And it had worked just the way it was supposed to, and Lauren watched Number One rub his forehead in a confused manner, then drop like a bag of dirt. When she let Clara into the suite, she glanced out into the hallway. "Wait, where's the bodyguard?"
"Taken care of," Number Three's wife said succinctly, "now help me with your cello case- how do you drag this thing around?" She puffed, blowing a red curl off her forehead.
Laughing, Lauren took it from her. "Years of taking it on to the subway and climbing endless flights of stairs at Julliard." They turned to Number One, limp on the floor. Gingerly, Lauren took one arm, hauling him awkwardly into the case. "I can't believe I have to touch him."
Shoving the man's feet into the bottom, twisting them awkwardly to make them fit, Clara shuddered. "Imagine being Arabella and having to... ugh, you know."
Panting as she stood up, Lauren stifled a gag. "Don't. Just don't even put that in my head." Some rational part of her was screaming at her casual treatment of another human being. She was participating in someone's murder. But then a terrible thought occurred to her. "Oh, shit! Bella! The bodyguard said she was in the bedroom?"
They both hurried to the bedroom door, but the room was empty, the bed made and no drugged wife.
Clara shook her head. "She has to be somewhere close; Kingston wouldn't risk his image by doing... well, anything. Here, bring in the bellman's cart and I'll shut the lid." Watching her friend head for the door, the redhead knelt down by the case, punching the monster that was stuffed within it like a boneless chicken. "You're not going to enjoy this, Ben. But I will. You'll be awake for the whole thing. Able to feel, but not move. Not a muscle." She slapped some tape over his mouth and smiled pleasantly. "By the way, your wife and Colin Martinsson say hello. It's going to be a whole new era for Jaguar Holdings." The girl knew he heard her, the frantic sense of rage and helplessness clear in those insectile black eyes. Shutting the lid, Clara sat on it to get the latches to close as Lauren wheeled in the bellman's cart. Handing her the key to the James Bond suite, Clara instructed her on where to hide. The suite, named after the legendary spy, of course had a secret closet. Then wheeling the grisly load to Lauren's suite, she took a deep breath and knocked, smiling as Chuck knocked on the door. "Chuck? Lauren's fine, she's safe, but we only have a couple of minutes to get set up before the Bratva guards are here-"
He was already moving towards the bedroom, not quite sprinting, and Clara heard his growl before he stormed out again, holding the St. Margaret medal in his fist.
And from there, it was pretty much as the new Mrs. Fassell predicted, until Chuck had to hold Thomas back with all his strength as the cold-hearted Number Two screamed his anguish, believing his wife was being shot to pieces inside her cello case. And Clara was hiding a smile, picturing Kingston's utter helplessness and acute horror.
The present...
Now back in the James Bond suite, she pulled out a bottle of water, watching Chuck, who was pacing in front of her closed bedroom door where Lauren was talking to Thomas.
"Lauren," Thomas said urgently "open the door and ask Chuck to come in. Do not allow Clara to enter- let me speak to him."
"Sure," Lauren whispered, padding to the door. Would Clara or Number Three be there with a gun? Would Chuck be all right? Opening the door, she breathed a little easier to see him standing right there while Clara was sitting on the couch. "Chuck," Lauren said, attempting to sound cheerful but pretty sure it was coming out as more of a gargle, "Thomas needs to talk to you for a minute, something about tomorrow?" Her bodyguard raised one well-bred eyebrow but followed her into the room, shutting the door.
"Yes, Mr. Williams?" Lauren watched as his face turned to stone. But he listened for a few more minutes before nodding and answering with a crisp "Yes, sir." Handing the phone back to the girl, he murmured "He would like to speak with you before he hangs up."
"Sweetheart?" Thomas sounded calm, but urgent. "Chuck is going to take you back to our suite. I have three more men on the way to stay with you. I will be there within twenty minutes. Do not open the door to anyone, do you understand?"
"Yes," Lauren managed to clear her throat and say it more firmly, "yes, Thomas. Everything will be fine. I'll be waiting for you."
But when she reluctantly pressed the button to end the call and opened the door, Lauren was beginning to strongly doubt her last statement. Clara was standing there with her usual sweet smile. Holding a gun. Sitting on the couch was Arabella, looking much more alert, and the scary blank-eyed guy from the bar- Martinsson? It was the recently widowed Mrs. Kingston that broke the stalemate. "Lauren honey," she said calmly, "do come over and sit down. Nothing bad is going to happen here. No one wants to hurt you."
Giving a short and bitter laugh, Lauren shook her head. "I'm having trouble believing that after the last 72 hours, Bella." She very slowly crossed the living room, Chuck at her side and his hand inside his suit jacket.
It was exactly seventeen minutes later when Thomas found his suite empty and with a red haze distorting his vision, he led the men loyal to him to the Bond Suite. He didn't care who died in the next few minutes as long as his wife was unhurt. If she was... Well, then death would take much longer. Much longer than any of them could imagine. He barely stopped himself from violently kicking the door open- a wise choice since Clara was already greeting him with a happy, chirping tone.
"You made good time, Thomas! Come in, there's so much to discuss."
She was not quite shouldered aside by Lauren, her lovely eyes made violet by the sheen of tears she was trying to control. "You're all right," she barely breathed, "you're here." The chilly demeanor of Jaguar Holdings' Second in Command collapsed as Thomas yanked his bride into his arms, burying his face in her silky hair.
"Sweet girl, I thought- I watched them shoot up your cello case, I thought-" his voice choked and Thomas couldn't speak. So instead he assembled his most terrifying Number Two expression and eyed the group. "Martinsson," he drawled, "you do have a knack at turning up unwelcome in the most unexpected situations, do you not?"
The Dane attempted a smile, but with his lizard-like stare, it was acutely unpleasant. "Now Williams," he scolded amiably, "is this how you thank the man who saved your sweet bride's life? Not to mention tidying up the mess Kingston had made?"
"And what would you know about 'messes', Martinsson?" Thomas had a death grip on Lauren's hand, but he seated her on a couch, crowding her into the corner, and turning slightly to shield her with his big body.
"Certainly enough to know you had no idea that Kingston was negotiating with Bratva and your long-lost brother? My goodness, he does carry a grudge, doesn't he?"
Lauren leaned forward, ready to snarl at the smug bastard but her husband's long fingers slid to the back of her neck. "Well, one can't pick one's family, but one can kill them, " Thomas smiled pleasantly. "But I am quite willing to enlarge the circle of corpses."
Shockingly, Martinsson laughed. "No need. I believe we can assist each other. There are portions of The Corporation that I believe are not of interest to you. I, and my dear Arabella," he paused to smile fondly down at the glowing blonde next to him, "will be happy to take them off your hands,"
"Really," drawled Number Two, "and what portion would that be?"
Martinsson's rattlesnake gaze sharpened. "All of it."
The tense silence in the exquisite room was broken by Thomas's hearty laughter. "Really," he tried to control his mirth. "You're forgetting that you never had the reach to compete for the Bratva contracts before? And you're ready to plunge into human trafficking and the heroin trade?"
