The Uncharted Tales

Chapter 8

Part 1: From Small Beginnings

Victor Sullivan

When Sully woke up the next morning, Sam and Nate were gone. The only trace of them ever being in Cutter's safehouse was the mess of blankets and cushions they left behind. He couldn't say he was surprised; he'd made it clear that they were on their own with this wild goose chase – to an extent – until they were both willing to let him in.

Still, the fear clung to him, even through the job he and Charlie were working on together, but this time were signs of them.

"You care to explain this one to me, mate?" Cutter didn't even enter the house with so much as a "hello." He stopped before Sully, who was sitting at the rickety table, and set a package down in front of him, nearly two weeks after the Drake's disappearing act.

"What's this?'

"Dunno. Found it in my P.O. box. My locked P.O. box."

Sully stifled a snicker. Someone certainly learned a few tricks. "They're tricky little bastards when they want to be." It was the only explanation he could offer the disgruntled Brit. Sure, he understood the security concerns, but a part of him was pleased they were able to find ways to get in touch with him.

Inside the envelope, he found a couple thousand in cash with a scribbled note.

Now we're square.

He didn't recognize the handwriting, so rationalized this was a gift from Sam. They didn't get themselves killed yet; that was the only solace he had.

~ ~ ~

Two months later, he was attending a gala at a museum. Instead of the usual beforehand agreement, he was seeking out an artifact a potential client had their eyes on. Shouldn't be too difficult to obtain. Except, he caught sight of a familiar figure at the bar, and he almost didn't recognize him. Sam was cleaned up in a tux, aging him beyond his twenty-two years. It wasn't the Drake he wanted to see, though it was still a relief, nonetheless. And, where there was one, there was bound to be another.

Sully sidled up next to Sam, nodding at the bartender as he did so, and the younger man choked on his drink when he recognized him. "Hey, Sam."

After his initial reaction, he merely uttered, "Victor."

"Here for business?"

"You could say that."

Sam was, more than likely, his competitor on this piece, but he wouldn't stand a chance. He was far too inexperienced compared to Sully's nearly twenty years of living this life. He shifted his gaze, scanning the sea of faces, but didn't find the one he was searching for. "Where's your brother?" He asked when he saw no sign of him.

Sam grimaced. "He's, uh... He's doin' some time."

"He's in jail?" Sully hissed. "Again?" Just then, the bartender came over to them with their drinks, briefly interrupting their quiet conversation. Even after he left them alone, Sam wouldn't look at him. "What the hell did you get yourself into?"

"Me?" Sam glared at him, bristling. "This one's on him. He got himself into a fight a couple weeks back. Punk's got a real temper when he gets goin'."

"Must run in the family," Sully snapped. "I thought you were lookin' out for him."

"I am!" Sam insisted scathingly. "But... he's not a kid anymore."

Not even a year ago, Sam practically assaulted him on the principal that Nate was only a child. Now here he was, admitting not only to Sully, but also to himself, that Nate wouldn't always be a teenager forever. It made Sully wonder what they had been through to force Sam to alter his perspective on his younger brother.