The Royce Hotel loomed like a palace among towers, cloaked in golden light and buzzing with the luxury only the most powerful could afford. Its halls hosted elite politicians, high-profile executives, and covert operatives who moved money and influence behind thick velvet curtains.
Drek and I weren't technically on any list. But with forged business cards in hand, we didn't need to be. According to them, Drek was Rasto's senior adviser, and I was his assistant. Ridiculous, but effective—we'd used the same aliases when we first met Rasto.
We bypassed the front lobby and cut through the underground garage. When we reached the main entrance, two sharply dressed doormen stepped in our path.
"Identification, please," one said.
Drek handed over our forged cards. They took a good look, skeptical but silent.
"Are you on the guest list?" the second asked.
"No. This is confidential and requires Rasto's immediate attention." Drek said with a calm authority. The second man picked up a phone.
Inside, Rasto was reclining in a velvet booth surrounded by three women, halfway through a bottle of aged red wine. The call interrupted his buzz.
"Sir," the doorman said. "Two men are here—a blue-haired guy and a white-haired one. They say they're your advisers."
Rasto stiffened. He recognized us instantly.
"Let them in," he muttered, then downed another sip. "Fucking assassins."
We were led through the opulent lobby to a private lounge where Rasto waited, alone now, sweat forming at his brow despite the chilled air.
"Well, well," he said, forcing a smile. "I suppose you came to thank me for the paycheck."
We said nothing. I signaled the nearest waiter. "Ice water. One glass."
As the waiter retreated, I fixed my eyes on Rasto. "Why did you do it?"
"Do what? Mokel was a liability. I paid you, didn't I?"
"You know what I mean," I said coldly.
Rasto chuckled nervously. "You guys are intense."
The waiter returned with the water. I poured myself a glass, then leaned forward. A smile trailed on my lips.
"You double-crossed us." Drek said.
Rasto blinked. "You're mistaken."
I dropped a small device onto the table. A voice recorder.
"This is a modified version of our earlier conversation. One word from me, and you're behind bars for the rest of your life." Rasto's smile faded.
"Okay. We can't talk here."
"Where?"
He hesitated. "Country Garden. Tomorrow?"
"No. Now. Or I send this to the cops."
Rasto frowned. "I have a wife and two kid. They'll worry if I don't come home."
Drek leaned forward. "Then you better start cooperating or you could risk yourself explaining more than you expected."
We stood and left the hotel. Back in the car, Drek took the wheel while I waited in the back. Within minutes, Rasto emerged from the building, reluctant but cornered. He approached the car and climbed in beside me.
The drive was silent. Rasto brooded, and I imagined him scrambling for a way to save himself. Country Garden was a quiet government-maintained park, beautiful and abandoned at this hour—1:00 a.m. Such an ungodly hour.
Perfect for what came next.
We parked by a stone bench under a swaying willow. The moonlight bathed the lawn in pale silver.
"Start talking." Drek ordered.
Rasto exhaled, sinking onto the bench. "What do you want from me?"
"The truth. Who tipped off Mokel?"
"I didn't double-cross you."
"Then explain how Mokel knew we were coming. How he knew about the safe. How did you know exactly how much was inside."
Rasto tried to laugh it off. "Maybe he was paranoid."
"You fed him information. That's not paranoia."
Rasto hesitated, then finally cracked. "Okay. Look. You guys are dangerous. Effective. Worth paying for."
"Flattery won't help," I snapped. "Keep going."
"It wasn't about killing you. It was about ending your careers. Set you up to fail. With that safe, the alarm went straight to the police. Either you died, or got arrested. Either way—you were out."
"Who ordered it?"
He paused again. Then said the name:
"Solomon Wroth Wis."
The name didn't seem familiar to me, but I stored it. I had to find him.
"Why does he want us dead?" Drek asked.
"Because you deserve to die! Both of you!!"
Click.
Rasto now had a revolver drawn. Shaking, but deadly.
"You son of a bitch." I muttered, already pulling my gun out. I had anticipated this and I come prepared.
"I don't mind dying as long as I take you with me." Rasto said, teeth gritted.
We stared each other now. Drek stared in shock and he felt a tinge of betrayal. But as soon...
RAKATAAAH!!!
A single shot rang through the garden. Rasto's chest exploded in blood. He stumbled backward and fell flat, lifeless. His gun clattered uselessly.
I blinked. I hadn't fired. Drek hadn't either.
I scanned the shadows. A figure in a long coat disappeared into the trees, vanishing before I could raise my weapon.
"Let's move," I ordered.
We bolted to the car and sped off. I didn't need confirmation—I knew who was behind this. Only someone powerful enough to silence Rasto could afford to place an assassin that clean.
Solomon Wroth Wis. Whoever he was, he wasn't playing games. He was an entity.
As the city lights blurred past, I closed my eyes, dread settling in my gut. The war had begun.