Nick Cameron Chronicles

By Layne and Beej　

Layne writing Nick Cameron, Beej writing Jake Mitchell (from her Jake Mitchell saga)

Summer Vacation: Chapter 1

　

A drug deal. Another bloody, fuckin' drug deal. Couldn't walk down the streets of Westminster these days without seeing at least two or three of them. That was Nick Cameron's thought when he saw the two kids, both looking to be barely in their teens, standing between two parked cars. They were mumbling to one another and looking furtively around, as though expecting their mums to pop up any second, he thought.　

Nick slipped quietly up behind a van parked near one of the cars they stood between. Just as a skinny, freckled kid with red hair was passing a small bag off to his pal, who had greasy brown hair and glasses, Nick reached out from behind the van almost casually and grabbed a wrist in each of his hands. 　

"What the fuck!" The red-headed kid looked as though he was about to shit his pants.　

"Bloody hell!" That was greasy-hair's contribution, as both of them tried to jerk away.　

It was a useless gesture. Nick's grip was like steel. Transferring both their thin wrists into one of his large hands, he grabbed the bag with the other. Took a closer look and a sniff at it.　

"Pot!" he said disgustedly, in his deep voice with the crisp British accent. "A lousy fuckin' bag of pot!"　

The freckle-faced boy finally found his voice. "You haulin' us in?" he asked the tall, tough-looking man in jeans and a faded olive green jacket, who had an iron grip on him at the moment.　

"I'm not a cop," Nick informed him mildly, giving the two a piercing look.　

"Not a cop?" That was the other boy chiming in, in a surprised and slightly angry tone. "Then what the hell do you think you're doin'? Gimme back that bag!"　

Still holding the two, Nick threw the small plastic bag at the kid's chest, where it bounced off and would have hit the pavement if the boy hadn't grabbed for it with his free hand.　

"Here," Nick said roughly, as he threw it. "Smoke all the damned pot you want. Just don't ever let me see you doin' anything harder. No coke or heroin. Understand?"　

He released the two suddenly, and they almost fell over the boot of the car in front of them. Rubbing their wrists and nodding, they stared at the man they'd never seen before in their lives, their expressions a mixture of fear and disgruntlement. 　

"Who the hell are you?" the red-haired kid bit out, as Nick was strolling casually away down the street, his hands in his pockets.　

"Santa Claus." He threw the words carelessly back over his shoulder, his mind already on other things.　

Now he was in a bad mood. It was late morning and Nick had been feeling fairly good after being able to wake up in his own bed, in his own apartment, for the first time in months. He'd made coffee, lounged on the sofa with the sports section of the paper, then showered and dressed in civilian clothes, again for the first time in months.　

Nick was on his way to have lunch with Jake Mitchell. Mitchell was up from Sydney. He was active reserve in the Aussie SAS, several years younger than Nick, and they'd met a few years back, when Nick had been sent to Australia as an instructor in a joint training exercise between British and Aussie special services.　

Mitchell was now co-owner of A&M Risk Management, a security firm with an office in London. Nick had been impressed with Jake's abilities and considered insurance and risk management a fine waste of a good man, but Mitchell had some good contacts and that was what Nick was interested in now.　

At forty years old, Major Nicholas Cameron had been SAS for the past twelve years, coming to them from the Royal Air Force, where he'd piloted helicopters, fighters, and reconnaissance aircraft for eight years before that. It was while training in the RAF that Nick had discovered he had another handy little talent. He was a crack shot.　

Before joining the RAF he'd fired a few pistols in his time, but only a few, and never a rifle. The first day on the shooting range, he'd picked up a standard-issue RAF rifle and pulled off a near-perfect round of shots. His training officer had patently refused to believe that Nick had never before fired a rifle.　

He'd been recommended for sniper training and the rest was history. Nick was the best sniper ever to come out of the RAF. He was now considered the best in British special forces and one of the best they'd ever trained. The number of his confirmed kills was a record in special forces and close to becoming a record world-wide.　

None of this was on his mind, though, as he went on his way toward downtown Westminster. That life was commonplace to him now, more common than getting up and eating breakfast in the morning. It required no thought and damned little preparation any more.　

Right now, his thoughts were on the line of work he planned to go into when he left the SAS in a few months. That was where his mind lay as he opened the door of the pub where he'd arranged to meet Jake Mitchell.

Jake Mitchell unbuckled his seat belt, stood up from his first class seat, and stretched. The attractive member of the cabin crew who was in charge of the first class section smiled as she brought him his leather jacket.　

“Did you have a good trip, Mr. Mitchell?”

“As always, Luv, I slept like a baby.”

“It’s always a pleasure when you fly with us. You’re never demanding, like some of our so called first class customers.”　

“Thanks, Luv. Fingers crossed you’re on duty when I go back home then, eh.” He winked at her as he headed for the door.　

Customs and immigration were always a piece of cake for him as he was lucky enough to have a diplomatic passport, and as he travelled light with just his carry-on, he was soon through to the arrivals lounge, looking around to see if anyone from the office was there to pick him up.　

Jake and his friend, Mike, had started A&M Risk Management after Jake was forced to take medical retirement following a shooting accident and helicopter crash. Before then, Mike was a Captain in the US Delta Force special ops, and Jake was a Major in 1 NZSAS, probably the best and most elite SAS unit in the world. You didn’t apply to join the NZ unit; they headhunted you. They invited about 50 men a year to try out. The year Jake was invited, he was the only one that made it to the end of the two week initial trial. He ended up becoming the best sniper the unit had ever had. In fact, he was the best out of the entire NZ and Australian SAS. They even had a special sniper rifle built for him as he was left-handed, and standard sniper rifles were made for right-handed men. Jake had been on semi-permanent deployment with the Australian SAS for the last few years of his career, but shuttled between both units as and when required.　

Jake was 35 and the Managing Director of the firm, running the Sydney office and keeping an eye on the London office. His partner, Mike, was the Financial Director and ran the Chicago office. Jake was on one of his regular six monthly trips up to London to check out how things were going. It was all routine as far as he was concerned, and even as he stood in arrivals he was counting the days until he could fly home to his wife and baby twins.　

He heard someone call his name and looked round to see Jason, the office manager, walking towards him smiling.　

“Hey, Jake. Good flight?”

“G’Day, Jason. Slept through it as usual.”　

“So you’re raring to go then?”　

“Get off the grass, mate. I’m expecting to have a nice rest for the week.”　

“Things busy at the office?”

“No mate…the twins are crawling.”

“Say no more. The girls have been getting stuff ready for you to take back for the little ones.”

Jake smiled as they headed for the short stay car park, and they were soon on their way out of Heathrow, heading towards the city. Once there, it was about half an hour before he managed to get into Jason’s office after saying hello to everyone, and he sat down and kicked his boots off. Emma came in with a cuppa and a message.　

“Jake, there was a call for you earlier from a man who said he was an old acquaintance from your service days. He was wondering if you were in London, and if so would you be willing to meet up with him.”

Jake took the tea and smiled at Emma. “What’s his name, Luv?”　

“Major Nick Cameron.”

Jake was transported in time to when he and Cameron had met back in Oz. Why on earth would he want them to meet up? He told Emma to arrange a meeting with Nick; and so it was that he found himself waiting in the pub for Nick to arrive for lunch.　

The inside of the pub was dim, but Nick's eyes adjusted quickly. He took in everything almost at once, another of the habits a man picked up after so many years of training and experience. Seeing Jake in a corner booth, headed over, easily and automatically avoiding the man who stood up from his chair right in front of Nick, and the waitress who came close to dropping her tray no more than a foot away from him.　

The first thing he noticed about Jake Mitchell was his semi-relaxed look, the look of a man who was spending more hours behind a desk than in the field, Cameron thought. Mitchell had a smile on his face. Cameron himself rarely smiled, unless it was a deliberate and planned act on his part.　

"Mitchell." His greeting to Jake sounded somewhat critical, even though he was holding out his hand. "You're looking a bit soft."　

Jake took the proffered hand, and before Nick could blink, Jake had twisted his right arm up behind his back and had him in a headlock. He could feel that if he tried to get free he would have to sacrifice his right arm; he knew Jake could, and most likely would, break it in a second.　

No one took much notice. It was the Walkabout, after all, and the Aussie pub staff were more than used to raucous behaviour, even at lunchtime. Jake relaxed his grip slightly, pulled a chair out from the table with his foot and guided Nick into it. 　

“Soft, am I? Looks can be deceptive, mate. Wanna drink?”

Sinking into the chair with a grin in spite of himself, Nick said, "You fuckin' airy-fairy Aussies. Always showin' off to cover up the fact you got nothin' much to show."　

"I'll have a pint," he said to the waitress, almost as an afterthought. "You might oughta bring my mate here a cuppa," he nodded toward Jake. "He's gone all to pot."　

When the waitress had laughed and moved away, he pierced Jake with a commanding no-nonsense look. "As usual, Mitchell, you missed my intent. I meant soft in the head, not physically soft. My eyes, Mitchell. Always look at my eyes. Don't take my words literally."　

When their drinks were in front of them, Nick took a long draught of his ale and asked curiously, "So, what's been goin' on that's made you soft? Some woman?"　

"Mate, how many times do I have to remind ya that I'm a fuckin' Kiwi, not an Aussie! Just because I was with their mob when we met doesn't mean I'm one of them. My unit would beat them into the ground any day of the week, blindfolded with both hands tied behind their backs.　

"As for your question, if I was going soft it wouldn't be because of a woman. It would be because of a beautiful woman and two beautiful little angels. I'm married, mate, and the father of twins. And guess what? I'd kill for them without a second thought. Just remember that."　

It was worse than he'd thought, Nick said to himself, without saying it to Jake. A married man with kids. Nick firmly believed that no man who had family attachments should be allowed in the SAS. To begin with, it was extremely dangerous work, liable to take a man away from his family permanently at any time.　

His major problem with it, though, was that a man with a wife or girlfriend (God forbid kids!) had distractions. Any mission on which they were sent required all of a man's concentration. All of his focus. 　

Nick was convinced that a man with relationships didn't--couldn't--put all of his focus into a mission. Some of it was reserved for his family, no matter how much he might deny it. When a man was out there in a life or death situation, some little corner of his mind was bound to be on the fact that he might never see his loved ones again. Unless he had no loved ones to worry about, and Nick was of the opinion that that was the way it should be.　

Out loud, he said to Jake, "Kiwi, Aussie, what the hell- I just came off a mission, Mitchell. I had more important things to keep up with than which little island down South you come from!" He said it with a grin.　

“They haven’t chucked you out yet then,” Jake laughed. “Times must be tough. Want another drink?”　

He got up to go to the bar, limping a little, and came back with two beers and the menu. “I can recommend the emu, mate.”　

He watched Nick as he studied the menu, wondering why the man had asked to meet with him. Why had he contacted Jake, now a civilian, when he was still attached to the Unit? Jake was a patient man…normally, but Nick always managed to ruffle his feathers.　

“So, mate. You wanna tell me just what’s on your mind, or do we eat first?"　

"Chuck me out?" Nick's question was casual as he perused the menu. Deciding what to eat was always tough for him after weeks of field rations. Everything sounded good.　

"They wouldn't chuck me out," he went on, after he'd placed his order. "I had to beg them to let me leave. I've got one more mission coming up in six weeks. When it's over, I'm retired."　

He took a drink of the beer Jake had brought him. "Retired from special forces anyway. I'm going into a new line. That's what I wanted to talk to you about."　

Jake leaned back in his chair and studied the man sitting opposite him, wondering just what was going on in his mind. The waitress brought over their order and he watched Nick tucking into his meal like food was going out of style. 　

Jake ate his food more sedately. He wasn't really hungry as he'd only been off the plane a few hours. He ate anyway, his special ops training never left him: eat what you can when you can. You never know when you'll get to eat again. A stupid way to think in the middle of London in the Walkabout pub, but what could he say. Once a soldier, always a soldier.　

So how on earth are you gonna cope without the Unit, mate? And just what do you think I can do to help? Are you thinking about joining the K&R business?"　

"Hell, no!" Cameron interrupted his eating with a derisive snort. "Saving snotty rich blokes from their own short-sightedness? I'll pass."　

Nick found the corporate world disgustingly obtuse. The almighty dollar was the bottom line. It drove everything they did, and he considered himself above it. If there wasn't so much money involved in it, they wouldn't even need K&R blokes like Mitchell.　

Leaning back, he took a swig from his bottle and looked casually around. The place was doing a booming lunch business, but everyone in here was busily eating and totally ignoring his neighbors. And that, Nick thought to himself, was one of the biggest problems in the world today. Everyone ignored what everyone else was doing.　

Finally addressing Jake's questions, he replied, "How am I gonna cope without the Unit? A better question is how's the Unit gonna cope without me? But I've given them twelve years outta my life, more than most blokes give them. It's time to move on to some more important work than what they do."　

He studied Jake for a moment. Could he trust Mitchell not to spread the word around? Making a decision, he went on. "You might say I'm going into the waste elimination business."　

His eyes never left Jake's as his thumb moved up and down the side of his bottle. "I plan to eliminate some of the shittiest waste in existence. Drug dealers." He stopped to allow his words to sink in.　

Jake stopped mid-chew and stared at Nick in amazement. He pushed his chair back and stood, taking his wallet out and throwing notes on the table. “You want to continue this conversation, you know where my office is.” He turned and walked to the door.　

Summer Vacation:　 Chapter 2　

Jake was in a black mood by the time he’d got back to the office. He’d walked and he was aching quite badly.　　

“I need your office, Jason. If Cameron turns up, show him in. Other than that, I don’t want to be disturbed.”　　

“Okay, Jake,” Jason replied, wondering just what went on with Jake over lunch.　　

Jake made use of Jason’s private bathroom to take a hot shower, trying to ease his back. He was dressed in a pair of sweat pants, a black vest top in one hand, a towel in his other as he dried his hair, when Jason knocked, opened the door, and showed Nick in. Jake nodded his thanks to Jason, and ignored Nick for a moment as he continued to rub his hair dry.  If Nick noticed the myriad scars, he said nothing. Jake slipped on his vest and walked up to Nick.　　

“You arrogant prick! What will the Unit do without you? The same fucking thing it does when anyone leaves. No one is indispensable…not you…not me. So what, you gave 12 years to them.　 I gave 9, and would still be there if circumstances had been different, but they are managing to survive very well without me. I’ve been called to action a few times, and still do a stint of training work for them, but if the ground opened up and swallowed me tomorrow, 1NZ SAS would be just fine. What makes you think you’re any different from me…mate? 　　

“So, you going to be a gun for hire now? Can’t think of any legit work to do once you’re out?　 Or do you see yourself as some kind of caped crusader vigilante, righting wrongs as you see fit?　　Just what did you think I was going to do, fund your little killing spree?　 Use the company contacts to give you a heads up? Please, enlighten me, Nick.”　　

He walked around Nick and threw himself into Jason’s chair, leaning forward on the desk waiting to hear just what was going on in Nick’s head.　

Nick stood calmly watching as Jake vented. The man's invasion of his personal space didn't bother Nick in the least. Part of SAS training involved resistance to interrogation and he knew that if he got into Jake's face, it wouldn't bother him either.　　

Cameron had thought about not even coming here, sensing that he already knew the gist of what Mitchell was going to say. But the die was cast. He'd brought up the subject, and Nick Cameron always saw things through to the end.　

Not knowing about Jake's back, he was almost amused to find that Mitchell had taken a shower.　 Had he made him feel dirty?　Like some woman who'd crawled into bed with a man, only to find that he wasn't what she'd thought and, afterward, wanted to wash all traces of him away? Nick had had some experience in that area as well.　

When Mitchell had sat down behind the desk and gone silent, Cameron gave his own temper free rein. Putting one finger on the edge of the desk and leaning forward slightly for emphasis, Nick almost spit out his words, his flashing green eyes as hard as stone.　

"Don't give me your fucking innocent, holier-than-thou routine, Mitchell! What the fuck do you think I've been for the past twelve years--or in the RAF for eight years before that--except a damned hired gun? You're a helluva sniper yourself, so what do you think you've been?　Sit back and think about it for a minute and strip away all the damned legal and civilized bullshit we get handed and what the hell are we?　We are fuckin' contract killers, Mitchell!　We take out　who they tell us to, when they tell us to, and we get paid for doing it!"　

Breathing hard, Nick dropped into the chair behind him before continuing. "As for me being an arrogant prick, what the hell is arrogant about being aware of the contribution you've made to the Unit?"　

He shrugged. "Sure, they'll survive without me. Survival's what they do, but they'll be out their damned best sniper. That's what the colonel told me when I informed him I was leaving. I don't see anything arrogant in acknowledging that."　

Jake took a deep breath before speaking.　He knew what Cameron said was in essence spot on.　 All special forces were legalised mercenaries; he just didn't like it thrown in his face. He was proud to have served his country, and felt the things he was sent to do were all well worth the cost...whatever it was. He looked up into Cameron's eyes.　

"You know what my Colonel said when I had to quit?　He sat next to my hospital bed and said, 'What the fuck are we going to do with your custom built sniper rifle?' It's in a display case at the Unit Admin Block and only comes out if I'm recalled."　

He sat back in the leather chair and swung round, getting up slowly and walking past Nick to look out of the office window. He felt Nick standing close behind him, but didn't turn round.　

"I know you're good, Nick, and, yeah, I'm good, too. I'm the best fucking sniper in the NZ and Aussie units combined. I'd lay odds that I'm better than you. I didn't chose to leave, I was dealt a bum hand, but I did decide to stay legal. No doubt you think what I do is a waste of time, but we save people who are sent by their companies into places they shouldn't have to go. Their fat cat bosses stay safe in their offices. I'm more than happy to take their money, mate."　

Jake turned and leaned against the window frame, looking at Nick, trying to gauge his reaction before continuing. Nick was just staring at him, so he carried on.　

"I don't just sit behind a desk all day, every day...at least I didn't. I'm a bloody good negotiator, Nick, but things don't always go to plan. We've had to go in and retrieve our cargo more than once, and before you ask, when I'm out in the field, I'm still 100% in the field. My personal life goes on hold until I get home. My family know that's the way it has to be with me. Don't know why I actually told ya that, just wanted to let you know I'm not over the hill, I guess.　

"I understand how you feel about the bad guys. There are still way too many out there running around free. I just think there must be a legal way you can do your thing. I hate to say this, mate, the world isn't ready to lose you yet."　

Nick was gazing past him, out the window of the luxury office with it's own private bath. The view was beautiful and the air conditioning kept the temperature comfortable. He was thinking about the place he'd come from and how he'd often wished things had been even a tenth as nice as this.　　

Sensing Jake's inner struggle and knowing how he felt (he'd been there before himself), Nick pressed on. "I'm not saying what we've done isn't right, Mitchell.　We've taken out people who, according to all the intelligence--all the information we had--needed to be taken out. I just don't sugar-coat it so it goes down easier.　I'm a killer.　I came to terms with that a long time ago. I don't lose a damned bit of sleep at night over anything I've done."　

Nick met Jake's eyes again.　"Am I proud of it? No. Hell, I can't ever remember taking pride in anything. Pride's useless and it can make you overconfident. It can cause you to make a mistake at a crucial moment."　

"And what I plan to do is not exactly illegal...mate." Nick sat again. "Let's say it's shadow work.　 On the fringes."　

"You got a cup of coffee anywhere in this Taj Mahal?" He grinned at Jake, waving his arm around the sumptuous space they were in. "A little caffeine, and I'll tell you just what it is I'm talking about."　

Jake pushed himself away from the window and walked past Nick, giving him a look that Nick remembered well before leaving the office. Nick couldn't be bothered to get up and follow him, so made himself more comfortable while he waited to see what would happen next. A couple of minutes later the door opened again and Jake came in carrying two giant mugs of steaming liquid in one hand, and a square tin in the other. Placing the tin down for a second, he handed a mug to Nick.　

"Strong, black and two sugars, if I remember right." He turned to pick up the tin, throwing it for Nick to catch mid-flight. "I also seem to remember that when you were in Oz you were partial to TimTams. Knock yourself out."　

He took his mug of tea and sat down at the desk again, this time, leaning back with his feet up on Jason's desk. "If you think this is grand, you should see our other two offices. Our Chicago base is over two floors, looking out on Lake Michigan. My partner runs that one. My Sydney base is the top floor of a building overlooking the harbour. If you ever get down that way come look me up."　

Nick said nothing, concentrating on his coffee and biscuits. He looked up when Jake cleared his throat though. "Okay, mate. You're telling me you intend to work on the fringe of things. You wanna spell it out for me and let me know just what you think I can do for ya?"　

Jake took a sip of tea as he waited patiently for Nick to let him in on his plans.　

"Got everything right but the sugars," Nick commented. "I take it black, but it's okay. Guess there's not much danger in just two sugars sweetening me up too much."　

The biscuits he wolfed like a starving man, as though he hadn't had lunch less than an hour ago.　 After five of them and about half the cup of coffee, he was finally ready to talk. Setting down the cup on the fancy desk with no regard for the ring it might leave, he got down to business.　

"First-", he said it with the air of someone making a huge announcement, "the idea of you being a better sniper than me is pure bollocks. You know that, don't you? Our individual records don't bear that out. Know your strengths, but don't be overly cocky about them."　
 

Jake grinned. He remembered that Nick hated sugar in his coffee, but he couldn't resist pouring it in there anyway. As for the other statement, he'd let that go...for now. He patiently sipped his tea, waiting for Nick to get started on his real story.　

His voice completely neutral, Cameron told as much of his background as he had any intention of revealing to Jake Mitchell at the moment. "Drugs killed a coupla people who were important to me once upon a time. I've always despised 'em."　

The green eyes fixed on Jake's were grim now. "And no country on earth's legal system is making more than a dent in doing anything about them. The way I've always seen it, it's the blokes at the top of the fuckin' heap, the kingpins, who are the real problem. The system is forced to start at the bottom, at street level, and work their way up. It takes a lot of time, money, and manpower to do it that way. They get a fair number of the bottom feeders and a few of the mid-level dick breaths, but if they do manage to get anywhere near the top man, they can rarely do anything with him."　

Nick rose from his chair, took off his jacket, and rolled up the sleeves of the faded shirt he wore underneath it. He paced to the window again, looked out over London with a slight grimace, then turned back to Jake. Leaning against the window ledge, he went on.　

"And we know how well-protected those shitbags are. They have their own fuckin' armies to protect 'em. More money and resources than the agencies who are tryin' to deal with 'em. If the system does get to them, they hire the best lawyers in existence to get them off the hook, or they have the witnesses killed."　

He crossed his arms. "That's where I figure guys like me will be handy. They've got armies. So who better to send after 'em than a team of trained SAS men? We have a recon team go in first, get us the information we need. Then we send in a sniper team to take out the target. Same thing I've been doing for years." He went silent, waiting to see what Jake Mitchell had to say up to this point.　

Jake took his feet off the desk and sat forward. Resting his elbows on the polished desktop, he stared at Nick. He wasn't quite sure how to continue. A lot of what Nick was saying made some kind of sense to his military brain.　

"You seem to have everything worked out already. Why do you need my help? Do you need my contacts to get your little army together? Help with intel?" Jake got up and walked around to the front of the desk, leaning against it with his arms folded. "Give me a clue, Nick. What do you want from me...how can I help?"　　

"Intel," Nick repeated. "That is exactly where you come in. I figure a lot of the crap you deal with has drugs involved somewhere. Either a big-time dealer involved or something, somewhere in the mix. Your people would be privy to some information on where the shitbags live or you'd be in contact with someone further down the food chain who would know. It'd let us know where to send our recon teams."　

Returning to his seat, Nick sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. "What I'm planning is twelve men total, all trained to go out in four-man teams just like the SAS, and capable of going out in smaller two-man teams for recon and sniper missions. I've got six of them lined up already, including myself. Two retired SAS, two retired RAF, one former Royal Navy and one former Green Beret, US Army."　

"As for the funding-" He sat back again. "According to the man who's been making a few initial contacts for us, there are apparently a few governments who are very anxious to take advantage of our services. Including the States."　

Here Cameron grinned. "Off the radar, of course. Can't have their people finding out they're hiring mercs to take out the drug lords they can't seem to put behind bars. In any country, we'll get paid out of some government slush fund and, if things happen to go south, we're just a bunch of half-arsed mercs that no one lays claim to or knows anything about."　

"However," his grin became wider here, "it's expensive work, so any contribution your company or any of your associates might be moved to make will deffo not be turned down. But it won't be anything you can let your government know about and write off your taxes either."　

"And the last thing-　If you know of any retired servicemen that might be interested in becoming part of the team, we'd like to talk to them. And I'm looking for men who are trained and have good service records, not bums who couldn't make the grade or handle the load."　

"So that's the bare bones of it all. There's a lot more, of course, and if you get involved in some way, you'll hear some more of it."　

Casually he said, "With your sniper abilities, I gave some thought to asking you about possibly taking part in some missions. But a wife and kids...that changes things."

 

ON TO CHAPTER 3

BACK TO LIBRISCROWE