His Sword

by Holly Hart

  The deadline somehow makes what I’ve agreed to seem more real in my mind, and I realize my confidence has been an act.

  The Chase itself will be easy, I know that much. But that talk about an auction? It makes me think of the scene in Taken, where women are sold like cattle to the highest bidder. Of course, I’ve seen worse in my time working in the shadowy corners of the world.

  I never expected to experience it myself. And certainly not voluntarily.

  I leave the office and close the secret door behind me. Wine isn’t going to cut it this time, so I pull a bottle of Jack Daniels from the sideboard in the living room. I pour myself two fingers and knock it back in a single shot.

  There’s no turning back now.

  Chapter Ten

  10. CARSON

  The Regent is a boutique hotel on the Upper East Side that never advertises, has no listing online, and is always full.

  Basically, if you don’t know someone who knows someone, you’re better off not even knowing it exists, because you’ll never get in. And if you do get in, you won’t see a price anywhere, because the kind of people who hang out here never see their own bills.

  I take a sip from my glass and savor the smooth, rich smokiness of the 1926 Macallan single-malt scotch. The décor in the Regent’s bar looks like it hasn’t changed since the 1920s; it’s just been maintained like new. It’s all ebony and leather, with white highlights like lace tablecloths and giant ostrich feathers in gold vases.

  I’m wearing a tailored Tom Ford tuxedo and I still feel underdressed.

  The second my appointment walks in, I know exactly who she is, because she looks right at home. A full-length red dress hugs her curves and the room’s discreet lighting turns her long blonde curls into spun gold. She sashays straight to my table and sits down before I have a chance to fully stand up.

  “We can dispense with the formalities,” she says with a smile. Her voice betrays just the slightest hint of an accent. “No need to be out in the open any longer than absolutely necessary, given the nature of our discussion. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I would,” I say. I feel like I’m in a scene from some old noir movie with Humphrey Bogart.

  The waitress arrives and silently places a double martini with three olives in front of my companion. She’s obviously a regular here.

  “Maksim – ”

  She arches an eyebrow and raises a red-tipped finger.

  “No names,” she says. “If you say another, I’m afraid our time here is done.”

  I nod in apology. I’m not used to being chided, not anymore. It’s almost… tantalizing. “Of course. Forgive me.”

  “Our mutual acquaintance says you are looking to become part of our friendly little game.”

  Friendly little game. That description makes the whole thing seem even more lewd, if that’s even possible.

  “I am,” I say.

  “The buy-in is twenty, due in full before the twenty-seventh of this month. You will be given instructions on the transaction.”

  I assume that means untraceable Internet transfer, possibly Bitcoin. I can do that. I have a couple hundred million in a slush fund that I use for purposes that might not meet the approval of my accountants. Twenty million would be a full ten percent of my rainy day fund, gone in an instant.

  “That’s a serious amount of money,” I say.

  Her smile widens and she places her hands on the arms of the chair to stand.

  “It was very nice to meet you,” she says sweetly, and suddenly I see everything falling apart.

  “Wait,” I say. “That was incredibly crass of me. I apologize.”

  She returns to her seat as if nothing happened, but I definitely know where I stand now. A tingle runs down my spine. The way my body’s reacting is confirming what I already knew – this “friendly little game” is going to be exactly what I needed to recharge myself.

  “Upon acceptance, you will be given a dossier with information on your quarry. No names, obviously, or physical characteristics. Just enough about the quarry’s habits, environment, and background for you to create a profile.”

  Quarry. That’s even more lewd. Enough so that I actually feel a twitch under my tailored slacks.

  “The Chase will begin at midnight on July 30 and continue until midnight on August 13, or until the quarry is caught. Capture automatically ends the Chase for all competitors. No second place; winner takes all.”

  “How many others am I competing against?”

  She smiles and takes a sip of her martini. I guess that answers that question.

  “Each competitor will be given the key to a room in this hotel,” she says. “If and when you believe you’ve located the quarry, you will give her your key. If she is, indeed, the one, she will accompany you to the room to complete the game. If she is not, the Chase is over for you.”

  Wow, that really is winner take all. I mull it over as I finish my scotch.

  “What’s in it for her?” I ask.

  “Money,” she says with the look of a mother indulging a toddler.

  “A small fraction of what your associates will net, I’m sure.”

  Another smile. “Wealth is relative.”

  “So what stops her from just holing up somewhere for two weeks?”

  “She – and the competitors – will be closely monitored. Any deviation from the rules will be dealt with immediately and decisively. My associates pride themselves on the integrity of the Chase.”

  Jesus. Suddenly this is becoming real. Do I really want to be that involved with a Russian mobster? And drop twenty million in the process? Am I really that bored?

  The answer, absolutely, is yes. This isn’t so much about completing the game, as she puts it, but the game itself.

  “What can you tell me about the, uh, quarry?”

  She tilts her head and brings her palms together, clasping them like a chef describing a particularly rare feast.

  “I’m delighted to say that, just last night, we secured our most challenging lady yet. Her curriculum vitae includes one of the South’s top military colleges as her alma mater – graduating top of her class after only three years – and almost a decade of counter-intelligence and black ops fieldwork for off-the-books agency branches.”

  Hello.

  This is what I’ve been waiting for. This is why I’m willing to put up a small fortune.

  “One more thing,” my companion says with a leer that inspires a little blood flow in my nether region. “I’ve seen her, and she is truly stunning.”

  “As stunning as you?” I say automatically. Apparently, I just can’t turn it off anymore.

  She flashes me a sweet smile as she stands up. “You flatter me. But I’m afraid fraternization is strictly against the rules. You understand.”

  I understand that I can’t remember the last time I was turned down by a woman. It feels oddly exhilarating. At once a challenge and a warning.

  “You will be contacted shortly with more information,” she says, draining her martini and gathering up her purse. “Please be prepared.”

  I stand to see her off. “I will,” I say. “It’s been a great pleasure meeting you.”

  “And you. Good luck.”

  With that, she’s gone.

  I sit back down and wave to the waitress for another scotch. She anticipated my order and already has a new glass, which she sets in front of me. I slip her a crisp portrait of Benjamin Franklin – a tip, you never actually see the bill at the Regent – and she leaves me to my thoughts.

  Next thing I know, my fingers are tented under my chin and I’m in full analysis mode. Let’s recap, shall we? I need to track down a stunning needle in the haystack of New York City before an unknown number of fellow billionaires with equal, or perhaps ever greater, resources beat me to the punch.

  How hard can it possibly be?

  Chapter Eleven

  11. CARSON

  Normally, the Boom Boom Room is enough of a distraction to make it wort
h my time. On any given night, you’ll see billionaires – or at least their heirs, like Maksim here – and a handful of A-list celebrities wandering around in the red neon glow. At the very least, you’ll see a Kardashian or two.

  But tonight, I’m not paying attention. All I can think about is the Chase.

  Maks is dressed in his usual club outfit: black slacks and a charcoal satin shirt, open practically to his solar plexus, three gold chains dangling against the curly pelt of his chest. I love the guy, but if you looked up “Eurotrash” in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of him.

  I’m a little more subtle: light gray seersucker suit for the summer heat. Tailored, naturally, for my physique. Even top-of-the-line suits off the rack invariably fit too tightly in the chest, shoulders and arms.

  Our companions, as usual, are friends of Maks. As I said, people tend to flock to him. Especially when I’m paying, which is always.

  Tonight, it’s a buxom brunette with stunning blue eyes, and a willowy blonde who looks a little like Taylor Swift after a boob job. They do have two things in common: they’re both lawyers, and I’ve barely said a word to either all night.

  I’m not trying to be a dick, but right now, if they’re not former intelligence operatives, then I’m simply not interested. My mind is consumed by the Chase, alive with excitement and possibility.

  Maksim leaves the girls talking with each other and slides down the bench to greet me with an arm around the shoulder.

  “Tovarishch,” he says with a grin. “Your mind is not here this evening. I think I know where it is being, though. Yes?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper. “And you better hope your uncle doesn’t know, either. He may have eyes on us right now.”

  His eyes go wide and the blood drains from his face. Just as quickly, the old Maks is back and he’s laughing theatrically.

  “Oh, my friend!” he hoots. “You are making the best jokes! ‘Santa only comes once a year!’ I get it!”

  I can’t help but admire the guy – he’s nothing if not adaptable. He goes back to the girls, who send disapproving looks in my direction. I’d like to tell them the old Seinfeld line – it’s not you, it’s me – but how would I follow that up? “Sorry, I just paid twenty million bucks to chase an anonymous woman and take her virginity”?

  I’m guessing that would be a conversation stopper.

  I glance at my Rolex. It’s been almost forty-eight hours since my meeting with Red Dress at the Regent. She said I’d be contacted with information on how to make my payment. I scan the Boom Boom Room for potential underworld types, wondering if one of them will approach me.

  Most of the people in the club are in their twenties, probably spending a month’s pay for a single night of dancing and rubbing elbows with the beautiful people. I see an aging Real Housewives “star” in the middle of a group of young people, acting like she’s their age instead of her actual forty-seven years.

  All of it combines to make me suddenly tired of the whole thing. I pull my billfold from my jacket and drop a stack of hundreds on the table.

  Maksim frowns. “You are not leaving already?” he says. “The party is just yet beginning!”

  Another disappointed look from his companions, so I amble to their side of the booth and lean in close. I take one hand from each in my own and place a kiss on both.

  “Ladies,” I say with a smile. “Please don’t take this as having anything to do with you. You’re both absolutely charming, but I’m afraid I have a pressing… business matter that needs my immediate attention. I hope we can do this again soon, when I have more time to get to know you.”

  They both sigh as I let go of their hands. Behind them, Maks is shaking his head and applauding silently. Slick, that look says. Or, in Maks-speak, Sliding.

  I make my way through the crowd as the lights strobe and the bass thumps, taking in more of tonight’s clientele. As I approach the VIP section, I recognize a handful of gentlemen from the upper rungs of the socioeconomic ladder. Some of them are close to my spot, if Forbes’ rankings are to be believed.

  But are any of them my competitors?

  The thought sparks a little pang of cockiness in me. So what if they are? They may have my kind of money, but none of them have my kind of brain. All of them inherited their standing; I earned every penny in my bank account, just like I earned the muscles under this suit.

  As I emerge from the club, the night air on Washington Street is filled with the smells of street vendors and exhaust, the sounds of sirens and laughter and music. I wave at the street in an attempt to get one of the yellow cabs to pull over and take me back to my penthouse.

  One of them slows down and pulls alongside a Porsche parked at the curb. As I move to take a step toward it, I see a huge shadow out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head to catch one of the largest humans I’ve ever seen – easily a head taller than me and a hundred pounds heavier – stride past me on the sidewalk. The material of his suit could upholster a small sofa.

  As he passes, he leans down slightly and places something on the concrete before moving on. I look down and see it’s a black leather valise.

  Stenciled into the opening flap at the top are the words Chase & Regent.

  My heart skips a beat. This is it.

  The cabbie toots at me to remind me how valuable his time is. I look up to see the giant has somehow blended into the crowd already. What level of skill must it take to hide that kind of bulk in a matter of seconds?

  I recall what Red Dress said about us being monitored and I wonder if I even want to know.

  I snatch up the case and hurry to the cab. As I slide into the back seat, I have to resist the urge to just yank it open and go through its contents right here and now.

  “Where to?” the cabbie asks.

  I give him the address of my Park Avenue penthouse. “There’s a $1,000 tip in it if you get me there in under thirty minutes.”

  I have to grab the case to keep it from toppling off the seat as the cab screeches off into the night.

  Chapter Twelve

  12. CASSANDRA

  I check my phone for the umpteenth time today to see if I’ve somehow missed the ding that indicates a new message. Nope. Just like all the other times I’ve looked at it so far today. Outside the living room window, I see the night sky of Manhattan lit up like the world’s most expensive Christmas tree.

  The little Netflix logo appears on the screen of my Macbook with the message: “Are you still watching Scandal?” Obviously I haven’t been paying attention – I can’t even tell you what season has been playing, let alone what the current episode is about.

  Of course, Scandal isn’t the easiest show to follow at the best of times, and this is far from the best of times.

  I exit the program and am greeted by the desktop photo: a beautiful beach in Bora Bora. I traveled all over the world in my job, but I never got to see a place like Bora Bora. The only sand I ever got to see was in the desert.

  Sigh.

  I check the phone again without thinking. My work computer is rigged to alert my phone whenever a new message comes in from the Chase’s website, but still nothing. And it’s almost midnight.

  My nerves are starting to fray. I’ve been more confident hunkered down in a rathole in the Middle East than I am right now, waiting for this message. What if it’s all fallen apart somehow? I don’t think I could take that. To come so far with this, only to see it disappear like smoke in the wind…

  I need a distraction.

  Before I can stop it, my thumb slides around the track pad and clicks on a file folder called “Sandra’s Stuff.” Inside is a folder of videos.

  I know where my subconscious is going and I’m helpless to do anything about it. Suddenly the screen is filled with the image of two awkward teens mugging for the camera. In the lower right corner is a date stamp from thirteen years ago.

  This isn’t going to help me at all. This is just wallowing. But I don’t stop
it. Can’t stop it.

  The girl is all red curls and freckles, the boy skinny with hair that looks like it was shorn by a military barber. They’re standing beside a roll-up banner welcoming all students to the seventeenth annual high school science fair. Behind them, a contraption covers most of the white plastic table on which it sits.

  The girl holds up a large gold medal to the camera. The boy nabs it from her and bites down on it like an Olympian on the podium. She giggles with delight.

  So do I. Just like I did back then.

  “Tell everyone what you made,” my dad’s voice says from behind the camera.

  “It’s just a scale model of a nuclear reactor,” the boy says blandly, like he’s describing a mildly interesting rock he found at the beach. Meanwhile, the girl looks at the boy the way teens gaze adoringly at posters of Justin Bieber these days.

  He glances over at her and catches her staring. She blushes, flustered. Behind the camera, Dad clears his throat.

  “All right, that’s enough filming. Mom’s waiting for us at the restaurant.”

  The boy swoops in and kisses the girl on her freckled cheek an instant before the screen becomes filled with white static and the video file ends.

  Smart, my brain tells me. I’m waiting on information about the stranger who’s going to be the first man to take me to bed, so what do I do? Watch a video of the first and only boy I’ve ever kissed. The only one I’ve ever cared about.

  Sometimes I wonder if all my intelligence somehow pushed the common sense out of my brain.

  The sharp rap at my front door sets the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Who the hell is here at this time of night? And why tonight, of all nights?

  I place the Macbook on the sofa and take a calming breath, running my hands down my blouse to smooth out the wrinkles before striding to the door. Cool and calm. Olivia Pope, that’s me.

  There’s no one there.

  On the hallway carpet is a slim leather travel case with the words Chase & Regent stenciled on the top.