FIRE [FIRST DRAFT]

Chapter 6: Cards

 There were a billion and one things that could have gone wrong at that point. But that was what he and everyone else had prepared for, right?

Stefan ambled into Abba's penthouse; he was the bull's-eye on a dartboard. Eight men posed before him, guns upraised and loaded, itching to shed some bullets. Benjamin was standing to the right of them, wearing a glare that twisted Stefan's stomach. Stefan decided to send a casual nod his way. Benjamin didn't so much as flinch. On the bright side, now there were just a billion things that could go wrong (the extra 'one' had been the probability of being beaten black-and-blue, or killed, on entry). Stefan advanced towards the grand desk in the odd-middle of the room and sat upright in Abba's chair, looking everywhere except at Benjamin and the soldiers, endeavouring to ignore the eyes burning through his skull.

Abba had cleared her desk of everything – no maps, pens, vials of evil juice – but the high-tech wireless phone on the far right edge of the desk, and a key, for the drawers at Stefan's knee. Finally, he heard Abba's voice, something French coming from the en suite bathroom that was hidden behind the doors of her walk-in wardrobe. She ambled into the room and glanced at the body at her desk, but without fully acknowledging him. She walked towards Benjamin, with a smile that Stefan found discomforting. Abba had been in the shower – the towel that wrapped her body, and her sleek, conditioned black hair verified that. Benjamin returned that smile; he had obviously been waiting for her, too. However, as she laid her hand upon his left cheek, her smile morphed into a scowl.

"Que faites-vous, laissant mes soldats courir après un intrus quand i lest clairement ici?" she queried, monotonously.

Equally monotonous – although his voice had a deeper, ghostlier sound – he replied, "Je pensais que je laisse l'honneur de traiter avec lui pour vous."

Stefan thought he heard the word traitor, and for some reason his first thought was of Dominick in his AIM camouflage. Abba watched Stefan and a leer met the corner of her mouth.

"Your kind really is trouble," she uttered.

"My kin–?"

"Tell those idiots to get back to their posts," she told Benjamin, before her eyes crawled over Stefan. "They need to be alert; Stefan is surely not our only guest."

Meanwhile, Gavin was helping Aimee into the air vents. Listening in on Stefan and Abba's conversation, her focus was lacking. Gavin climbed up behind her, into the opening.

"Aimee, we have to go," he whispered, nudging her over and then sealing the vent with its weighted steel cover.

They crawled through the tight, unending cuboids that were the air vents, their icy surface beneath their palms and shins. Aimee had expected to hear loud, metallic clangs whenever they made contact with the vent, so, admittedly, the quietness of their movement surprised her. She had switched off her earpiece, and Gavin had switched off his, because the sound of Stefan's erratic breaths and Abba's haunting voice was a distraction – a costly distraction that was too painful to bear. They had to silence Stefan out, and tried not to worry, tried not to think about what might have happened once they cut the line, which was easier said than done.

As they ascended a vertical cuboid, Aimee tried to distract them from their distraction. "You know, if I wasn't trying to be serious – due to our deathly situation – I'd comment on how cliché it is that we're climbing through the air vents."

"Because we're spies?" he queried, somewhat knowingly.

"Yes," she answered. "Like, I'll be disappointed if we aren't caught."