Free Small Wars by Matt Wallace

 
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    Now—Cardiff Airport, Wales
    â€œAnd what do you do in America?” the customs agent asks Ritter, staring at the nondescript man’s passport.
    â€œI’m a steward. I work for a catering company in New York City.”
    â€œIs that like a host, then?”
    â€œNo.”
    The customs agent looks up from the official document and stares at him. There’s nothing aggressive or short in Ritter’s tone, but his passivity, something wholly and comfortably removed, is somehow always more disconcerting for people.
    â€œI’m head of stocking and receiving. You could say I keep the cupboards full,” Ritter explains just as passively.
    Recognition that’s really little more than a scant point of reference widens the custom agent’s eyes.
    â€œAh, I see. And are you here on vacation, then?”
    â€œNo. Business.”
    â€œRight. Well, if you’re planning on returning with any of our local fruit and veg or the like you know you’ll have to declare it.”
    â€œI’m not here for either. No worries.”
    â€œAll right, then.” Ritter’s passport is returned. “Welcome to Wales, Mister Thane.”
    â€œThank you.”
    Ritter stashes his passport and picks up his aging rucksack.
    *   *   *
    Within two hours of arriving in Wales, Cindy O’Brien is convinced the Welsh language has been conceived solely as a practical joke played on tourists.
    â€œThey’re making that shit up as they go along,” she insists. “There’s nothing even vaguely consistent about a single motherfucking word I’ve heard said or written on a sign so far. And that includes every word spoken in English.”
    There are five of them in the rented Ford Transit cargo van: Ritter and the three other members of Sin du Jour Catering & Events’ stocking and receiving department, and the freelance alchemist who has joined them for this particular assignment.
    Ritter is behind the wheel. Moon, diminutive and poorly groomed and perpetually clad in a dirty T-shirt representing some bit of cultural arcana (today it’s a Turkish soccer team) is riding shotgun. This was agreed upon by the others less because he called it and more to convince him to stop calling it every time they crossed a new time zone.
    Cindy sits behind him, earbuds firmly in place as she attempts to finish the audiobook of Toni Morrison reading her essays that she was unable to finish on the plane due to a constant stream of disruptions around her.
    Ryland Phelan, the rumpled-from-head-to-toe Irishman seated next to her both on the plane and in the van now, caused most of those disruptions.
    Utterly filling the final row of seats behind them is Hara, the mountainous fourth member of Ritter’s team and the eternal stoic.
    Ryland drunkenly cranes his neck to focus on Cindy in the loosest possible way. “That presupposes the Welsh are in possession of something recognizable to the civilized world as a sense of humor. I can’t imagine a more dangerous assumption.”
    â€œDon’t even get me started with you again, Jesus of Nazawrecked,” she warns him.
    â€œWhat?” He seems genuinely confused. “What have I done?”
    Cindy yanks her earbuds out. “Are you kidding me? Are you so wasted you don’t remember being drawn down on by a damn air marshal midflight?”
    Ryland’s red eyes widen. “Was that who that irate gentleman was? Well, that makes much more sense, then.”
    After having his beverage service cut off less than two hours after takeoff, Ryland began requesting cups of water and changing them into white wine.
    The only reason they weren’t all detained upon arrival was because, when confronted, the air marshal couldn’t find any hidden supply or alcohol or a corresponding empty vessel.
    â€œDid we have to bring him?” Cindy asks Ritter. “He couldn’t have just given you