2010-06-21: Renegotiation - Failed



Date: June 21, 2010


Sometimes bartering after the fact doesn't work quite as well as one would hope

"Renegotiation - Failed"

An Inn - Upstate New York

Among the items in the hire packet when it was initially given was a phone number. Before being destroyed along with the rest of the materials, as per her employers request, Vasha sang it over and over to herself while making breakfast one morning. Now it is firmly entrenched into her head.

The number doesn't exist anywhere else, it also seems to be somewhat untraceable. Not a cell phone number but an international 1-800 number that is routed through the Bahamas before being forwarded through multiple phones. After a two minute series of clicks and rings, Vasha has reached her final destination. Mister Wolf is quite serious about his security.

The curtains are, for the most part, drawn open. The main curtain that looks over the gardens is drawn as wide as possible, various gardeners and handymen running about the property below, trying to restore it to its former glory. It's quite nearly finished, and when it is, it will be quite a sight to behold. His gardens allow him to walk peacefully, the sound of flowing water washing over him and clearing his mind, which gives him the ability to think that much more clearly.

Mister Wolf currently stands in front of the drawn curtains, eyes roaming over the property. His hands are held behind his back, as if he were in the at ease position, but he stands much straighter than that. His hawkish eyes miss nothing, and only when the phone rings does he turn away from the window to regard the table upon which it sits. The number is only held by one person in the world, which lets him know exactly who it is. If it's some other voice on the end of the line… well… let's just say it better not come to that.

Picking up the phone, he places it against his ear as he sits himself down in the chair behind his desk, sunshine falling over him from the window directly behind the polished piece of wood. "I hope you have good news."

The woman's well manicured hand runs over the walnut arm of the chair she's sitting in, when the hawkish man picks up the phone, she lets out a small breath of air. "Mister Wolf, the package is secured." She pauses for a breath or two as she holds her hand out in front of her to examine her fingernails. Perfectly groomed eyebrows knit together in a frown as she spies a flaw in one of the bright red nails. If she had been at home, the manicurist would have been beaten to with an inch of her life. As it is, she's in America and beatings to people relegated to the ranks of servitude is frowned upon.

"However," she continues slowly, her South African accent coming through the line quite crisply. "There is a need to renegotiate my compensation. For you see, the item that I have acquired is one that was stolen from my possession."

Leaning forward in his chair, the smile on Vincent's face is evident, even through the phone. "That is certainly good news, indeed," he says, reaching forward and snagging a pen out of the cup resting on his desk. He makes a small annotation on a nearby piece of paper, and then sets the pen down.

Leaning back again, he spins his chair around with his feet so he is able to look out the window into the backlawns as he speaks. "I do believe we had arrived at a hefty sum already. I am sure that this is more than enough to compensate you for your loss materials." A bird goes flying by the window and lands on a nearby tree, offering food to its young. Vincent watches it for a few moments before speaking further. "Should it not be enough, I do have other ways to acquire what I need. You aren't a hard woman to find, I am afraid." If that sounds like a threat to Vasha, that would be because it is. It is veiled behind politeness, but very thinly so.

"The sum we arrived at was for an acquisition, Mister Wolf, not for a sale." Vasha's low tone is headed by a soft growl. Perhaps a subtle threat of her own. The woman leans forward in her chair and stares out the window of her shared suite and eyes the other guests milling about on the lawn. "If you wish for a sale, the price is tripled. The merchandise is valued at much more than that."

Taking a deep breath inward, the woman leans back into her chair again and squirms a little to get comfortable, looking quite feline as she does so. "Should you agree to the price, I shall leave the merchandise at the agreed location. Should you not… well.. I can assure that I can be quite difficult to find."

A fist is clenched on Vincent's side of the phone. He moves to slam said clenched fist into the table, but he resists. He must keep his cool. Although these past few years things have gone so horribly wrong… jail. His empire crumbling. And now this… woman trying to coerce more money out of him for materials that he supplied the location too! Even so… he must keep his cool in front of her. He can not show his cards.

"I hope you understand what you are asking," Vincent says, his voice a controlled fury of anger. "We agreed to a price for you to acquire and drop off the materials. I really have no care whether they belong to you or not— in either case, I supplied you with the location. Some might say that has its own price." As he speaks, he picks up a cellphone lying on the desk. He pushes a few buttons, waits a moment, and seems satisfied as he sets it down. It's fortunate that Vasha can not see him doing this.

Turning his attention back to the phone, Vincent continues to speak into it. "I do not appreciate being lied to. We agreed on our deal, and I fully expect you to see through to the end of that deal." Another moment passes, and then he can hear it— the sound of wood being splintered and cracked as the door to Vasha's suite crumbles inward, three men in black ski masks entering directly behind the commotion. "As I said," Vincent continues, the anger no longer there, but a cold, calculated smile on his face, "you are an easy woman to find, Miss Kruger." The phone is placed in the cradle with a soft click— the man turns away from his desk to look out the window, folding his hands over his chest as he watches the clouds past lazily in the sky.

Later That Same Morning

Whatever was droning in the background while the housekeeper is preparing coffee for her employer is pre-empted by a special report. While he isn't in the habit of sharing what he is working on, she has been working for him since long before his stay in prison. She's always been loyal. "Senior! Quickly!" she calls through the intercom to the study. "Turn the television to channel twelve!"

Special Report

A blonde woman on the screen holds a microphone to her lips, behind her is the grisly scene in a hotel room. "Earlier this morning, a disturbance call at Alynn's Butterfly Inn took a turn for the worst when the police responders made the gruesome discovery of three unidentified bodies inside the room. All we can say right now is that all three victims were male. The renter under whom the room was booked is currently still being sought by authorities for questioning in this matter, though sources say, based on the signs of disarray within the room, it's too early to rule out foul play on the disappearance of the fourth person."

The camera pans the room and lying on the floor near the table is a small scrap of paper. Seemingly it was missed by the responding officers the camera freezes and slowly focuses it on it. Scrawled across are the words…

Pawn to King's Bishop Three Pawn to King's Bishop Three Pawn to King's Bishop Three Pawn to King's Bishop Three Pawn to King's Bishop Three Pawn to King's Bishop Three Pawn to King's Bishop Three Pawn to King's Bishop Three Pawn to King's Bishop Three Pawn to King's Bishop Three Pawn to King's Bishop Three

In his study, Vincent glances over at the intercom for a few moments before reaching out and grabbing the remote. He presses a button, and the two doors of the armoire on the opposite side of the room slide themselves open, revealing a nice TV set inside the armoire behind them. Turning it on, he flips the channels until he lands on channel twelve, coming into the report only a few words into it.

He watches, calmly, already knowing the outcome of the report. The glass of scotch in his hand vibrates slightly as he grips it, his knuckles turning white as his anger grows. Three fully grown men are unable to take down one woman? This is simply inexcusable. Their families will pay for their mistakes. As the report drones on, he can't help but notice the small scrap of paper that the camera focuses in on, and once he sees what it says, his eyes grow wide. The glass in hand shatters, the force of gripping it with so much anger too much for it to take. He looks down to the wreckage it does, a mixture of scotch and blood dripping onto the glass resting on the floor. "Consuela," he says, pressing a button on the intercom with his free hand, "can you come in here please?" He turns back to the TV as the report ends, eyes focused completely on the scrap of paper until the images fades away to an advertisement for latest product in acne removal. "I believe we'll be seeing each other soon, my friend. … Sooner than you think."

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