The Green Bloods

Harry’s early morning phone call startled Aiden out of a deep sleep, one that he desperately needed. He took a cold brisk shower, just enough to get clean, then quickly dressed, discreetly tucked his piece—a British Special Forces standard issued Sig Sauer P226—into the waistband of his pants and darted out the front door. Dark, intimidating clouds stifled the early morning sky. A forceful wind growled through leafless branches on tall, aged ash trees. A thin layer of ice and snow had coated the ground overnight. There was nothing but pure and absolute silence in this slumbering little town tucked beneath the breathtaking vista of Hope Valley. The tires spun as he firmly engaged the throttle on his new black Range Rover—a supercharged custom twin turbo V8—then peeled out of the driveway of his secluded property and home quaintly nestled between the enormous mountainous peaks and rolling green valleys of the tiny village called Castleton-Peak District. As he darted down the unpaved road, he thought to himself, thank God most of the necessary renovations were done. He was utterly exhausted but thrilled with the overall outcome. He chose a soft palate of calm neutral colors for the new sheetrock walls throughout the entire house. The thatched roof, windows, and glorious antique arched English oak front door were repaired and restored to absolute perfection. As he rounded the corner and just before turning left onto the main road, Aiden had a clear view of the expansive property, and was pleased with the refreshed and revitalized gardens. All credited to the prominent London landscape infamous architect who designed elaborate gardens for Queen Elizabeth II. Even now during the bitterly cold winter months, and driving at an excessive speed, the gardens and pools were aesthetically pleasing. Being that cooking had become one of his “new” favorite pastimes, he allocated a great deal of attention and finances to improving the kitchen. It was a unique look, eclectic farmhouse meets French provincial, with exposed timbers, open shelves, and whitewashed wood trim set off by delicate wall colors and wood panels. Two oversized French doors opened into a quaint parlor-tearoom that led onto a bluestone patio surrounded by a peaceful garden of foliage. A narrow stone path carved its way through the yard and into an enchanted forest. Softly shimmering white lanterns and whimsical wind chimes ensnared the mind and enchanted the senses. Aiden was specific with his instructions when it came to these modifications, the kitchen and surrounding gardens should be designed to complement each other and provide a private oasis of solitude and tranquility. These days, cooking and gazing out into the gardens, especially when everything was in full bloom provided an escape from a violent, war-torn past. Responding to the urgency in Harry’s voice on the phone, Aiden drove faster than normal, taking several hairpin turns on the narrow country roads with excessive speed. In less than five minutes, he’d arrived at the secured crime scene. The cave was crawling with the usual overpaid, gregarious undercover agents and top senior officials. He left the keys in the ignition and the car idling alongside the serpentine stonewall that surrounded the cave property. He sashayed toward the main entrance of the popular tourist attraction called Speedwell Cavern. Physically and mentally exhausted from managing these feckin’ shites, he was in a foul, menacing mood, dressed appropriately for the occasion in camouflage pants, a vintage Fleetwood Mac World Tour T-shirt, black army boots, and a worn brown leather jacket. On his head was a Manchester United Football cap, and even though it was not sunny, he was wearing classic Ray-ban Wayfarer sunglasses. Barely awake and desperate for a lukewarm cup of coffee with a dash of milk, Aiden wiped the remaining slumber from his eyes with thick, calloused fingers. Yawning and complaining about the ungodly hour, he approached the underground cave and flashed his credentials. Without a moment’s hesitation, he was cleared to pass through the first of many checkpoints. Cautiously, he descended the narrow, slippery spiral stairs to meet his travel guide. Underground water seeped through cracks in prehistoric wall formations as the clean, crisp air from above was suffocated by damp moisture oozing from the crusty earth. His therapist once said that certain smells could be the gateway to both the fondest and darkest memories, like a double-edged sword. Well, that bloke was right. His senses tingled, and the floodgates opened. Recalling many unpleasant childhood memories, he nervously shifted in his seat. Aiden Sweeney was different from most boys his age; he wore wire-rimmed glasses, was scrawny, and suffered terribly with uncontrollable acne. Having been born out of wedlock just made matters worse—more so when the lads learned of his mother’s Scottish roots. The family struggled to earn a living farming on the barren lands of Inverness—a city on Scotland’s northeast coast where the River Ness meets the Moray Firth, infamous for the Scottish Highlands and its Pagan beliefs. After Aiden’s father died, his mother, distraught over the loss, abandoned the farm and headed south into England. There, working in pubs and barely earning enough money to support the two of them, she eventually married a prominent doctor. The man, well in his sixties and never married, took a liking to her petite frame and flaming red hair. Excited at the prospect of being wealthy and never having to struggle again, she accepted. Soon thereafter, she regretted the decision upon learning that the match was conditional. Her new husband refused to raise someone else’s brat. Aiden was abandoned and spent his early years living in a government-funded orphanage for boys. Occasionally, he’d recall what his life was like in that place: cold floors, leaky roofs, spoiled food, and cots that lined both sides of the wall military-style.