The Offer and the Metallurgist
The waiting room at the Carson City Trauma Center smelled of burnt coffee and industrial floor wax. Samuel Lance stood by the window, his reflection ghostly against the dark glass. Beside him, the Head of Blue-Trace Security, a retired tactical lead named Miller, was speaking in hushed, frantic tones into a radio.
"We've got the local PD canvassing the B&B, but the rain has washed out any footprints near the delivery door," Miller reported, his voice tight. "And the 'London' ping? It just jumped to a server in Reykjavik. He's ghosting us, Sam. We're chasing a digital shadow while the real monster is probably sitting in a cafe somewhere nearby."
The men shared a look, and, with not a word between them, they both knew that the voyeur and the attacker were one in the same. Who else çould so easily bypass their security and leave not a trace, and who else would have known the exact time to attack Calvin? The issue was why. Between them they had over sixty years of experience surveillance and law enforcement, but for the life of them, they couldn't think of a motive for spying on the spa and stabbing Calvin.
The heavy double doors of the waiting room swung open, and Albert Cummings stepped through. He looked every bit the concerned billionaire—his coat was expensive but slightly rumpled, as if he'd dressed in a hurry. He didn't look like a threat; he looked like a man whose peaceful world had been disrupted.
Samuel stiffened, his protective instincts instantly flaring. "Albert? What are you doing here? Jessica is supposed to be resting."
"She is," Albert said, his voice calm and steady as he approached. "I left a private guard at her door. But my own head of security flagged a high-priority incident on the resort grounds. I had them monitoring the lake because…" He paused, looking slightly sheepish, a masterclass in acting. "I've already spoken to Amber. I we are planning to surprise Jessica with a private ceremony at the lake in three months. Unfortunately, I am a bit overprotective so I decided to post my people there ahead of time – to make sure all is truly secure."
Miller bristled beside them and Albert threw him a disarming smile. "Not to say things are not already secure. I am just a perfectionist like your boss."
Samuel's eyes narrowed, but the logic held. It was exactly the kind of extravagant, romantic gesture a man like Albert would make. But his gut twisted at the easy convenience of it all.
"It's a mess, Albert," Samuel admitted, rubbing his face. "Calvin, Amber's head chef and the owner of the B&B at the resort, was gutted in his own kitchen. The intruder took a… a piece of him."
Albert's expression didn't change, but his eyes went cold—a predator recognizing the scent of another. "I heard. Look, Sam, I know the Lances pride themselves on their internal security. But Blue-Trace is spread thin with the new two businesses launching at the same time, and the business park still under construction. I want to help. I have a specialized lead—a man who handled high-level counter-insurgency. I want to loan him to you. No strings, no ego. Just a fresh set of eyes on the situation."
Samuel looked at Miller, then back at Albert. He was desperate. The "London" pings were mocking him, and a major cog in the Blue Serene machine was in surgery. "Fine. Have your man coordinate with Miller. But if he finds so much as a pixel of this guy, I want to be in the room. Keep me fully in the loop Albert."
"Of course," Albert said, his voice a smooth, is mind already moving to logistics. "We all want the same thing, Samuel. Safety for the family." A slow, honest smile spread across his lips. "And you and I are family Samuel, for better or worse, and always."
Outside the city, the calm deep azure waters of Blue Serene Lake belied the macabre goings-on in Villa 4.
Sebastian Montague III sat at a small, velvet-lined table in the center of his dressing room. The air here was heavy with the chemical tang of an electroplating solution. On the table sat a glass beaker, filled with a shimmering, metallic liquid.
He reached in with a pair of silver tongs and slowly, delicately, lifted the "trophy" from the solution. The small, severed pinky finger was now encased in a thin, brilliant layer of bronze. It looked like a piece of surrealist art—a frozen moment of "cleansing."
Sebastian smiled – like a child impressed with their own artistic talent.
He set the bronzed finger on a drying rack and reached into his pocket, pulling out a heavy, ornate pinky ring – it was an unexpected boon that came with his trophy. He looked at the dark emerald securely placed within the antique dark square setting.
He began to twirl the ring between his fingers, the rhythmic soft thump-thump-thump of the metal against his knuckles acting as a metronome for his thoughts. He began to hum—the same soft, melodic lullaby he had hummed in the kitchen – the same one his mother sung to him when he was young.
He placed the ring on the table before him. He would make something for Amber. He would show her and Calvin who was better for her, who should be in her world, and who should be left behind.
He had always prided himself of being a jack of all trades and he quickly went to work removing the emerald and looking for tools to polish it. Maybe a pendant, or perhaps a antique broach.
"A guy can dream, Calvin," he whispered to the empty room, his voice a chillingly soft rasp. "But to ever truly be with Amber you have to deserve her light and her grace. And you never even deserved to share the air she breathed."
He looked at his bronzed trophy, then at the emerald before him. He thought of how beautifully the emerald would go with her hair and match her eyes. He imagined the smile she would gift him with when she received it.
He began to dream about how she would thank him for ensure that she was always safe. His Amber, his love. Soon, very soon.