Wanderer 2.0, Book 1 Of The Wanderer Series

8• One Hell of a Pilot

They've done a lot of good over the years, got into a lot of mischief, saved a few damsels, threw a particular one back in the river when she kept screaming like a banshee because her makeup was ruined...

They've had some great adventures, with many stories to bring home to share over drinks with their civilian friends. They've acquired secrets that can never be uttered, that they'll take to the grave. They've met many people from all walks of life, made friends across the world they rarely see but are always willing to aid them if the need comes.

Alas, all good things come to an end. They need to make room for the younger generation to have their glory. A bunch of old men don't have a place out in the field. Nothing puts a damper on a mission like an old guy grappling at his arthritic kneecaps while trying to stand up from a crouch. The Commander won't be officially returning. He's done and ready to be. His granddaughter just had a boy and he wants to spend time with his family. The mechanic and doctor on their team will still volunteer their expertise on the home front when the youngsters are drowning in work, but otherwise plan on keeping it minimal.

Ivan however, was offered a position on the East Coast Senate for the Syndicate and he's seriously considering it. The Senate is ate up with old stuffy bastards with no mind for progress. They're stuck in their ways and don't have any patience or tolerance for law breakers. He feels he could do a little good before his time comes.

Rain pelts against the Sosa Manor like hail, clattering so loudly that Ivan doesn't hear the sound of wheels crunching on the gravel as they make their way to the front entrance. It isn't until a car door slams that Ivan looks up and furrows his brow in confusion. It's late at night, well past midnight in fact.
"What in tarnations?" Ivan mutters to himself as he sets his whiskey down and gets to his old feet.

He straightens his back carefully, his aging bones creaking and popping with reluctance. A second door opens and closes. Ivan stills, keeping his ears tuned in to see if he can make out what exactly is occurring outside. Heavy sure footsteps take wide strides, sinking loudly in the gravel pathway. Lighter steps scurry and occasionally drag beside the other steps, as if unable to keep up with the first's pace.

Lightning crackles, illuminating the foyer just as the lights shut off. Ivan glowers around, trying the light switch, cursing as he blindly tries to find the foyer table. He just gets his hands on it as three resounding knocks bang against the heavy wood door. Swiftly, he opens the drawer and yanks out the revolver, pointing it directly at the door," Who goes there, I say?"

No one answers.

Carefully, Ivan steps towards the door, revolver clicking as he takes off the safety. Heavy footsteps thud against the porch, obviously leaving. This time the tiny scampering steps don't follow.

Ivan yanks open the door, pointing his gun wherever he looks. He looks over to the driveway last and sees the back of his son stalking calmly towards his black Rolls Royce parked by the fountain. His son is a handsome boy. His dark curly hair is sticking to his neck, pale alabaster skin glowing with every strike of lightning. He's wearing his usual business attire - black slacks, black leather shoes, grey button up, and a black trench coat that flutters behind him as he walks away.

Ivan lowers the gun and calls out to him," Salem, my boy!"

Salem stills, but doesn't turn around. Ivan goes to walk over to him, worried for his middle aged child, but he stops in his tracks when one step forward has him nudging a tiny child a bit roughly. Ivan quickly snatches her back to her feet before she can fall and crouches down in front of her to see if the little girl is okay. With his hands on her shoulders, he takes in the girl with hair as white as snow that hides her face from his inquiring gaze. He takes a hand away from her shoulder to gently hold her chin so he can look her in the eyes.