The Winter Table

[Ryker]

Ryker nursed a neat glass of vodka at the downstairs bar, boots crossed at the ankle, expression unreadable. From his corner perch, he watched the parade filter through the lobby. Lieutenants and bosses alike, masked in false civility. It wasn’t a circus, not exactly, but it had all the trappings of a very grim gala.

He didn’t have final orders tonight. No target in the traditional sense. Just a whispered invitation to be present.

He dressed the part anyway: pinstriped jacket, crisp collar undone with purposeful casualty. A pocket square was folded sharp against the dark fabric, just for extra panache. 

Then his wallet vibrated.

He glanced at the caller and grimaced. The kind of grimace a soldier makes when the old general calls, and your better instincts say let it ring.

He answered anyway.

"Yes, sir?"

“You’re there?”

“Of course. You still want me to attend?”

“Yes. You’ll represent my interests. And our mutual employer’s.”

Then silence. The call ended.

Ryker darkened the wallet with a sigh like a man accepting a hangover before the drink. The voice hadn’t shouted. It didn’t need to. Orders like that came from the kind of man who didn’t speak twice.

He downed the rest of his drink, set the glass down with precision, and headed for the elevator.

Just outside the penthouse entrance, he made the expected pit stop. A mockingly polite man in a suit offered him a velvet-lined tray. Ryker rolled his eyes and reluctantly dropped his pocket knife on it.

“Careful. That knife's seen more action than your wife,” he muttered, and moved on before the man could respond.

The doors to the suite opened. Heads turned.

“Gentlemen,” he said, drawling it just enough to coat the word in mock ceremony.

He poured himself a glass of water from the decanter near the wall and took an open seat without asking. His eyes flicked to Zixin, to Adrian, then to the others, cataloging hierarchy with a spy's instinct.