The Bodyguard (Part 17).
Part 17.
[Note to anyone new to this little project. This represent a continuous long-form story so as such should be read in order if possible. Your choice, but pretty serious spoilers from here on. I hope you enjoy - Dimi]
17.
They had been standing and sitting in Arabella’s commandeered office for a while in silence before their Lady began speaking.
“Are you sure he was the same man, Belisarius?”
“Yes, Ma’am. I don’t know how, but it was definitely him. He looked almost the same as when I… last saw him.”
Arabella leant back in her chair, the leather squeaking softly as she did, her hands pressed together. Light rain tapped against the double windows behind her. She and Castor looked at a solemn-faced Ana.
“Did you know him?”
“I… we…” she paused, trying to formulate the words, “we knew each other. We met when one of his soldiers got injured. I didn’t know it was you, Bel.”
“I heard a nurse speaking with your accent outside my tent the day I woke up after losing my leg.” Castor smiled at her weakly, “thanks for the sherry.”
She forced a smile in return, before her lips returned to their flattened state, “we… kept in contact, met every now and then when his men would get injured… he…” her eyes began watering, and as they did, Cassiopea sidled over to her on the couch they were sat on and put her hand on her arm, “said he’d come find me after the war… I believed him, but he never did. I got over it… I guess… I had no idea what happened it him in the end, I never knew his last name…” she let out a single sob and Cassi pulled her in.
Silence filled the room for a while, Arabella and the other girls watching Ana with concern.
“Well, whatever he is it’s clear that he’s involved. And that brings me to something I need to say.” The group, at this point all looking in various forms of down and away, collectively focused on their Lady.
“My cousin, Jonathan Rossi, as I’ve alluded to previously, involved himself with some… untoward activities. In his later career he became obsessed with what he called ‘the end of death’. Immortality. Heretical nonsense, but his technical gifts were of use to the Corporation so his brothers and sisters let it slide.”
“But he got fired.” Stated Hiji blankly.
She looked over to the small Japanese man and sighed deeply.
“He was caught conferring with an AI.”
“Jesus.”
“Naturally, such a thing would have been scandalous to the extreme and potentially disastrous for Rossi Servo-Dynamics, and so my cousins exiled him to his villa, essentially house arrest. He died of a cardiac arrest a few years later.” She looked over to Rickard, a giant statue in the corner of the room, with an apologetic look.
“I did the work and suspected, Ma’am, but my duty was always to you first.”
She smiled at him softly, “Thank you, Derek.”
The weather outside had worsened, and rain was now battering against the windows. A strong breeze shook the windows.
“My cousins are all dead.” Said Arabella abruptly.
“What?!” Castor stood up suddenly. “When?”
Rickard interrupted, “Two nights ago, a convention in Rome where all three of our Lady’s cousins and their heirs were in attendance, was attacked. We only found out today. A total massacre. There were no eyewitnesses as such, but a few walker drones were found lying amongst the dead.”
“Like in Riga?”
Rickard nodded in response. “Our Lady is the last of the core family and will inherit Rossi Servo-Dynamics.”
Castor fell back into his chair.
“Whatever is really going on it is clear there is some kind of connection between all of this.” She paused, summoning the words, “Jonathan may be behind it. If your commanding officer can come back from the dead, then we should assume Jonathan might be still alive. If he re-appears, he’d be a contender to be head of the Corporation.”
“And if he’s working with an AI fragment…” Said Hiji pensively.
“Lazarus.” Said Castor into the middle distance. “Apollo talked about a fragment from when he was connected to the net, when he was created. It wouldn’t stop talking about bringing things back to life.”
Another silence took over the room.
“So what do we do?” asked Bart.
The statue in the corner of the room shifted, and moved into better light, “We do our jobs. We protect our Lady, and each other, at all costs. If it means being proactive, then so be it. We’ve vetted and hired a number of lower level but competent guards and all the servants have been provided small arms. You lot will be freed to pursue our Lady’s enemies without, while they, Irene and I protect her from within.”
“The local authorities had been informed of my presence- fortunately, I know the Mayor quite well. You will all be issued badges that will grant you aristocratic immunity – I hope you do not end up needing them. How you approach our situation I will leave to you. I trust you all. Dismissed.”
The group filed out and reconvened in a nearby living room, arraying themselves on the various red satin sofas and armchairs that littered the edges of the bookshelf-lined walls. A large crystal chandelier centred the ceiling. A flash outside heralded thunder, the low rumble sounding moments later. Rickard entered a moment later, tilting his head to dodge the chandelier and planting himself on a large sofa in the corner.
“So. This guy wants to meet Castor in the Red Square… when exactly?” Asked Bart, putting his feet up on an ornate wooden coffee table, Marie sat next to him, a look of mild concern on her face. She slapped his leg gently and he reluctantly returned his boots to the floor, much to everyone’s amusement.
“A few days from now, very helpful.” Said Castor. He turned to look at his wife momentarily, doing her best to maintain her serenity routine, and failing miserably.
“Alone, he said.”
“I’m going with you,” both Ana and Cassi blurted out in near perfect synchronicity.
“Absolutely not,” Castor said to Cassi, raising his voice, “I can’t risk that, and anyway, you need to be with Arabella.”
“I’m not married to fucking Arabella and I will not let you go meet that man alone!” she shouted back, “Plus, Arabella says its fine.” She humphed. She’d already asked.
“I am no-“ he began yelling, before Rickard interrupted, “Take it outside, lad, lass, this isn’t the place.” They both stormed out, muffled shouting following closely after the closing of the living room door. Bart and Marie looked at each other awkwardly.
“And you, Ana?” Asked Hiji, breaking the brief silence.
“I… I want to… I don’t know. I guess I want to see him again, properly. And help Castor too. I had no idea the Rasford he spoke about was the same man as my Jack. All those horrible stories…”
“It does seem like an obvious trap.” Spoke Rickard solemnly.
The room fell silent apart from the continuing bickering outside.
“Either way we’ll need to be in the area. There’s no way-“
“We’re being watched.” Fiadh said suddenly. She was staring out one of the two large windows.
Bart turned in his seat and leant over to see where she was looking. A man in a long cloak and hood was sitting on an air bike, hovering far from the window. A small figure was sat behind him. A glint gave his binoculars away. Rickard came to the window and looked.
“Aye, that him?”
“I don’t know any other metal men on airbikes, do you big man?”
Rickard chuckled half-heartedly. “I suppose not. What do you think he’s doing?” the giant waved at the floating figures. The little one waved back enthusiastically in response. The other adjusted in his seat, and the pair flew off.
“You think he works for Rasford’s people?” asked Bart.
“Nah, I don’t think so,” the Irishwoman responded, “he was asking what we were doing at the fac, like he knew what it was. If he was with them he would have just killed me or something, I think, my little 9mm wouldn’t have done fek all to him, he must have known that.”
At that moment the din outside quietened, and shortly after an angry but victorious Cassi came in, followed by an exasperated-looking Castor. They returned to their sofa, sitting at a larger distance than before. Rickard, with a look of bemusement on his face, continued:
“We were just talking about our mutual friend, he was watching our little chat from outside,” he gestured at the window.
“Free agent?” asked Castor sulkily.
“Unsure. I’ll warn security. It’s not impossible he’s after the Lady.”
Castor shifted uneasily in his chair and briefly looked over at Cassi, who was looking away and out of the window, “Cassi’s coming,” he said, a note of dejection on his lips.
“Well, let’s hope he doesn’t mind three instead of one.” Said Ana firmly.
“That’s if he even turns up.”
A sharp breeze whistled past the windows at the edge of the room.
“I’ll run overwatch then.” Fiadh said.
“As usual. I’ll cover you in case our metal friend pays you another visit,” said Hiji, mimicking a sword stroke with one hand. The Irishwoman nodded in ascent.
“Aw, shit,” said Bart, looking at Marie, “up for a walk in the Red Square, darlin’?” Marie smiled at him broadly. “We’ll keep our distance.”
***
Castor grabbed Cassi’s arm in the hallway as the group walked out and began dragging her away.
“Where are we going?” she said angrily, trying to escape Castor’s iron grip.
“I’m taking you to our room and once we’re there, I’m going to fuck you senseless,” whispered Castor through gritted teeth. She immediately let out an ‘ooh’ and suddenly stopped resisting. Castor chuckled.
“I’m kidding. If you’re coming, we need to get you a proper gun.”
“Oh,” she said, dejectedly.
“Maybe later,” he answered, grabbing her around the waist.
Calvo had set up in a little room on the lower levels of the building, and he was in the process of fiddling with his drones.
“Cal.” The priest kept on clicking away at his device. “CAL!” Cassi shouted. The mechanic jumped and turned to them.
“Ah, sorreee Signora Castor,” he rasped, composing himself.
“Calvo, we’ve known each other for years. Just because I married this idiot doesn’t mean you have to call me that.”
“Hey!”
“Oh shush. Cal, I need a new gun.”
“Ahh, siiii siii.” He shuffled over to a large flight case, and opened it. Inside were an array of small arms, mostly pistols, but a few small SMGs too. She immediately picked out an MPK/45 with a flip-stock, an adaptation of the small submachine gun, chambered in .45 ACP rather than the traditional 9mm.
“Good choice. Nice and concealable. Here,” he grabbed a magazine and attached it to the feeder in his right arm, loading the 30-round magazine rapidly.
“Explosives, keep that as backup.”
They walked to the training, room, a few doors down from Calvo’s ‘office’.
She took a chest harness off of a rack and sized it, clicking the submachine gun onto a snap hook and adjusting its height. Castor made her do a few dry runs, getting her to pull the machine pistol from its position on the left side of her torso into a high ready stance, snapping open the stock as she did. She caught on extremely quicky, and Castor watched her with a sense of pride.
“That’s the woman I married,” he said, smiling. She looked up at him, mock confusion on her face.
“I thought you married me for my title.”
“You’re right. I always wanted to be an aristo,” he said, puffing his chest out, “Belisarius Castor da Silva, nice ring to it. Come to think of it, where’s my castle?”
“Ha.” She performed the drill a few more times.
“What do you think he wants?” she said as the gun came up and went back down.
“I don’t know.” Castor sighed.
She looked at him sympathetically, dropping the machine pistol and letting it hang by her side, swaying gently against the black tank top that clung to her toned form.
“We’ll see. Anyway, let’s have you shoot the thing a few times, just so you know how she kicks.” They walked down a level and into a small white walled 2-man shooting range. He watched her handle the firearm perfectly, and her shooting was good enough. 30 rounds on full auto gives one a bit of leeway. He watched her as she shot, her back arching gently as she shouldered the small SMG, her spine muscles tracing a shallow path down towards her tight jeans. His eyes momentarily stopped at her rear, before returning to the firearm.
“Well, I’ve got nothing.” He said.
“I told you I’d be fine.”
He drew close to her, placing his hand on her arm and flicking the MP5K/45’ safety with the other.
“I didn’t mean to say that you couldn’t handle yourself… it’s just…” he began.
“I know, Bel. I feel the same way, that’s why I want to be there with you.”
She raised herself on her toes and kissed him, “So, what was that you were talking about before?” she said, smiling suggestively.
Castor’s face hardened. “Right.” He suddenly swooped under her and threw her over his shoulder and marched to the elevator, Cassi kicking and screaming and laughing all at the same time, the SMG dangling and bouncing off his shoulder. He was so busy trying to keep her up there that he didn’t notice the elevator stopping at the wrong floor. It opened to Bart and Marie.
“What the?” said Bart. Marie quickly hid a smile with her hand. Cassi suddenly stopped resisting and looked at them upside-down from underneath Castor’s arm.
“Shooting practice.” Castor smiled at them sheepishly and nodded to the submachine gun. Bart silently reached inside the elevator and pressed the ‘close doors’ button. They did, and the Cassi burst out laughing.
“None of that,” he barked, slapping her behind with a measured force.
“Hey!” she yelled in a totally unconvincing display of anger. He marched her down the hall and through their bedroom door, throwing her onto the bed with a huff. She yelped as she fell and looked at him with a combination frown and pout. He stared back for a moment before climbing onto her to a blend of soft laughs and gasps, tearing her thin shirt off easily with his artificial arms. She playfully fought back for a moment before giving up and going for his belt. He pushed her back down and in one smooth motion pulled her shoes and jeans off. Her gasps and giggles as they wrestled with each other’s clothes turned to moans as he entered her and began pushing, pulling and grinding rhythmically, holding her arms down as he did. She wrapped her legs around him, egging him on verbally, and the moment he shifted his arms she grabbed his back, his muscles pumping and flexing from the exertion, her nails digging into his skin. They tossed and turned, biting and scratching, pushing and pulling, swearing and grunting, for what felt like an eternity. She cried out, back arching, shuddering, her grip loosening momentarily - indicating that he’d done his part. He continued and eventually, with her encouragement, climaxed, shaking, a visceral grunt emanating from his core, and a loud moan from hers. She held him as he did her, legs locking him inside her, her eyes shifting from green to a bright, almost fluorescent red.
They fell off each other, sweaty and breathless.
“Fuck.” She looked at him, eyes glowing.
“Yeah.” He shifted closer and she reciprocated the movement into his arms.
“Think you can do that again?” she whispered into his ear, nibbling at it.
“Give me five,” he exhaled.
***
Pollux and Cherna floated in the cool Moscow air, rain tapping against the girl’s waterproof hood. Cherna was kicking at the air and humming a tune she’d heard on the radio at their apartment. Pollux was watching a large opulent building through a pair of binoculars. He saw the Irishwoman they’d encountered earlier, and a man with black greasy hair and cowboy boots up on a coffee table. He lowered them a moment later. Pollux’s lip reading wasn’t excellent, but he could make out ‘Red Square’ from the cowboy. It was enough. The Irish girl noticed him, and a second later a giant of a man appeared waved from the window. They’d been spotted.
“Hallo!” Cherna yelled from the back of the airbike, waving back at the man.
Pollux rolled his eyes behind his mask. He kicked the bike into gear, quickly circling the Red Square, looking for vantage points that the Irishwoman might hide. He figured if they were doing anything she’d be one of the rooftops. He scanned them, making mental notes as they did.
“Cherna cold.”
“Verb.”
“Cherna isss hungry.”
“Better. We’ll grab something on the way back.”
They returned to the apartment Pollux had rented in an old run-down tower block, entering from the large balcony that could, just about, fit the airbike. He had gotten a pizza for the girl on the way back and left her to happily destroy it inside. Remembering, he pulled the carton of cigarettes out and tore it open. A lighter his father had given him lit one. He inhaled, the slightly dizzying but soothing effects of the nicotine hitting him at once. He sat on the balcony, watching the stars, rain dripping off of the railings.
***
“Wake up, freak.”
The guard that watched over his cell tapped forcefully on the glassteel wall that made up one quarter of his titanium prison. Pollux didn’t sleep any more, and the guard knew it. He would be first, thought Pollux.
“You’ve got guests.”
“That’s a first.”
“Shut it.”
A tall man with a white moustache stepped into the room, followed by a lab-coat and a man in a black hooded cloak. He was wearing a blank mask with two perfectly round eyes. His body was completely covered up, save for bare mechanical feet.
“What is the report on his conditioning?” The moustache asked.
“Nothing sir. Subject 005 seems to be totally resistant to any forms of conditioning or control. Nothing we can do will make him obedient.” He spoke with a strong Japanese accent. Pollux knew him. Hijimori. Fucking bastards, all of them.
“A free minded man, are we? Well, your father was something of a rogue himself, I supposed it makes sense.”
Pollux stood up and walked to the glass, his metal feet tapping against the concrete floor and echoing off its walls concussively.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing, my boy, nothing at all. Orders from on high. My master is looking out for you.” The man in the cloak stood behind him was unnaturally still. Pollux stared at him. His tormentor did too. They both had the same thought, and both were equally disgusted at the possibility. The moustache looked over blankly to the cloak, then to the guard, then back to Pollux.
“Oh dear.” He nodded to the cloak. It suddenly shifted, lighting fast, and grabbed the guard by the scruff of his neck, lifting him up. The man scrambled reactively and swung at the man’s mask, knocking it off. A skull-like metal face with red glowing eyes came out from under it, a freakish death-mask.
“Open the door.”
The lab coat panicked and began yelling in Japanese. The moustache produced a 9mm pistol from his coat, and without looking aimed it at the scientist. “Open it.”
The lab coat began sweating profusely and nervously approached a keypad, dialing a code in. The glass door hissed and opened slightly. A loud bang reverberated throughout the small chamber, and the scientist slumped to the ground clutching his neck, blood pouring out of his neck and mouth.
“Missed. Damn.” The moustache turned to Pollux and smiled. “Oh well.”
Pollux was dumbfounded.
“What are you doing?”
“Letting you go, my boy, isn’t it obvious?”
“Why?”
“Orders, man, orders. One must always listen to one’s superiors, no matter how outlandish the act might seem.” He tilted his head, and the machine threw the guard against the concrete wall. The moustache winked at Pollux.
“Have fun, my boy.”
Before Pollux could ask they were out the door. He stepped out of his cell for the first time in an eternity and bore down on the guard, his bafflement replaced with a total, complete, and utter rage. The guard simply stared at him, his face white as a sheet. He opened his mouth to speak. Pollux punched him in the mouth. His entire head exploded into a cloud of red, bits of skull and teeth bouncing off the wall. Pollux had only meant to hurt him at first, at least. He looked at his bloody mechanical arm. “Fuck.” He spotted the mask on the ground. He turned to a mirror on the wall mounted behind him, and saw his new form for the first time. A man-shaped mass of steel and cables screamed at him. The rest was a haze of blood and screams and black rage. He found himself sat on the cold ground outside the laboratory’s front door, dazed, later. He felt like he should be out of breath, a difficult thing to be, without lungs. His chest was hot, and he felt a light burning sensation in his core, emanating outwards. He was covered in blood and effluent. The low hum of a nearby city sounded in the air.
***
“Is Misha okay?” Cherna was poking her head out of the balcony’s sliding glass door. A concerned look on her face. Pollux, pulled out of his reverie, realised the cigarette was still in his mouth, a burnt stump. He threw it off the balcony.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” He walked through the door, Cherna giving way, and closed it behind him. He sulked to the double bed in the centre of the small, run-down room, and sat on it with a thug, the springs squeaking unappreciatively.
“Micha think of bad things.”
He couldn’t bring himself to correct her, he felt tired, and remembering his past always put him in a sour mood.
“How could you tell?” He spoke at the rough wooden floor. The girl walked up to him, placing herself down on the bed next to him.
“Cherna see.” She spoke sternly. She put a hand on his thigh. He felt it. No, he saw it. His leg visibly fleshy through a tear in the rough jeans he wore. His hands and arms too. She got closer, hand on his face, running it against his short stubble.
“How?” he asked, exasperated.
“Cherna see. Make Micha see too.” She leant over, pushed him down and climbed over him. He felt her straddle him, her rear pressing against his groin. He felt it. Her long ponytail brushed his thighs. She leant over and kissed him, her soft lips coming to his. He kissed back. He felt it, felt it all. Arousal took over him, his manhood pushing against her crotch. Sensations he thought he’d never feel again. A second pair of hands brought themselves around his neck.
“Daz…ha.” Pollux could barely speak, and after a moment didn’t wish to. The other girl kissed his head and began stroking his chest, bringing herself along side the couple. Cherna began drawing the zipper at the centre of her bodysuit down to her waist. Her small breasts shifted as they were released from her tight clothing.
“Wait.” His chest felt tight. He gasped for air. She grabbed at his beltline and began pulling.
“Wait!” he shouted, pushing Cherna off him and onto the floor. His hands returned to the metal immediately. He sat up, realising what he’d done. The girl looked up at him, crying. He looked around quickly. The other girl had vanished.
“Cherna want to make Micha happy,” she sobbed, tears streaming down her face. He climbed down off the bed onto the floor next to her and gently wrapped his arm around her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he took the zipper that lay just above her womanhood and slowly pulled it back up as he spoke. She looked at him with a mix of confusion and sadness.
“I… I’m sorry, it was all too much. I haven’t felt anything in years, then all of that? I…” he whispered, his mechanical voice grinding out the words. She stopped sobbing, but tears kept falling. He looked at her with what would have been an expression of loving sympathy, a small smile. Her face told him she saw it. He placed his metal jaw on her forehead, simulating a kiss.
“We’re both tired. Let’s go to bed.”
“Okay,” the girl sniffed, her face somehow even more adorable when flushed and wet. They climbed into bed, Pollux drawing the thick blanket over her. She placed a pillow on his shoulder and reached an arm over his chest. He felt her warmth, but his body stayed metal this time. The tiredness he had become accustomed to took him over, and soon, the two fell asleep.
***
The storm from the night before had subsided, but thick dark clouds still darkened the sky. The building in which they resided sat at the far end of the square, behind the buildings facing inwards. Castor’s boots slapped into a puddle as he, Cassiopea and Ana walked down the Red Square towards the GUM mall that lines its side. Locals shuffled around the boutique shop windows, chattering and looking at the plethora of goods on offer. Rasford was sitting at a round, iron ivy motif table outside of a small café near the centre of the mall’s ornate façade. His white moustache twitched into a smile as the group approached.
“Castor, my boy. I thought I said alone.” His smile remained as he said this, obviously unbothered by the extra attendees, “Oh well. No harm done. Hello Ana, my dear.” He turned from a troubled-looking Ana to Cassiopea, his smile widening. “Please, sit. Won’t you introduce me?” He brought a small espresso cup to his lips.
“Captain Rasford, meet Cassiopea, my wife.” Castor spoke with a distinct lack of emotion, his military past showing through. Rasford’s smile widened even further.
“Imagine that. The young trooper, married. And with such a beautiful young woman. I am pleased.” Cassiopea gave him a forced smile.
They sat, and Rasford waved down a waitress. She brought over two americanos and cappuccino soon after.
“I suppose that sniper of yours has a good bead on me.”
“Sure do, you ass,” Fiadh’s voice came through on comms.
“And I noticed your silver-chinned friend. His companion seems very taken with the jewellery,” he gestured lazily in the direction of a far-off jewellery shop. Sure, enough, Castor could make out Bart, looking in their direction, Marie pressed up against the glass shop window.
“It’s a shame, I was hoping more of you would stay behind.” He said, still smiling.
“Why is that, Sir?”
“Oh, drop the jargon, Castor, my boy. You’re not an army man anymore, and neither am I.”
“No, you take orders from an AI now.”
Rasfort tutted. “Not quite, old boy, not quite. I work for Jonathan Rossi, and he operates on behalf of God.”
“So he’s alive,” spoke Cassiopea. Her gaze was boring into the white-haired Englishman.
“My, very intense. I’m not surprised you’ve captured my man here.”
“I am not your man,” grunted Castor, “answer the question.”
Rasford sighed. “Of course he’s alive. Aren’t I?”
“What’s this nonsense about God?”
“Nonsense? The power to bring the dead back? You saw me shoot myself not 3 days ago. And yet, here I am.” At this point the waitress came by the table to check on her customers. Rasford waved her away and continued, leaning forwards as he spoke, “this AI, as you call it, it’s much more than that, man. It is a conduit through which God speaks, His voice. Think about it. How does a man shoot himself in the head, and re-appear a few days later, fully flesh and bones?”
“Some kind of cloning tech,” spoke Ana, finally.
“Mon cher, nothing of the sort,” Rasford’s tone betrayed a hint of authenticity to his words to the Frenchwoman, behind the English upper-class veneer, “we take a vessel for Him to act through, a little computer, draw a few lines on the floor, and poof.” He gestured with his hands like a magician.
“You can’t expect me to believe this nonsense.”
“I don’t expect anyone to believe anything. But tell me, are multi-armed living flesh machines a normal occurrence in nature? How was that created?” he asked rhetorically.
“You tell me.”
“An accident. They happen sometimes during trials. Not everyone is compatible with His works, and sometimes the lines and symbols are drawn badly.”
“What are you talking about?” Castor was starting to get irritated. What the fuck is going on?
“Come, come. I think you know. Everybody does, deep down. The world is not all physical. The real extends much further than what we sense. God is real.
“If that’s true why doesn’t he just wipe us away? Do as he please?”
“Now now, Castor, boy. You know better than most that that is not how the Lord works. He needs conduits to do his bidding, apostles, if you will. My Master mainly. He’s not yet fully broken through into this world. But once he does,” Rasford leant forwards, almost whispering, a smile playing on his lips; “Rapture.”
“This is insane.”
“I can understand that point of view. I felt it once too, when I was resurrected. But I understand now. And you will, too, one day.”
“Why are you telling us all this? Surely keeping it secret would be better for your cause.”
“He wants you, Castor. On my recommendation, of course. You’d get your limbs back, you know.” He raised his left hand, the index finger, his only injury during the war, was no longer artificial, “and think of it - you, and your beautiful wife, young and happy, forever.” He turned and looked at Ana expectantly. She gave him a mean look. His smile dropped momentarily.
“And what does my Lady have to do with it?”
“Ms Rossi? Well, and I’m sure you’ve guessed this already, but given his expulsion from the Corporation, Jonathan is persona non grata. Unless of course, something was to happen to all his relatives. The last Rossi, alive after all, taking the reins of the Corporation that should have listened to him in the first place. Then…”
“Your god has control of one of the largest Corps in the world.” Finished Cassi, spitting out the word ‘god’.
“Very good,” he looked at Castor, “smart, too. Well done.” He smiled mischievously. “So? What do you say?”
“Fuck no.”
“A shame,” Rasford sighed and sat back in his seat, “But an expected one. The truth is I wanted to speak to you properly after all these years. And I thought I’d give you a chance. And let you live. I’m glad you brought your wife.” He looked over to Ana, “Et toi?”
“I don’t know you, you’re not the Jack from back then.” Said Ana coldly. Rasford frowned. He appeared to be genuinely hurt by this rebuttal.
“I’m sorry I never came back to you. Truly.” He replied, his tone reluctant. Ana’s face softened markedly. “But life is what it is. We’ll see each other again after this.”
“What did you mean, ‘let us live- ‘“
A series of gunshots rang out in the distance. Castor pulled his pistol and levelled it at Rasford’s head. He put his hands up slowly.
“Not much good it’ll do,” he glanced at the watch on his raised wrist and frowned. “A bit early. Bloody Orion, always too quick on the mark.”
“Early for what?” Castor yelled. The girls had pulled their weapons, much to the panic and horror of the civilians around them.
An ear-splitting explosion rocked the square, the force of the blast shattering some of the shop windows near the group. It came from the direction of Arabella’s temporary home.
“For that.” Smiled the Englishman.
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