The mocha-skinned man behind the desk rolled a cigar thoughtfully in his large right hand while he tapped the platinum cigar cutter against the heavy wood desk. His gold rings matched the gold chains he wore around his thick neck. His white linen shirt was unbuttoned down to mid-chest, cooling him off in the humid morning air. Still holding the cigar, he looked down at the smaller man in front of him.
Blaise Fournier smiled innocently at the big man across the desk from him. His soft gray three-piece suit was freshly cleaned and pressed, just the way he liked it. His silk ascot was tied loosely in the heat, the only concession the Frenchman gave to the climate. His now-white beard and short mustache were trimmed neatly and sharply. Blaise ignored the two augmented bruisers standing next to him, both sporting large-caliber handguns and staring down at Fournier. Despite their hardware, they weren’t much of a match for the slight Frenchman.
“You know I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t, ah, of some great importance not only to myself but to you and, in this case, the entire system as well,” Blaise explained calmly.
The Flamingo didn’t take his eyes off the other man as he snipped off the end of his cigar. He cupped his hands as he lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair to puff on it. Behind him, the drapes swayed in the sea breeze blowing in from the coast, bringing in the sharp salty tang of the ocean. The sound of the waves slapping against the private beach could be heard, if faintly, inside the office. Expensive woods wrapped the space warmly and richly. The floor looked like natural wood but wasn’t; the self-cleaning surface kept itself clear of sand. Aside from the massive desk, there were a few chairs and tables. On the walls hung local pieces of art.
“Oh, I know, Blaise. But you have some stones coming here after what you did.” The Flamingo didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His Brazilian-Spanish coastal accent wasn’t as soft as the Frenchman’s, but it carried a lot of weight.
John Jones—aka “The Flamingo”—was a large man who exuded power and status. All the major criminal gangs were under his thumb; the entire eastern seaboard of Nicomedia’s largest continent was run by his crew and their associates. Calling him a crime boss would get you free, and permanent, residency in Nicomedia’s seas—at least if you said it to his face. His organization, the Seasiders, was the biggest operation around, boasting the most members and claiming the most territory controlled by a single gang.
Two decades ago, Blaise Fournier had waltzed through the younger Flamingo’s criminal organization and taken a datachip Jones had been using as leverage against the then king of Opkomend Bonaire. The king had hired Fournier to retrieve what many believed couldn’t be removed from Jones’ possession. The Flamingo had made the mistake of thinking a single copy under his direct control was the best way of keeping it safe. The loss of that chip allowed the king of Opkomend Bonaire to move against Jones. The war against the Flamingo’s criminal enterprises had cost Jones millions, and too many of his top lieutenants had spent quite some time in jail. Some had lost their lives. The Flamingo’s organization had barely survived. Jones had pulled himself up from almost nothing, cursing the Frenchman for years. Fournier had cost him almost everything. And now that same man sat in front of Jones.
Fournier shrugged. “Ah, all water under the bridge, as they say.”
“Do they, now?” Jones sounded dubious.
“Some. But, ah, setting aside our petty differences, we have much more pressing matters than how lax your security had been.”
“I should just kill you now, Fournier,” Jones spat. He puffed on his cigar, then leaned forward and pointed the burning tip at the small Frenchman. “I should. It would be fitting payback.”
Fournier’s eyes glittered. “Ah. Would you like to see if you have the strength?” he asked quietly. “You think your countermeasures, your Expert Systems, your bodyguards will be enough, yes? That, failing all that, your strength alone will be the deciding factor?” Fournier leaned forward and stared into the Flamingo’s eyes. “If I wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be talking, Jones.”
Jones let out a roar of a laugh, his white teeth gleaming in contrast to his dark skin. “My Lord, Fournier! You’ve gotten more bold as you aged!”
Fournier shrugged, his eyes not moving from the other man. “I have less to lose, Jones. And far more to gain. Besides, you are, ah, more important to me alive than dead, I believe is the saying.”
“Hmm,” mused the bigger man as he thought. “I’ll tell you the truth, Fournier, I do want to test my strength against yours. But you wouldn’t be here just for social visit and a throwdown.” He took another puff on his cigar. “Alright, old man, tell me why you’re here. When I received your request I thought one of us had gone mad. Best hear you out before I kill you, just in case I am the mad one.”
“I’m not here on my own volition, Jones. Lars Stockwell asked me to discuss a plan with you, despite my, ah, objections and considerable reservations.”
“That cyborg leading the Coalition’s forces? What does that machine want with me?” Jones actually sounded surprised.
“We want you to join our team.”
Jones almost dropped his cigar. “What?” he asked slowly. “You do know who I am?”
Fournier nodded. “Gambling, drugs, smuggling, gun running, money laundering, protection racketeering, brothels, bribery, and that’s the, ah, short list. If it’s organized crime, your fingerprints are all over it.“
“Stop, you’re making me blush.” Another puff of the cigar. “So?”
“You have the largest network of interconnected gangs and criminals. Nothing happens anywhere without you knowing about.”
“Almost anything,” the Flamingo rumbled. “You, on the other hand, are more ghost than anything else. But—“
“But out of all your many sins you don’t deal in human trafficking or child sex slaves.”
The Flamingo crossed himself. “No. And praise God I never will.”
Fournier nodded. “Your salvation is solely between you and God. But you can do something we would have a very difficult time doing. We need your organization to start preaching the Gospel. Specifically, that Christ is the Son of God and the Savior of Mankind, and belief in Him is the key to Salvation.”
Jones almost fell out of his chair, stunned for the second time. “This is a joke! You’re messing with my head, old man!”
“I can assure you, I have no intention to do so.”
“You’re serious? You’re out of your damned mind!”
Fournier sighed. “I told Lars you’d react as much. He insisted I try anyway. I, ah, believe he quoted to me ‘Jesus said to them, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners."’ And what could I say after that?”
The two men stared at each other as the seconds ticked past.
“Think, Jones,” Fournier urged, “If Legion wins, you lose everything. Everyone loses everything.”
“And I save it all by turning my boys into street preachers,” scoffed the other.
Fournier shook his head. “No, but you will be helping and not sitting around waiting for the end, cowering, ah, until they claim your body and soul.”
The Flamingo stood up and walked over to the French doors, his leather sandals making hardly any sound as he moved. One of the doors was shut, the other opened onto a patio. From where he sat, Blaise could see part of the expertly designed and maintained landscape. Jones was quiet while he smoked his cigar. Finally, shaking his head, he turned back and faced the smaller man.
“No dice. Kill him.”
Blaise didn’t hesitate. He shut down the brains of the bodyguards and crashed their cybernetic neurosystems. The two men fell to the floor before they even had time to realize they were under attack.
“I was afraid you’d say that.” Blaise stood up and gave a short bow to the crime boss. “I’ll give you a week to think it over.”
The Flamingo took a long draw on his cigar, studying the Frenchman. He blew a stream of smoke out toward Fournier. “Why not just force me to do it?”
“Ah, because the Lord wouldn’t want the Good News to be, ah, spread by anyone but the willing. I’ll show myself out. I know the way.” Blaise bowed again and left.
Jones pulled out the handgun he had left holstered inside his shirt. It was gold with ivory inlays, chambered in .50 caliber. A Smith & Glock, one of their last production runs for this handgun. It was his favorite firearm, the first one he commissioned after getting his organization back together from the brink of ruin and disaster, the one he used only on special occasions for particular people. That damned Frenchman cost him more than he could ever count. Jones had intended to put a bullet right between Fournier’s eyes the next time their paths crossed. He had planned on shooting the man as he sat in his office.
The Flamingo didn’t know why he hadn’t. The passage of time hadn’t dulled his anger much toward Fournier. Jones hadn’t mellowed with age. Granted, he was better off before Fournier had indirectly pulled the walls down around his head, but that was because Jones had worked hard and for a long time to recover.
Yet after all that, the little Frenchman had the gall to ask a favor of him. And Jones hadn’t shot him on sight. He shook his head, as if trying to drive out a thought that had lodged itself where he couldn’t ignore it.
The Flamingo holstered his handgun and walked out onto his patio. He left his bodyguards where they were; he’d have their systems dumped and turned over to data forensics for analysis to determine what exactly Fournier had done to crash them that fast. Taking a long pull on his cigar, Jones held the smoke in for a bit before blowing it all out. Then he took a deep breath, smelling the ocean’s salt as he filled his lungs. He held that for a couple of beats before letting the air escape with a hiss.
The day was perfect. Light white clouds drifted in the pinkish sky, the deep green ocean susurrated to itself as it had for eons. Birds called out in the sky, thrilled to be soaring above everything creeping along below them. The marbled tile led to a pool that endlessly emptied into the ocean. A scattering of lounge chairs and tables were placed seemingly haphazardly. Jones himself had placed them with purpose. He had shaped the flow of traffic to give him the best view of guests as they mingled during one of his many parties.
Nothing the Flamingo did was by accident or unplanned. Years of experiences had honed his natural talent for strategy. He walked to the edge of the marbled patio and stared out into the sea, puffing on his cigar, lost in thought as he mentally wrestled with his encounter with Fournier.
Jones pulled out the simple gold cross he kept around his neck on a chain. His abuelita had given it to him years ago when she was still alive.
“Mijo, always remember who you are,” she had said, pressing the cross into the palm of his hand. Jones hadn’t the heart to tell her what he was doing for a living. He suspected she had known, but she never said anything. It was a secret they kept from each other.
The big man stood alone with his thoughts, one hand held his cigar, the other the cross.
Back at his hotel room, Fournier finished recording his daily report to Lars. “The team is in place already. Concerning my meeting with Jones, ah, I had no reason to apply more than the slightest suggestion to firmly lodge the idea. He seemed… ah, surprisingly receptive. He could have easily engaged me directly, but he let his muscle take the fall without a hint of trying his strength against mine. Once again, our, ah, ever-overenthusiastic monk had solid intel.” Blaise paused as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Even thinking about Justinian could give him a small headache. As much as he admired and respected the monk, the man had a way of getting under Fournier’s skin. “I gave the Flamingo a week to respond, as per your suggestion. May God protect the foolish. Fournier out.”
Blaise encrypted the message and sent it high priority under the Coalition authority. Given the communications channels from here to Amorium, and assuming nothing went wrong, Lars would get his report within several hours. Fournier leaned back in his chair with a sigh. While dealing with John Jones occupied most of his attention, Fournier was aware of what other plans were in motion. He wasn’t sure letting the Guild get their hooks into Archie was the wisest course, but he knew something had to be done to dampen the rising anti-AI sentiment. The Frenchman could see how important the AIs were to even having a chance against Legion.
Getting up from the desk, the little Frenchman walked out onto the room’s balcony and over to the low glass wall. He rested his arms on the top as he looked over the edge. At thirty stories up, Blaise could see a great distance along a section of Nicomedia’s coastal land and part of the city Buenaventura. Dusk was settling quickly over the city; lights were springing up from homes and businesses. Traffic was steady along the coastal highway as people enjoyed the mild weather. It had been years since Blaise had been to Nicomedia’s southeast coast. The gentle breezes carried the same scents at the Flamingo’s compound and now mixed with the evening’s fragrance of night-blooming plants. The palm trees on the hotel property gently swayed in the light breezes, their pink and yellow tufts bobbing in the wind. All in all, Fournier found it to be delightful. He promised himself he’d settle down here after the war with Legion had ended—like he had promised himself so many other times for different reasons. Maybe this time he’d finally follow through. He almost laughed at his own foolish notions and dreams.
Fournier went downstairs to the on-premise cafe and had a dinner of a black coffee and croissant with a small dish of local melons. Sipping slowly on his second cup, Blaise watched the hotel guests come and go. The cafe was situated where he could see the main entrance and most of the well-appointed lobby.
Since the hotel Seabound was a four-star place, the clientele reflected that status. Blaise was looking for anyone who fit too well. It was only a matter of time before the Flamingo sent at least someone to do recon on him, if not try to assassinate him. Jones was far too canny to send someone who looked out of place.
Fournier counted on two minor skirmishes between him and Jones before the latter decided whether to toss in with Lars or go all out to kill him.
Señor Fournier, I’ve picked up three vehicles that trace back to the Flamingo’s organization. They will be arriving in ten minutes. Juan’s voice construct sounded amused. He was on the rooftop of another hotel about two hundred yards away, running lookout.
Two armored escort vehicles and a low-riding ground sedan in the middle, yes?
There was a pause. Sí.
Fournier smiled to himself. The Flamingo was living up to his reputation. Big, bold, with plenty of money behind it. Ah, then you know what to do, Juan.
Sí.
Good. Are you, ah, ready, Isabelle?
Yes.
Excellent. Remember the plans. The Flamingo is a violent man, but he does not kill indiscriminately. You both must stay off his radar for the time being.
Understood.
Fournier took another sip of his bitter drink and settled in to see who Jones had sent him. Lars had assured him that the team in place would be sufficient to handle most of what the crime boss would throw at him, short of a fully equipped extermination squad. Juan and Isabelle were both trained agents who had worked for the Buenaventura police force for a number of years. Lars’ extensive connections had arranged for them to work with Fournier while he was on the planet. They had full support of the local city police department.
Blaise took another sip of his coffee. The young waitress came up with a smile.
“Sir, would you like a refill?”
“Oui, and thank you,” Blaise said with a slight tilt of his head.
Of course!” She dimpled at the Frenchman as she topped off his mug. Her tag said her name was Vanessa.
Blaise liked her. Odds were she was on the Flamingo’s payroll, but he didn’t mind the attention. As soon as Vanessa’s back was turned, he dropped a small white tablet into his coffee. It floated to the top, turned black, and dissolved into the liquid. He could pick her brain to see if she had slipped anything into his drink but doing that was uncouth and unseemly. Instead, the tablet would tell him if anything but coffee was in his mug. So far, nothing.
Incoming vehicles. Juan reported.
Blaise watched the large glass doors as the first vehicle pulled up. It was a small black APC, the kind used by professional bodyguard services. Six augments poured out to provide security coverage as the sedan rolled to a stop behind it. The second APC pulled in, and six more men exited and took positions.
They were all dressed the same—dark suits, wrap-around silver sensors, bullpup automatic rifles.
People stopped to watch the show.
The sedan’s front passenger door opened, and man almost as big as Lars unfolded himself as he stood up to his full, imposing height. Even from where Fournier sat, he could see that the man had had serious cybernetic work done. Where his eyes had been, the bodyguard sported a silver sensor array, a dozen lenses nestled in a casing bristling with twitching antennae, gleaming under the hotel lights. He surveyed the area, nodded, and walked to the back door of the sedan. He opened it and positioned himself at the ready.
One of the most striking women Blaise had ever seen exited the back of the sedan. She was as pale as a moon. Her long, straight platinum hair fell down to her mid-back; she filled out her flowing snow-white dress like it was painted on, her light ice-blue eyes glittered with a cold fire. A necklace of brilliant white diamonds wrapped around her neck like a ring of ice. A smart hat, done in the latest style, sat perched on her head at the socially acceptable angle. The hat sported a plume of black feathers, the only other color on her not some shade of cold. She stalked toward the front doors, her white high heels clicking loudly, as her bodyguards cleared space around her and the big one loomed behind her. She moved like a tigress on the hunt. People gawked and pointed at her as she passed.
Juan, Isabelle, is that who I think it is? Miss Vonstone?
Yes, Fournier. Melissa Vonstone, aka the Ice Queen. She’s the heiress to the Vonstone empire, Isabelle confirmed. Her wealth is astronomical. She’s a known socialite and a celebrity in her own right. She’s famous also for her extravagant parties and spending.
Blaise frowned. He had been so focused on Jones, how did he miss someone like her? Jones held some influence over her, that much was certain. Why would she be involved with John Jones?
I’ll contact headquarters and see what they know, Juan said.
Until then, we, ah, stick to the plan, Fournier confirmed.
Melissa Vonstone swept into the hotel like an ice comet, trailing bodyguards caught in her gravitational pull. Fournier pulled his attention away from her to study the reactions of the people around him, trying to understand why Jones would send such an obvious distraction.
“Gosh, she’s fabulous,” gushed Vanessa who had walked over to see Vonstone’s entrance.
Fournier sipped his coffee. “Has she come here before?” he asked.
“Yes, but it’s been at least two years. I had just started when she stayed a week. I don’t think she has changed at all!”
Fournier nodded. “She always travels with such, ah, crew?”
“Oh, yes! There’s been three attempts at either kidnapping or assassination the past four years alone. Miss Melissa has been in the public eye for years now, and as her family’s fortunes have grown, so have their enemies.”
It turned out that Vanessa was a wealth of information about the stunning Melissa Vonstone and her family. Fournier gently pumped her for information about the social gossip surrounding the Vonstone family, all of which Vanessa was all too willing to share.
While his waitress was regaling him with stories, Fournier watched how Vonstone comported herself. “Commanding” was an understatement. She dominated the entire check-in process; the on-duty hotel manager came out to personally oversee the event. Three very nervous bellhops, their uniforms spotless and pressed, appeared almost by magic to assist in unloading the sedan’s trunk. Gauging from the number of suitcases, Fournier estimated the heiress was staying for a month.
Something Vanessa said caught his ear as he mused.
“A week, you say?”
“That’s right, Mr. Fournier. I heard the day manager complaining to the head of housekeeping that Miss Melissa all but bought the top floor penthouse this afternoon, bumping out the other occupant a day early. She was scrambling to make sure things were smoothed over for everyone involved.”
Miss Vonstone swept into the elevator with her big bodyguard.
“And the big fellow with her?”
“That would be Gregory the Terrible. They say he’s even more machine than Lars Stockwell, but I don’t believe it. I’ve seen the Coalition broadcasts; the Supreme Commander is a walking tank, all metal.” She shuddered. “Gregory at least looks human.”
Fournier thanked her, finished his coffee, left a large tip, pulled on his jacket in one smooth motion, and walked out the front doors. The Vonstone convoy had already left, but four of the bodyguards remained behind and circulated in the lobby. Fournier lightly scanned their equipment, noting the identification codes. All standard issue for private security. He was tempted to probe their security measures, but he wasn’t willing to tip his hand yet.
The night was cool and ripe with the smells of flowers and filled with the sounds of insects and other nocturnal creatures. The city sounds were muted here. The city lights shone like a layer of terrestrial diamonds along the sandy shoreline.
Fournier walked along the path leading down to the private beach, the stars giving off more than enough light to see clearly, enhanced by the hotel’s tastefully placed lamps around the grounds. The moon Thema Selene hadn’t risen in the sky yet, but a pale-green light shaded the land where it would rise. He nodded pleasantly to others also walking along the path who were off on their business or pleasure. From the number of couples Blaise encountered, it looked to be a fine evening for pleasure.
The little Frenchman stopped at the edge of the path leading onto the beach. He wasn’t dressed for any sort of beach excursions; his polished leather shoes wouldn’t take to sand and seawater kindly. He watched the waves lap up against the shoreline.
Juan, any movement?
Sí, a man from the hotel has been following you. He stopped to smoke a cigarette up the path you came. According to facial recog, he works for the maintenance staff.
Anyone else?
No.
Excellent. Ah, Isabelle? Any news?
I’ve adjusted the schedule to work an extra shift two floors below the penthouse. I’ll make sure I have at least thirty minutes alone without raising any red flags.
Please be extra cautious. I hadn’t expected the Flamingo to deploy such an opponent.
Are you sure she’s here on his behalf, Fournier?
Oui. Either directly or indirectly, she’s part of his plan. It’s a game of cat and mouse, my friends. Let’s make sure we are the cat.
Fournier had spotted his tail after leaving the hotel; he had asked Juan to judge further the other’s skillset. Fournier was satisfied.
It was time to make a slight adjustment in the game Blaise and the Flamingo were playing.
His tail was just on the edge of his equipment’s range. Fournier first hacked his optics and left an afterimage of himself standing on the edge while he walked up the path to the man following him.
“Evening,” Blaise greeted him.
The other man merely grunted and took another drag on his cigarette. Not a professional. Fournier treated him gently.
No one else was around. The man’s face went slack, and his cigarette burned to a stub in the corner of his drooping mouth. Shaking himself suddenly, he dropped the stub and ground it under his heel. He couldn’t remember why he was standing around outside. Shrugging, he went back inside the hotel and resumed his work. His shift was over in an hour, and he was looking forward to a cold beer at the end. His handler was flummoxed at the report he received about nothing but the man’s workday and not a single mention about Fournier.
The Flamingo knew what the report meant. He laughed when he realized Fournier had neutralized that asset. It was a clear message from the Frenchman that Jones would have to step up his game.
“Already have, little man,” Jones said to no one. He went back to his pool party as the DJ dropped the latest club hit. The guests went wild. Jones grabbed the nearest scantily-clad hottie and snorted a gram of his best designer drug before joining in.
Isabelle smoothed down her housekeeping uniform before stepping off the service elevator. The forty-eighth floor looked the same as any of the other top ten floors. Dark wood paneling, thick, rich-toned carpet, hanging crystal chandeliers that gave off a subdued and mellow light, occasional tables laden with flowers and expensive vases. Her cart followed behind her, bringing the supplies—and more—that she needed. One of the quirks of these upscale hotels is that very little was automated or run by Expert Systems. One of the perks of being rich was having the human touch.
Isabelle dusted the occasional tables and spritzed the plants as she worked her way to the end of the hall to start on her first empty room. The top levels weren’t busy during the off-season but for a few units. On this level, there were only three occupied rooms; the others needed a light cleaning and dusting as part of the weekly schedule. Normally, one of the more senior staff members had this easy job, but the poor dear had suddenly come down with a dreadful headache, and Isabelle had volunteered while the others were still on their shifts.
The fifth room placed her on the opposite side of the penthouse’s pool and two floors below the suite. Isabelle shut the room’s door behind her and placed an early warning sensor on it. She shimmied out of her uniform to stand in her black body suit. She pulled the hood down over her eyes, and wrapped the breather around her face. She retrieved the tools she needed from her cart and went out onto the balcony.
Ascending now.
Acknowledged. Abort the mission if anything happens. And I do mean, ah, anything.
Copy, Fournier.
Isabelle found the cracks between the different materials and started her free climb up two levels, her gloves and footwear finding purchase outside the limits of even the best rock climber. The wind was strong up here, but nothing overwhelming. She made good time and was soon level with the penthouse in a spot that didn’t have windows.
Got you in my sights, Juan said. No one is in front of you, nearest bodyguard is in the next window over. Nice suit.
Wore it just for you, Isabelle said as she caught her breath. Carefully, she pulled out the monitoring device and stuck it on the wall where the root-like tendrils found purchase against the weathered concrete.
In place. Returning now.
She almost made it back inside when the first subsonic round winged her left arm. Isabelle gave a startled cry and fell onto the balcony.
Fournier! We have a problem! One of the Vonstone bodyguards tagged Isabelle. Juan kept most of his excitement out of his construct. I’m not sure how he spotted her.
On my way. Call in the troops if I can’t get us both out.
Roger.
Isabelle pulled herself up and moved away from any lines of sight the penthouse could have. Her cart zipped over on her mental command. She figured she had two minutes before the door crashed open and she’d have a lot of uninvited guests.
Fortunately, the wound was a through-and-through. Grabbing her equipment from the cart, Isabelle cleaned off the wounded area, squirted some bio-nanorepair gel, slapped a self-seal on both sides, and cleaned up her blood with wipes designed to destroy DNA.
One minute left. Her arm ached but wasn’t impaired too much. Isabelle shoved the bloody wipes into the cart’s garbage bag. She snagged her uniform just as the door was smashed open.
Gregory the Terrible filled the door frame.
He gestured with his rifle. “Let’s have a little chat upstairs.” His Russian accent was evident.
Isabelle quietly raised her hands in submission and walked out of the room, biding her time, closely followed by Gregory. A cluster of men waited for her. Anything but being docile would end up with her being hurt, or worse, but by acting submissive her captives wouldn’t be quite as guarded and ready to shoot. Isabelle just needed a chance to make a break for it.
The guards formed a ring around Isabelle. Gregory stood close behind the prisoner. Isabelle could feel his rifle’s muzzle pressed against her back, right behind her heart. He grabbed her upper left arm in a vise-like grip.
The elevator door slid open, and a well-dressed Frenchman stepped out. He walked over to the group of armed men with ease, stopping two yards away from them.
“Evening, gentlemen. I’m afraid I, ah, can’t let you take that young lady at this time,” Fournier said politely.
Gregory the Terrible snorted. “You overplayed your hand, Fournier, as Miss Vonstone predicted. And now you will face the consequences by watching me tear your associate apart. Both of you will accompany me to the pent—”
The lights went out. A flash-bang exploded at Gregory’s feet. He scoffed; his sensor gear was far too sophisticated for such primitive techniques to have any effect. He kept his focus on Fournier. Miss Vonstone told him the Frenchman was wily and full of surprises. He ground the barrel into the girl to remind her he was in charge. His men were on guard; none of them were fazed by the light show.
“I’m telling you, Fournier, you don’t have a chance against me.”
The Frenchman tipped his head and faded from sight.
If Gregory could still blink, he would have done so out of surprise. He pushed his gun into the back of his hostage with a growl but met no resistance. She faded from view as well.
“Spread out! Find them!” Gregory shouted.
No one moved.
The large bodyguard snarled and reached out to the nearest man to shove him, but his hand passed through the other like he was nothing more than mist.
Gregory found he couldn’t touch or talk to anyone. The elevator wouldn’t open. None of the doors would budge; they were as solid as a bank vault door suddenly. His communications were all silent, not even static or squelches. The big Russian pounded against the nearest immovable door, yelling a stream of Russian invectives.
Fournier led Isabelle downstairs and out into the lobby.
“I’m sorry, my dear, our cover has been, ah, blown. I need you to seek medical assistance from your law enforcement, just to be sure, and for Juan to fall back to a support role only for now while I, ah, deal with Miss Vonstone.”
“No, I’m the one who is sorry, Fournier. I thought I hadn’t tipped them off.” Isabelle’s accent was a mix of the local language and a slight Italian undertone. Fournier found it charming.
“Not to worry, this is always a risk in these, ah, situations. Leave the hotel and keep an eye out for anyone making a move against you. Inform your superiors of the situation—I’ll handle any recriminations about you being injured, should any arise—and have them on high alert. More police presence wouldn’t be, ah, untoward at this time. I insist, though, they stay out of the line of sight. We’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest, for certain. No reason to give them additional targets.”
“Understood.” Isabelle paused, then asked, “What did you do to Gregory?”
“Hmm? Oh, that over-engineered buffoon? He and his men are trapped in their own heads for the time being. I inserted a small virus; eventually, their systems will eliminate it and return to normal.”
Isabelle thanked the little Frenchman and left the building.
Juan, keep an eye on her. You have permission to fire if anyone so much as looks in her direction. The Flamingo is up one, but so are we, and a tie with him only makes him angry.
Roger. I have eyes on her.
At least, Fournier thought to himself, we know the Flamingo and Melissa Vonstone were working together, even if the reasons remained opaque.
Fournier returned to his room to pack. Whatever happened next, he was sure he wouldn’t be staying here after tonight. He’d have to check out and make plans elsewhere. Assuming he could make it out of the hotel. He had considered just leaving everything, but that felt like giving Jones a point.
Melissa Vonstone was waiting as soon as he entered. She stood with her arms crossed and a withering expression aimed at Fournier. The heiress had changed; she was wearing a jacket and loose pantsuit so white it was almost hard to look at, and her long hair was swept up into a bun.
“What did you do to Gregory?!” she snapped as soon as the door had closed. “He and his men are completely immobile.” Her voice was as cold as he had expected.
“Ah, Miss Vonstone. I wasn’t expecting you at this hour,” Blaise said mildly. He crossed over to the wet bar and poured two drinks. “We have much to discuss, whether you wish it or not.” He ignored the daggers she was shooting at him and her question about her bodyguards. He walked up and offered a glass. “The rum here is surprising. Much more floral than I had thought.”
She took the offered glass with a sniff, stalked over to one of the chairs and sat, crossing her right ankle over her left gracefully. “Talk, before I—”
Fournier shook his head. “Ah, I’m afraid none of your normal barging techniques will work. You cannot buy me or intimidate me.”
“Nonsense, every man has his price! That’s one constant in this world.”
“Indeed, but my price is beyond all your, ah, wealth. It was already paid by Another.”
“Oh, please. Spare me the sanctimonious bullshit.”
Fournier shrugged. “Nonetheless, it is the truth.”
She sipped the rum and made a face. “Foul.”
Fournier gave a little smile. “I told you it was surprising.” He sipped his and made a wry face. “Still as floral as before.” He sighed. “You would think an establishment such as this would offer better selections.”
“Oh, they do, just not to off-worlders.”
“Ah. Now, if you would be so kind as to answer a few of my questions.”
Miss Vonstone sat in silence, holding her drink as she studied the small man.
“I’m afraid this isn’t a request,” Fournier pressed. He wasn’t sure how long her bodyguards would remain out of commission, and he had no desire to engage in a firefight. That many men would press even his skills, and risk innocents being swept up into the crossfire. “What connection do you have with John Jones, known as the Flamingo?”
There was a slight elevation of her pulse, undetectable except to a trained Empath.
“Ah! He has your heart—”
“No!” she said with a slash of her white hand. Her pulse quickened again.
“He offers danger and challenge, something you have a slight addiction towards, no?”
She shook her head, mouth pursed shut.
“Hmm,” Fournier said as he studied her. “I must apologize for you becoming caught up in this game between us.”
“Game?” she asked, incredulously. “I know your history, I know what you asked John today. How can you call this a game?”
“Simple, my dear. If he was serious there would be gunfire. If I was serious, he’d be dead. No, your beloved is looking to prove himself against me.” He shook his head. “A fool’s errand, but until he is satisfied, here we find ourselves.” He spread out his arms, apologetically.
“Now I need to know about Gregory,” Vonstone said firmly as she mulled over what Fournier had said.
“They are all fine and should be back to normal before dawn’s rosy fingers touch this slice of paradise,” Fournier said with slight mockery. He was looking to see what emotional triggers he could apply at the right time.
The dagger appeared out of nowhere. Fournier’s reflexes saved him from being stuck; the weapon whistled past him within a hair’s breadth. Melissa threw herself behind her chair by executing a perfect backflip over the chair. She landed behind the chair almost silently.
“I see. Ah. Well, that was your choice,” Fournier said. He reached out to hack her mind but found nothing. Or rather, a slickness where he expected to find something. He set his drink down and dropped into a crouch on the balls of his feet. “Interesting.”
“I had to make sure killing you wouldn’t risk my men,” Vonstone said from behind the chair. She stood up, wielding a long sword with a single edge, slightly curved at the top. “Gregory is actually more kind than I am.” She slashed the air. “Now that you are out of tricks, I wonder how long you will last against me.”
Fournier smiled. “It’s been a while,” he admitted, “since I have been so, ah, misled. One last chance for you.”
The heiress laughed a cold laugh, like ice sliding down a glacier. She struck with all the speed of a snake, her sword point jumping at the Frenchman in a blur, like an arrow loosed to find its target. Fournier caught the blade in his suit jacket on his right side and let it pass through as he closed the distance. Instantly, the jacket fibers latched onto the blade, locking it into place. His open palm struck his opponent against her forehead with enough force to snap her head back. Wrapping the sword in his right arm, the material far stronger than the blade’s edge, he disarmed her in a single move. A front snap kick sent her against the wall and knocked the wind out of her.
Fournier disentangled the sword from his suit coat and examined it. “Superb workmanship. The poison on the edge was a, ah, thoughtful touch.” He pointed at the chair with the sword. “Now, please sit. I have much to tell you now that the little rage is, ah, out of your system.”
Unsteadily, Melissa staggered over and pulled herself into the chair. She found herself in a position she hadn’t been in many years—completely defeated by an opponent beyond her skills. She didn’t know if she hated the little Frenchman or respected him or both, but one thing was sure—she was curious. She was going to listen.