Near the fireplace stands a man I recognise from surveillance photos provided by FISA as Titanus Bullet.
Bullet is a large man in his own right and not as old as one might assume given the amount of time he's been running his business, barely in his late forties. He has thick brown hair threaded with silver at the temples and a deceptively attractive face, nose aquiline, jaw square and covered in stubble. His dark eyes are the only thing that show me who he really is. There's a certain coldness to them that immediately puts me on edge. They remind me of so many big-time gangsters and international criminals I've brought down in the past. They aren't cruel so much as they contain a stark level of hubris that only men like Bullet possess.
It's the arrogance of medieval kings and ancient emperors. Men who truly believe they are above reproach, who think they have the right to destroy the world they were born into as if it's theirs to do with as they please, like it was made just so they could choose when and how to break it.
Men like him are incapable of reform or regret because there won't be a single moment in all the horror they cause where they'll think their reasons aren't the only ones that matter.
Upon seeing Bullet, Jack goes rigid next to me, the tension that was rolling off him in steady, rippling waves since we arrived becoming an onslaught of tsunamis, one seemingly larger and more dangerous than the last. He's all but vibrating with furious energy. There's a hatred burning in his eyes that I haven't seen outside of his few mentions of Ian Stone.
I resist the urge to reach out to him. There's no way in hell I want to translate any weakness to Bullet or his people, mine or Jack's. I should have anticipated this and planned for it. If Jack blows before we can even begin discussing the exchange of information for cash, this will likely end in an exchange of gunfire instead.
Bullet offers us both a disarmingly malevolent smile. There's a twist of smug satisfaction to it, which catches on every one of my edges and must feel like a slap in the face to Jack, as if the man has already gotten one over on him without having to say a word. He knows he has the power here, and doubtless, he will use that fact to try and get under our skin.
"Agent Jack!" Bullet exclaims brightly, his voice a low, charming drawl. It makes me want to hit him, just like I did every other smarmy prick I met during my days at private school. Bullet fixes those dark eyes on Jack with a more singular focus, looking him over as if he's a fascinating piece of technology he's considering spending quite a bit of money on. That makes me uneasy in a whole other way as well as reminding me yet again how OI treated Jack like a thing rather than a person and probably encouraged other people, whoever they needed to form connections with, to do the same.
"It's so good to see you again," Bullet continues with a faux pleasantness that grates and grinds like sand between his teeth. "Unexpected, of course. But I was glad to hear you managed to avoid obsoletion. Obsidian Inc. can be very …indelicatewith their commodities." He tilts his head, mouth forming a small moue as if Jack's previous situation was a matter of light inconvenience rather than the methodical and horrific destruction of everything he was or could ever be.
Bullet's use of the word “commodity” not only proves my thoughts correct about how he must have treated Jack in the past but also seems to have been a deliberate act of baiting. I can tell by the way Bullet watches for Jack's reaction, practically frothing at the mouth, waiting for Jack to explode in some spectacular fashion and try to go for him.
I hold my breath as Jack makes a valiant attempt not to snatch that bait from Bullet, shove it down his throat, and keep it there until he chokes to death on Jack's fist.
"Still a piece of shit, then." Jack looks at Bullet with brazen disgust, his voice holding a note of true loathing although it remains mostly conversational. "You and your toy soldiers, selling comic-book weapons to bullshit militias and wannabe terrorists. Selling even more bullshit intelligence to spies and government agencies to get your kicks." Jack snorts at the other man in disdain. "You don't change, Bullet."
I don't know what it is in all that, that hits Bullet where it hurts, but something pisses him off. I can see it in how his face tightens and becomes uglier, the mask he was wearing before having been slashed by Jack's invisible claws, leaving diagonal gouges across it, revealing what lies beneath with just enough clarity to renew my fear over the eventual breakdown of this whole mission.
There's only one thing I can do to try and contain the problem long enough to keep both myself and Jack alive.
I step forward, putting myself between Jack and Bullet without bothering to hide my purpose for doing so.
"If you two are done snarling at each other?" I keep my voice just about on the right side of sardonic. There's no point attempting to placate either of them. They wouldn't take it, and I'm not their fucking pre-school teacher anyway. I train my eyes on Bullet, ignoring how Jack starts vibrating at a higher frequency behind me. "We're here to carry out a pre-agreed exchange between you and my agency. Do you have the information we need, or is this all just a game you thought you could play with us?"
There's a distinct rise of animosity in the room then, not from Bullet himself, but from the men surrounding us, like what I said somehow amounts to a threat. None of them move to do anything about it, but there's the general sense that all they would need from their boss is the slightest of nods as permission to turn volatile thoughts into violent actions.
Bullet doesn't react for a beat or two, but then he throws back his head and releases a laugh that chills me right down to my blood and bones. I have never before heard someone come this close to doing themwah ha hathing unironically. He sounds like a cartoon villain. It's disturbing to hear that much cartoonish glee from a man who regularly sells automatic weapons to terrorists, like watching an adult lion play in a cardboard box like a kitten.
I dart a glance at Jack, who has now materialised next to me again. If I expected him to look as grossly perturbed as I feel, I'm very much disappointed. Jack has the genuine audacity toroll his eyesin response to Bullet's maniacal laughter. He looks bored, as if he's already tired of all this bullshit even though it's only been around ten minutes since we got here. Far from putting me at ease, which could be Jack's intention, his lackadaisical attitude towards the war-profiteering lunatic in front of us makes me surer than ever that I'm going to regret agreeing to this mission.
When Bullet finally stops upsetting my eardrums with his hardcore witchy cackling, he looks me up and down like he's trying to guess at a price, amusement still dancing in his eyes.
"You look young," he says to me, sounding oddly thoughtful. "Did they send you to me because they know I like a pretty face, or is this some form of test?"
Before I can think of how to answer Bullet's discomforting question, he takes another few steps forward.
Jack all but elbows me behind him, which is a stupid move Bullet does not miss if the way his eyes dart first to me and then to Jack—only to narrow in interest—is anything to go by.
Bullet stops in his tracks, holding his hands up in mock surrender. He smiles like a delighted Cheshire cat and sits down on one of the massive white sofas. He gestures for us to take the sofa opposite him.
Jack seems ready to refuse, the tightening of his back and shoulders indicating an oncoming bout of his usual stubbornness. I cut off any such behaviour, as well as its inevitable consequences, by zipping around him and going to sit down across the glass coffee table. It has the intended effect of forcing Jack to choose whether to maintain his belligerent stance or to give it up and come sit with me. He picks the latter option, much to my internal satisfaction.
Once we've settled, Bullet clasps his hands together and points two fingers at the case full of money Jack has put on the ground near his feet. He throws an assessing look at me. "That my money, Agent …?" He trails off, waiting for me to supply my name.
Bullet seems almost tame, sitting on the sofa in his white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and I'm sure, very expensive, stonewashed jeans. I expected him to wear a suit, but I suppose it's too hot for that. I can see how he would fool some people into thinking he's a harmless, attractive billionaire who could never be involved in anything so horrific as international arms dealing.
However, I'm no civilian. Bullet is far from the first of his type I've come into contact with, and if there's one thing life as an agent has taught me, it's that evil multiples and spreads inside a person like cancer cells. Just because I can't see all the ugly Bullet has, doesn't mean it isn't there, roiling and hissing under the surface like an infested pit of demonic shadows.
"You don't need to know his name," Jack all but snarls at Bullet. I don't understand why since I already told one of his men my name, so all Bullet would need to do is ask. It's not like my name could or would remain a secret.
"Snow," I tell Bullet, throwing a discreet look of warning at Jack, who tosses me a far less discreet glare in return.
