Chapter 6
TASK
LUMARIA
They’d canvassed the outside of the restaurant, and Task had conferred with Voss about a potential escape route.
Upon entering, though, Task feels some of his worry ease.
The place is deserted, aside from the Jaguar and two of his associates dressed entirely in black.
They sit at a low table, the Jaguar holding a glass of whiskey, his rings glinting in the afternoon sunlight pouring in through the filigree window.
He’s in his fifties, deep blue hair slicked back into a low ponytail, violet eyes locked on Task as he enters, as if the Jaguar knows him intimately.
“Gentlemen,” the Jaguar says, rising and reaching out his hand toward the ambassador.
The ambassador grasps it, then Grayson, but Task hesitates.
He doesn’t usually shake hands because of the pain echo — and with the raging pandemic, Task can’t help but think this is an easy way to transmit the disease.
Frankly, the situation is worse than Task anticipated. The Jaguar’s air of nonchalance is unsettling.
Task finally grips the Jaguar’s hand, not wanting to insult him.
“Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice,” the ambassador says.
Grayson stands slightly behind him on his right, Voss to his left.
Task hovers in the back of their little group, trying to discreetly check his Chronogram for any message from Draven.
He’s irritated — as Draven’s Hand, he should have more information about this meeting.
As it is, he knows absolutely nothing, and Grayson hasn’t shared anything further.
He assumes that at least the ambassador knows what they’re here for, but Task does not appreciate being left in the dark.
He thinks that probably came through in the curt message he’d transmitted to Draven earlier.
“Of course, of course, anything for Draven. Please, come sit,” the Jaguar says, gesturing towards the small table he and his comrades had been seated around.
Remulus slides in next to the Jaguar, followed by Grayson, and then Task. Voss stands near the doorway, eyes shifting between the group at the table, the Jaguar’s associates hovering along the wall, and the doorway they entered through. Even though it’s deserted, he’s still on high alert.
“How was the trip in?” the Jaguar asks, sipping from his drink and gesturing to one of the men on the wall to bring three more for the newcomers.
“Lots of chop today,” Remulus replies. “But the weather can’t be helped, and travel by Hopper always leaves something to be desired, even if it’s fast.”
“I’m glad you made it here safely,” the Jaguar says.
“We all know how much Lumaria relies on Nexarium for its security.” Task feels that something about the words is wrong, or that there is some other meaning he is missing, but he can’t figure out what it is.
“And you, Mr. Canmore,” he looks at Task again, “What an honor.”
Task makes his face blank, ensures his stare is hard as he says, “I prefer Major Canmore.” This is not the type of opponent you show emotion around.
The Jaguar chuckles. “Very well, Major Canmore. Your reputation precedes you.”
“In what sense?” Task asks, a surge of fear going through him, though he maintains a straight face. Does he know about the pain echo? About what he does for Draven? One of the Jaguar’s associates appears next to him with the three glasses, handing them out to the men.
The Jaguar raises his eyebrows and takes another sip of his drink, smiling knowingly. “Another time. We’re here to talk business today.”
Task wants to ask what the fuck he’s talking about, but instead he says, “Very well.” They are indeed here to conduct business, and it’s possible the Jaguar is trying to throw him off, throw them off and manipulate the deal before it’s done, whatever the deal is.
The Jaguar turns so he’s facing the ambassador, who has just brought his own drink to his lips. “Remulus, good to see you as always. What did you bring for me today?”
“I’m afraid we don’t have the package with us,” the ambassador replies, setting his drink down and clearing his throat. “Draven wanted us to explore the options with you before delivering anything. If we agree today, we’ll have it transported as soon as possible.”
They’re speaking in a code of some sort, and Task glances at Grayson to see if any of this is making sense to him.
He can’t tell. He has no idea what package Draven would be transporting to the Jaguar.
Money? Pink salt? Something else? And in exchange for what?
The governor can get his hands on most anything in the universe.
Unless it was an artifact or a weapon from before — one that is no longer made.
The ambassador suddenly dissolves into a coughing fit, unable to stop, his face turning purple. The Jaguar is up in a second, stepping back from the table, moving towards the door and shouting for one of his men. “We need a medevac, pronto. Think he’s got the thing!”
Grayson is leaning forward, his voice loud. “Mr. Ambassador, sir, are you alright?” He’s shoving a napkin towards him as blood dribbles from his mouth. The ambassador coughs harder, blood on his hand as he pulls it away.
“Fuck,” Task swears under his breath, watching as Remulus slowly turns purpler and purpler, blood pooling in the corners of his mouth and dripping down his face. He makes a gurgling sound and then keels over on the banquette.
“Shit!” Grayson yells. “Where’s the medevac? He’s out, he’s out.”
“Voss!” Task yells. He knows they can’t perform CPR, not when they don’t know exactly how this thing is transmitted, but maybe they can do chest compressions until the medevac arrives.
They don’t have a field healer with them, and emergency medicine is not his strong suit. Voss, at least, has basic training.
Voss is across the room in an instant. There is only one of the Jaguar’s associates left, the other having departed with the Jaguar, abruptly ending the meeting. He stands as far away from them as possible, afraid of exposure. Task doesn’t blame him.
“Voss, we need to do compressions,” Task says, trying to ensure his voice remains even. “I’m not qualified. Can you?”
Voss swears, rolling up his uniform sleeves as he leans over the ambassador. “You’re sure he’s out?”
“Yes, he just…fell over. I think he choked.” Grayson is stumbling over his words, eyes wide with panic.
“Grayson, go talk to the Jaguar’s man over there. Find out what the ETA is on this medevac.” Voss doesn’t look at him, slipping into colonel mode. Task knows he’s assigning Grayson a task, trying to manage the panic and give him space to maneuver.
“Two minutes!” Grayson’s voice carries across the room as Voss leans over, checking the ambassador’s pulse and swearing again when it’s clear he feels none.
He starts pressing on the ambassador’s chest. Task rifles through his pockets, hoping there’s stray stimulant from the last time they were in combat, but of course there’s not.
Nothing to jump-start the ambassador’s heart besides good, old-fashioned CPR.
Two healers bustle into the room, fully masked and in protective gear.
One bends over the ambassador, pulling out a small scanner and holding it over him to take some kind of reading, though Task has never seen anything like it before.
The other looks to Voss and Task. “Get out. Now. This is a quarantine zone.”
“We’re his security detail,” Voss says, arms crossed, entirely calm despite the scene before him. “We’re not authorized to leave him unattended.”
“You will leave this room immediately, and until you are tested and equipped with the appropriate protective gear, you will not be going anywhere with him,” the healer says, turning his back to them and resuming compressions on the ambassador’s chest as the other one grasps his wrist and looks for his pulse.
Voss hesitates, but Task grabs his elbow, dragging him towards the doorway, ignoring the flicker of pain in his fingers.
His mission cannot be compromised, and if he’s infected with the disease, if he dies on this planet, it will be over before it ever began.
Best to get the test over quickly. Grayson is still beside the filigree windows, paralyzed, his eyes wide.
“Grayson,” Task barks. “Let’s move.”
Task leads them out the arched doorway, where he is stopped by two more healers in full protective gear.
“We can’t let you leave before testing you,” the one on the left says. “Protocol. We’re trying to contain this as best we can, and you’ve been exposed.”
“They mentioned,” Task says, nodding to the room beyond. “Let’s get it over with, then.”
“Your arm, sir,” the healer on his right says. She’s pulling a syringe and a tube out of her pack, putting on a pair of gloves. “Actually, it would be better if you sit here.” She gestures to the lounge chair on her right, situated in the entryway. “Just in case you become lightheaded.”
Task snorts. He kills people for a living, and he’s seen enough bloodshed to last a lifetime. Still, he sits, following this woman’s orders so that they can be done with it and follow the ambassador to the hospital as soon as possible.
The woman grabs his arm, and Task tries not to wince, pain emanating from where her fingers touch him.
As she pokes the needle into his vein, he feels a burning sensation and clenches his jaw, taking deep breaths through his nose.
Even so, he’s taking stock of the situation, aware that this has gone a direction that will have disrupted Draven’s plans.
He looks to Voss, seated in the other chair, healer also kneeling before him and drawing blood, Grayson pinned to the wall beside him. He’d prefer if Voss could call Draven, but he’s otherwise occupied, and Grayson is standing there, being useless.
He sighs, resigned. “Grayson, can you get Draven on the line?”
“Of course,” Grayson says, suddenly energized with the task. He flicks through his Chronogram and dials Draven, who appears to answer on the first ring. “Sir, I have your Hand here. Yes, it’s urgent.”
“Can you patch him through?” Task asks, his other arm still jailed by the healer’s hands.
And then Draven is in his ear. “Speak, major. What’s happened?”
“We might have to take a slight detour.”