I'm headed to Gettysburg this weekend (gonna try and beat the snow -_-), so I might as well get the first chapter of this up before I leave.

I'm taking a break from my usual oneshots so I can devote more of my time to this. A more elaborate backstory for why the Americans leave the US and a reason for me to nose more into their personal lives, because I've dwelled on it long enough and wish to finally make a fic out of it. :P I always had this feeling that the Americans were probably involved with bootlegging. I read a really good book about prohibition (for anyone interested: Last Call: The Rise And Fall of Prohibition) and did a SHIT TON of research on everything in between to help me keep this fic historically accurate (being a student of history, I am a HUGE stickler for accuracy). The plot itself is based off actual police and bootlegging operations I learned about from my reading (trust me, that book was a huge eye-opener for me). Leads right up to when they depart for overseas.
Some of the chapters might be a little wordy, but that's only because I don't want the fic to feel rushed. :P I'm not sure yet how long I will make this, but it will be fairly long. Also, I started writing this back in October, so it was purposely done on my part that this fic's timeline happens to encompass the holidays. Okay, I'm done gabbing. -_-

Daniels, Henderson, Burns/The Mummy: (c) Stephen Sommers
All other characters and some place names are of my own imagination

When It Came Knockin'

"The prohibition law, written for weaklings and derelicts, has divided the nation, like Gaul, into three parts...wets, drys, and hypocrites."
-Florence Sabin

One - The Entreaty

San Antonio, Texas

The Jardín Terraza
Thursday, December 17, 1925
10:13pm

The courtyard of the spacious Spanish mission-style inn was alive with holiday festivity. Terra cotta pots of lantanas and honeysuckle were adorned with green and red bows. Violins and mandolins hummed a rendition of some seasonal melody from the band stand. Strings of paper lights hung from the door frames and awnings, clinging like withered vines to an ancient castle wall. The Jardín Terraza was quite the lovely place to be this time of the year.

A pitcher of non-alcoholic sangria sat in the middle of their table, as did an ashtray with a dozen snuffed cigars. All around them, there were couples dancing, some antsy children getting up and chasing each other around, and genuine applause that followed each song the band played.

They were not here for the party though. They were simply waiting, and had been for the last fifteen minutes since arriving to the place by cab.

Whether their watches were on their wrists or in their pockets, at some point, they were all staring at them for a glimpse of the time. The one dressed in a matched dark jacket, shirt and pants pulled out a sodden handkerchief, dragged it across the red, raw skin of his nose. The tall towhead wearing full cowboy regalia in the group continued adding more cigars to the ashtray, while the one wearing wire-rims and a bow tie glanced once more at his watch. All three wore Stetsons on their heads.

David Daniels snorted and wiped his nose again, leering inconspicuously at a small group of revelers as they tried in a rather comical way to synchronize into a holiday dance in the center of the courtyard. Their singing got louder, the music almost drowned out in a sea of shouts and guffaws. Daniels looked at the pitcher of sangria in the table's center, one eyebrow raised. "Now I know that fruit juice ain't what's got 'em all trippin' around like three-legged dogs."

"It's the holidays, whaddya expect? The scent of pine is enough to knock a grown man on his feet this time a' year," Buck Henderson replied, snuffing his cigar and lighting up a fresh one. "Ya don't need to be drunk off yer ass on apple cider to git into the 'spirit' a' things."

Bernard Burns nodded with a smirk, squinting under the dim light of the lanterns. "Obvious enough."

They let the next few moments pass in silence. Not a sign anywhere of them yet. Now Daniels was looking at his watch again. "This is the place, right? The place Rog was talking about?"

Henderson nodded, letting his eyes wander over the great expanse of the courtyard. "That's what the address said."

"Well then where the hell are they?" Daniels growled, emptying his nose into his handkerchief. A response to that wasn't needed, as Daniels almost jumped clear out of his skin when he felt a pair of hands on his shoulders. He spun around in his chair. "What in the name a'-!"

"Sorry, amigo," came an exhausted but familiar voice. "We did not mean to make you wait." Rogelio Valdez and Jaime Santiago, the two men they had been waiting on, took their seats respectively next to Daniels and Burns. Both of them looked haggard, as if they'd ran the whole way to the inn.

"Took you fellas long enough," Henderson said, nodding at the pitcher. "Have a glass, will ya?"

Santiago was already pouring himself one. His hand appeared to have a tremor, his scalp shining with perspiration. "We were held up. It will not happen again."

Henderson waved him off, offered Santiago a cigar, which he declined. "We ain't yer boss. Don't sound so spooked."

Valdez made for the pitcher as well, a glint of relief lightening up his dark brown eyes. He watched as a young woman in a navy blue satin dress with black trim floated on by with her panting husband behind her, the prim smile on her face and tight curls in her mahogany hair a stark contrast to his open collar and sweating brow. "You must excuse us both. It has been a long day."

Daniels groaned loudly, grabbing the attention of all four men with his unimpressed expression. "You know somethin' Rog, it's been a long day fer me too. So ya better have a damn good reason fer makin' me haul my ass out here to this Mexican square dance when I can be home gettin' over this bout of the Goddamn plague."

"Take it easy, Daniels. It's only a cold," Henderson said.

Daniels scoffed, sniffled. "How do you know it's jus' a cold? You went sloggin' through the same swamps as I did up in Galveston, an' ya haven't gotten so much as a damn skeeter bite. Lord knows what I picked up in there."

Valdez raised an eyebrow. "That was a week ago."

"Yeah, and I been sick ever since. My girl won't leave me alone about it. Says I sound jus' like her nana...right before she done keeled over from a round a' whoopin' cough," Daniels grumbled.

"Then see a doctor," Burns put in.

Daniels shook his head. "She's naggin' the hell outta me to see a damn doctor. I don't trust doctors. They're all quacks."

"Is that what her nana thought right before she keeled over?" Henderson asked, eyebrow raised.

Daniels narrowed a dark glare on him, but said nothing.

Valdez and Santiago looked at each other, mostly with uncertainty. Valdez cleared his throat, folded his hands on the table. "You will need to be well, amigo. Especially in the comings days."

Daniels raised an impatient eyebrow. "Yeah, I plan on doin' that as soon as ya tell us why we're here."

Santiago looked around, tried not to speak too loud despite the roar of joviality from the holiday-drenched patrons. "It is Señor Shelton. He has something urgent to share."

"Which would be?" Henderson said, yawning obnoxiously.

Santiago and Valdez looked at each other again. "Well, he got in on quite the deal with some older gentlemen who live west of here. They wish to have the product brought to them as quickly as possible," Valdez said.

"They are willing to pay a lot of money for the product too," Santiago added.

"Where do these fellas live?" Burns asked.

There was a small, uncomfortable pause before Valdez answered, "In the Napa Valley."

Daniels almost choked on the phlegm he was trying to cough up. "California?"

Santiago held out his hands somewhat helplessly, the words coming out of his mouth in something of an incoherent prattle. "He told us they lost their licenses to their vineyards when Prohibition took effect. They are very wealthy from their prior sales-"

Henderson held up his hand as if to silence him. "Wait, wait...California? That's well over a thousand miles from here!"

"Leave Texas? Is Shelton outta his Goddamn mind?" Daniels growled. "Look, we gone as far as the borders a' Oklahoma, Arkansas, Louisiana an' New Mexico. Crossin' county lines ain't no big deal, but state lines? In the winter? Who's he think we are, Lewis an' Clark?"

"It sounds muy loco, but that is what he told us," Santiago said.

Burns, calm as you please, took off his glasses and began cleaning them. "Who are these gentlemen? How the hell'd they find out about Shelton?"

Valdez shrugged uncertainly. "It must be from word of mouth. Señor Shelton has not told us how he knows these men."

"Uh-huh, an' when does Shelton expect us to get goin' to Napa?" Henderson asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"As soon as possible," Santiago answered.

Henderson wasn't buying it. He took off his hat, ran a weary hand through his messy shock of blonde hair. "Somethin' here don't make any sense. What California man comes all the way to Texas to git his brew? Why not hit up some a' his California pals? How does Shelton know he ain't gettin' the wool pulled over his eyes?" He let out a massive sigh. "These guys own vineyards. They shoulda jus' kept makin' their wine an' kept it a secret."

Valdez and Santiago were just as put off and uncertain as Daniels, Burns and Henderson were about going to California, as they had no clear answers to any of their questions. It was a huge risk, that was obvious. Over-zealous lawmen and merciless highwaymen were sure to be crawling all over the roads, and the imposing winter would definitely cause a whole separate host of delays.

Daniels rubbed his hands tiredly over his face. "How much he plan on forkin' over fer this trip?"

Valdez answered, "I suppose same as always, ten percent of the profit and a sampling of the product."

Burns, Henderson and Daniels all passed dumbfounded glances at each other. Giving an answer now was out of the question; they would need to think on it first. Henderson looked squarely at the two thinly-built Tejanos, said to them, "We're gonna need to discuss this with Shelton. Ya think he can give us a day or two to think on it?"

Valdez shrugged helplessly, the worry seeping back into his brown eyes. "He invited us to dinner with his wife noche de mañana, so we will tell him then."

"Yeah, yeah. Right. Now do me a favor an' skedaddle so's I can go home an' git some sleep," Daniels growled impatiently, getting up out of his seat with the others following suit.

Henderson threw down a five dollar bill for the pitcher of sangria, and the five men extited the inn and stood outside the front entrance adjusting to the cooler air; the temperature was a little lower than it was in the courtyard. Valdez and Santiago said they would inform Shepherd tomorrow of their discussion, and after a brisk round of goodbyes, they sped off in Santiago's truck.

They left the men with more questions in their minds than answers, and it bothered Daniels greatly.

"I ain't goin' to Goddamn Cal'fornia, not unless Shelton plans on payin' me more than a measly ten percent. I tol' Grace I wouldn't go nowheres over the holidays anyways. Her old man been sick fer a while an' I ain't about to leave her alone."

Henderson pulled out one of his Tampa Havanas, lit it up. He thought he heard the sound of someone ringing a holiday bell on one of the dark, lonely street corners. "An' if Shelton does pay ya more? Ya still gonna stay with her? Shelton don't care about Grace. All he cares about is gettin' his money."

Daniels scoffed, wasn't really thinking before he blurted out, "Yeah, I am gonna stay. This whole damn thing sounds like complete malarkey, if ya ask me."

"Then you can be the one to tell Shelton that," Burns said somewhat gloomily. "If Rog and Jaime are right, an' it's a helluva fat paycheck fer gettin' the liquor up to Napa, Shelton ain't gonna be happy that three of his pack mules decided to skip out on him last minute."

"Well we ain't said we's not goin' yet, have we?" Daniels grumbled.

"No, but we got to soon, or Shelton's gonna come lookin' fer our asses," Henderson answered with the same sort of gloom that Burns had.

Daniels sighed heavily, dragged the handkerchief across his nose. He was exhausted and his sinuses were clogged to the gills, but the midnight oil was still burning in him. He reached into a pocket on the inside of his jacket and frowned, realized he'd left his flask at home. All of a sudden, he didn't feel quite as tired as he had thought.

"Screw the sangria. C'mon fellers, I need a real Goddamn drink."