The First Age

The link-up with local law-enforcement and ambulances was a public affair, with reporters (including the lovely, if foolish, young woman they had just rescued) present to hound him and the police with questions. Jacques, back to the roll of CEO played off his state of dress as a simple matter of practicality; the boss had to be able to kick mud in the trenches from time to time, but naturally he had deliberated to his far more experienced field personnel in regards with how to execute the operation so swimmingly.

He handed off his helmet and had no weapons on him, and it could easily have been assumed he had chosen to wear the heavy body armour for his own personal safety, rather then to actually be of use. Heavy questions were met head on; the rescued reporter of all people was the one cold enough to ask him the worst one.

"How do you feel about one of your men being killed in the line of duty? Is it true that his body was carried off before you could retrieve it?"
She held a tape recorder out to him, while other reporters tried to crowd in with microphones; outdated technology, but still employed for the visual que it gave to their listeners.

"Corporal Ime, as with any of the men in my employment, knew the risks. It is unfortunate that there are people in this day and age that use religion as a shield for such blatant acts of violence and hatred, but it must be kept in mind that this particular situation only came to pass because of your own blatant disregard for local customs and traditions. I hope for your own sake that your employers bring you home before you can get yourself into any more hot water. I will take this opportunity to ask that those who took Corporal Ime's remains return the forthwith, so I may see him home to his family and laid rest."
The last was delivered directly to one of the many cameras aimed at him, and the rescued reporter wilted at the barrage and edged back from the crowd to ponder her situation more carefully.

He answered a few more questions before excusing himself and his men; the cameraman and the wounded that they had been able to carry with them had been loaded into the ambulances, and the rescued reporter was given Jacques' card, then they piled back into the vehicles, his men seated comfortably inside once more (with Nick and Reed riding middle seats).

The vehicles pulled to a stop at the hotel, letting Reed, Nick, and Jacques climb out with an escort, before pulling away to return to the underground parcade and stow their gear. Jacques tapped Reed's shoulder just before they entered and he was stopped alongside Nick with the swarm of reporters, "I want that vest back, by the way. I leave at 0400hrs for the airport."

With one hand gripping Trano's sleeve, Reed turned. A cold smirk laced her lips. "0400 hours? That's four am, right?"
She held onto his gaze a moment longer before breaking it with a wink. She tugged Trano onward and disappeared into the hotel.

***

0338 hours.

The hall was empty for the time being. Reed was dressed in the shadow of a suit. Her black pencil skirt and crisp white shirt were sharp and clean. She was in heels, but a trained eye might notice the reinforcement in the design and slight scuffing around the toe, a smudge of dust here and there. Minor details. She'd been busy.

Reed knocked on the door to Jacques suite and placed a package on the floor alongside. While waiting, she leaned on the frame to rest. She'd not turn down a cup of coffee, or a syringe of dextro, if he had it.

Jacques opened the door after a quick gander through the peep hole. He wore a sleeveless white undershirt, and expensive dress pants with freshly shined leather shoes. His room was neat and organized, his things packed and ready to be carried out. He hadn't shaved, favouring a rugged five o'clock shadow for the day, but he smelled clean and would be quite presentable once he had finished dressing.

"Bonne matine, Mademoiselle Reed. You clean up nicely. Messieurs Trano is quite lucky to have so well rounded an assistant."
He jerked his head for her to enter, after accepting the package she brought of course. He flashed a ghost of a grin at her; he was either referencing her figure or her skills, or more likely both.

The package was set on a table for the moment, and he crossed over to an expensive French Press, where fresh coffee could be smelled. He did not drink the stuff often, other then Camerone Day, the 30th of April. But a cup on an especially early morning was not unheard of. He poured two cups, and handed her the second without asking if she wanted it or not; she struck him as the type that favoured the stuff.

It was an especially expensive blend, as was expected of a successful CEO, although his pallet for the stuff was not so refined as to be able to properly appreciate it. "Caporal Ime and some of my men will be back in Casablanca before nightfall, so long as your friends at Port Jeddah do not waylay them. They have all the proper papers, of course, but this night's events may have soured the opinions of those whom may receive those papers normally."

Reed followed him inside. The package exchanged hands. It was light and felt as though there were barely anything inside, but he didn't comment so she added none.

The coffee was an acceptable gift. She was somewhat surprised by his hospitality. Not a word about his dead employee, nor what role she had to play in any of it. In fact, since they first saw one another on the roof, they danced these steps all too smoothly. It worried Reed to no end, and she made sure to take certain stock of her surroundings. Including the good CEO himself. Within a flash he was catalogued, down to the brand of undershirt he wore. The architecture of the room laid itself out in her mind. The shadow of a beard aged him well.

She took the coffee. "I don't have friends, Messieurs Danjou,"
she stated behind the pool of black liquid. She would need to sleep soon. It was a biological fact. For now, however, she stayed sharp.

"I've brought your vest back,"
she said.

She waited until he had sampled his own coffee before following suit, but shortly after set the hotel-ware ceramic cup aside, and started to unbutton her blouse. The vest in question showed itself beneath.

She paused midway down the buttons, and put her hands on her hips, waiting. A clock on the wall displayed 0339 hrs.

He continued to sip his coffee as she set hers aside and started on her blouse. The simple action certainly held his attention, and there was something rather enjoyable about a woman in body armour, and more so when they were doing something as simple as opening her shirt to reveal that protective layer.

He let out a quiet sigh and glanced at the clock, shaking his head with apparent dislike for what it had to say. "If something deserves doing, it deserves doing right, as they say. I have never enjoyed feeling rushed, Mademoiselle Reed."
He had nothing against casual sex, even with people he did not necessarily like or trust. In fact, it was an interesting way of learning more about the person in question; how aggressive or submissive they might be in such intimate moments cast much light on how they thought.

"Another time, another place."
Should they ever cross paths again, and should she offer, and should he have the time to properly invest into the moment, he would likely leap at the chance. But twenty minutes, while some of his men were racing across hostile territory to bring a dead soldier home, one who had died because of her own one-tracked mind...it simply was not the right moment.

Reed waited. Jacques frowned, disappointed, and shot a frustrated glance at the clock. Reed did not say for what she was waiting, although any man whose balls had dropped were likely to interpret the circumstances correctly.

She buttoned her blouse back up, hardly agreeing to his terms. "Then I'm keeping the vest until you come for it."
She smirked and grabbed the package she'd brought in order to carry it to him. "You can keep this in the meantime."
She shook it lightly and handed it over.

With that, she turned on her heel and departed with the coffee in hand.

He accepted the package from her with a grin; he doubted they would ever actually cross paths again. She'd keep close to that Trano fellow until his use had run dry, then the man would probably be found face down in a river somewhere. He was far too powerful a presence in the US, although from what he could tell all that credibility the man had built up for his 'pro America' ways was probably dwindling for how little of use he had to say while in the CCD.

"That's a $300,000 piece of armour. I'll have my people send your people the laundry directions."
He watched her leave with his usual carefree grin, obviously enjoying the way the skirt hug her hips until the door fell shut behind her.

Then he set the package on the table, retrieved his briefcase and dropped it inside. The case was, of course, bullet proof, and tightly sealed. He'd deal with whatever the hell that woman had given him later. After he'd had the company bomb dog's take a gander at it of course.

A short time later, he and his people rolled out of the underground parcade, making their way to the airport and the waiting private jet, where they would have to cut through an acre of red tape thanks to the heightened security in light of the night's activities. He had a base to establish in Jerusalem, and a public office in Dubai, before he could start the painfully long process of moving his men in to take up their waiting contracts.