Love is War (L.S.)

10

Louis is currently incredibly pissed off. 

He'd barely had time to change into a pair of sweatpants and his favorite green Adidas hoodie, before he was receiving a text from an anonymous number that said, "conference room B - ask the front desk where it is - ten minutes."

He loves his job with Browski, he really does. He loves the infiltrating bits too. But not when the Great British Baking Show is on and he hasn't eaten anything of substance all day. He had a plan to order room service, watch his comfort show, and then fall asleep at an unreasonable hour. 

They're flying back to Montpellier tomorrow and he thought he would be able to have the rest of the day to himself given that he was almost murdered less than half an hour ago. Apparently, that was too much to ask for. 

Louis doesn't bother changing out of his hoodie. He just ditches his sweatpants for his black trousers and makes his way down to the lobby. 

There's a brunette lady behind the front desk and she offers him a beauty pageant winning smile. He offers her a polite one back and asks for directions to the conference room. Apparently, he has to take an elevator down to a floor below this one. Louis thanks her and tries to match her joyful energy, but he can't. He's tired. He's hungry. He's missing his show. And he knows that whatever's waiting for him in conference room B will not be pleasant. 

Louis carries a frown on his face all the way into the elevator and down to the bottom floor. The elevator doors open to reveal a rectangular-shaped room with two giant doors. One has a giant A in cursive painted onto it, the other naturally, is showcasing a B. He stalls for all of five seconds before walking up toward the rightful door and knocking twice. 

"Come in Louis," he hears faintly from inside. 

Louis takes a big breath and then pushes the giant door open. He's immediately met with three pairs of eyes on him: Styles, who is seated behind a large desk that's placed in the center of the room; his hair loose and curling on his shoulders, Swift, who's leaning against the desk as she looks over her shoulder to stare at Louis, and Timmy, who's standing near a corner wall. At least they're alive and well, Louis thinks as he steps into the room and offers them a nod.

They don't return his nod though and Louis' expression sours more than before because how rude. 

It's quiet in the large room as Louis hovers near the door and waits for someone to say something, or at least look away from him. He meets Styles' eyes briefly before dropping them to the desk where he sees the black briefcase open and the cash piled in stacks near it. There's a money counter machine a little to the left of the desk, but other than that, it's practically empty. 

Styles leans back a little in his chair and clasps his hands on his lap as he watches him intently. 

"I thought you said Jackson Demille sent you," he rasps out. 

Louis nods. "He did," he responds tiredly. 

"Demille wouldn't send someone this stupid," Timmy says. And when Louis looks over he sees his attention is directed to Styles, not Louis.

"I told you he was a fucking amateur," Swift chimes in, and again, her attention is on Styles. 

Louis narrows his eyes at her briefly before looking back at the man directly opposite him. He's still watching him, almost as if he's trying to figure Louis out. 

"I don't understand what's going on, could someone fill me in?" Louis asks the three of them as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

Swift scoffs and Timmy looks down at his shoes with his jaw set. 

"Louis," Styles sighs. "How much money was in Patelo's safe?"