K. R. Treadway
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Opposites Distract 9: Uncomplications
🕑 Added 2025-02-12 18:46:18 +0000 UTC[ A/N - This chapter is a short interlude that introduces our shadowy villains into the story. Since it's somewhat standalone, I thought it would be fun to make it public. 🙂 ]
“I am uncomplicated,” asserted the broad-shouldered man seated behind the ornate mahogany desk. “I prefer my operations to be likewise uncomplicated. In this I am usually disappointed.” He clasped his large hands together and rested his elbows on a leather blotter. “Tell me more. I want the details.”
“It's nothing serious.” Omer Ronnes kept his hands clasped behind his back, his posture alert and upright. In contrast to his employer’s silk shirt, he wore a plain black sweater bought from military surplus. “Conrad Griffon has hired a security consultant to conduct an audit.” Ronnes didn’t say the words “Phase Energy.” Clarification was unnecessary—his boss had assigned him a sole task involving a sole company.
The man behind the desk gave a thoughtful sniff, his expressive black eyebrows moving and pinching without revealing any distinct feeling. Ronnes knew from experience that his superior’s mouth would eventually twist into a sneer or smirk.
“Who?” he said at last. A smirk.
“Sharon Nichols,” Omer replied.
“The name is familiar.”
“She’s been in charge of security at a number of Griffon’s events.” Omer hesitated to say more, preferring to keep above personal grudges. He found rivalries distasteful, and doubly so in the case of one’s employer. Still, it was inevitable his boss would find out. “She works for Hartnell Inquiries.”
The other man reared, a bit like a massive beast surprised into a display. That’s what he reminded Omer of. A beast. Except…no, not quite apt. “Beast” was overly reductive. Perhaps a hunter of beasts?
“Hartnell Inquiries…” The man’s words were rotten honey, smooth and unpleasant. “That tiny operation. A cat who enjoys getting underfoot.” The smirk changed into a sneer, almost a snarl. “Cats that rub against the wrong man’s leg are bound to get stomped.”
Yes. A hunter. From an earlier time. Even his too-bronzed flesh and robust physique—impressive for a man in his fifties—looked the part. Omer pictured him on the African veldt, bald pate gleaming under a blazing sun as he raised an elephant gun, gaze focused, arrogant. Pitiless. Killing simply to take or prove power.
“At present,” Omer stated, “she’s simply conducting a standard audit. Nothing extensive. In my opinion, they’re floundering. They were lucky to uncover the sabotage, but have no real inkling of who they’re facing.”
“She’s not a threat?”
“No. Strictly speaking, our intrusion into the site’s electronic security is well-hidden, so there's nothing to find unless they know where to look. Our human assets will have no difficulty avoiding detection.”
His boss’s response was a grunt. Abruptly, the man shifted, the fluidity of his movement surprising for a man his size, and opened a flat wooden box on his desk. The rich aroma of Cuban cigars wafted across the room.
Omer’s nose twitched. He hated smoking. But then, he had never seen his employer actually smoke.
The other man gently lifted a cigar out of the box and ran it under his nose. “What else?”
“Nothing noteworthy. Three new hires to check out. A production line VP and his assistant, plus a lab tech. It's almost certain the VP is being brought in due to the sabotage, but he won’t disrupt our plans.”
“They could be planted assets.”
Omer pursed his lips. “Possible…but unlikely. I don’t think Conrad Griffon is that subtle.”
“Never underestimate Hartnell or his harpy wife,” was the answer, delivered with a glower at the cigar that threatened to light it.
The man in charge of wrecking Phase Energy considered his response carefully—Omer was uninterested in stoking dangerous antipathies. “Of course not,” he finally said. “All of these new employees will be carefully investigated. Those plans are underway now.” It was true. Omer was, after all, very skilled at his unique vocation.
“Adequate.” Another pass of the cigar under his boss’s nose. “We’re being well-paid for this job, so be as aggressive as you need. I’m not concerned with legalities, only with…discretion.”
“Yes sir,” Omer replied. That was, after all, the name of the game. If any of the new hires—or Sharon Nichols—became a problem, that problem would be eliminated with brutal efficiency. But discreetly. Always discreetly.
No one would ever find the bodies.
No one ever had.
