

Sean instinctively turned to where he'd heard the weapon fall from the guy's hand a moment before and scooped it up. He rapidly pulled the slide several times until no more shells came out of the weapon's ejection port. Then he released the magazine, tossed it on the floor, and rapidly removed the slide from the gun, dumping some of its parts on the tile next to the unconscious man. 

"He's out," Sean said in a casual tone, hoping the girl wouldn't pop up with a shotgun thinking he was the robber. "My hands are up," he added, stuck on that last potential issue. 

The girl hesitated, but she realized quickly that the man speaking didn’t match the voice from before. "Okay," she said. "I'm coming up." 

Two pale hands appeared behind the countertop, and she gradually rose from her hiding place on the floor. Her face was flushed red, and there were tears filling her eyes. 

"It's okay," Sean said. 

The girl's green eyes flashed toward the body on the floor. A new look of fear washed over her. "Is he…" 

"Dead?" Sean finished the sentence for her. "No. I don't think so. He's gonna be in a lot of pain when he wakes up, though. Speaking of that, you should probably go ahead and call the cops." 

She nodded rapidly and reached for her cell phone that was sitting next to the register. 

"Do you mind if I…" Sean motioned to the back of the store, as if he still had some shopping to do. 

The girl looked baffled for a moment then nodded as someone answered the call on the other end. 

She began telling them what was happening, that someone had tried to rob the store but that the thief was unconscious on the floor. 

Meanwhile, Sean grabbed four more drinks and then made his way to the front of the store. The girl shook him off as he reached for his wallet. 

He shook his head and pulled out a ten. He set the bill on the counter and then mouthed, "Keep the change." 

"Wait," she said, ignoring what the person on the phone was saying. "Where are you going?" 

"Vacation."