Chapter 6: THE SOLDIER'S TEST
The Brooklyn waterfront stank of fish and diesel fuel.
Three days since the hotel. Three days of rest and planning while my ankle healed from "barely functional" to "painfully usable." Three days of studying everything public records could tell me about Samuel Okonkwo.
Nigerian by birth. British Army by circumstance—conscripted during the Great War, promoted to Sergeant through demonstrated competence, decorated for actions I couldn't find details about. Discharged in 1919 with commendations but no pension. Emigrated to America in 1924. Employment history: longshoreman, railroad worker, factory hand, currently night security at Consolidated Shipping.
The System had flagged him as a high priority recruit. I was about to find out why.
The warehouse complex sprawled across two city blocks, surrounded by chain-link fencing topped with barbed wire. Floodlights illuminated the main gates, but shadows pooled in the gaps between buildings. I positioned myself in one of those shadows, thirty yards from the perimeter, and waited.
Samuel Okonkwo appeared at 9:15 PM.
The man was exactly what his file suggested—six feet of compressed violence wrapped in a security guard's uniform. He moved along the fence line with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent years patrolling more dangerous ground than Brooklyn warehouses. His eyes swept each shadow as he passed, missing nothing.
I held my breath when his gaze crossed my position. His step hesitated for half a second—recognition that something was there—then continued on.
"He saw me. He knows I'm watching."
A competent man. Good. Competence was exactly what I needed.
The next ninety minutes were an education. Okonkwo completed three full circuits of the perimeter, each one following a slightly different pattern. He checked locks, tested gates, examined ground for signs of tampering. Twice, he paused to speak with dock workers—brief exchanges, respectful on both sides. The workers deferred to him naturally, stepping aside when he approached, answering his questions without argument.
Command presence. The man had it in spades.
The thieves arrived at 10:47 PM.
Three of them. They came over the fence on the far side of the complex, where shadows were deepest and floodlight coverage weakest. Professional job—dark clothes, soft-soled shoes, a rope to help each other down. They moved toward the nearest warehouse with the confidence of people who'd done this before.
Okonkwo spotted them immediately.
He didn't shout. Didn't raise an alarm. Just changed direction and started moving to intercept, his pace increasing from patrol walk to purposeful stride. His right hand dropped to his belt, where a nightstick hung in a leather loop.
The thieves saw him coming when he was twenty feet away. The lead man went for something in his jacket—a knife, probably, maybe a gun. He never got it clear.
Okonkwo covered the remaining distance in three steps. His nightstick came out, cracked against the lead thief's wrist, and the weapon clattered to the ground. A pivot, an elbow strike, and the second thief went down clutching his ribs. The third man tried to run.
He made it about ten feet before Okonkwo caught him by the collar and threw him face-first into the fence.
Total time from first movement to last: ninety seconds. Three opponents, all neutralized, none of them dead. Clean, efficient, professional.
"The System was right. He's exactly what I need."
I stepped out of the shadows.
Okonkwo spun toward me, nightstick already raised. His eyes were flat and dangerous—the eyes of a man who'd seen combat and remembered how to do violence.
"Easy." I raised my hands, palms out. "I'm not with them."
"Who are you?" The accent was British overlaid with something older, African. His stance didn't relax.
"Jameson Caldwell. I want to offer you a job."
"Rich men don't come to Brooklyn docks at midnight to hire warehouse guards." The nightstick stayed raised. "What do you really want?"
The directness caught me off guard. I'd prepared a speech—something about private security, personal protection, generous salary. None of it seemed adequate facing those flat, evaluating eyes.
"I want to hire someone capable. Someone who can handle situations that go wrong." I gestured toward the groaning thieves. "You clearly qualify."
"Lots of men can handle situations. Why me?"
"Because you're wasted here." The words came out before I could stop them. "You were a sergeant in the British Army. Decorated. Recommended for officer training, if the records I found are accurate. Now you're guarding warehouses for men who pay you half what you're worth because they don't see past your skin color."
Something shifted in his expression. Not softening—hardening, if anything.
"You looked into me."
"I research potential employees."
"I'm not looking for employment, Mr. Caldwell." He lowered the nightstick but didn't holster it. "I have a job. It pays enough. I don't need charity from society boys playing at business."
The dismissal stung more than it should have. I'd expected gratitude. I'd expected him to jump at the chance for better work, better pay, better opportunities. Instead, I'd gotten suspicion and rejection.
"You're doing this wrong. He's not desperate. He has pride. You can't buy him."
"It's not charity." My voice came out harder than intended. "I have specific work that requires specific skills. Combat experience. Discretion. The ability to handle dangerous situations without losing your head."
"What kind of dangerous situations?"
The question hung between us. I could lie—make up something about business rivals, industrial espionage, threats from competitors. It would be safer. More believable.
But I thought about the scarab in my basement. The map of anomalies across Manhattan. The war coming in seven years, when men like this one would be needed more than ever.
"The kind most people don't believe exist." I met his eyes. "The kind that killed a man in a hotel three days ago. The kind that will kill a lot more people if someone doesn't do something about them."
His expression didn't change. But something flickered behind his eyes—recognition, maybe, or the first stirring of interest.
"You're either lying or crazy."
"Probably both." I reached into my pocket and pulled out a card—one of the calling cards Henderson had provided when I'd asked for something to leave with potential contacts. "But I'm also telling the truth. If you want to know more, come to that address tomorrow night. I'll show you what I mean."
He took the card. Didn't look at it, just slipped it into his uniform pocket with the unconscious efficiency of a man used to handling documents under pressure.
"And if I'm not interested?"
"Then you're not interested. No hard feelings. I'll find someone else." I turned to leave, then stopped. "But Mr. Okonkwo—when you were in France, in the war, did you ever see anything you couldn't explain? Anything that didn't fit into the world the way you'd been taught?"
Silence. His face went still in a way that told me more than words could.
"Tomorrow night," I said. "Think about it."
I walked away before he could respond. My ankle protested every step, but I kept my pace steady. Show no weakness. Let him wonder.
Halfway to the main road, I realized what I'd just done. I'd invited a stranger to see the artifact. To witness proof that the supernatural was real. It was reckless, dangerous, exactly the kind of impulsive decision that could blow up in my face.
But I needed him. I needed someone who could fight, someone who could handle the physical side of what was coming. And Samuel Okonkwo was the best candidate I'd found.
"He won't come. You came on too strong, offered too little, asked for too much."
The thought was probably right. First recruitment attempt: failed. Back to the drawing board. Find another approach, another candidate, another way forward.
I was almost to the street when footsteps sounded behind me.
"Mr. Caldwell."
I turned. Okonkwo stood twenty feet away, the three thieves still groaning on the ground behind him. His nightstick was holstered now, his hands at his sides.
"What did you see? In the hotel."
The question hung in the cold night air. A test of its own—would I lie to make the story more palatable, or tell the truth and risk sounding insane?
"A man activated something he didn't understand. Egyptian, three thousand years old. He burned from the inside out in about three seconds." I paused. "I have the object now. It's contained. Safe. But there are others like it, scattered across the world. And people are starting to look for them."
"What kind of people?"
"The kind who want to use them as weapons. The kind who think ancient power can be controlled, bent to their purposes, made to serve their agendas." I thought of the Nazis. The Ahnenerbe. The war that was coming. "I'm trying to find them first."
Okonkwo was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out my card.
"Tomorrow night."
He turned and walked back toward the warehouse, collecting the groaning thieves like they weighed nothing.
I stood in the cold, watching him go, and tried to process what had just happened. He hadn't agreed to anything. Hadn't committed to joining, or even believing me. But he'd come back. He'd asked questions.
He was interested.
"First step. Not a yes, but not a no either."
I started walking home, my ankle aching, my mind racing with plans. Tomorrow night, I'd show him the scarab. I'd explain the mission, the stakes, the impossible task I was proposing.
And maybe—just maybe—I'd gain my first real ally in a war that hadn't started yet.
The blue text flickered in my peripheral vision.
[RECRUITMENT OPPORTUNITY: SAMUEL OKONKWO]
[STATUS: PENDING]
[PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: 34%]
[RECOMMENDATION: DEMONSTRATE PROOF OF CLAIMS]
Thirty-four percent. Not great odds.
But better than zero.
I walked faster.
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