have some means of getting into his papers. Francis wasn’t taking any chances.
The UBF vice president of finance polished off the whiskey that his boss had poured for him, set the glass down on the antique executive desk nowhere near the coaster, and held up one hand in protest. “Hold on, Francis…” Then Mr. Chandler thought better of it, and pulled the glass back over to pour himself another from the bottle. The ice cubes hadn’t even had a chance to melt from the first round. “You want me to do what?”
Francis leaned way back in his grandfather’s stuffed leather chair and folded his hands behind his head. Experience had taught him that if he leaned back too far he’d find himself on the floor, but luckily he had never done that in front of witnesses. “I’m fairly sure you heard me the first time.”
“I just hoped that I’d hallucinated the whole thing.” Chandler swirled Kentucky’s finest around in the glass and held it up to the sunlight streaming through the window. “You’re talking about sabotaging a government agency during a time of national crisis.”
“I’m not doing anything illegal, which is more than I can say for them. Besides, I’m only asking for your help with the business part. The overall strategy… well, it’s probably best if you’ve got no idea what I’m trying to do.”
“When they’re beating a confession out of me, I’ll be sure to state that extra clearly. So, to make sure I’ve got this straight.. You want me to find a secret company that makes a secret product, that nobody knows exists and has apparently never been publicized or advertised… and buy it. All while never letting anybody anywhere know that you’re the one doing the buying or the snooping.”
“That’s a fair representation,” Francis answered. He was rather proud of his idea. John had asked him to stay put and out of contact for everyone’s safety, but he hadn’t said anything about not helping out. “Think you can handle it?”
“I’m an accountant, not a detective.” Chandler downed his second glass and sighed before continuing,“Though that is a fascinating career field. Hell, I do enjoy a challenge. I suppose I’m game.”
Francis had figured his man would be in. Chandler wasn’t Grimnoir, didn’t have a lick of magic, and owed Francis no loyalty beyond his rather hefty salary. But it was a rare accountant who would volunteer for a gunfight on the Imperium flagship, so his volunteering to stick it to the OCI wasn’t a surprise. “You can’t let anyone find out what you’re up to. They’ll probably be watching.” The OCI had been tailing him everywhere since he’d gotten back to New York, and doing an embarrassing job of it, since they were so easy to spot. “It could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous? One of them sucker-punched a billionaire and got away with it.”
“Millionaire,” Francis corrected. Grandfather had been the billionaire. Between the board putting the screws to him and the UBF stock taking a hit because Francis had told the Imperium where to stick their gold, he was only a millionaire. Though to be fair, it was a lot of millions.
“Yeah, whatever. I prepare the financials, remember? Then this OCI guy waltzed out of jail, and your legion of lawyers can’t even prove the man ever existed. Oh, believe me. I’ll be extra careful.” Chandler freed himself from the too-cushioned chair and headed straight for the door like a man on a mission. “I’ve got a few ideas to start with. Your grandfather liked to collect companies like they were stamps. We’ve got a couple small ones that aren’t doing much of anything interesting. I think somebody is about to get a nice infusion of operating capital. Let me see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chandler,” Francis said with all sincerity.
He smiled. “No, thank you, Mr. Stuyvesant. You somehow always manage to keep this job interesting.”
After his accountant had left, Francis got up and walked to the window. The view of the city, from what had recently been his grandfather’s office, was spectacular. The old man’s guilty dying wish had installed Francis here, and he’d fought tooth and nail to keep it that way. Luckily, enough of the board had thought that it was easier to keep him around as a controllable figurehead than to fight, but he’d managed to surprise and outmaneuver most of them. Francis had worked hard for that view.
A considerable sum of money had brought a Healer in to repair his arm and his face, but his pride still stung from the beating Crow had administered. The whole thing was shameful. Not that Francis hadn’t been hurt before, quite the contrary; he’d been shot, stabbed, crashed in a dirigible, and nearly drowned as a knight, but it was one thing to get manhandled by an Imperium warrior, it was something entirely different to be humiliated by a supposed public servant.
It wasn’t enough that Crow had hurt him physically, it was the insinuation that he was some sort of traitor to his country. He had risked his life to keep his country from being destroyed by a Peace Ray! Who were they to accuse him of treason? Francis had cultivated a public persona of being a spoiled rich brat, but it irked him even more to have that lorded over him by some thug. Now he was reduced to hiding in his office behind a protective wall of lawyers when he should have been out there doing something. Black Jack would have expected more from him. Heinrich certainly wouldn’t have sat around while the Grimnoir were being framed.
Several of his friends were wanted like common criminals. Even Faye had shown up in the papers. Faye! She was about the sweetest, kindest, most innocent, gentle… well, not really. She was about as gentle as a bag of agitated rattlesnakes, but he was really fond of her, and she certainly didn’t deserve to have her name tarnished by a bunch of propaganda artists.
The whole thing made Francis very angry.
And there was nothing more dangerous that an angry millionaire with an ax to grind.
Fairfax County, Virginia
His nightmares were swift and violent, filled with disjointed images of flashing steel and spraying blood. The enemy scout was ruthless and cunning. Okubo, the legendary ronin, led the final charge against the beast and its created legions. Hundreds of their order had died, yet in the end, the warriors of Dark Ocean prevailed.
The sun had long since risen on a new day.
The Chairman had not yet responded. Iron Guard Toru had dutifully delivered his report concerning the death of Ambassador Hatori and the escape of the Grimnoir to one of the Chairman’s personal staff. Before the link had been severed, Toru had been informed that the Chairman wished to give him further orders. So Toru had stayed on his knees, meditating in front of the mirror. Staying awake had been a struggle. Eventually the fatigue of his injuries and magic usage had finally rendered him unconscious. He woke up still on his knees, innocent blood on his hands, and Hatori’s memories in his mind.
All Iron Guard were taught about their brothers’ magical skills. A Reader had the ability not just to receive but to send messages and images through a mental link. Sending was very draining and took considerable Power. Considering the vast amount of memories that Hatori had shown him, it must have taken every last bit of Power his teacher had to accomplish such a feat, especially while ritually disemboweling himself. Toru’s admiration for his mentor could not be higher.
The memories were centered around the secretive group known as Dark Ocean and their battle against the predator that had come for the Power. Dark Ocean had been a tight-knit group, and since they had been gathered during Okubo Tokugawa’s wanderings, they were not all Japanese. Toru had not been taught that during his training.
However, the creature was just as wretched as he had been taught at the Iron Guard academy and the Chairman had been every bit as fearsome in mankind’s defense. He was extremely thankful that his father was there to protect the world from such horrors. Truly, if it had not been for him, this would be a dead world. Once again, Toru was reminded what an honor it was to have been conceived by the greatest warrior of all time.
A few of Hatori’s personal memories, his impoverished youth, and times with family, lovers, and friends, had come over as well, but Toru did his best to ignore those private things, though it was becoming increasingly difficult to separate his memories from Hatori’s, they had become so fully meshed together.
It was a mystery why Hatori had seen fit to bestow these things to him. The glories were not his own, and he was therefore unworthy of having them. To further complicate matters, he also knew without a doubt that Hatori had been innocent. His love for the Chairman was unsurpassed. In one respect, Toru knew he had violated the Chairman’s orders. He had been told not to speak to Hatori, yet his teacher had shared something more personal than mere words.
Toru decided that he would ask the Chairman for his opinion on the matter, and if Toru had condemned himself through his foolishness, then so be it. He would have to die. Iron Guards did not fear death. They lived for death-or so it was taught, and Toru was careful never to admit to himself any doubts or unease about the philosophy. The best an Iron Guard could hope for was that when they met their inevitable end, it had somehow
