Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
I leaned against the bathroom wall, tying a towel around my shoulder. "Urgh…!" The pain made my head spin. It was as dizzying as the time Chinese public security rammed me with a car. Dizzy? Scattered was more like it. Still, my body seemed to be functioning properly. The pistol I'd hastily drawn in my left hand had naturally switched to my right, and I'd somehow stanched the bleeding from the unlucky spot where I'd taken a bullet.
I slumped against the wall and pondered deeply.
"……."
Where had things gone wrong?
Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
I'd lured Fabio Verati to the hotel room and brought up his youngest daughter to attempt recruitment. Or rather, half-extortion. With help from a hotel staffer bribed by the intelligence officer, I'd planted a bug in the room and set up auxiliary equipment in the adjacent room booked under a false name. The goal was to gauge Fabio Verati's psychological state through conversation and subtly collect any info he let slip.
If recruitment wasn't feasible, I'd set up another meeting, slip out of the hotel, review the recorded conversation, and decide the next steps for the operation. It was a foolproof plan—no way to fail. No risk of detection, all loose ends tied up via the hotel staffer, and my diplomatic status as a solid shield against most issues. There was no reason it should fail.
Until the uninvited guests stormed the hotel room.
"…Who the fuck are you?" I asked.
One wall separated us, but the door was open, so I figured the intruder was still in the hallway based on the footsteps. He knew it too, responding to my question. In Abbas language, no less.
"Not interested in you."
Not as polite as a service center rep, but we traded brief words across the wall. His accent wasn't fluent, but I could make it out.
The intruder said, "We're only after the Patalia guy. Hand him over, and we'll leave quietly. No need for more bloodshed."
It was a one-sided declaration.
"…Oh, yeah? Pretty damn courteous for assholes who came in guns blazing."
"You fired first. We took the first hit too."
"So your parents taught you to show up at a stranger's door packing heat?"
Three clumsy fuckers bursting in with guns—who wouldn't shoot?
"…Fucking bastards."
I kept my pistol aimed down the hall and racked my brain for a moment. First, let's sort the situation.
After bringing Fabio Verati and his Magic Tower delegation colleagues to the hotel, I'd entered the room booked in my name and started talking with Fabio. I was gauging the right moment to bring up his daughter when suddenly three thugs burst in, sparking a shootout.
It wasn't a prolonged firefight. The second I saw the guns in their hands, I'd drawn first and fired. The thugs didn't even enter the room properly; they dragged their fallen guy into the hall and sprayed bullets.
I took a unlucky hit to the shoulder and rolled into the bathroom. So here I was.
"……."
I hadn't imagined things derailing like this. I'd figured the Magic Tower might come after me, but not some third party crashing the party.
Glancing beyond the bathroom door, I spotted Fabio Verati. His intel vet instincts hadn't faded; he was hunkered behind some thick furniture.
"…You alright?"
He adjusted his glasses slightly and nodded. Unfortunately, he wasn't packing a pistol.
I glanced at my own sidearm, the one I'd bullied the Magic Tower into permitting for close protection during Lucia's medical aid trips. Good thing I'd pushed for it.
I swapped the half-spent mag and kept thinking. The Magic Tower delegation staff waiting out front were probably dead by now. With this shitshow, their absence screamed it.
Means to contact outside? No phone on me. I'd been carrying agency-issued comms gear and a secure terminal, but I'd only grabbed the comms device for a quick outing. It was smashed in the shootout anyway—wouldn't turn on. And with a bullet in my left shoulder, I couldn't use it even if I wanted to.
Police report? Probably not. "They're waiting for cops, but it's pointless. How do you think we found this hotel room?"
"……."
Yeah. They'd obviously bribed—or threatened—the hotel staff. Regular guests don't call cops first; they hit the front desk. If they'd flipped the desk clerk, no report went in. I'd done it enough times myself.
"Think it over. You're not an idiot."
Like he knew me well. I kept the pistol trained on the hall, lost in thought. Blood from the sights dripped to the floor under gravity.
"……."
This was Magic Tower turf. The suited guys out front were Magic Tower officials. Meaning the thugs had just killed Magic Tower civil servants. Crazy bastards.
Nothing riskier than killing local officials. Sure, in a shattered state or remote backwater beyond central reach, but smack in the middle of foreign territory? You'd get caught for sure. No covering it up.
Or rather, they could cover it up, which meant they'd done it anyway.
"……."
How'd they find the hotel room? Today's meet was a closely guarded secret between the Abbas delegation and Magic Tower reps only. Flipping a civil servant is leagues harder than some hotel drone. Local clerks or town hall peons? Maybe. But central government staff? Near impossible for civilians.
Yet these guys pulled it off. That thought sparked a hypothesis.
"……."
Among the groups I knew, only one had the intel chops to pull this shit abroad.
Empire intelligence. Specifically, military intel.
*
They'd tailed us. Likely Empire military intelligence. Either Reconnaissance Command for overseas ops and intel gathering, or Counterintelligence Command for domestic. One of the two.
I knew Empire military intel was watching Fabio Verati. Jake's HUMINT team had reported a tail on his youngest daughter during surveillance, and the Special Activities officer pegged them as military.
Didn't confirm if these hotel crashers were legit Empire mil-intel—just circumstantial. No way to know for sure now. But my gut screamed they were.
A spider sense, if you will. Call it a skill.
Me versus at least three estimated thugs, with Fabio Verati. Standoff across the door. About five minutes in, subjectively.
The thug who'd bantered with me broke the silence first, proposing a deal.
"We know who you are."
"……."
"Frederic. Let's man up and talk face-to-face."
Bullshit. I stuck out just my arm and head, pistol aimed hallward, and spoke.
"From now on, think of me as a woman."
"This isn't playtime."
"I'm dead serious—don't take it as a joke."
I locked eyes with Fabio Verati, hidden behind hefty furniture. He met my gaze, then stretched his leg to quietly ease open the terrace window.
That's when it happened.
"Our rear guard's joining soon. Don't think you can hold out till cops arrive."
The hall thug started threatening.
"We outnumber you, no escape. Think smart and decide."
"……."
His low, heavy baritone pierced my eardrum straight to the brain. Reassurance? Intimidation? Probably both.
He pressed calmly, and I recalled Empire mil-intel structure. Recon Command handled spec ops abroad. If these were theirs, at least five inside the hotel. Minimum five-man teams. Two teams? Ten minimum.
The thug said, "No need for blood between us. We just want that Fabio Verati guy."
"He's my guest."
"We know."
He claimed no bloodshed if we handed Fabio over peacefully. Pure horseshit, in my judgment. Why leave witnesses? Intel agencies or terrorists rarely play nice.
I held the standoff calmly, scanning the room.
"……."
Standard single room—bedroom and living fused. Just grabbed for a quiet chat, so no hiding spots beyond bathroom and closet.
Hotel doors swing inward; hall view takes in the whole layout. Bends block bathroom (me), terrace door, and Fabio's spot.
Mid-40s section chief by merit, not go-stop luck. He'd toed the terrace door half-open with his shoe and met my eyes.
Now what?
"Time's up, Frederic," the thug warned.
"No outside contact for you. No help coming. This chat won't last."
"……."
"Our guy's hurt, you're hurt. Dumb to waste salvageable lives abroad. No more blood."
"……."
Let's talk it out.
*
Our room was on the 15th floor. Picked it for no nearby guests. Fall from here? Dead for sure.
No guarantee of clearing balcony gaps; same for dropping to the one below. Fabio seemed set on jumping or holing up there, but it looked impossible to me. Fancy hotel—balconies stupidly wide. Fucking builders.
Only exit: hall door, already thug-held. No others, or I wouldn't be in the bathroom.
"……."
Two choices: Dash to terrace with a shot shoulder and leap into void, or charge hall and fight for life.
Both gambles. Stakes: my life. Rely on luck or skill.
What to do?
"10 seconds! Drop weapons and surrender!"
First raised voice from thug. Counting down.
"10!"
Quick room scan. Anything useful?
"9!"
Instinctively reached for extinguisher—right, no such thing here. Fucked-up fantasy world. Fire codes up their mom's cooze?
"8!"
Whoosh! Fabio ripped a curtain, tying it to bed leg. No way it'd reach the balcony below—either dangling precariously or splat on pavement.
"7!"
I tightened the towel tourniquet.
"6!"
Three guys? Doable. One down already—side dish. Two movers left.
"5!"
If Recon Command, three up front means two rear. Four total for me.
"4!"
Rose against wall, standing in the small pooled blood.
Fabio ripped another curtain, knotting it. Light-shadows flickered eerily into hall.
"3!"
Sudden flash—something streaked lightning-like through my mind. Hand to pocket. Hard texture at fingertips.
"2!"
Rolled between gripped fingers, friction-sparked,
"1!"
Thrown.
Fwoosh—! Bright flame erupted, bird soaring into air. That was the signal.