Dangerous by Default

28. The rise of White Wing

"Eastern Europe, an update please" boomed the emcee over the mic. Treading through the vast ballroom, White Wing quietly took her seat among the North American cohort. Silent nods greeted her from the baggy shapes she had come accustomed to seeing. The tall one who hunched awkwardly like he had been badly abused. The skinny one who she imagined had pierced nipples. The one with a manly voice who was oddly public about his faith, tattooed as it was across his knuckles: SATAN SPAWN. Then there was the one with the horrendous body odor problem. He was her favorite, he had a good sense of humor. Dark secrets hung over them all like a sinister shadow. These were her comrades.

The North American contingent was not considered in the top tier of the Doves, Old World-centric as the organisation was. But the last decade saw a push to expand the business outwards, and high-performing territories on the edges of the globe were reinvigorating the organization.

An extremely round shape stood up from his table and snapped his fingers in the air. His voice was deep and oily with the thickness of a Ukranian accent.

"Nine bows to the ten directions. Ongoing projects in our region include a poison pen operation that has been extremely successful."

White Wing sniggered.

The deep-voiced Ukranian man continued. "A well-placed diplomat, under pressure by our forensic triangulation of letter-writing, has confessed to one of our associates of sexual proclivities that would put him at grave risk of causing a scandal. We have used this information to our advantage, most recently being permitted preferential terms for an upcoming auction of historically significant manuscripts. We project an increase in revenue of 5% for the region."

The voice attached to the body odor leaned into White Wing's ear "And 5% of nil is nil?"

They laughed into their cloaks to stifle the sound.

The man's comrades slapped his back strongly in approval of his delivery of their accomplishments. "And I don't appreciate the rude comments," the man remarked as he sat.

"Thank you, Holuby. We all congratulate you on your accomplishments," the master of ceremonies said sleepily into his microphone.

"And for East Africa and Arabia, we turn to you, Roseogrisea," the voice said.

A tall and slender form rose and took her place on the small stage. The man with the B.O. leaned in again. "I'd love to get a look at her under that cloak. What is she, 6'4"? Bet she could bench press me."

"What for? You emasculate yourself just fine," she said, kicking him under the table.

"Good evening brothers and sisters." Roseogrisea's voice was perky and girlish, as if a flight attendant on Virgin Airlines was getting ready to pass out hot towels. Ruthless bitch.

"Nine bows to the ten directions! I'm very pleased to announce that quarterly revenue for the Arabian Peninsula and East Africa regions have exceeded projections, due largely to the successful outcome of our mission in Riyadh. We cheerfully expect to net an increase to our annual income of $120 million dollars. This will no doubt be critical to the expansion of our foothold in the Arab world."

Applause and cheers erupted. White Wing rolled her eyes.

"Assassinating members of the royal family, and replacing them with look-alikes. The operation took six years. Brilliant," White Wing's friend said.

The African dove. It was widely acknowledged that Roseogrisea was the highest performing member in the entire global organization. She was born for it. Recruited in from a Puerto Rican drug trafficking gang at the age of 12, her ascent to the top was swift and soaked in a trail of blood.