The Black Pawn

"Remember what I told you over the phone, Émile?" Mr. Harding asked as he took a sip of his coffee. The black liquid, roughly southern brewed, was steaming like no other. But the suit-clad bald man pretended not to notice as the stuff bubbled down his throat like lava. Or maybe he didn't notice.

Émile shifted in his white plastic chair. It wasn't the nervous kind of shifting, but rather the kind of shifting one did when trying to tell an important secret; lean closer, glance left and right for eavesdroppers, and lower his head. But he couldn't be too obvious. So he sat up straight and offered what he hoped was a normal-looking friendly smile. "Why of course, monsieur." Then he pretended to gulp down his own coffee. He wouldn't dare drink any kind of liquid in public for real; it was too risky. And knowing Mr. Harding, there could very well be poison hiding in his medication. "When would you like me to start this new tâche?" This time Émile overdid the French accent on purpose. They both knew he could hide it easily if he so wished.

Mr. Harding had an amused glint in his eye. This was good. "Well, I'd like you to start as soon as possible. I'm convinced you are the best man for the job. So how does... say, later tonight sound?"

Tonight? It was too soon. There was definitely something more to this than he knew, but Émile did know better than to question orders. He leaned back into his chair with confident ease. A flourish of his free hand told Harding that he had dismissed any idea of resistance. "It sounds excellent, monsieur Harding." He smiled again for extra assurance. So much smiling in one day! Was he growing soft?

"Excellent. Yes." Mr. Harding went back to sipping his black coffee and unfolded the newspaper that he kept in his front left Armani pocket. This was Émile's cue to leave. He did so immediately, leaving Harding to enjoy his time in the presence of the civilians. At a common coffee shop, no less! As foolish as it sounded, normality was important to the man. It takes great courage, he had told Émile once, to kill an innocent. But it takes even greater courage to wear his mask.

In Émile's opinion, it was utter bullshit. But no one asked for his opinion.

His newest assignment was actually quite simple, something usually reserved for the less experienced employees. Therefore there was no doubt in his mind that there was something more to it than that. He drove to the address on the card with a gun (Kimber Raptor II) in his boot. He wore his gray tie that had a new knife hidden inside. Émile had to look the part, but he had to be prepared for combat as well. Anything could happen on the job. If he had to kill someone, he would. Even if his take-out permit was down to a meager three men. The boss was starting to believe that Émile had a tendency to get trigger-happy. But that wasn't true. Émile just loved to hurt people who pissed him off, and lately people had been getting on his bad side more than usual.

He rang the doorbell to office number 330 with a false grin in place. For the next two hours, he would be Mr. Fournier, a short-notice replacement for a strangely missing personal assistant. As if that quota didn't send up enough warning flags on its own, he had to act the part exceptionally well. It was essential to get on their good sides before he took any sort of action. This wasn't something he was good at; Harding had to know that, didn't he? Perhaps that was the real reason Émile was given this assignment; to test his social skills. Émile scoffed. Social skills. He could manage that.

"Ah, you must be Mr. Fournier!" A middle-aged man had opened the door. He was only slightly shorter than Émile's 6'2 and his light blond hair was combed down and gelled, giving it the look of plastered feathers. He motioned for Émile to come in, and they shared friendly smiles with greeting nods. Yes, social skills. It was almost sickening.

The room just inside the door was small and relatively square-shaped. Another door, a wooden one this time, was shut and guarded by a tall man with dark hair and features.

Feathers-hair ushered him over to the man -- who was dressed professionally in a stark black suit with muscles bulging underneath. This man's age was impossible to guess at, mostly due to the thick sunglasses that hid his eyes.

Sunglasses searched Émile for weapons while Feathers looked on, his expression as uptight and upbeat as could possibly be acceptable for a full-body search. Thankfully Émile didn't have to strip or do anything drastic enough to give his hidden weapons away. Sunglasses let him through with a stony-faced nod.

Émile walked into the meeting room with Feathers trailing by his side. His eyes immediately searched for his host, and found him sitting at the head of the table with his fat lips pursed together. Jackson Thomas; relatively common name, but with a relatively uncommon interest in dangerous matters. Yet unfortunately the man probably would not be killed or harmed in any way this time. The only bruise he would receive today would be to his ego. Or perhaps his heart -- if he had one, that is.

Sitting to Thomas' immediate left was Émile's true assignment for today. She was a pretty thing, his daughter was. Her skin was tanned a strange almond-chocolate color that he supposed she had gotten from her mother; her father was as pale as a sewer rat. Silky white-blonde hair, light freckles across her nose and cheeks, and a soft glow in her tawny eyes that told Émile she had a lot of spirit. It would be a waste to take such life away, morals might reason, but Émile felt only cold indifference for the young woman.

He masked it with a polite smile and nodded his head to all of the other businessmen at the long table. There were four of them, and none of them Émile recognized. That either meant they were insignificant, or important enough to keep themselves nonexistent.

Feathers stepped behind him then, which put Émile on edge even though he could do nothing about it, and placed his hand on Émile's shoulder. "Mr. Thomas, this is your temporary replacement personal assistant, Mr. Fournier. He is the best of the best, I assure you. He came all the way from France just to attend this meeting!" Feathers beamed at him. The man was beginning to annoy Émile more than he was worth. He'd already be a dead man if it weren't for Émile's cursed take-out limit.

"Mr. Fournier, so nice of you to join us," Thomas had a secret glint in his eye as if he could understand exactly what Émile was thinking. "Please, take a seat next to my daughter Fletcher here and feel free to do what you do best."

Unfortunate for him that personal assistant work wasn't exactly what Émile did best.

He walked over briskly to shake Thomas' hand in a firm grip, as repulsive as it was for him to do so. He sat down in the open chair next to the daughter and grasped Fletcher's small hand a bit more gently, which was only to keep up his presence, he knew. "Mr. Thomas, miss Fletcher, very nice to meet you," he bumped up the French accent.

Fletcher grinned at him. She was much too happy for a simple business meeting, he thought. Perhaps she was simply a good actor. At least then they may have something in common.

"Same to you, Mr. Fournier." Her voice took him by surprise momentarily; it wasn't the high-pitched octave he was used to in the seductive women who worked under him, but rather slightly deeper and much more soft. But even more than that, her voice was honest to god friendly. He quickly regained control of himself. Now was not the time to be letting his conscience get in the way of things. It didn't matter if Fletcher Thomas was the fucking Virgin Mary. He'd still have to complete this assignment.

He leaned back in his chair, took out a thin notepad, and refused to look at Thomas' daughter for the entire first half of the meeting.

The meeting was even more dull than watching one of the many training videos at Harding's numerous 'get-togethers' as he liked to call them. Émile took notes on every significant detail, but so far nothing interesting had gotten out. He doubted they would be talking about anything illegal or supernatural in a meeting like this... but there was that guard with the sunglasses. Yes. Sunglasses definitely had to be there for some reason.

It took him a fraction of a second to realize that the reason was probably him. Of course they wouldn't trust him. Warning flags, remember? He just had to play it cool and work on his social skills while meandering through the boring shit. Soon enough, the first hour of the meeting was over and Émile had been left alone with Fletcher and Feathers as the big-boss and his businessmen went to get coffee in the adjacent room.

He felt a wave of relief at the chances that had just been thrown at him. But it didn't last for long; the daughter was talking to him.

"That tie looks very lovely on you, Mr. Fournier. It matches the shade of your eyes exactly," she said to him, a pleasant smile curving up her blossom-pink lips.

Was she flirting with him? It would be easy to assume that she was, but something about her tone and her expression told him that she was just being friendly. Honest to god friendly. It unnerved him. But he would pretend that it was just innocent flirtatious tendencies, as Feathers seemed to think. He was watching them with an amused smirk. The chances were too good to be true.

"Je vous remercie, mlle. Thank you, miss Fletcher." He forced his lips to pull up into a coy little grin. Could he pull it off? He decided to throw in a wink just to make things obvious.

She didn't even blush.

Émile knew he wasn't the most charming guy around, but he had been told he was attractive in that mysterious and dark bad-boy sort of way. Hell, he knew he was good-looking. He struggled to keep his smile in place, certain that at least one part of his face was twitching comically in the process. He was just going to have to try harder than that. Enough beating around the bush. Time to get serious.

The sound of footsteps were approaching. Acting quickly, he lifted one of his gloved hands to brush a loose strand of white-blonde hair away from Fletcher's face, leaned in, and then moved his grip as fast as lightning to curl around the girl's throat as he yanked her into his lap.

Feathers stared on in a stupor for a split second before letting loose a yell. Thomas and his cronies barged through the door. To Émile's utter satisfaction, one of them spilled coffee down the front of his expensive clothes and then began to curse as he took in the sight of Fletcher's sticky situation.

Émile pulled the Kimber out out of his boot with his free hand, cocking the gun and pressing it firmly against the side of Fletcher's temple. His coy smile morphed into a dangerous, black grin as he let his true emotions show. "Nobody moves. Nobody speaks. Or her brains will splatter against the wall like blood confetti."

Everyone froze.

Everyone except for Fletcher herself. To his surprise and confused disbelief, the girl was still smiling warmly. There was no fear in her eyes, no lie in her face. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and made a soft choking sound as if to bring Émile's attention to the fact that his leather-bound gloved fingers were still digging into her neck. He loosened them enough for her to breathe, but not enough for her to make any other sort of noise.

"Au revoir, gentlemen," Émile saluted them briefly with a wave of his Kimber, then pressed it against Fletcher firmly enough to cause a bruise. He proceeded to drag her towards the exit, but soon realized that it wasn't needed. Fletcher was walking in front of him without any signs of struggle or resistance. He considered shooting her somewhere non-vital just for the hell of it; she was pissing him off with that gentle smile of hers. Wasn't she afraid at all? The damn girl didn't have a lick of common sense.

"Seize him, dammit! Don't just stand there, Montgomery! Kill the bastard!" Thomas had come to his senses at the last second, taking the opportunity when Émile's back was turned. Smart man. He wouldn't be doing the fighting, but that's what Sunglasses was for, wasn't it? The big man was waiting outside in the square-shaped room. He jumped on Émile from the side as soon as he kicked open the door. It was split second chances or nothing. Émile rolled out from under the man, kicking upwards with his knees at the same instant. Fletcher was lost somewhere at the side of the tangle, but he had a firm grip on her wrist now. Émile yanked his tie away from his neck and took one second to aim. He threw it hard enough to make the blade inside draw blood, but the injury would only hold Sunglasses off for a few precious moments at the most.

It was a shame, really. He had found himself growing fond of that tie.

He knocked Fletcher over the head with his Kimber, slung her unconscious body over his shoulder, and shot Sunglasses in the chest just as he was rising to his feet. Émile scaled the iron stairwell away from office room 330.

Once in the relative safety of his car with Fletcher handcuffed to the armrest in the back, Émile flipped open his work cell and dialed the boss. Harding answered him with a gruff, "Hello?"

"I've got her, Harding. The hostage is secured."

There was a breath of silence. "Excellent. Take her to Base 13... and Émile, you know what to do from there. I have decided to lay this one on your shoulders for the time being. Can you handle that, Émile?"

Émile frowned. The boss expected him to hold the hostage now? This wasn't the type of work he was cut out for, and Harding knew how much he disagreed with the questioning. All things considered, that was probably why he had to do this in the first place. Dammit. "Of course, monsieur." He hoped to god above that his tone was believable enough to keep him breathing in the morning. The dial tone rang in his ears as he sped down the highway -- a bad sign, if it was a sign at all.

There had to be more to it than that, didn't there? Émile glanced at the back where his new hostage's head was leaning against her arm, white-blonde hair matted with blood where he had struck her. She looked restless in her sleep, something very peculiar compared to her show of fearless bravery earlier.

Who exactly was Fletcher Thomas? Maybe she was just some kid with a rich dad who would be paying for his mistakes in the form of karma's bitch. But... that was just too easy, wasn't it? It had been too easy.

"Shut up," Émile muttered to himself, "Thinking like that won't get you anywhere. You've just gotta keep your head on straight for this one. Everything will be fine when you get back to base. Beat up some of the guys, kill a few shooting ranges, and things will be back to normal in no time."