Black Tie: Book One of the Sparrow Archives

by Kieran Strange

  “Oh, I’m not his girlfriend,” Lara called after him brightly. “I was his four o’clock.”

  ... Goddammit. Of course you were, Cabe thought, grumbling a little to himself as he pressed the button for the elevator and impatiently awaited the car. So, that’s what Elliot had meant when he said the important meeting he’d rushed away from Cabe to attend was... business-casual. And had started at the exact same time as the protest downstairs, which Cabe was really trying to pretend Elliot couldn’t have known about, let alone planned for and gotten off to.

  At least so far, Anomaly or not, Elliot Wright was doing a wonderful job of living up to his reputation perfectly.

  Four

  Someone in Elliot Wright’s Personnel Department must have told him that the journalist from TIME magazine he was meeting for evening drinks was both female and attractive, because he had been dressed to the nines when he met Cabe at the enclosed elevator (which Cabe had requested at the security meeting that Elliot take from now on when moving between floors). The toned frame Elliot had so shamelessly displayed beneath the damp V-neck earlier was now wrapped in a perfectly-tailored, pale gray suit, with a crisp white shirt and matching tie. His hair was brushed up into soft, cappuccino-colored waves, making him look much more like the well-groomed socialite Cabe had seen in photographs and videos online. The watch Elliot was wearing probably cost more than Cabe earned in a year.

  As much as the British-American agent hated suits, he’d always believed what Flint had told him years ago that it was impossible for a man to ever feel destitute whilst wearing one. Clearly, Flint had never stood in the shadow of someone like Elliot Wright.

  Also, Cabe noted as he approached the bar, someone in W.A.R.D. must have told the team that Mr. Wright preferred the company of redheads (oh – right – it was Cabe), because Agent Dasilva’s locks had been given a crimson color wash, turning them a dark, dark, dark wine-red that suited her almost too much and made her look about twelve times as deadly. Well, to someone who knew what she was capable of, at least. She had stood up as Elliot, Emiko, and Cabe had entered the lounge, her lean body wrapped in a black cocktail dress that exaggerated the curves she had, and offered Elliot one perfectly-manicured hand.

  “Mr. Wright,” she greeted him cordially, “it’s a genuine pleasure.”

  “Ms. Santos, it’s a rare and genuine pleasure, honestly.” Elliot took her hand and shook it much like he would have done a man’s, but with more delicacy. Cabe tilted his head silently, having expected him to kiss the back of each finger or something equally as revolting and cheesy.

  Even if Elliot was gay, there was no way Cabe would ever be caught dead in his oversized, overly-plush, likely overly-active bed. The idea of doing anything to fluff the man’s ego even more made him feel physically sick.

  “I’m going to assume I don’t have to make sure anybody gets fired here for treating you badly, right?” the young executive asked as he sat down, claiming the seat next to the one Dasilva had been occupying. Emiko, who hadn’t said two words to Cabe since they had left the WrightTech building, nudged his shoulder as she squeezed by him.

  “I have some e-mails that need my attention. I’ll be sitting at the other end of the bar.”

  Cabe nodded. “If anything kicks off, our first priority is to stay calm. Chances are, anybody who might think to approach Mr. Wright tonight is either going to do so out of admiration or ego –”

  “Look, I don’t need to know the details,” the personal assistant replied in a bored voice. “If anything ‘kicks off’, I’ve already been briefed by Mr. Wright on how I am supposed to act. You just worry about getting him back to his condo in one piece.”

  Emiko turned on the tip of her black kitten heel and disappeared between the bodies of the other patrons, reappearing at the far side of the long bar and taking a seat in the corner. Cabe half-lidded his eyes; she was like an angry Flint, with a brain that never switched ‘off’. And she was totally about to sit in one of Portland’s most upscale cocktail bars at ten o’clock on a Friday evening answering work e-mails.

  The rustic design of these places, with their old red-brick walls and exposed plumbing and ventilation reminded him of some of the more poverty-stricken places he had visited back home in north London. It always baffled him how the cool crowd this side of the Atlantic praised everything he had grown to know as decrepit and slovenly. Still, he could see why -- there was an oddly warm, homey feel to it, especially after being immersed in a glass and metal purgatory for the past six hours.

  The bar was loud, and Cabe had to strain his ears to hear anything happening next to him over the bizarrely pleasant din. At the front of the venue, a decent-sized raised stage swathed in black curtains boasted a lively, all-female jazz-pop group from somewhere in Europe given their thick accents. It was hard to focus on his charge instead of the way the girl currently singing was fingering the shit out of her enormous stand-up bass in the most aggressively sexual way.

  “– obviously been reeling all day after your announcement this morning,” Dasilva was saying, having laid the Zoom handheld recorder on the bar between herself and the executive. Apparently the flirting and niceties were over and they were down to business. “Have you been reeling today too? Or has it just been another normal day in the world of Elliot Wright?”

  “Oh, Gabriella, there are no normal days in the world of Elliot Wright.” The insufferably conceited young celebrity was smirking as their drinks arrived, and the bartender turned to Cabe.

  “Sir, Mr. Wright has told me you’re on his bill?”

  Cabe clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Did Elliot expect him to drink while he was on duty?

  Ah, shit, he thought. It’s gonna be one of those jobs, isn’t it?

  “Surprise me,” Cabe replied coolly. If Elliot was going to challenge him to enjoy a little alcohol while his life was on the line, then Cabe was going to react in a way that told the sneaky bastard his new bodyguard was more than comfortable with his abilities even when he wasn’t entirely sober. “Something sweet. Without tequila in it.”

  The bartender nodded and moved away, and Cabe went back to eavesdropping on Elliot’s interview with TIME magazine’s Gabriella ‘Santos’.

  “Was there a reason you came out about this now,” she was asking, leaning forward on her barstool as if completely consumed by his raw, palpable masculinity, “or was this completely spontaneous? It’s not as if this is the first time you’ve called a huge press conference with absolutely no prior planning or notice.”

  “I’d been thinking about it for a while,” Elliot said, and if he was lying, he was a brilliant liar. “But the press conference itself was spur of the moment. I’ve always been annoyingly impulsive, or at least so my publicity team tells me.”

  “Do you think it was in some way your response to the rumors that WrightTech is anti-Anomaly?”

  Elliot half-lidded his eyes with a snort of laughter. “It’s no secret that, over the years, my company has donated millions of dollars to several different United Nations and government sponsored plans for humanity’s response to the Anomaly issue. The thing is, this day and age everyone and their dog thinks that big corporations and governments are only capable of evil acts. They forget that there are people who became part of the system because they want to change it. The acts and protocols I sponsored were things like the Vienna Code – things that were being put in place to protect Anomalies just as much as the rest of the populace.”

  Cabe crinkled his nose but, because he was on assignment, bit back his brutally honest opinion about the Vienna Code. After the case of an Austrian Anomaly who was killed in jail at the hands of his wardens and state officials, the Vienna Code was drawn up to ensure Anomalies worldwide were treated as human beings, whilst ensuring their powers were kept in check.

  It had received both praise and criticism from both sides of the issue as well as the unbiased middle-ground, but in Cabe’s eyes, it had been ignored too much by the powers-th
at-be in the United States when it came to an Anomaly’s rights over a non-Anomaly’s. And until the UN or another all-governing power started to make it mandatory worldwide, if they ever did, there wasn’t really anything other than morality to encourage a country to follow it to the letter.

  The Code itself was extensively long-winded, but in the end, it came down to six basic articles:

  [ART. 1]: An Anomaly does not have the right to use their recently-developed abilities without a license from their country, state, or province's official governing office.

  [ART. 2.]: Even with a license, an Anomaly does not have the right to use their recently-developed abilities on any living creature, or in a way that may lead to the harm or grievance of any living creature, even in self-defense.

  [ART. 3.]: An Anomaly should be granted the basic human rights extended to other members of their own country’s populace. These rights may extend to freedom, marriage, voting, universal medical care, and the right to a fair trial.

  [ART. 4.]: If an Anomaly who has been legally and rightfully arrested and attempts to use their recently-developed abilities whilst in captivity, they may be restrained in any such way which would render them incapable of using said abilities, provided the method does not cause prolonged pain, suffering, or death.

  [ART. 5.]: The status of being an ‘Anomaly’ does not immediately equate a person with a ‘terrorist’, ‘cult’, or ‘hate group’; only those acting within the guidelines of what would otherwise be classified as a terrorist, cult, or hate-group are to be prosecuted as such.

  [ART. 6.]: If any judge or state official wishes to challenge any of the first five articles, they must bring their argument before their country’s highest governing body.

  “Well, you can always leave it to the masses to misconstrue the truth,” Dasilva agreed, folding one long leg over the other. Neither man missed the way the slit of her dress parted just enough to allow one firm, toned thigh to become slightly visible to them. “I think I read on Twitter this morning that this is all part of WrightTech’s holiday marketing campaign?”

  Both of Elliot’s neat, dark eyebrows shot up and he laughed with no lack of confidence. “Judging by the hilarity of that statement, I’m going to guess Stephen Colbert or Bill O’Reilly. America has nothing to fear, Ms. Santos, I’m not about to start any rumors that Jesus was an Anomaly or try to ‘put the superpowers back into Christmas’. I’m just one man making a statement.”

  “Well, it was quite the statement, we’ll simply say that. What about within the business world? Have you encountered much resistance while working today?”

  “Resistance builds character,” the executive said with a light chuckle, lifting his cocktail to his lips and taking a sip. “But no, the majority of my business associates know where they stand with me, and I with them, or we wouldn’t still be doing business.”

  Cabe frowned as his drink – something blue in a Martini glass – finally arrived in front of him. Apparently, he wasn’t to be served with as much efficiency and gusto as Mr. Wright and his guest. Given the fact that Elliot had recently revealed that he was clairvoyant, he doubted very much that, out of the hundreds of companies and organizations WrightTech counted as clientele, none of them had voiced even the slightest discomfort with their business alliance. Which meant there was a chance Elliot was lying – either to save face, or simply to preserve any rocky relationships.

  Cabe made very brief, very discreet eye contact with Dasilva. He could read her like a graphic novel by now; she, too, had noticed the likely bold-faced lie.

  “Yes, I’ve noticed you tend to take your business relationships very seriously, Mr. Wright – a quality I definitely admire.” Dasilva smiled at him, warm and reverent.

  “Glad to know you’ve been admiring me,” Elliot said shrewdly over the top of his cocktail glass, and Dasilva laughed coyly in response. Cabe had to snort at how smooth the bastard was. This conversation had to be killing Dasilva, whose inability to tolerate alpha machismo was second only to Ronnie’s sister from what Cabe had witnessed in his life.

  “What about your relationship with your workforce, Mr. Wright? I’ve seen many WrightTech employees describe the atmosphere as akin to a family or street neighborhood, one even called it similar to Greek community?”

  “Wait, was that the same one who called me the King of the Frat Boys?” Elliot asked with another chuckle, nursing his beverage. “I definitely encourage a positive working environment at WrightTech. So many excellent employees are lost annually in corporations like mine because they’re simply not happy with their benefits or their company’s political views. It’s one of the reasons I enjoy my charity and philanthropy work so much. I want my employees to know that the hard, cold cash they earn me in company profits goes to do good things, not just topping up the gold flakes that keep dissolving in my hot tub because of the chemicals.”

  “Are you concerned that your recent actions may cause some employees to disagree with your political views?”

  “Not really. According to Forbes, my company has been one of the top ten employers in America for five years running. If people want to pack their desks up and abandon their big fat benefit packages because their C.E.O. believes all human beings deserve equal rights, they’re more than welcome to do so. Our H.R. department never has any trouble putting asses in seats when necessary.”

  Cabe was so entranced in the conversation, he had forgotten what his main duty in the bar was that evening: to ensure Elliot Wright’s safety while he was out, from both the press and the general public. Due to Elliot’s personal relationship with the bouncers at the door, none of the former would be able to bother them while they were in the lounge at least, but that still left everyday people who were out on the town after a long week at work. This was a celebrity hotspot and most of the patrons were fairly chill, but that didn’t give him any excuse to slack off.

  “– don’t have any family left since your father passed away seven years ago,” said Dasilva, her familiar voice fading in and out of Cabe’s focus as his hawk-like eyes scanned the rest of the cocktail bar. “Do you turn to friends in this time for comfort, or do you share a close relationship with any of your employees?”

  Cabe grinned silently to himself, imagining numerous possible responses to that question which would make it difficult to keep a straight face. Elliot, of course, never failed to deliver when the opportunity arose, and his response was totally satisfactory in Agent Sparrow’s opinion.

  “I am a certainly man who appreciates a good close relationship with my employees every now and then, Gabriella. But typically there are contracts and N.D.A.s involved, which sadly for us hinder my ability to gossip about them just as much as the other party.” Elliot’s eyes glittered impishly. “Why, are you interested? You wouldn’t be the first, but I have to fully disclose up front that you won’t find any extra dirt between the cushions of my couch.”

  Dasilva’s glossy lips parted as a bright laugh lifted from her chest, a sound that – despite how brilliantly simulated it was – Cabe immediately knew to be fake. He wondered how much she was having to hold herself back from sending the cool, conceited asshole crashing into the vast wall of colorful liquor behind the bar. Her self-control was an incredible, remarkable thing.

  Still, it was worth it. They were gaining valuable insight into exactly how Elliot Wright was composing himself to the press and the general public not twenty-four hours after the announcement, exactly what the mask he wore for the media was made of. Of course, the interview would end up in TIME, W.A.R.D. had the contacts to make it happen, but that wasn’t the main objective of this part of the gig.

  All they wanted to do was figure out how volatile he was. Or how ignorant.

  “All right then, Mr. Wright,” said Dasilva, pretending to compose herself. “I won’t pry… I definitely wouldn’t want you to think I was showing you anything less than professional courtesy here.”

  “Ditto, beautiful.”

  The flirting wa
s both grating, and amusing. He knew it had to be eating her up inside to play ball with this self-obsessed creep. Cabe sipped his fruity drink and did another visual sweep of the bar.

  “Mr. Wright, you said this morning that you, in your own words, ‘fully intend to use this gift for the betterment of humanity’.” Dasilva’s fingernails were playing over her lips as she spoke, a deliberate attempt at distracting him as he listened to and answered the question. “What does that mean exactly? Have you actually seen things that could change the course of our entire future as a race?”

  Cabe shifted a bit on the wooden-backed barstool, straining his ears over the din of music and raised voices. He actually needed to hear this. Not because he anticipated that Elliot would tell the truth and he was going to rely on this for an actual, factual answer, but because he wanted to know how Elliot was going to react if somebody asked him that exact question.

  In a world where Anomalies were feared and distrusted, admitting that you could see the future of humanity was not recommended. At least not for a sane human being who didn’t want to be whisked away into a top-security government cell. Which meant that Elliot’s reply would dictate whether or not this question made print.

  “Ms. Santos,” Elliot said soberly, his voice dropping to a low, husky undertone, and Cabe had to struggle to make out each word he whispered. He leaned in close to the burgundy-haired Latina woman, and two of his long, elegant fingers extended to muffle the two directional mics on the handheld recording unit.

  “If I had seen anything like what I imagine you’re imagining, I doubt very much I would still have this level of freedom. I think I would’ve been carted away long before now. And believe me, you don’t want to be heard even asking that question, nor be known to have that question and its answer on a tape on your person.” One arctic-blue eye closed in a wink. “So let’s just sip our drinks, get a little more buzzed, and pretend that question was never asked at all.”