Dinner And A Show - Part 2

Peter Nero sat back in his private VIP booth, his long fingers gripping a lowball glass of single malt as he stared at the wrestling match below. Sumo wrestlers, each one built like a small truck, slammed into one another with earth-shaking force. The raised circular platform where they fought hovered over a deep pit of unknown liquid. A twisted spectacle: the Nobunaga International Championship. A celebration of power… ending in fire.

He usually loved the pageantry. The heat of the flames. The risk of life and death. But today, he wasn’t here to be entertained.

Around him, the crowd murmured in luxury. From billionaires to warlords, influencers to underground brokers, they all wore the same mask of cultured detachment. They were smiling, sipping, laughing softly, as if watching two men destroy each other on a shrinking platform was as simple as a duck race.

He was here for the bidding. Each press of a hidden clicker offering obscene sums of money for military-grade weapons, black-market tools, and tonight’s grand prize: the satellite codes. One of his father's final legacies.

Peter watched the bid counter spike again. The figure nearly doubled in five seconds.

“Boss.”

The gravel-thick voice came from Bullock, his personal muscle.

The man was a human slab dressed in a tight suit. He was as broad as a shed door. Slavic, with twin bullet scars, one into each cheek like grotesque dimples. John’s butterfly knife scar on his forehead. He stood just behind Peter’s seat, arms folded, always looming.

“What is it?” Peter asked, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“There is a buyer,” Bullock said. “Unknown. He is winning all bids. Not even hiding. Using a number string. No known group. No face.”

Peter narrowed his eyes.

“He’s not on the list?”

“No. Not one of ours. Not Bailiff either. Private account. High frequency. Has money.”

Peter swirled his glass slowly, the ice clinking like a distant warning bell. He and Bailiff had made a very specific deal: Bailiff would "sell" the codes tonight to Peter, no matter what anyone else bidded, at a discount. He owed his father a favor and as the oldest, Peter convinced him that his debt could be square with this. It was orchestrated, smooth. Everyone else would think the bidding was legit.

This was not part of the script. Something pricked him in the back of his head. He wasn’t as smart as his siblings, but he was just smart enough to know that. His sixth sense was off.

“What about John?” Peter asked.

“Supposed to be dead already,” Bullock said. “We got the train itinerary. Mango slipped it. David went himself.”

Peter’s jaw tightened. “And yet, David hasn’t checked in.”

“He is thorough. Maybe enjoying some after-kill fun and Mango might’ve slipped away. She’s not hard to track. Mango thinks she’s clever, but she’s just another blade with a pretty face.”

Peter nodded slowly, but the muscles in his neck were coiled tight.

David was his best closer. Efficient. Loyal. Vicious. He never failed a job. But he also never ghosted Peter like this. No texts. No confirmations.

Something was off.

Peter pulled his phone from his jacket and dialed Jade. She answered almost immediately, her voice bright and happy.

“Wow, Peter again? Twice in one week. You must be bored.”

“Have you heard from John?” he asked, cutting straight to it.

There was a pause, then, “Nope,” she said. “Why?”

“You haven’t seen or heard anything? Nothing at all?”

Jade chuckled. “Don’t tell me big bad Pete is nervous! Aw, that’s adorable!”

“I’m not nervous!”

“Of course not,” she teased. “You’re just afraid of John, right?”

“I’m not afraid of him!”

She laughed again. “Sure Petey, whatever you say.”

The line went dead.

Peter stared at the phone for a beat, then opened a news app. The top headline made his gut twist.

Private Helicopter Attacks Train Outside Fort Lauderdale – No Survivors In Helicopter Crash.

The photo showed a smoking wreckage next to a train track. Twisted metal. A familiar insignia on the tail rotor.

His helicopter and David’s ride.

Peter stood up quickly.

“Change of plans,” he said.

Bullock perked up. “Where to?”

“To find Bailiff,” Peter said. “Bring the others.”

***

The private luxury wing of the arena wasn’t marked by signs, just architecture: golden doors, crimson runners, and personal security with suits more expensive than most people’s cars. Bailiff’s box suite was guarded by two men.

Peter walked straight up and shot the first guard in the thigh.

The man dropped, screaming, clutching the bleeding wound.

The second drew his pistol but Bullock moved quickly and struck his throat. The bone cracked and he collapsed like a sack of bricks.

Peter kicked the door open.

Inside, Bailiff was pouring champagne into a glass. A woman perched on his lap like a trophy. She screamed as the door slammed back. Bailiff, on the other hand, kept it completely casual.

“Gentlemen,” Bailiff said, raising his glass mid-pour. “Is there a problem?”

Peter walked in and slapped the glass from his hand. It shattered on the floor.

“We had an agreement,” Peter growled. “I bid. I win. I get what I want.”

“And you’re bidding,” Bailiff said, adjusting his cuffs. “But you’re not the only one anymore. Someone else wants the codes, Peter. I can’t stop them.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“I mean they’ve outbid me. Even you have your limits. This person doesn’t.”

Peter drew his gun and pressed it to Bailiff’s temple.

“You’re going to come with us. Now. You’re going to take us where the codes are being held, and you're going to give them to me. Or the next thing we’ll be bidding on is the golden bowl of your skull.”

Bullock wrenched Bailiff from his seat. The woman shrieked again and scrambled to a corner. One of Peter’s men dragged her out behind them.

As they walked, Peter’s pulse throbbed.

John was alive. He felt it in his bones. His street smarts and sixth sense is what kept him alive. And in this world, if there wasn’t a body, they aren’t dead.

The mystery bidder wasn’t one of Bailiff’s tricks. However, John wouldn’t bid so secretly. Wasn’t his style. So there was some unknown trying to fuck him. Until he knew who, he couldn’t take any chances.

Peter's grip on his gun tightened as the hallway lights passed overhead. This was personal and he was ready to burn the world to win.

***

Mango stepped out of the lavish marble bathroom, the scent of rose water still clinging to her skin. Her hair was damp at the ends, her lips freshly re-glossed. She didn’t just wash her face but got a grip. The bile in her throat, the horror of what she saw during the match, the truth behind what these rich freaks were actually bidding on. She didn’t sign up for this kind of game.

And yet, as soon as she walked out into the corridor, her eyes locked with John’s and everything in her slowed down and felt doable.

He was leaning casually against the wall, that perfect, unbothered lean only a man with broad shoulders and no awareness of how hot he was could pull off. The dark purple suit hugged him like it was tailored that morning, and his tie hung slightly undone now, like he was trying to be cool and yet he seemed to genuinely not care.

“You good?” he asked.

“Better,” she lied.

He fixed his tie, held out his arm, and without hesitation, she slid hers into it.

They started walking back toward their seats when John suddenly stopped. His arm across her belly halted her with surprising gentleness.

“What?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. She could feel his pulse suddenly elevate.

Down the hallway, a group of sharply dressed men rounded the corner. Mango recognized the one with gold-rimmed glasses and the overdone red suit—Peter. John’s brother. But her eyes snapped to the man walking ahead of him. Older. Graying. His presence reeked of authority, but the kind that made your skin crawl. Not a leader. A handler.

“That’s him,” John murmured. “Bailiff! My father’s weapons broker. One of the worst people I’ve ever met. He’s a deal facilitator in Europe! God, it’s so obvious now!”

“Why’s he here now?” Mango whispered, heart racing. “The deal wasn’t supposed to happen till after the final match and they don’t look like they’re going for a stroll.”

Behind them, more goons appeared, including that Slavic tank of a man, Bullock. The one with the scars on his face like war trophies. No way they could run now without being seen.

John grabbed her hand and yanked her sideways into the nearest door.

It was a coat closet.

He shoved the door shut behind them as quietly as possible and pulled her back into the shadows between the coats. They were thick, fur-lined, silk-covered, and expensive. The scent of cologne and cedar oil was overwhelming.

Mango breathed through her nose and pressed her back to the wall. She didn’t need the reminder. She was already holding her breath.

“Shh,” John whispered. John touched his ear. “Laz? Laz come in. Bailiff is an older man, grey suit with salt and pepper hair. He looks like he’s heading outside now.”

Footsteps passed the door. Muffled voices. The crowd had started to move, too. It was intermission.

Inside the closet, the space was tight. She was practically nose-to-chest with him. His body heat radiated off his skin like steam. Her breath hitched.

She wasn’t scared anymore.

Just… overwhelmed.

It was a lot.

The fight. The blood. The screaming match. Now she was face to face with the man who tried to kill her on the train. Hiding from a gang of heavily armed psychos and her ex-target’s homicidal brother was ironically only the third most complicated reason she had hid in a closet, but still it was odd.

“Breathe,” John whispered. He touched her arm softly. “I’ve got you.”

Her lip trembled before she could stop it.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” she muttered. “I’m a thief by trade and all the kills I’ve done are simple. In and out. Clean and easy. This is so much more.”

“You signed up for a payday,” he said. “But now you’re with me. And I don’t care how bad it gets, I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

She looked up at him, those warm brown eyes catching the dim light through the slats in the closet. Soft. Grounding. Honest.

“Earlier,” she whispered, “you were on the phone with someone. A woman. Lea?”

“Really? You want to talk about that now?”

“Yes! That was that woman from the party.”

His brow furrowed for a second. Then he nodded, and took a deep breath. “Lea and I... it was something, once. But it’s been over for a long time. I’ve moved on.”

“To what?” she asked.

His fingers slid up her waist and into her hair. “To this. Right now. Mango, I feel something for you I can’t quite explain. All I know is that in my chaotic life, it seems to be the only thing that makes sense.”

Her breath caught again but not from fear this time.

She kissed him first. It happened just like that. Almost as if her body did it before she thought about it.

“That was the third kiss.” he said with a smirk.

“Shut up.” she said quickly and they kissed again.

It started soft, but then her hands found his collar, and his mouth crushed into hers like he couldn’t breathe without it. She pressed against him, heat rising between them. He turned her, gently but with purpose, her back hitting the wall again, his body slotting into hers.

Their mouths were tangled, urgent and hungry. His hands moved to her hips, her thighs. Her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt on autopilot.

She wanted to forget the horror, the fire, the bidding. She wanted to forget Peter and her old life and the satellite and the mission. She just wanted John. Right now.

His jacket came off fast. Her silver emergency dress slid up easier than expected. She gasped into his mouth as he hoisted her slightly, her legs curling around his waist.

It was hot.

Quick.

Messy.

Her fingers tangled in his hair. His breath hit her neck, fast and low.

It was everything she wasn’t supposed to want.

And when it was over, when her legs touched the ground again, and her chest finally slowed, she blinked slowly—barely believing it had happened. Her knees shook with pleasure.

Then her fingers closed around the smooth metal of his watch.

She didn’t even mean to.

It was a reflex. Muscle memory. Instinct.

The watch slipped into her hand before her brain caught up.

He was still panting slightly, forehead to hers. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she whispered.

She pocketed the watch.

A second later, she hated herself for it.

But not enough to put it back.

She rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“Whatever happens,” she said softly, “I’ll watch your back too.”

Because the truth was, she wasn’t just in this for the money anymore.

She didn’t want to admit it, but it wasn’t just about the mission either.

This thing with John?

It felt real.

And that terrified her more than anything else in the world.

***

Laz leaned against the inside of the van, fingers tapping rhythmically against his knee. His classic black suit was crisp, unmarred, the collar folded with military precision. And yet it was all going to waste. He had the door cracked open just enough to keep an eye on the main entrance of the underground arena. The faint hum of Tokyo nightlife buzzed in the background, but his focus was absolute.

Then he saw him. Bailiff.

The man stepped through the double doors, escorted by none other than Peter Nero and his entourage of thick-skulled thugs. One of them was impossible to miss: Bullock.

Laz’s eyes narrowed. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

The deal was planned for after the final match, not during intermission. Something was off. He couldn’t move in now, not with Peter and his muscle circling Bailiff like hungry wolves. So instead, he pulled out a slim pair of black binoculars from his inner coat pocket.

Through the lens, he watched the exchange from across the lot. He couldn’t make out what they were saying but Peter seemed pissed.

A tinted car pulled up to the far side of the arena’s perimeter where they were. The window rolled down, and a silver suitcase was passed through to Bailiff without a word. Bailiff, tense and visibly sweating even from this distance, accepted the case and turned toward Bullock.

He handed it over, and Bullock grunted his thanks before nodding to four other men. Laz watched as Bullock walked toward a side alley, followed closely by the four suited goons. Peter got in a different car that pulled up and it took off. Laz cursed under his breath.

The moment Bullock disappeared from view, Laz was already out of the van and locking it behind him.

He kept low, his footfalls silent on the cracked pavement as he trailed them. The alley curved sharply, dimly lit with one flickering light above a rusted metal door. Just as Laz rounded the corner—

Click!

“Don’t move.” said a voice from behind him, following the cock of a gun.

Laz froze. Three shadows stepped out from behind him, guns drawn. Another blocked the alley’s exit ahead. Bullock turned around, casually snapping his fingers as he stepped into view. His voice was gravelly and full of disappointment.

“We knew someone was here. I was hoping for John. Not... uh… you.”

Laz’s eyes flicked between the men, estimating distance, speed, draw time. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

FOCUS, he thought.

<<<>>>

Loading… Now accessing F.O.C.U.S: Field Operative Cybernetic Uplink System. Now live. User Identification: Larry “Laz” McKinely.]

[Classification: Spy]

<<<>>>

Activate skill: Combat. Activate talent: Total Recall.

<<<>>>

[Acknowledged]

[ Spy Skill: Combat (3)]

[Activating…]

[Talent: Total Recall]

[Activating…]

<<<>>>

Memorize hostile positions.

<<<>>>

[Acknowledged]

[Memorizing positions]

<<<>>>

Bullock tilted his head to the side. “You don’t look like much.”

Laz straightened slightly, expression calm, voice controlled. “Agent Hawk, Central Intelligence.”

Bullock grinned. “An agent, huh? So there is a chance that John’s here. Well in that case, I’ll give you what you want.”

He held up the silver case and popped it open.

Empty.

Laz sucked his teeth. He was rarely played so easily.

“Don’t look so disappointed! We can still have a good time” Bullock said.

Laz’s hand moved to the button on his earpiece.

“John,” he said under his breath, “I’m in a trap. Bullock has the codes. Bailiff’s our only shot at tracking this. Do not lose him.”

Bullock stepped forward, lowering the case. “I’ll give you credit,” he said. “You’ve got nerve.”

Laz smiled once. “You’ve got numbers. Let’s see if they matter.”

Laz’s hand hovered over his belt, mind already calculating.

FOCUS, he thought, Activate skill number four.

<<<>>>

[Accessing]

[Class: Assassin type skill]

[Skill 4: Fatal Reflexes (2)]

[Accessing the nervous system…]

<<<>>>

Laz could feel the AI buzz and start to passively affect his nervous system. “Fatal Reflexes” passively enhanced your reaction speed, allowing you immediate counterattacks or evasive maneuvers against enemy actions. Pretty nice to have before you get jumped.

Bullock stepped forward and spread his arms like a ringmaster. “Well? What’s the move, Agent Hawk?”

Laz smiled. “I don’t know. Dinner and a show?”

Laz pressed a button on his belt and smoke erupted from his person, instantly filling the alley in a white cloud. The goons coughed and Laz exploded into action.

With a pivot, Laz drove his shoulder into the nearest goon’s gut, knocking the wind out of him. At the same time, his other hand snapped a pistol from the man’s holster, flipping it around and striking the next closest man across the temple with the butt. A third lunged, but Laz ducked low, sweeping his leg out and dropping the man hard on his back.

Before the others could react, Laz pressed forward.

He grabbed a trash can lid from the alley floor and used it to block a swipe from a collapsible baton, countering with a swift jab to the jaw. The attacker stumbled back, spitting blood. Another goon fired a wild shot that grazed Laz’s arm, tearing fabric but missing flesh.

They had high quality rounds that could pierce a bulletproof suit. Perfect.

Laz dropped the lid, rolled forward into a crouch, and came up underneath another attacker, slamming his elbow upward into the man's chin. The man collapsed with a grunt, unconscious before he hit the pavement.

Two more still stood between him and a nearby fire escape.

One caught him with a punch to the ribs, but Laz rolled with it, spun, and landed a vicious heel kick to the side of the man’s head. He didn’t wait for the last one to charge. He simply threw his jacket at him, temporarily blinding him.

With the alley momentarily in chaos, Laz sprinted toward the wall and jumped, catching the lowest rung of the fire escape and hoisting himself up with grit and speed. His dress shoes slipped a little but he climbed with burning urgency.

“After him!” Bullock yelled. His goons recovered and charged the ladder.

Laz got to the rooftop and leapt over a vent, then he turned sharply and ran along the edge of the roof, then dove behind a rooftop billboard. There he saw a large exhaust vent. He ripped of the protective wiring and jumped inside

Seconds later, Bullock emerged from the fire escape with his men, guns drawn.

They scanned the rooftop. Nothing but night and neon.

Bullock cursed under his breath.

“He’s gone,” one of the goons muttered.

“No,” said Bullock. “He’s hunting for something or someone. Otherwise, he would’ve just booked it. We need to find out who.”