"Did she? She plays her own game. If he does know, then he is a better player than I would have dreamed and has had better training in controlling his emotions. I sense no power spikes such as Rebecca here is constantly sending off." The female sputtered until Winston Long held up a hand. She subsided, glaring. "If he knows me to be the enemy, then he is playing a dangerous game. I like it."
Jordan Ma was furious. "You are becoming bewitched by him. This will not do. We should remove you from this operation."
Peter snorted in derision. "The elders won't like it if you send me home. I will tell them what I know."
Rebecca stuck her face close to his. "Not if you cannot draw breath to tell them."
He didn't move even though her breath smelled aggressively of spearmint. He smiled, knowing he held a hand higher than hers. "Really? Are you really suggesting murder because I have colored outside the lines a little?" He ignored her. She was not the chief of the operation, after all. "I am not a fool, Jordan. I tell him nothing about what we are doing. I am no less useful to the assignment than I was when we arrived. But I am paying attention to what I am doing."
Winston Long grunted, "It is the Stockholm syndrome. You are befriending the enemy, hoping that you can work out some solution that will see us all survive the encounter."
Peter groaned elaborately.
"Old man, you watch too many movies. He confides in me. I don't confide in him."
"Then what information do you derive from these conversations?"
"The operation is close to collapse," Peter said, feeling reluctant to let the words escape his lips. Jordan's eyes gleamed. "I believe that except for what he left with, he has no assets remaining to him."
"But you have helped to fund him for another day!"
"Air is leaking out of the hole we have made. It does not matter how fast. It's still leaking, and soon it will be empty."
"But it could have been tomorrow! Now it could be next week, or the week after!"
"You know we could be going about this all wrong," Peter said, offering a thought that had been on his mind for days. "He could be an ally instead of an enemy."
Jordan made a slashing gesture with the edge of his hand. "No. He is the enemy if he can turn our own forces against us."
"I can help to arrange for an accident," Winston said. "It is much swifter than waiting for the bitter end, if you are so impatient." He turned to Peter. "And you had better not tip him off, or you will incur the same accident."
Rebecca came to sit on Peter's knee. "Just like the other one. It will be fun to watch another one die."
Peter raised his hands. "I am not keen to commit suicide. I just think you are misusing a potential asset. I would be inclined to allow Mai to continue on her tack. It would be better to have someone like Griffen McCandles in our operation than to destroy him. It would be like burning a work of art."
"Whether or not, it is our job," Jordan said. "The elders make the decision. We do not. You are doing well so far. Stick to the program. No more improvisation. If we bankrupt him and prevent him from running his operation, we can move in to take it over immediately. Do not prolong the endgame."
Rebecca looked smug that he was getting dressed down. Peter didn't care. "You are making a mistake," he said. "Am I the only one who can see it?"
"It doesn't matter what we see," Jordan said. "Our perception is not what matters, in the long run. The elders make the decision, and we carry out their wishes. Feel free to call them, Peter. I will tell them I said you may."
"I will call them!" Peter said.
Jordan shook his head. "It will change nothing. But if they tell you to follow my orders, I expect you to do so or suffer whatever consequences I wish. Do you understand?"
The other three sets of eyes bored into Peter. For the first time he actually felt fear, but his poker-playing self refused to show it. "I understand," he said. "And I will obey."
Val put her hands over her ears, but the horrible noise persisted. She backed away, but there was only so far she could go in the storeroom of the bar.
"Valerie, I only have your best interests in mind," Melinda said.
"I am not listening to you anymore," Val cried.
She had only glanced down for a moment to read a few lines from her latest book. The bar had been completely empty at three thirty. The last customer had drained the final drops from his beer, slapped a tip on the counter, and departed with a grin at her. Then, suddenly, the place was crawling with people. Men in suits, who looked as if they were packing, covered the doors, front and back. One closed the shutters over the windows and turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. Val had reached for the phone to call for help, but another besuited man had taken it from her and ripped the cord out of the wall--and up inside it for five feet. Plaster dust was still sifting down.
In the center of it all was a small, slightly overweight woman with reddish brown hair and a no-nonsense demeanor. She wore a two-piece suit of pebble-textured, mahogany fabric that shouted "money" at the top of its lungs. Her Stuart Weitzman shoes had five-inch heels, but they only brought the top of her head to just under Val's chin.
"Hello, Valerie," she said. "I'm Melinda."
Val's attempts to escape had only caused cascades of glasses and bottles to shatter on the floor everywhere in the bar. The coffered ceiling had scars in it, one from a head impacting the painted panels, and two from flying feet. Three chairs she had tried to use as bludgeons had been reduced to firewood, along with the table one of the men had landed on. It had been no use. She was desperately outnumbered. They had backed her slowly but inexorably behind the bar and into the storeroom, Melinda marching on her like Napoleon Bonaparte, whose face was on a brandy bottle not a foot from her shoulder. Then she had started talking.
Val screamed and fought, but there was no way out. Melinda had her where she wanted her at last.
". . . And you have to stop sleeping with every handsome man that goes past you! Why don't you have any self-respect? You're a beautiful girl. You're twenty-one years old. You should care more about yourself."
"I have self-respect," Val shouted back. "I've got a boyfriend!"
"A street thug? He's beneath you, Valerie," Melinda said. "A mongrel human. Nothing special."
That really inflamed her temper. Valerie straightened her shoulders, growing a foot taller in the cramped room. "Nothing special? Gris-gris IS special! He's a gentleman. He treats me like gold. He wooed me, unlike your 'special' son. If Nathaniel was really so wonderful, he wouldn't have had to use his talent on me, would he?"
"It's a dragon's way to take what she wants," Melinda pointed out. "You've done that, haven't you?"
A trifle guiltily, Val thought about the way that she and Gris-gris made love, with Val firmly in control. Melinda nodded.
"Yes, I know. It's none of my business. Then, on to what IS my business. You. You and this precious child you are carrying."
She glanced over her shoulder at the armed men in suits. Val went even more on guard. Melinda turned back. She smiled like a shark. But instead of moving closer, the men edged back. They were still between her and the door.
"What do you want?" Val asked.
"To give you a world of opportunity," Melinda said. "Come with me. Right now. I have a limousine waiting."
"No! You'll take me away. This is my life."
Melinda smirked. "Mai told you I'd kidnap you, didn't she? I can just guess what that little oriental bitch has been telling you. Make your own judgment! Are you a dragon?"
"Yes! That's what everyone keeps telling me!"
"Don't do that! Decide based on what you know, not what other people tell you. Here are the facts: I have been within reach for almost three months. Have I laid a single finger on you?"
Val paused before answering. "No."
"Am I coercing you to get in a car with me?"
"Well, no, but . . ."