Mystery ~ MV1

001. A Dangerous Dance

The mid-morning Parisian sun filtered through my coffee cup's rising steam, creating an ethereal dance that would have been poetic if I weren't busy calculating the precise angle needed to maintain visual contact with the building's entrance as different pedestrians and cars moved in between us.

I adjusted the newspaper exactly 15 degrees clockwise, creating the perfect sightline while maintaining my cover as just another French citizen enjoying the quaint café's ambiance.

The delicate porcelain cup clinked against its saucer as I set it down, the sound mixing with the gentle murmur of passing conversations and the distant hum of traffic.

"Target's running late," Luke's voice crackled through my subdermal comm, the frequency carefully chosen to be undetectable by standard surveillance equipment. "Maybe your intel was wrong this time, Syd?"

Unlike in the poorly made movies,  I didn't dare touch my ear– a rookie tell that could give you away better than any flashy costume.

Instead, I took another calculated sip of my rapidly cooling café au lait, letting the bitter notes of French roast play across my tongue.

"The intel's solid. Vega's board meeting starts at 10:30. He's notorious for arriving exactly seven minutes before any scheduled appointment. That gives us..." I glanced at my watch, disguising it as adjusting the sleeve of my black dress shirt's sleeve, "...three minutes."

The newspaper's headlines blurred as I maintained my peripheral vision on the street. Every person who passed the building's glass doors was categorized and dismissed: businessman (laptop bag too worn for Vega's standards), courier (wrong company), cleaning staff (wrong timing for shift change). A young couple strolled past, their matching tourist maps and comfortable shoes marking them as honeymooners. A street vendor adjusted his display of fresh flowers, their perfume carried on the morning breeze.

"You know," Luke's voice carried that familiar teasing lilt, "most people would've given up after the Singapore incident. Or maybe after he slipped through your fingers in Dubai. Or was it Macao that should've been your sign to—"

"I count four possible exit routes from this building," I interrupted, though my lips barely moved as I raised my coffee to cover them. "The main entrance, the service entrance on Rue Saint-Honoré, the underground parking garage, and the connected building's roof access. I've got eyes on three, and Martinez has the garage covered."

Each escape route had been meticulously mapped, analyzed, and accounted for.

This time would be different.

The sleek black Mercedes-Maybach pulled up right on schedule, its polished surface reflecting the ornate Parisian architecture like a mirror. The soft purr of its engine cut through the ambient street noise with German precision.

"Show time," I murmured, watching as the first set of bodyguards emerged – Vega's standard formation, two primary guards flanking him with four secondary positions creating a mobile perimeter. Their suits were perfectly tailored to conceal their weapons, but I'd memorized all the telling bulges: shoulder holsters, ankle backup pieces, ceramic knives at the small of their backs. 

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the thought of them carrying knives.

So primitive, so messy.

The morning sun glinted off their dark sunglasses, each man scanning the street with practiced efficiency. They were his usual cards and while it raised red flags, I prayed that he was changing it up as I was getting closer.

And then there he was.

Nicholas Vega stepped out with the practiced grace of a man who'd never known consequence. His dark hair was longer than in his last known photographs, falling in artfully tousled waves that suggested both careful styling and deliberate nonchalance.