His warning did not make an impression. Connor and Kaz advanced to within the butt of their rifles. Connor pulled on his cigar with a theatrical flourish and blew a steady stream of smoke at the one least intimidated.
“We have business everywhere,” Connor said. “Allow us to pass. We intend to meet with Estefan and his family.”
“You may not, sir. Lord Estefan requires an appointment. That applies even to Cauldron emissaries.”
Connor gave the man credit. He was earning his pay.
Nonetheless, Connor pushed the rifle down.
“Tagged them?” He asked Kaz, who answered according to plan.
“Done.”
“Then I’ll be blunt, dutiful senors. The Cauldron has tagged you.” He tapped the edge of his glasses. “If you stand in our way, you will be dead by the morning. After the ghosts take you, they will move on to your families. Be smart. Allow us to pass.”
Two guards backed away, each with a lump in their throat and beads of forehead sweat. Mr. Steadfast stared at them with obvious disdain but did not raise his rifle.
“You will not enter unannounced,” he said. “You will wait here until I speak with Lord Estefan.”
He expected the guards to fold, but this wasn’t much of a snag.
“I’ll give you sixty seconds to report back. Otherwise, your friends die, and you’ll follow. Good?”
Not much of a choice.
“Who should I say is calling?”
“An emissary of Almando Bache. Tell Estefan the news I bring will change the future of Catalan.”
If the guard was impressed, he didn’t show it.
“And what is your name?”
“I’m not important. Only the message. Tell him now, or the three of you and your families will be dead before sunrise.”
The guard wasn’t an idiot, so he complied. Yet he never turned his back while retreating through the door. His compatriots took a now-familiar stance and lowered their eyes.
The cowed behavior surprised Connor. The Cauldron’s influence had waned since Black Star and other cartels moved into many of Catalan’s most profitable districts. The guards’ surrender felt almost pro forma – like something taught to them since early childhood.
Was it the mystery of who these people were? How they reached this lofty status? Was it wonderment about what they carried inside the trench coat? Perhaps it was the insane confidence they exuded.
Cauldron agents followed an ages-old practice of never drawing first. Legends told of agents who, when surrounded by well-armed enemies, somehow survived hails of gunfire and crushed their enemy.
Legends. Myths. Propaganda.
All Connor and Kaz knew: Had they exited the lift with pistols drawn, the guards would’ve known they were frauds.
Stick to the script.
Mr. Steadfast returned less than a minute later.
“Lord Estefan will see you. Please follow me.”
“No,” Connor said. “You remain here. We’ll find him.”
The guard shook his head but held his tongue.
Kaz opened the double doors inward. They entered a dimly-lit suite with panel windows that allowed in the ambient nightlights of the city. Private sedans and shuttles crowded the autoways, their Carbedyne fins casting streams of green and blue stars.
One table lamp provided the only internal light. Next to it, Lord Estefan Guiro sat on a couch wrapped in a satin robe.
“The future of Catalan?” He asked in a mocking tone. “What game is the Cauldron playing now?”
Estefan – political commentator, author, raconteur – crossed his legs with a not-so-subtle flair that screamed, “You’re wasting my time.” He scratched his full beard and added:
“Speak your piece and leave.”
They had heard Estefan liked to cut people short. A fan of his own voice; it made him wealthy, after all.
“We bring a message,” Connor said.
“Oh? What nonsense could Lord Bache not say himself?”
Connor saw no point in delay. Hoshi’s sudden interruption confirmed his decision.
“All teams in position. Execute your function.”
He heard raised voices elsewhere in the suite. As expected.
