Bulletproof - Xavier Neal Page 0,11

Wu redirecting the focus my direction.

All of a sudden, the door to the room opens and a pale, svelte man in an expensive black suit enters. “Mr. Jordan and Mr. Wu, I am The Assistant. You will follow me to the video conference room for your meeting with Number Ten.”

The two of them exchange a look as though surprised they’ll be convening together instead of separately.

“Quickly, please. Number Ten has a massage scheduled that he will not miss whether or not your meeting has concluded.”

“Isn’t he in Hong Kong?” Wu curiously questions while rising to his feet.

“Yes.”

“They’re twelve hours ahead of us.”

“Yes.”

Skepticism remains in Wu’s expression as he buttons his suit jacket. “It’s like two a.m. there…”

“Ohhhhh,” Tank overdramatically says en route to the door, “it’s stating the fucking obvious that gives you wood to make the furniture.”

“Is that some sort of bloody American idiom I should be aware of?” Wu bitterly bites. “Something you say in an attempt to make me feel inferior to you when in reality it is you who should feel inferior to me because I can have any lay of any land, yet you are stuck planting the same seed into the same soil?”

Although they are getting further from the area, I still manage to make out Tank’s bark, “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

“Mr. Bradford,” another slender, urbane male appears in the doorway before the door has a chance to close. “I am The Assistant. You will follow me to your meeting with Number Four.”

My feet barely move two steps when he’s lifting a hand to halt my movement.

“The beverage may not leave the room.”

Not spotting a trashcan to abandon it in, I simply place it on the nearest glass table, wiggle my fingers in a slightly condescending nature, and usher him to resume leading me to wherever it is we’re headed.

I’ve never had a meeting with a number.

It’s rare that anyone does.

There are twenty of them, and to my understanding, they are scattered literally all around the world. While right on the edge of Highland is where they have their main headquarters stationed, I don’t think it’s where Number One has an office – assuming he or she has an office at all.

Again, I’ve never had a meeting with a number.

And considering that it’s not standard procedure, I think it’s safe to trust my gut feeling and be a little fucking nervous.

Following The Assistant through a set of secured doors and into a heavily guarded hallway is done in complete silence. His lack of small talk feels as though he’s simply being professional; however, passing several armed men staggered along each wall has me redefining what that word might mean to those this high up.

At the opposite end of the corridor, we stop in front of what appears to be a colorful oil painting of four pears. The Assistant casually shifts the piece of artwork to the side revealing a facial scanner. It immediately does its job, and afterward, the wall, which appears to be solid at first glance, is slid out of the way, granting us access inside.

Instead of guiding me into the room, he merely gestures his hand for me to enter alone.

Because who wouldn’t want to enter Dr. Evil’s lair all by themselves?

I swiftly swallow my sarcasm, objection, and apprehension before stepping into the unknown. The door immediately shuts behind me once I’ve entered the space and the swoosh sound it creates has me wishing I weren’t completely unequipped.

On all the lower levels, your registered weapons are allowed. Fuck, they’re actually expected. It wouldn’t bode well for someone in private protection to not be prepared at the drop of a dime. Mid-level you must have specific credentials to carry your firearms, although your other tools of the trade – I.E. brass knuckles – my fav –, shurikens, Kukris, etc etc etc – are still allowed. But once you’re past that point, nothing is permitted.

Wasn’t expecting to learn that shit today.

And having to walk into unfamiliar territory with nothing more than my hand-to-hand combat skills to rely on is also on the list of surprises for the suspiciously sunny spring afternoon.

Here’s to hoping there are no more shocks on the agenda.

“Sit,” the dark-skinned male standing behind the desk on the opposite side of the room commands without bothering to look up.

I give the white chair closest to me a quick once-over – in case this is the beginning of some sort of test – prior to taking the