Union Jack - Chapter 1

"… and that's why I hate Americans."

By this time Adam notices the number of American people staring right at the three or two seeing how Neville has made sure he walks well ahead of his fellow countrymen. Jack had already noticed the staring when they got off the plane; it is what inspired him to keep on ranting. Adam feels the overwhelming desire to distance himself like Neville already had done. In a few moments they will be at customs, and if anyone in this airport is getting arrested, it is going to be the great British patriot: Jack Forrest. Adam doesn't need to distance himself though; Jack has already strayed away into a different flock.

"Excuse me sir, could I ask that you stop gawping at me?" Jack smoothly suggests to a seventy year old, in the presence of his grandchildren before strolling back to Adam's side. "American people, I abhor American people."

"Jack, I don't want to be cavity searched today, so please keep your tongue in check. Please."

Jack sniggers blatantly, "These people brag about their constitution, I am reserving my right to free speech." Jack and Adam meet with fast-walking Neville at a plain white desk dividing the passengers from a large milky-skinned man standing with a tired face, exhausted eyes, and dead hair.

"Business or pleasure?" the depressed worker grimly sighs. Jack cannot resist making a snide comment.

"They have you people in airports?" Quips the Brit silverly.

"Excuse me?" says the worker in his sleepy confusion. "Are you here for business or pleasure?"

Jack loses his half-smile, leaving two serious lips loosely held together by his own will. Jack reaches into the pocket of his charcoal trousers to show the unconvincingly alive airport worker a small leather case. He flips it open like a wallet to reveal a plastic coated identification card complete with gleaming Interpol badge. Quips aside, Jack explains what he is showing, "I am Jack Forrest of Interpol." The chunky ghost's eyes become awake as Jack continues his high-paced ceremonial brief: "I, my partner Neville Hall, and my assistant Adam Windsor. have been sent here to New York to deal with a fugitive that is out of your police force's league. In fact, he has only been arrested once, by me. Meaning I am the best chance of arresting him again." The man behind the desk's blood rushes to his face, the only sign of blood flow so far. "What we need is to get to police headquarters as soon as possible. The sooner we brief the detectives, the sooner I can get to my pre-paid hotel suite and change this suit I have been wearing for eight hours, and the sooner I will be easier to talk to. So, to answer your question, I am here on business, because there is no such thing as pleasure in America."

Things go quiet for a few moments. Adam looks on, wondering if Jack had rehearsed all that in the plane's toilet mirror. Neville cringes on the worker's behalf. The worker looks straight into Jack's eyes, which stare right back at his. The only movement made is Jack putting his identification back into his pocket as he awaits some sort of literate response.

"I'll go get someone." squeaks the scared worker, who waddles off out of sight.

Jack puts his elbows onto the surface, and his face into his hands. "Useless." He proclaims. "Just useless." First exchange with an American citizen results in one of those headaches. The type that resembles nails on a chalkboard during a apocalyptic rave. Behind Jack his two partners look to each other as if to say 'here it goes again'. Neville quickly bails out of the stare in order to scout the surrounding area for the fourth or so time. Adam returns sight to the back his long-time friend's head. He imagines to himself the cable-like vein that must be running across Jack's head, along with the decreasing amount of patients that wasn't really there in the first place.

"Come now, you can't expect terminal staff of all people to be the least bit tolerable." Adam states without even checking if there was any around. After all these years Jack was bound to rub off on him. Even at school, Adam was always behind Jack, and nothing has changed in present day. Indeed, Jack doesn't forget who has stuck by him for as long of a time; he just likes to refuse it acknowledgment. Unlike Neville of course, whom he shows great admiration for, despite the twenty-plus year age gap.

Jack removes his head from his hands and turns to face his two groupies. He half opens his mouth to jibe another wisecrack on America but is graciously interrupted by the returning obese hand. Right behind him is a mountain of a man with a degree of authoritive presence even greater than Jack's own mouth. Jack is not intimidated by this at all, so prepares to throw another verbal beating across the desk, only to be cut of by the older Neville.

"We have been sent here by Interpol" announces Neville with his deep weathered voice, "it is official business of international law."

"Of course it is" replies the man-mountain in his unflavoured voice, "we have been expecting you. It must have been a late flight, there have been police officers waiting here for hours."

"Isn't there anything better they could be doing?" Enquires Jack rhetorically, clear annoyed about being interrupted twice, two more times than he is used to.

"If you'd like to come through to the back room." He gestures towards the door behind him. The chubby pale man unlocks the gate in the desk and pulls it open for the two British detectives, and Adam.

"Thanks" says Neville politely before walking through ahead of the other two. Adam goes to follow, but looks to Jack in hopes he will follow. The stubborn Jack responds by following with the face of a gargoyle, the face of the chubby man no less. The three, followed by the large man, walk through the sky-blue door into a room just as glossy white as the terminal. The only difference was that the room is smaller, and the chairs alternate from yellow, to red, to white, to yellow, to orange, to red like some ill bruise. Sitting on two of those chairs where two clean-cut males in dark suits. They stood to greet the three freshly arrived Brits with out-stretched hands.

"I am detective Vincent DeMarc, this is detective Jeremy Masters." The older grey-haired man states convincingly as if he had not been sitting on hard plastic chairs for the last hour. The man behind him, Jeremy, was much younger. His chiselled features and his slicked back auburn hair caught Jack's attention. Jack took pride in his youth, being thirty-four and out-ranking detectives ten, twenty and thirty years his senior, Jack felt as if he was a chosen one. This Jeremy however was at least five years younger than him, which somewhat annoyed him. The speaking detective continued, "I am sure you know why you are here. We at NYPD are putting a great deal of faith into you all, especially you Jack. I'd like to get things rolling A.S.A.P, but I know you have a lot of questions you would like to ask, so fire away."

"Where's the toilet?" Jack cunningly adds to the conversation, he knew what he was doing.

"The bathroom is just over there." The large man, still behind Jack, points out the nearest bathroom. His presence distracts Jack from his initial appointment.

"Should we be talking about all this in front of him?"

"This is detective Frank Brasco," informs DeMarc, "you'll be working closely with him." Which is all Jack needs; another American detective he may, ultimately, have to share the spotlight with. A difference between him and all three New York detectives, as well as his fellow Britons, is that he knows who they are after inside and out. Memories of the day when, after four months on the case, Jack Forrest put an end to an underground crime ring spanning three decades. Then the secret delight the day the ring leader escaped the grips of British law and fled here to New York. To most, this was potentially the most dangerous situation in a long time, but to Jack, it was the cat playing with the mouse. Jack relishes this opportunity to chase down and arrest his fame maker for a second time.

Jack looks to Frank Brasco, who he had mistaken for a simple airport hand, with minute displeasure. He lets out a signature half smile, which Frank responds to as if it was a challenge, sending back a similar half smile. Frank then circles around Jack, scouting him with dirty brown eyes, before reaching the side of Jeremy, just behind Vince. Jack breaks eye contact with the detective of Italian decent in favour of the much more comforting gaze of Vince DeMarc, who looks at him with confusion.

"We should get to the office."

"Could we? I could do with a coffee or something." Says Adam, breaking the silence he had accumulated over the last few minutes. Jack hints a reserved chuckle while eyeing all three American detectives.

"So, which one of you has the car keys?"