Though the temperature outside the Breakers was still pleasantly mild despite the late hour, with the height of adrenaline still coursing through his system following the abduction, Mustang couldn’t help but shiver as he sat on the rear seat of the golf cart he’d been loaded onto a few minutes previously.
After being carried through the hotel by his captors – a journey which had seen them hurriedly descend several flights of stairs in order to avoid detection – once the heavy clunk of a fire exit being opened gave way to the far-off sound of the crashing waves from which the Breakers derived its name, Mustang had feared for the worst. Once he found himself being bundled onto the back of a golf cart as opposed to inside some windowless van, however, not only had Mustang’s fears been somewhat allayed as to what was actually happening to him but, more importantly, he began to get the faintest of inklings as to who might be behind this plot to kidnap him.
When Dallas had mentioned how the Great Britain & Ireland team had already arrived at the hotel the previous night when he dropped by his room not long after he and Ray had checked-in, Mustang hadn’t given it a second’s thought – after all, as Ray had explained to him, even at the Ryder Cup it was common for both teams to reside in the same hotel. But between being whisked away on one of the many golf carts he’d seen zipping around the property when he and Ray had been approaching the hotel via its impressive red-brick drive earlier that day, and the fact his kidnappers had been very careful not to say a single word – either to him or to one another – since they burst through his door and snatched him, Mustang, with each second that passed, only became more convinced that it was, indeed, Desmond Finch’s charges who were responsible for this unwanted midnight excursion out into the Florida night.
After feeling the body of the golf cart momentarily shudder as it bumped down off the silky smooth path it had been travelling along, and then hearing the unmistakable muffled roll of the tyres beginning to slip effortlessly across quite a large swathe of grass, Mustang – though highly disorientated on account of the bag still firmly placed over his head – would have bet any money that their little covert joyride had now taken to the fairways of the adjoining 18-holes at the Breakers, the aptly named, Ocean Course.
While waiting to head down to the Magnolia Room earlier that evening, Mustang, in a bid to keep himself busy, had read all about the Ocean Course while idly flicking through the ‘welcome packet’ that had come with his room. And while he’d expressed an interest to Ray in paying a visit to the recently renovated track before they went home to Louisiana, doing so in the middle of the night with a bag over his head, duct tape on his mouth, and his hands bound together with a cable tie wasn’t quite what he’d envisioned when he originally floated the idea.
Having traversed what felt like two or three hundred yards, the speed at which they did so illustrating that whoever was driving appeared to be smuggling lead in the soles of their shoes, both Mustang and his stomach were relieved to feel the cart finally come to a stop. Before he could get a chance to recalibrate his slightly spinning head, however, Mustang felt the all-too-familiar grasp of the person who’d been sat alongside him since they got onto the cart grabbing him roughly by the arm and pulling him to his feet; the grass neatly trimmed and damp under Mustang’s toes on account of the fine layer of dew that had collected on it since sundown.
Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, Mustang couldn’t help but afford himself a wry smile beneath the duct tape.
The last time he’d been barefoot like this on a golf course was the night he first met Ray on the range at the Creek. At that point he’d already been sleeping in Maisie for a few days; he was rapidly running out of food; and, from a golfing perspective, he’d never played even a single hole. Now, though barefoot on a golf course once again, here he was just four months removed from that night, staying in one of the most luxurious hotels in Florida; after spending the evening eating eight whole courses-worth of food that probably cost more than what his and his mother’s rent used to be when she was still alive; and he was doing it all as part of the U.S. Walker Cup team.
And in that moment, Mustang realized something incredibly powerful.
If the Great Britain & Ireland boys were, indeed, behind this whole escapade as he suspected they were, then if this was merely an effort on their part to somehow rattle him or get a psychological point up on the board ahead of the weekend’s action, then Mustang wasn’t going to give them an ounce of satisfaction for their efforts. Whatever their endgame was? He wasn’t going to be nervous. And he wasn’t going to be scared. After all, given everything he’d been through to even end up in a position to be taken by the likes of ‘The Six’, as far as Mustang was concerned, there was nothing they could possibly do that could break him. He’d seen the worst that life had to offer and been through things that he wouldn’t wish on any member of the Great Britain & Ireland team – even with the whole kidnapping thing. So, in Mustang’s mind, he was bulletproof. And if ‘The Six’ had thought otherwise? Then they didn’t really have a clue what they’d let themselves in for when they’d knocked on Mustang Peyton’s door.
With a tug of his arm telling him that it was time to start walking, Mustang stumbled forward into the darkness as he tried to keep up with the rushed pace being set by his guide. After only taking but a few staggered steps, however, Mustang’s heightened senses began to give him the impression that wherever they were walking, they were not alone. In the chaos of being taken from his room and lugged through the hotel, Mustang had figured out that, at most, it had been a three-man job: two to deal with him, and then one to handle the many, many doors that stood between them and the outside of the hotel. Now, though, be it down to instinct or intuition, Mustang just couldn’t shake the feeling that those numbers had swollen – and swollen quite dramatically at that.
Feeling even more confident about his theory that the finger of blame should be pointed squarely at the Great Britain & Ireland team given he appeared to be walking out in front of a crowd, Mustang readied himself for the real show to begin as he felt the texture of the ground change beneath his feet from that of the slightly fuzzy grass one would find on a fairway to the firm, smooth turf of a green. His guide brought their midnight stroll to a stop. The curtain was about to go up. Mustang could feel it in his bones. But he was ready.
Before he knew what was happening, Mustang felt a large hand grab the top of the bag that had been placed over his head and yank it sharply off. Having grown accustomed to the darkness, a disorientated Mustang could only squint through half-open eyes as he tried to acclimatize to being able to see again – even going so far as to keep his gaze focused straight down at the ground to try and aid with their recovery. For the first few blinks, all he could see were lights. Warm, yellowish lights casting a series of long shadows across the tightly-mown surface of a green – though, where said lights were emanating from remained a mystery. He looked off to his right. There was water. A lake of some description; the exact boundaries of its murky depths unclear on account of there being no visible moon out. Thanks to the trails of whatever lights were being used to illuminate the green, however, Mustang could just about pick up the movement of the water as it gently bobbed up and down – clearly, though he couldn’t feel it, there must have been the faintest of faint breezes blowing across its glassy, inky black surface.
With his eyes now picking up more and more detail with each passing blink, Mustang, finally, lifted his head warily up out of his chest and looked straight ahead across the green. Immediately, though, he didn’t like what he saw. Being backlit by the headlights of two golf carts parked in the rough at the rear of the green – themselves revealing what the source of the other lights was – there stood two lone figures looking directly at Mustang, their faces completely obscured by the shadows. Though still bound together, Mustang brought his hands slowly up to his face and wiped the hair out of his eyes, itself feeling vaguely damp with sweat thanks to whatever material the bag had been made from. While eager to keep his eyes firmly locked on the two people standing on the green, Mustang afforded himself a second to glance quickly off to his left in order to get a read on how many other people were watching him. Like the ominous-looking pair on the green, the faces of the small audience who’d gathered for this late-night performance were also being hidden thanks to the backlighting of the four golf carts perched behind them with their headlights on.
This was a far worse scenario than what Mustang had imagined it was going to be. Even if he’d wound up not being as outnumbered as he’d thought he was going to be when first approaching the green, the atmosphere being created by those who had shown up was enough to put him firmly on-edge – suddenly, the challenge of ‘not breaking’ didn’t seem so straightforward.
“Well, if it isn’t the man himself, hah?!” said one of the figures on the green, his teasing tone immediately capturing Mustang’s attention and drawing his gaze back across the green. “The one and only ‘Mustang Peyton’ – well, I dunno about the rest of ye, lads, but I, for one, haven’t been this starstruck in God knows how long!”
Finn Hennessy. One of the ringleaders of ‘The Six’. After watching several self-serving interviews of his from the past two Walker Cups, Mustang would recognize his heavy Irish accent anywhere – Dublin, specifically, if he was remembering correctly.
“Now, I do hope the boys here weren’t too rough with ya, were they?” Finn asked, affecting a faux-concerned tone as Mustang quietly took solace in the fact that he had, indeed, been right about ‘The Six’ being behind all this. “Cause I warned ‘em to take it easy – swear to God, I did.”
With the duct tape over his mouth preventing him from answering, Mustang could only glare witheringly in Finn’s direction. Though he still couldn’t make out his face, just going on the way his voice sounded, Mustang could tell Finn had that infamous grin of his plastered all over it. The grin that, for the last two Walker Cups, had never failed in riling up whatever American opponents had been placed in front of him. The grin that had seen him set up shop inside the heads of the American team and throw them completely off their game. And the very same grin that Mustang wanted nothing more than to wipe from his smug face.
“Oh, sure, would ya look at that?!” said Finn, clearly enjoying playing up to the people gathered off to the side of the green. “Here’s me askin’ ya a question when you’ve bloody duct tape over your mouth! Well, I guess we can blame that on the private jet lag, right, lads?!”
A ripple of laughter topped down onto the green courtesy of the people gathered on the small bank where they were standing – at least someone was enjoying the show. The only thing Mustang could wonder, though, was how much they’d be laughing if the rest of the American team knew what was happening right now? Somehow, he got the impression that if they all showed up out of the blue, charging down the fairway on their own fleet of golf carts, headlights scything through the darkness, things would get a whole lot less funny real quick.
“Finn’s right, though, can someone take care of that tape, please? I don’t want to be out here all night if I can help it.”
Mustang froze. Just like he had with Finn’s, he instantly recognized that voice. Not because it was the distinctive Scottish lilt of one of the Campbell Cousins, nor even the melodic camber of Maddox Breckon’s Welsh accent. No.
Instead, the reason Mustang recognized it was because he’d only heard it for the very first time earlier that night inside the decadent surrounds of the Magnolia Room, loudly ringing out from the table where Byron had been sitting.
Because it was that of Conrad Kennedy’s.
With his stunned brain still trying to work out what exactly was happening, Mustang barely noticed his guide move out from behind where he was standing and come to a stop alongside him. Though desperately trying to peer through the gloom in order to make sure that it was, in fact, Conrad who’d just spoken, Mustang couldn’t help himself from turning and looking at this other figure now standing next to him, towering over him by a good foot. Yet again, however, in doing just that Mustang’s confusion only grew all the stronger. Because as opposed to finding himself face-to-face with another member of ‘The Six’ or even one of the other guys who made up the Great Britain & Ireland team like Lawrence Kenningham or Henry Tatum, Mustang, instead, found himself looking Samson Hamada dead in the eye – one of the guys he’d just eaten dinner with not even two hours previously.
“This is probably gonna hurt, dude …” said Samson, a vague hint of commiseration in his voice as he carefully grabbed the corner of the duct tape stuck tight over Mustang’s mouth. “So … sorry.”
At that, Samson pulled hard on the tape, ripping it sharply off Mustang’s face in one fluid movement. Despite the unpleasant sensation radiating out from his top lip – the pain, of which, stung the corners of his eyes – Mustang had too many questions he needed answers for to remain silent now that he’d regained the power of speech.
“You’re behind this?” Mustang asked, looking at Samson first before turning his horrified, accusatory glare off across the green at Conrad and Finn. “And you?! With him?!”
“Well, we can’t take all the credit,” replied Conrad, sounding thoroughly untroubled at how angry Mustang was as he and Finn began to walk a little closer to where he was standing, their faces becoming a little clearer with each step they took. “Isn’t that right, Axel? Angus?”
Having seen him gesture loosely off at the area of green behind him with the putter he was carrying in his hand akin to a cane, Mustang took this as his cue to turn around. Sure enough, just off the edge of the green, there stood Axel Brogan, another one of Mustang’s teammates, and Angus Black, one of the new members of the Great Britain & Ireland team – clearly, Samson’s two co-conspirators in snatching Mustang from his room.
“But why?” said Mustang, turning back around and looking at Conrad and Finn, both of whom were now no more than a few yards away from him. “Why do all this?! What’s the point?!”
“Look, I know this was your plan, CK …” said Finn, jumping in excitedly before Conrad could answer. “But would ya mind if I told ‘im?”
“Well, you are the guests this week …” mused Conrad, pretentiously. “So, I guess it would be somewhat remiss of me as host to deny such a request, now wouldn’t it? … You know what? Please, by all means – the floor is yours.”
“Ya see that right there?” replied Finn, looking thoroughly honoured as though Conrad had just performed the most gracious act he’d ever had the good fortune to witness in person. “The work of a true gentleman. You know, it’s things like that, CK – that selflessness – that make you the teamma-…”
“Oh my God! Get on with it!” barked Mustang, his patience finally running out as he couldn’t bear listening to Finn fawning over Conrad a second longer. “What am I doing here?! Cause if it’s just to listen to you two droning on and on?! Then if this is meant to be some kind of hazing or whatever, I think I’ve been punished enough.”
Though Finn, once again, did nothing more than flash a grin at him, Mustang could tell that this one was different. Because while his mouth may have been smiling, Finn’s eyes told another story. They were now a little wider, a little more fiery-looking. He didn’t like being spoken back to. Not one bit. And Mustang could tell. He’d landed a blow. Perhaps only a glancing one – but a blow, nonetheless.
“Fair enough …” said Finn, his tone now noticeably sharper. “No point beatin’ ‘round the bush, I suppose.” Continuing to keep his eyes firmly fixed on Mustang, Finn turned his head slightly and called over his shoulder to one of the people gathered off to the side of the green. “Alrigh’! Bring him down!”
While he’d have preferred to stay locked in his battle of wills with Finn, between the movement amongst the collection of people over by the carts and this mysterious “him” Finn had referenced, Mustang’s curiosity got the better of him and he couldn’t help but steal a glance at the side of the green; whoever – or whatever – was coming, he wanted to be as prepared as he could be.
Pretty quickly, though, as three shadowy figures began to make their way down the small embankment, becoming more and more illuminated by the headlights on the carts the closer they got to the green, not only did Mustang realize that he and the “him” in question had both found themselves as unwilling visitors to the Ocean Course that night – the cable tie around his wrists a dead giveaway of that particular fact – but, even more importantly, Mustang knew exactly who he was … Rodney.
“Ah, there he is!” said Finn, his trollsome spirit bucking back up as Greyson Ortega and Maddox Breckon brought a terrified-looking Rodney – himself clad in a pair of slippers and paisley-patterned pyjamas – to a stop alongside where he was standing. “Our hero-in-waitin’, hah?! Ain’t that right, Rodders?!”
Finn stuck out his hand and began patronizingly tousling Rodney’s already messy hair, its deep auburn colour now looking nothing more than a dark brown. Mustang could tell Rodney hated what Finn was doing. He tried to move his head away, to get out of Finn’s reach, but it was no use. Finn was looking to make an example of him. To humiliate him. And he was going to get his way – no matter how badly Mustang wanted to try and stop him.
“Just a gentle reminder, Finn, that the night isn’t getting any younger …” said Conrad, his patience beginning to wear thin with the lack of progress being made on account of Finn’s time-wasting. “So, let’s move it along, shall we?”
“Ah, sure, I’m just havin’ a bitta fun, CK!” replied Finn, finally bringing his hand down from Rodney’s hair.
“He’s right, though, Finn,” said Angus Black, suddenly piping up from behind Mustang, a note of slight concern colouring his strong Scottish accent. “I mean, this is great and all, but if Desmond or one of the VCs find out we’re not in our rooms? Then we’re all dead – and you know as well as I do that Desmond isn’t beyond sendin’ people home!”
“Shut your mouth, you!” spat Finn, his eyes darkening as they darted off in Angus’ direction. “A bleedin’ rookie?! Talkin’ to me like that?! The neck of ya! If you’re so worried about Desmond, you know where the hotel is! No one’s makin’ ya be here!”
Having received his animated dressing down, a somewhat sheepish-looking Angus zipped his lip – he should have known better than to question Finn.
“Bloody rookies …” sighed Maddox, his exasperation with Angus clear to be heard.
“Alright, I’ve heard enough …” said Conrad, firmly putting his foot down as he catapulted himself back to the forefront of proceedings. “Guest or not, I don’t have all night.”
Though not happy to have lost his chance at performing the big reveal, Finn, nonetheless, yielded the floor back to Conrad – subtly revealing that, however small, there was a definite hierarchy at play here.
“Alright, listen up, because I’m only going to say this once,” Conrad began, his tone stern and to the point as he addressed Mustang and Rodney. “Now, as we’re all well aware, the two of you have been chosen by Desmond and Dallas to be the alternates for our respective teams this week. And for some people? They might be perfectly happy to accept that decision no questions asked. But for the rest of us? Those whose opinions actually matter? It ain’t as simple as that. See, in Stanford? Where the four of us play? You can get chosen to play for the golf team by the suits and the coaches, but until you prove yourself to us? You’re nothing but a poser. So, out of a shared sense of responsibility and respect for this great cup we’re about to play for, we want to see what you two are really made of.”
“Are you serious?!” Mustang snapped. “That’s what all this is about?! You drag us out here, put us through all this, just so we can somehow “prove ourselves” to you?!”
“Well, if I may …” said Greyson, politely interjecting for the first time, his purposefully altered Texan accent making each word sound as though he were attempting to speak a foreign language. “The whole kidnapping thing was just for our amusement; I mean, obviously, we could have just asked you to come out here but … well, where would the fun have been in that?”
Mustang could only shake his head in bemused disbelief. It had been one thing to discover that this whole plot had been a combined effort of both his own teammates and the ‘The Six’ – the rest of whom he imagined made up the remaining smattering of people standing at the side of the green. But to discover the actual reason behind it? Well, it just made Mustang furious.
“So, what is it you expect us to do?” Mustang growled, deciding it best to quell his anger – for the meantime, at least.
“It’s quite simple, really …” explained Conrad. “You each get one putt. You make it? You pass the test.”
“And if we don’t?” asked Rodney, summoning the courage to force the question out of his mouth.
“Well, in that instance, Rodders, that lucky boy will be goin’ for a little midnight dip, now won’t he?” Finn grinned, goadingly. “And going on what I know about you? I sincerely hope you can swim.”
Not feeling brave enough to say anything back to Finn, Rodney just averted his gaze and fixed it back down at the ground. Despite desperately trying to hide it, Mustang knew Finn’s slight had hurt Rodney – and quite badly, at that. From talking to him when they’d met at reception, Mustang could tell how excited Rodney was to be in Florida and to be a part of the Walker Cup team, even if it was just in the role of an alternate like he was. Yet, now, here he was just a few hours later, standing on a green just after midnight in nothing more than a pair of pyjamas and slippers, with Finn Hennessy – his supposed “teammate” for the week – mocking him. Even though he didn’t really know him, Mustang knew Rodney deserved better than this.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Cutting sharply through the still night air, the unmistakable, high-pitched sound of a golf cart horn began to ring out from back down the fairway. Thinking that such a blatant announcement of one’s impending arrival wasn’t exactly in keeping with the clandestine tone of the night’s proceedings, a glimmer of hope deep inside Mustang’s stomach sparked into life. Was it Dallas? One of his vice-captains? Ray? Perhaps even Desmond Finch? Mustang didn’t care who it was. He just wanted whoever was driving this golf cart to be one of them so that they could put a stop to this nonsense cooked up by Conrad and Finn.
“Who’s this, then?” asked Maddox, suddenly sounding a touch nervous as he put his question to the group gathered on the green.
“I dunno …” answered Greyson, he, too, not sounding near as confident as he had done a few moments earlier. “What about you, CK? You know who that is?”
“No … no, I do not,” said Conrad, a sense of urgency infiltrating his voice as he watched the approaching cart chew up the turf between it and the green. “Samson? Get the cable ties off ‘em – now.”
Not needing to be told twice, Samson pulled a pocket knife from his pocket and moved hurriedly from Mustang to Rodney, snipping open the cable ties keeping their respective hands bound together. Feeling the relief of no longer having the stiff plastic the cable ties were made from digging into their wrists, Mustang and Rodney both turned their attention back down the fairway just in time to see the golf cart come to a stop next to the one which had been used to smuggle Mustang onto the course.
The driver killed the engine, quenching the headlights in the process.
Mustang peered through the darkness, tightly squinting his eyes as he eagerly tried to decipher who it was that had just arrived.
He saw a leg step out onto the grass.
It wasn’t Dallas.
He saw a second leg step out onto the grass.
It wasn’t Ray. And it wasn’t Desmond.
But as far as Mustang was concerned, it was someone every bit as good.
Because it was none other than the U.S. Amateur Champion. The number one ranked amateur in the world. And, hands down, the best player on the American team.
It was Fletcher Rhodes.
“Well, well, well … evenin’ boys …” said Fletcher, moseying on up to the green with his hands buried in his pockets. “What do we have here, then?”
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