Shackleton's Whiskey

By Archer Kelly

A bottle of whiskey has been stolen.

But it’s not just any bottle: it’s incredibly old and incredibly priceless.

And its previous owner isn’t just any connoisseur: he’s a powerful tech mogul with black-market shopping habits.

He’ll do anything—anything—to get that bottle back.

Retired and enjoying the beach life, former Detroit police detective Oliver Savage is dragged back onto the job to find the thief and retrieve the bottle. Instead, he finds himself neck deep in a boozy pool of greed, betrayal, and murder that’s about way more than a little whiskey.

Author Archer Kelly is exactly like the readers of Shackleton’s Whiskey: passionate about spy and crime novels. That commitment is obvious on every page of this story. Kelly had a lot of fun creating Savage, tough, intelligent, and elegant—Frank Sinatra if Old Blue Eyes had been a detective—as well as crafting the twisty, turning, thrilling plot. You’ll have just as much fun reading it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Nov 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781977270672

Archer Kelly

From his lifelong passion for spy stories and elaborate crimes committed by the rich, comes Archer Kelly’s first novel, Shackleton’s Whiskey. “When the mighty fall, the impact of the crash is just too spectacular to turn away from.” - Archer Kelly Archer Kelly lives in Michigan with his wife, Sandy and is currently working on his next book.

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Shackleton’s Whiskey

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2024 Archer Kelly

v3.0

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Outskirts Press, Inc.

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2023915323

Cover Photo © 2024 www.gettyimages.com. All rights reserved - used with permission.

Outskirts Press and the OP logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For Michelle Pomorski: thank you for agreeing to be my first set of eyes. The world could use more English majors.

For Karina Townsend: thank you for your patience and artistry that brought my book cover to life.

For Rob Stein: thank you for so freely sharing your knowledge. You are wise beyond your years.

And most importantly, for my princess bride, Sandy: thank you for believing in me. Without your constant-and-never-ending encouragement and love, this spy’s book would have never been written.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Shackleton’s Antarctic Expedition

December 1908

The horse’s feet dropped hard, one slow, emphatic footfall at a time. The snow was up to his belly and the poor creature had become useless for the task of pulling the supplies sled. The horse, which they called Socks, was the last of four Manchurian ponies alive. The other three had perished after ingesting too much volcanic sand they managed to snuff up beneath the deep powder. As if the harsh elements weren’t enough, it seemed as though God himself was testing them; Ernest Shackleton, along with his team of three others, and their last, surviving horse were snow-blind. There was no sky and no perceptible landscape. The deathly white cloak deprived their vision of everything except the blurred edges of their dark silhouettes, creating a contrast so sharp, it stabbed painfully behind their frozen eyes.

In a providential act, one of the men had freed the horse from its harness to give the animal a rest. The men had no idea they were near the edge of a crevasse until the ground gave way. Reacting instinctively to the horse’s sudden and violent downward fall, the man quickly let go of the bridle. As he fell to the snow, frantically crab-crawling backward away from impending doom, the brittle ice snapped loudly, and the horse disappeared into nothingness. Startled and shocked, the men stared at the silent flutter of snow that trailed the animal to its death. Time had stopped and only the yowl of the ghostly wind let them know they were still alive. With no horse to pull their cargo, the men lashed themselves together to form a human sleigh-team; strength and safety in numbers were the intention. But should the thousand-pound sled break through the ice, it would be certain death for all of them. They had no choice. It was do or die.

The journey became increasingly arduous; to reduce weight, they decided to cycle a portion of the load off the sled every six miles. Then, they would backtrack to retrieve the load left behind. This hopscotching required eighteen miles of walking for every six miles advanced. Nights were long and their shivering kept time with the relentless flapping of tent canvas, while their body temperatures fell to 94 degrees Fahrenheit. Their bones ached to the core and the moisture from their breathing froze in their beards, only to thaw, drip into their shirts, and freeze again.

January 9, 1909

After 73 brutal days, and almost 1000 miles, the team was exhausted. Dysentery affected them all and daily rations were down to cookies, tea, and cocoa. They were just 97 nautical miles from the South Pole, but Shackleton knew his team wouldn’t survive if they continued the push. In what he described as the most painful decision of his life, Shackleton terminated the expedition, planted flags where they stood for both King and Country, and turned back home.

Though their story is harrowing, Ernest Shackleton, Frank Wild, Eric Marshall, and Jameson Adams made it back safely, returning to England with their lives, having left the glory of being first to the South Pole to someone else.

More than a century later, the Antarctic desolation still cradles the 19 x 33 ft. wooden structure that served as basecamp for the Expedition. When the team departed, many provisions were left behind for posterity. Still stowed away in small crates inside the hut is Shackleton’s whiskey—his story, and his legacy.

CHAPTER 1

The tail-end of Brian Culver’s SUV skittered and lurched outward from the passenger’s side of the vehicle, pitching bits of gravel and loose tarmac as he tried to corner a treacherous hard left. Even though he was experienced in tactical maneuvers, the poorly maintained, winding roads in the area were not meant for high-speed pursuits.

A snow squall had descended without warning and to make matters worse, the SUV had a high center of gravity. This was a balls-to-the-wall chase and with poor visibility and a hell-bent driver in the Porsche 911 in front of him, he knew things could end badly. The utility vehicle fishtailed left and right as the probability of a crash increased, but he had to catch the son-of-a-bitch, so he pressed hard on the accelerator. With worsening conditions and added speed, the amount of drivable road narrowed and as he rounded a wide curve right, centrifugal force pushed him sideways off the pavement, violently slamming the back end of the vehicle against a tree.

Brian was shaken but determined, and it took only seconds to regain his composure—jerking the steering wheel left and right, beating his way back to the road. Enough is enough! he snapped. He stomped on the accelerator, aiming to put an end to the deadly cat-and-mouse game. As road conditions and visibility deteriorated, he knew the odds of success were against him, but he had to try. It was his job.

Finding a small stretch of straight road, Brian appealed to himself, It’s now or never, buddy-boy. The Porsche he was chasing was quickly pulling away, so he dropped his window, pulled his Glock 30 from his shoulder holster, and fired several shots into the ditch for no reason other than just being pissed off. He was about to pull the trigger a fourth time, when the Porsche zig-zagged in a way that seemed to defy the laws of nature.

That’s when Brian realized the evasive move the Porsche driver made was to avoid a large sinkhole about four feet across—and pretty deep, by the looks of it. It was too late for him to miss it as his vehicle hit the hazard dead-on with its front right wheel. Run-flat tires are designed to stay inflated if they’re punctured—or shot—but what makes them bulletproof also makes them hard as a rock and unforgiving in cold temperatures. And even less so when slamming into the sharp edge of a sinkhole.

There was a split second of hyper-consciousness where the sound of disintegrating wheel rim and exploding axle assembly flooded his ears before the vehicle flipped up on its nose. The upended SUV skidded face-first for a quick twenty feet, performing an awkward pirouette before slapping down hard on the roof and scraping backward on its top for another 50 feet. Game over.

As Brian Culver hung suspended upside-down, the airbag was half-ballooned against his chest and the seatbelt was excruciating from his own body weight. He could feel the harness cutting into his left clavicle, but as far as he could tell, nothing was broken except his pride.

Despite his discomfort, the only thing on his mind, as Chief of Security, was that an extremely rare, and extraordinarily expensive bottle of whiskey had been taken from his client by the driver he was chasing. This was no ordinary sip of whiskey either. This was Sir Ernest Shackleton’s whiskey from his failed expedition to the Antarctic over a century ago. A bottle for which his boss paid a handsome two million dollars at an underground auction attended by uber-rich people with too much time and money on their hands. It didn’t matter that Brian thought a person would have to have more money than brains to pay that much for a bottle of booze. He was hired to keep his client safe and his property secure. And he had failed at the latter.

Brian was checked for a concussion by an EMT and Boulder PD took his statement; then they helped him search for his Glock, which was thrown from the vehicle during the crash. As the tow truck driver righted his car, they discovered his pistol wedged into a section of folded rooftop. After one of the cops pried it out, they were amazed the gun didn’t even have so much as a scratch on it. You better hang on to that one, Mr. Culver. I’d say that’s a sign of good luck—she’s as shiny as a new silver dollar, the cop said.

I can’t argue that, Brian said as he watched his vehicle being winched onto the flatbed. A patrol car gave him a lift back to the mansion and he asked the cops to drop him at the gate. He needed a walk around the grounds first to gather himself and prepare to face his boss’s wrath, which he knew was coming.

CHAPTER 2

Everyone respected and liked Oliver at the fourth precinct. His fellow officers threw him a bon voyage party with a cake sporting a beach scene adorned with little plastic beach chairs and umbrellas. Captain Richter, with the Commander’s permission, gave him a counterfeit Rolex (spelled with two x’s) from the unclaimed impound inventory, while the rest of the boys and girls posed for a photo for him to remember them by. They teased Oliver and shared laughter at his expense—just the way we all do to mask the sadness of saying goodbye to someone dear. When the gathering had reached the inevitable point of awkward exhaustion, Oliver slipped into his coat, held up his Rolexx in silent appreciation, and pushed through the door.

He stepped out into the cutting wind—winter had come early in November. And even though the sun was shining, the thirty-mile-per-hour gusts gathered up what little snow that was left from the night before and sent it on a hateful mission directly into Oliver’s face. God, I really hate winter, he said under his breath as he turned up the collar of his wool coat, cocking his head away from the harsh conditions. Looking only at the pavement as he tried to hurry to his car, Oliver was stopped abruptly by two pie-plate-sized hands.

Slow down, Sav, you’re going to hurt yourself. Detective John Caleb Martin was a wall of a man. His was six-five, weighed 270, and had the chiseled frame of a Soviet-era freight train. His imposing stature was matched by his baritone, sing-song voice and it always made Oliver laugh to hear John make an arrest—he sounded like Barry White reading someone their Miranda rights. Perps would always look at him with a strange sense of wonder and dread. Oliver had great appreciation and love for the man who had been his mentor when he was just a green detective, and as partners, they had become close friends over the years. John was the only person he’d truly miss.

Grimacing and squinting his eyes as he pinched the points of his upturned collar together, Oliver had to look up to make eye contact with John and the cutting wind made it even more difficult. I know John, I’m sorry to get out of here in such a hurry, but this weather is killing me, and Barbados is calling my name, brother, Oliver said.

Well…you just go right ahead and leave us then, Old School, John chided with his signature mile-wide grin. Old School was the name he gave Oliver because of Oliver’s distaste for much of modern-day life. Despite his younger age, Oliver was a throwback. John always made the reference regardless of the circumstance: Well, thank you for coming in today O.S., he would say. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Old School himself, Oliver Savage, and so on. And Oliver wore the moniker proudly. He always felt like he was born a generation too late—believing that clothing makes the man, that you should always hold the door for a lady (or stand as she approaches your table), and personal business was just that: personal. Social media be damned. Fittingly, the nickname stuck and most of his peers called him Old School, Savage, or Sav for short. But never Oli. Not by anyone.

I gotta say, Old School, I’m gonna miss having ya around. Who’s going to bring my morning smoothie?

Not those dickheads in there, Oliver said with a smirky nod toward the stationhouse.

Damn right, John deadpanned. Sorry I missed your party, John said.

You didn’t miss a thing.

Got time for a cup? John asked.

For you? Of course.

Somewhere between breakfast and lunch, May’s Café was a nice, quiet place for cops to grab a quick cup of joe. John struggled a bit to get his coat off because clothing manufacturers just didn’t make clothing to accommodate a man with his physique. His white shirt was creased and creped where he bent his arms, and the entirety of his upper arms were nearly as big as Oliver’s head. Oliver leaned back in the booth; his left arm casually draped across the seat-back while he let his coffee cool.

I hear you’re looking for a rookie from the Second to replace me. Why a rookie detective? Oliver asked.

I gotta find someone who might listen for a change.

Oliver laughed at the insinuation. You could hear the clatter of dishes and something sizzling underneath staff talking smack to each other. Oliver was fond of the restaurant; the menu was strictly comfort-food top-to-bottom and you didn’t eat at May’s for your health.

"Seriously, Ol, what are you going to do now?" John asked.

I don’t know really. Not wanting to insult his partner, Oliver said, Being a cop is a noble profession—I love being a cop.

But? John said.

I’m ready for a change, but to what specifically, I haven’t figured that out yet.

I get you, brother. You’re not still running from your break-up after all this time, I hope?

Oliver slowly grinned as he stared at his coffee cup. No. That’s not it. Just need a fresh start. I might try to find a spot in a smaller town somewhere. Someplace with fewer layers of bureaucracy. For now, I’m just taking a break.

Not wanting to talk about himself any longer, Oliver asked about a collar where John had to get a little physical. Yeah, that’s right. Where was my partner when I needed him? John said.

You needed me like May needs my cooking advice, Oliver said.

Let’s just say, the perp made his own mess. I left him alone in Holding for one minute and returned to find him pissing on my nice clean tile. So, I did the only thing I could do; I grabbed him by his shirt collar and belt loop and mopped the floor with his face. Motherfucker screamed like a demon gettin poked back in the bottle.

I heard Cap wasn’t very happy with your method of house cleaning.

He got in my chest a little, but he called me into his office a while later and laughed his ass off about it. Then, he told me to get the fuck out of his office, John said as they both laughed at the absurdity of it all.

The server stopped at their table for a warm-up and they both put their hands over their cups. I guess we’ve both had it, John said.

Oliver threw a twenty on the table for three dollars of coffee. I’ve got to hit the road.

The two stepped outside and Oliver looked up one last time at May’s sign overhead: a coffee pot glowing in pink neon, tilted as it poured illuminated, amber-colored droplets into a blue cup.

I’m always here for ya, Sav. Anytime. Anything you need.

Me too, buddy. They shook hands and after a quick, back-slap embrace, the two men nodded respectfully, turned, and walked away in silence.

When anyone asked why he was leaving the force, he told them he was tired of the politics and the paperwork, and that he desperately needed warmer weather. All were true to one degree, or another, but the biggest reason Oliver was leaving Detroit, was because deep down inside, his life was missing something. The ever-increasing administrative parts of the job bored him, and the politics were predictable and tired – it was like eating rice cakes and water for every meal, every day. Oliver had grown tired of living his life as a theoretical and rote exercise. He wanted to wish less, and experience more. It all seemed to lack real integrity and he wanted to live well on his own terms. Wasting time navigating political waters was not his idea of living at all. Let alone, living well. He didn’t exactly know how to make it happen, but he did know Michigan’s bone-chilling winters were no longer part of the equation.

On one hand,