The room was silent except for the wet sounds of eating. The air conditioner was set to a shivering sixty-five degrees to counteract the Banker’s sweat.
The Banker sat at the head of the long mahogany table, a napkin tucked into his collar like a bib. He was working his way through a mound of Lobster Thermidor, the heavy cream sauce coating his chin. He didn't look up when the glass doors slid open.
"Report," The Banker grunted, cracking a claw with a silver tool. Snap.
Mercer, a man in a grey suit who looked as dry and sharp as a paper cut, stepped into the room. He stopped exactly ten feet from the table. He knew better than to get within splashing distance.
"The asset is secure, sir," Mercer said, his voice devoid of emotion. "It’s been moved to the Jersey dark site. We’ve scrambled the serial numbers. As far as the street is concerned, the Axiom chip never existed."
"Good," The Banker said, sucking the meat out of the claw with a slurping sound. "And the Shark?"
"Agitated," Mercer replied, checking his tablet. "The Shark’s security team is tearing the turnpike apart. He’s already made three calls to the Commissioner. He knows it was us. He’s coming here."
The Banker dropped the empty shell onto a pile of debris on a silver platter. He picked up his glass, leaving a greasy thumbprint on the crystal.
"Let him come. I enjoy his tantrums. He thinks he’s a predator because he yells. He has no idea what real hunger is."
"He’s not just yelling this time," Mercer warned, stepping a fraction closer. "The Shark is liquidating positions. He’s raising capital for a hostile war. If he physically comes to the office, he’ll bring legal counsel, media, and private security. It will be... messy."
The Banker paused. He hated messy. Messy was expensive.
"I don't want him in the building, Mercer. I don't want him breathing my air."
"Physical security won't stop him," Mercer said. "He’ll buy the security firm. We need a detour. We need to tie him up with something he can't buy and can't fight."
The Banker looked at Mercer, his yellowed eyes narrowing. "You have a play."
"We have a contract on the table," Mercer said, tapping his tablet. "Scarlett Blackwell."
The Banker wheezed, a sound that might have been a laugh. "The Phantom? She’s a fixer, Mercer, not a bouncer. And she’s expensive. She charges by the ruin."
"The Shark has a profile," Mercer explained. "He’s obsessed with things he can't control. He’s bored with the women he can buy. Blackwell is... distinct. She’s dangerous. Intelligent. If we deploy her correctly, she doesn't just distract him."
"She consumes him," The Banker finished the thought, wiping his mouth with the linen napkin.
"Exactly," Mercer nodded. "We hire her to 'investigate' the theft on his behalf. We put her right in his path. She gives him breadcrumbs, leads him in circles, and while he’s chasing her..."
"...we strip-mine his company and integrate the chip," The Banker smiled, revealing teeth stained with rich sauce. "I like it. It’s cruel. The Shark always did have a weakness for pretty things that bite."
"I'll initiate the contact?" Mercer asked.
"Do it," The Banker commanded, picking up his fork again. "Offer her double her usual rate. Tell her I want The Shark so tangled up in her sheets that he forgets to check the ticker."
"And if she refuses?"
The Banker stabbed a piece of lobster meat.
"Nobody refuses the bank, Mercer. Everyone has a price. Even ghosts."
Mercer nodded once and turned to leave.
"Oh, and Mercer?" The Banker called out, his mouth already full again.
Mercer paused at the door. "Sir?"
"Send the chef in," The Banker said, gesturing to the empty platter. "I’m still hungry."