Fontanas Trouble by T C Archer Page A

wonder what they’ll think when
their boy comes home to roost as naked as the day he was born,” she said.
    “You can’t do this,” the man
said.
    “I think the Bull’s words were I
will .” Fontana gave him a broad smile.
    “Who’s the Bull—” the man began,
but Brent pushed him toward the front door. The man dug his heels in, but Brent
outweighed him by twenty kilos. Brent forced the man over the threshold.
    He whirled. “This wasn’t part of
the deal.”
    Brent laughed. “Tell the Bull
that.”
    He tried to push back into the
room. Fontana whipped the weapon from her waistband and fired a shot at his
feet.
    He jumped back, eyes wide. “That
thing is real.”
    “You didn’t mind that when you
were using it on us,” she said.
    “I wasn’t—”
    She fired again, missing his left
foot by half a centimeter. He leaped back.
    “You’d better get running.” She
fired again. He jumped back another step. “If I take off a toe,” she said, “I
can claim you shot yourself in the foot.” She fired again.
    He whirled and raced down the
hallway.
    Fontana watched until he
disappeared around the bend in the hallway, then turned. She looked from the
open doorway to Brent. “He broke my door.”
    * * * *
    Morning sunlight bounced off the
Arc de Triomphe in the distance as Fontana drank mimosas with Brent in a French
Quarter café. Despite the fact the arch was a hologram, the replicated
twenty-second-century Paris Boulevard was spectacular. Clunky robot waiters
whirred between the tables, electric hover-cars shuttled along the street, and
the tables had voice-activated menus.
    This morning appeared to be a
normal day, but Fontana had decided that being part of a Sagitariun fantasy
package was akin to being committed to a psychiatric ward. Separating truth
from fiction was impossible. Until she’d met Brent, she would have bet a year’s
pay that doors wouldn’t be blown out as part of a fantasy package and lasers
wouldn’t take bites out of hotel walls.
    She set her champagne flute on
the table and picked up a croissant from the plate sitting between them. “Were
your previous fantasies as aggressive as this one?”
    He shook his head. “No. I decided
I wanted a little more action, so I updated my profile in hopes of increasing
the challenge.”
    Fontana paused in spreading
chocolate across her croissant and lifted a brow. “By updated your profile, you
mean lied.”
    He shrugged. “I can’t be the
first guest to do that.”
    No, he couldn’t, and Sagitariun
must know that. They couldn’t be naive enough to give such an aggressive
fantasy to every guest who claimed to have such a hardcore background. They
would have done due diligence with a thorough background investigation to make
sure the vacationer could handle such rough sport.
    Given the fact that her work
background was highly classified, her public information contained only mundane
information: born on Freedom IV, educated at Princeton on Earth, degrees in
economics and political science, worked as a courier, and was currently a
colonial consultant. But her training, undercover assignments, true employer,
commendations, rank, and achievements remained off public record.
    Yet the unexpected violence of
the last two encounters would fit her real-life profile, which seemed to
indicate that the resort knew she was helping Brent, had investigated her, and
had discovered the truth. Given their neutral politico-economic status,
Sagitariun Resorts, LLC was a powerful entity in this quadrant of the galaxy.
Powerful enough to gain access to secrets? Was she stretching the facts to
match the conclusion she wanted, or was the reason simpler: the cartel had
found her?
    “No word from Jimmy on the return
of his boy?” she asked.
    Brent took a deep draft of his
mimosa. “I think we scared him off.”
    Fontana bit into her croissant
and closed her eyes as the dark chocolate slid across her tongue. She hadn’t
had real chocolate in a decade. She released a