pistol bouncing loose and sliding a few feet. The first assailant was almost to his feet again, and the asset turned smoothly, grabbing the man by his hair and driving his knee into the man’s face, the initial cheek damage compounded with a shattered eye socket. He repeated the action twice with furious strength, the guard dead before he hit the floor.
The asset picked up the pistol. Petr hadn’t moved throughout, seemingly stunned by how efficiently his men had gone down, but now reached quickly for the gun that lay flat on his desktop. As he grabbed it, the asset used his free hand to grab the letter opener that lay next to it and drove it through the top of Petr’s hand, pinning it to the desk top. The forger screamed.
The asset twisted the letter opener slightly and the man screamed again, this time ending it with a deep, woeful moan of pain.
“The paper: did you get it done or was rolling me the plan all along?”
The man looked at him blankly, sweating profusely, the shock of the moment paralyzing him. The asset twisted the opener blade again and the man moaned once more. “No! Please, no more! Top drawer, is in top drawer!”
A manila envelope sat on top of the other drawer contents and the asset grabbed it. Then he contemplated the forger. The man could identify him, and had proven completely unreliable; it was unfortunate, the asset thought, but the police would probably be there soon, drawn by the gunshots. Response times were likely as bad as any country, in the fifteen to twenty minute range. In any case, there was no point being quiet about things. He turned back to Petr who was wide-eyed with fear.
“No, please… I have family,” the forger said.
The asset picked the wad of money back up off the desk then shot Petr once through the forehead; the gangster slumped forward on the desk, his life draining away like so much spilled ink, his eyes wide open but empty, his face displaying nothing less than a final moment of surprise.
7./
Sept. 6, 2015, MONTPELLIER, FRANCE
The odd camera flash was still going off, though most of the press had gotten their shots at the beginning of her speech, thirty minutes earlier. The representative to the World Trade Council’s Special Committee on Environmental Security took an extra-long pause.
Marie La Pierre wanted to frame her final words dramatically, to lend them some gravitas. The pause just fit. She’d learned early in her thirty years in politics that due to her short stature, she needed her diction and delivery to be perfect, to make up for any bias her audience might hold towards her size. Then she moved slightly closer to the podium again, brushing an errant brown hair away from her glasses before looking out over the roomful of delegates once more. “And that is why, ladies and gentlemen, we must be ever vigilant in an age where our planet is under assail daily; we must never shirk our duty to protect this planet from those who would care nothing for future generations but only for profit in the now, gain in the immediate, at the expense of our children, and our children’s children.
“And so the Special Committee thanks the EU delegation today for its continued, unwavering financial and legislative support, for the working relationships we have forged, and for the efforts the committee has made around the world in ensuring nations, businesses and their leaders respect the environment, as well as the concerns and cultures of indigenous peoples.”
She surveyed the room. Most of the delegates were elderly men, overweight, suit wearing, long accustomed to high pay for little work. A parade of grey-haired, aging policy addicts with too much ear hair and collections of warts. The speech was a prolonged handshake, a chance for the committee to ensure the delegates went back to Brussels with the right message; in truth, the conference had been one long government junket, a chance for the committee to host European movers and shakers for a
The asset picked up the pistol. Petr hadn’t moved throughout, seemingly stunned by how efficiently his men had gone down, but now reached quickly for the gun that lay flat on his desktop. As he grabbed it, the asset used his free hand to grab the letter opener that lay next to it and drove it through the top of Petr’s hand, pinning it to the desk top. The forger screamed.
The asset twisted the letter opener slightly and the man screamed again, this time ending it with a deep, woeful moan of pain.
“The paper: did you get it done or was rolling me the plan all along?”
The man looked at him blankly, sweating profusely, the shock of the moment paralyzing him. The asset twisted the opener blade again and the man moaned once more. “No! Please, no more! Top drawer, is in top drawer!”
A manila envelope sat on top of the other drawer contents and the asset grabbed it. Then he contemplated the forger. The man could identify him, and had proven completely unreliable; it was unfortunate, the asset thought, but the police would probably be there soon, drawn by the gunshots. Response times were likely as bad as any country, in the fifteen to twenty minute range. In any case, there was no point being quiet about things. He turned back to Petr who was wide-eyed with fear.
“No, please… I have family,” the forger said.
The asset picked the wad of money back up off the desk then shot Petr once through the forehead; the gangster slumped forward on the desk, his life draining away like so much spilled ink, his eyes wide open but empty, his face displaying nothing less than a final moment of surprise.
7./
Sept. 6, 2015, MONTPELLIER, FRANCE
The odd camera flash was still going off, though most of the press had gotten their shots at the beginning of her speech, thirty minutes earlier. The representative to the World Trade Council’s Special Committee on Environmental Security took an extra-long pause.
Marie La Pierre wanted to frame her final words dramatically, to lend them some gravitas. The pause just fit. She’d learned early in her thirty years in politics that due to her short stature, she needed her diction and delivery to be perfect, to make up for any bias her audience might hold towards her size. Then she moved slightly closer to the podium again, brushing an errant brown hair away from her glasses before looking out over the roomful of delegates once more. “And that is why, ladies and gentlemen, we must be ever vigilant in an age where our planet is under assail daily; we must never shirk our duty to protect this planet from those who would care nothing for future generations but only for profit in the now, gain in the immediate, at the expense of our children, and our children’s children.
“And so the Special Committee thanks the EU delegation today for its continued, unwavering financial and legislative support, for the working relationships we have forged, and for the efforts the committee has made around the world in ensuring nations, businesses and their leaders respect the environment, as well as the concerns and cultures of indigenous peoples.”
She surveyed the room. Most of the delegates were elderly men, overweight, suit wearing, long accustomed to high pay for little work. A parade of grey-haired, aging policy addicts with too much ear hair and collections of warts. The speech was a prolonged handshake, a chance for the committee to ensure the delegates went back to Brussels with the right message; in truth, the conference had been one long government junket, a chance for the committee to host European movers and shakers for a
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