>>5535008In the absence of anything better to do, you put in a drink order that’d make Hemingway's ghost proud; a Death in the Afternoon with three-quarters absinthe and one-quarter champagne.
After all, if you’re going to playact as a wealthy man, you might as well drink like one.
While you wait for your drink, you begin giving the premises a simple security sweep from the comfort of your table.
Plenty of windows, could make for decent lines of fire or emergency exits in a pinch. Don’t seem to be reinforced, so it’d make for shit cover in a firefight.
The few cameras are concentrated at the various exits and the entrance to the kitchen, probably to catch anybody trying to sidle out and slack off.
In terms of alternate escapes, there has to be some kind of side door in the kitchen. Push comes to shove, you’d be well-served to bum-rush that direction for a quick escape.
In between your musings, you work up a comfortable buzz courtesy of your chosen drink. As it would turn out, absinthe kicks like a damn mule.
So focused are you on your mental war-games, that you barely notice that somebody is approaching your table.
The bogey appears to be an Asian woman in a plain but well-fitting dress. No visible weapons, but she may be packing a knife or concealing a firearm.
The other detail that quickly draws your attention is the jagged pink line of scar tissue that runs under her right eye.
That blemish, coupled with her aggressive body language make her somewhat unsettling but she’s still rather pretty.
To your shock, she settles into Set’s seat and gives you a smile, the kind that lets you know it doesn’t happen often.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Jonah. I’ve heard a great deal about you from a mutual friend. Given my line of work, I don’t often have time for this sort of thing, so I’m bound to be quite rusty. Here’s hoping I don’t scare you off.” Despite the self-deprecating nature of her words, you can tell that they’re delivered with the utmost self-confidence.
Her English is tinted with the slightest hint of a Japanese accent.
All of your thoughts are immediately replaced by the alarm klaxon blaring in your brain. How in the hell does she know the name of one of your aliases? And for that matter, how was she able to identify you?
On pure instinct, you begin surreptitiously reaching for your holdout piece, only to remember that you were forced to leave it behind.
Above the din of paranoia, one clear conclusion makes itself known; this was planned.
And that would mean…
