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Mysteries of the Dressrious Salon — Chapter 94
What did Style need to discuss? Trevor suspected it was the fallout from his report to the FIA regarding the impending terrorist threat. To make the meeting, Trevor had to call Alisa and cancel their dinner plans.
“Go ahead,” Alisa said over the phone, her voice easygoing. “I’ll just grab a bite with Donna and the others.”
“I’ve got a lot to tell you about today’s ‘adventures,’” Trevor promised. “Let’s catch up tonight.”
When Trevor and Spion arrived at the Dressrious Salon, the usual vibrant energy had vanished. The main party hall was cordoned off for the Cheval Blanc Soirée preparations, and a heavy security detail had transformed the lobby into a fortress.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Ali said, offering Trevor a practiced, professional smile as he stepped through the metal detector.
But when Spion followed, the machine let out a sharp, rhythmic blare, its light flashing a warning red.
“My apologies,” Spion said with a dry smirk, his hands held away from his body. “I almost forgot I was carrying.” He reached back and slowly drew the pistol from his belt. Before the lobby security could tense up, Ryan stepped forward, his calm presence acting as a shield.
“I’ll take charge of that for now,” Ryan said, extending a hand.
“Thanks for the loan,” Spion said, handing the holstered gun over. He gave Ryan a knowing look. “It’s the only reason we’re still breathing.”
As a group of well-dressed socialites entered the lobby, the duo didn’t linger. They headed straight for the Premium Lounge. Style was already there, reclining on a leather sofa and leafing through a copy of Móda. Trevor noticed the cover immediately: the daughter of the exiled Persian Crown Prince. It was the exact same issue they had found in Will’s apartment.
“Perfect timing,” Style said, setting the magazine aside. “Let’s head to the dining room.”
A waitress escorted them to a private suite and handed them the menus. Trevor and Spion both opted for the grilled halibut, while Style chose the wagyu steak.
As soon as the waitress withdrew, Trevor leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. “What’s the word? Did you brief your contact at the FIA?”
“I did,” Style said, his eyes scanning them both. “And I hear you two haven’t exactly been sitting on your hands. You’re still digging.”
“I can’t stop,” Trevor said flatly. “My father and my friends are all attending that Soirée. It’s personal now.”
“I understand. Lady News and Report Man return Sunday; we need this venue airtight by then. But,” Style gestured to the door as a sommelier entered with their wine, “let’s eat first.”
The meal was exceptional, leaving them in a state of quiet satisfaction as the main course dwindled to a few final bites.
“I have to say, the escargot is a triumph,” Style remarked, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. He looked down at the last two shells resting in a pool of rich, garlicky butter. “Perfectly seasoned.”
“The clam chowder is the real surprise,” Trevor added, leaning over his bowl. “There’s a subtle citrus note, orange, I think, cutting through the heavy cream.”
Style’s gaze drifted to Trevor’s bowl with genuine curiosity. “Orange zest, likely. A bold choice for a classic dish.”
“Here, take mine,” Spion offered, sliding his nearly full bowl across the embroidered dark purple tablecloth. “I’ve barely touched it. I’ll trade you for those last two escargots.”
“Deal,” Style chuckled, sliding the escargot plate over. “A Michelin-starred chef is collaborating with the Salon’s kitchen for the Soirée. We’re essentially getting a sneak preview of the gala menu tonight.”
“Will you be there? At the Soirée?” Spion asked, expertly using a snail fork.
“I haven’t been invited yet,” Style replied with a cryptic wink. “But I usually find a way into the rooms I need to be in.”
“The security is intense,” Trevor noted. “Hopefully enough to scare off any amateur cells.”
“It’s more than just cameras and guards now,” Style said, taking a slow sip of wine. “The FIA has officially flagged the threat. Special agents will be embedded in the security detail.”
“That’s a relief,” Trevor said. He was about to mention the rug when Style’s phone vibrated. Style pulled it out—a model Trevor didn’t recognize—and his expression brightened as he read the screen.
“Later,” Style said, pressing a button under the table to signal the staff. “Let’s have dessert first.”
Once the plates were cleared and the desserts were served, Style leaned in, his tone turning clinical. “My contact just came through. The FIA has identified several suspects. Two are from the Wounded Warrior Project, and three are employees at JackToy. Their bank accounts show massive, untraceable injections of cash, and they all served together in Bactria. They were likely radicalized or recruited there. One was just taken into custody.”
“Who?” Trevor asked, his heart racing. “We know two of them—Will and Bran. But Will is dead.”
Style’s spoon paused mid-air. He looked genuinely shocked. “Dead? My report says Anders Baker, the werewolf, was found dead this morning from gunshot wounds. But the man they arrested was Hudson Johnson, an engineer at JackToy.”
“You need to find Bran,” Spion interrupted. “He’s the fail-safe. If the primary assassination fails, he’s the backup.”
Style raised an eyebrow. “How exactly do you know that?”
Trevor and Spion laid it all out—the break-in, the tense minutes spent eavesdropping from the shadows of the hideout, and the adrenaline-fueled escape that followed. Style listened in silence, his expression darkening.
“They call themselves the Sukkal,” Style said, toying with his dessert spoon as he processed the intel. “In the old tongue, it means ‘Messenger of the Gods.’ But they aren’t priests; they’re architects of chaos. They deal in sacrifices of fear and systemic violence.”
He tapped the silver spoon against the porcelain bowl. “They’re a shadow tier above your typical cell. They provide the ‘divine’ justification for groups like the Arms of Ares, those war fanatics you dealt with before. Together, they specialize in the high-art of destabilization: political assassinations, orchestrated coups, and regime changes. If there’s been a bloodstained election or a sudden civil war in the last decade, the Sukkal likely had their hands on the pulse.”
Style continued, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “Their endgame is a full-scale collision between the United Fairylands and Persia. Right now, the gears of war are stuck. Even with a massive naval presence in the Persian Gulf, there’s no casus belli. Persian hardware isn’t a threat to our mainland, and the crackdowns on local protesters are viewed as an internal matter. Unpleasant, but not enough to trigger an intervention.”
He leaned closer, his eyes sharp. “Those protesters are being steered by the exiled Prince, but they lack the teeth for a real revolution. They’re peaceful, which makes them easy to ignore. However, if the Prince’s daughter were assassinated on foreign soil? That changes the calculus. It provides the spark for a civil war and hands the Fairylands the perfect humanitarian pretext to invade.”
“It’s Sarajevo all over again,” Trevor said grimly, stop eating his cherry clafoutis. “One death to start a world war.”
“Exactly,” Spion added. “The West already views the Persian army as a terrorist entity. Assassinating royalty at a high-society event like the Soirée is the perfect trigger.”
“Your analysis is spot on,” Style said, finishing his crème brûlée with renewed haste. “I need to relay your discovery immediately. Let’s hope we can end this before Monday.”
The dinner ended abruptly. After seeing Trevor and Spion out, Style hurried to his private quarters and dialed a secure line to his mentor, Richard Albright.
“Jim,” Richard’s voice crackled over the line, sounding exhausted and heavy. “I have news, but it isn’t good. Hudson Johnson is dead. He committed suicide by cyanide poisoning in the interrogation room ten minutes ago.”
Style froze. “How? He was in total lockdown. We searched him.”
“We did,” Richard replied, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Which means someone gave it to him after the arrest. Jim… we have a mole.”