CHAPTER THREE-1
735 Words
CHAPTER THREE
JON-LUC RAIA GLANCED down at the text message on his iPhone and frowned. The girl had hooked up with Honeybun. This was not good.
He quickly punched in a terse message with his thumbs and hit send. He slipped the phone into his tux pocket and headed out of his office, back to the party. As much as he’d like to take care of the little problem himself, he had an image to maintain.
And he had a meeting to reschedule.
Raia sighed as his lieutenant joined him in the corridor. Tamarat’s cold gaze fixed on him. “The American agents have been escorted out.”
Raia’s eyes flashed angrily. “Did they give you any trouble?”
“None. Diplomatic immunity is a beautiful thing, Mr. Raia.” The man grinned briefly. He wasn’t known for his sense of humor.
Raia entered the waiting elevator that would take him from his private rooms to the ball room, where he currently hosted several hundred people. His amusement of earlier that day—when he’d pondered the fact that, as they sipped Champagne and nibbled tasty tidbits, he plotted how to ruin their inconsequential lives—had faded. In its place was a familiar, nagging frustration that had taken up residence in his mind the day Alfric Honeybun was assigned to “escort” him around the country.
Nothing Raia had done had put the annoyingly persistent agent off his track. Running his business had become a chore, interspersed with tedium, colored by risk.
At first, Raia had been amused by the American’s singular focus. It wasn’t often he found an equal in an adversary. But the amusement had quickly dulled as he realized this particular American agent would not easily be side-stepped. And as the wealthy French businessman prepared to bring the culmination of a life’s work into play, Alfric Honeybun became too much of a risk to his plans.
The man had to die.
The elevator stopped and Tamarat slithered out first, Raia following. The two guards who’d been waiting on either side of the elevator, armed to the teeth with a well-hidden armory of weapons, fell in behind Raia, cocooning him in a protective layer of guards.
Raia accepted a fresh glass of Champagne from a passing waiter and stood, watching the frivolous, stupid swarm of guests boiling around him. He enjoyed his peace for a moment, reluctant to go back to performing as host again.
Turning to Tamarat, he asked, “Is there anything left of the girl’s car?”
The other man shook his head. “It’s an unrecognizable mess. Our men removed the plate and her purse. It should take the police a while to figure out who the car belonged to.”
Raia nodded. “Pity, we had to resort to such measures.” He lamented the loss of the beautiful artist, she’d been a nice distraction as well as a gentle buffer against the other guests. He sighed, taking a large drink from the crystal goblet in his hand. He’d had such delicious plans for the young woman too. But she would have to be killed. The information she could give Honeybun about Raia’s operation was much too dangerous.
Raia frowned. And he’d lose time replacing her special talents in his operation. The Mayor of nearby Indianapolis spotted him and waved, weaving his way toward Raia with a smile on his corpulent face.
Raia cringed inwardly, his mind running through the excuses he could make to rid himself of the fat American as quickly as possible. He barely noticed when one of his guards approached Qamra Tamarat and spoke in hushed tones.
When the guard left, Tamarat turned to him. “The agent who was posing as a bartender is waiting in the conference room to...speak...with you, Sir.”
Raia nodded. “I’ll be heading there shortly. I can’t take much more of this.” He turned as the pudgy mayor finally shoved his way through the crowd and approached him with an outstretched hand. “Mr. Raia. Wonderful party as always.”
Raia knew his smile would appear genuine. He was very good at acting his part. “Mr. Mayor, how are you?”
His phone vibrated with a new text message. Raia hoped that meant his men were reporting the unfortunate demise of a pesky American spy and a beautiful local artist.
The thought widened his smile and the mayor reacted by becoming even more effusive. Raia’s teeth hurt from the tedium of dealing always and forever with idiots. He longed to return to his room and indulge in a fine snifter of brandy and a Cuban cigar. But, for the moment, he had a mayor to escape and a soon-to-be-dead agent waiting in his interrogation room.
Busy, busy.
A terrorist’s work is never done.
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- Writer
