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Mysteries of the Dressrious Salon — Chapter 97
Trevor and Style sprinted from Camila’s apartment, nearly colliding with Spion at the gate. The younger man was breathless, leaning against the brickwork.
“Are we moving already? I haven’t even had a sip of coffee,” Spion wheezed, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“What took you so long?” Trevor snapped. “Did you get my message? We are heading to Kings now.”
“Yeah, I’m aware,” Spion replied, still catching his breath.
“You can sit this one out if you’ve lost your nerve,” Style interjected, his voice cool but challenging. “But I could use a second pair of eyes.”
Spion straightened up, a reckless grin spreading across his face. “Are you kidding? I’m not missing a chance to bag some terrorists. Let’s get to Kings.”
“Then follow me,” Style said, leading them across the street to a sleek, low-profile black sports car. A faint, matte-gray owl emblem was embossed on the hood, visible only when the light hit it at a certain angle.
Trevor whistled. “I’ve never even seen this model before. Where did you get it?”
“A gift from a friend in Salem,” Style said cryptically, popping the locks. “Get in.”
As Trevor and Spion climbed inside, the laws of physics seemed to warp. From the outside, the car looked like a cramped two-seater, but the interior was vast—spacious enough for five people to lounge comfortably with ample legroom and a high ceiling.
“It’s… it’s bigger on the inside,” Trevor stammered, looking at Spion in disbelief.
“Definitely magic,” Spion whispered. “Style, is this a literal magic car?”
Style didn’t answer. He simply flashed a sharp, enigmatic smile. “Hold on tight.” He tapped the accelerator, and the car lunged forward with the silent, terrifying force of a railgun.
Despite the car’s power, they couldn’t leapfrog the reality of New Athens traffic. The city was in a state of unrest. Protesters, seemingly immune to the biting winter wind, choked the main arteries. Some carried signs against the ICA, others chanted in support of Persian revolutionaries, and a line of striking nurses blocked the intersection near the hospital.
As they crawled across the massive, cable-stayed Kings Bridge, Trevor turned to Style. “What’s the entry plan? Are we breaching the door, or playing it quiet? I can do the ‘clueless delivery guy’ or a plumber if we need a Trojan horse.”
“I’ll make the call when we’re on-site,” Style replied, his hands steady on the wheel despite the gridlock. “But I doubt we’re hitting a combatant. The man on the phone didn’t sound like a killer; he sounded like a broker, a middleman who sells contracts for a commission. My plan is to leverage a better deal. If we can buy his loyalty, he’ll hand us the assassins on a silver platter.”
The brake lights ahead finally flickered off. Without another word, Style stepped on the gas, the sports car surging forward into the gap. Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to a row of red-brick townhouses in a quiet corner of Kings.
“Does he own the whole building, or are we looking at a specific floor?” Trevor asked as the car glided to a halt.
“No idea,” Style admitted, rotating his seat to face them with a tired wink. “So, we play the waiting game. It’s noon—prime time for a lunch run. Keep your eyes glued to that front door. If a shadow so much as flickers in the entryway, wake me.”
“Wake you?” Trevor and Spion echoed in unison, their voices rising in disbelief.
“I’ve been up for more than twenty-four hours straight, and I’m starting to see double,” Style said, reaching into the glove box. He produced a crinkled bag and tossed it into Trevor’s lap. “Here. Hector’s cookies. In case you get the munchies.”
Trevor stared at the bag. “When did you even have time to raid his snacks?”
“While you were in the bathroom,” Style grinned.
“But Style,” Spion cut in, gesturing at the gleaming, custom bodywork of the car. “Isn’t this a bit… loud for a stakeout? We stick out like a sore thumb.”
“It’s invisible now,” Style replied casually, as if mentioning the weather. “Just don’t open the door, or you’ll break the refraction field. It’s a quiet street; we’ll be fine. Sadly, there’s no manual for this thing, so don’t touch any buttons. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to catch some Zs.” He let out a jaw-cracking yawn and was snoring before his head hit the headrest.
The stakeout was a masterclass in monotony. Between the lack of birds and the lack of people, the world outside the car seemed to freeze. Only the rapid disappearance of the cookies could tell them that time had not curdled yet.
Then, finally, a man in jeans and a black down jacket emerged from the townhouse, fastidiously locking the door behind him.
“He’s out,” Trevor whispered, then glanced at his watch, expecting to see that hours had flown by, but it had only been ten minutes. “Style,” he shook Style’s shoulder. “Target is out.”
Style’s eyes snapped open instantly—sharp, cold, and fully alert. He didn’t look like a man who had just been snoring. He pulled out his phone and hit redial. Outside, they watched the man stop and check his buzzing pocket.
“That’s our guy. Move,” Style commanded.
The target was oblivious, his eyes glued to the glowing screen of his phone. He slowed his pace, thumb hovering over the redial button as he debated whether to return the mysterious call he’d just received. He was so deeply lost in his own hesitation that he didn’t hear the synchronized footsteps on the pavement. By the time he sensed the air shift around him and looked up, the trap had already closed. Style, Trevor, and Spion stood in a perfect triangle, cutting off every avenue of escape before he could even draw a breath to shout.
“FIA. You’re coming with us,” Style said, the cold steel of a handgun pressing against the man’s ribs.
Trevor and Spion froze for a split second; they hadn’t known Style was armed, let alone willing to impersonate a federal agent, but they played along, adopting stony, professional expressions.
“You… you’re the one who called,” the man said, his German accent thick with nerves.
“Ja. Is there anyone else in the house? Or should we take this conversation inside?” Style asked, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. He didn’t wait for an answer, pressing the cold muzzle of the gun firmly against the man’s lower back.
The man offered a stiff, jagged nod. Style kept the pressure constant, gesturing for him to lead the way. Spion took point, scanning the street with a practiced eye, while Trevor moved to the flank, cutting off any desperate dash for the road. The trap was airtight.
With trembling fingers, the man unlocked the door. “The kitchen is on the ground floor,” he muttered, the bravado in his voice cracking. “If you treat me with a little respect, I can… I can make coffee.”
“Kitchen. Now,” Style commanded, his grip tightening on the man’s arm as he steered him forward. “And I’ll ask again: do you live alone?”
“Ja,” the man hissed, leading them into a room just past the stairs. Spion moved with predatory efficiency, crossing the floor to jerk the curtains shut, leaving only a sliver of wintry sunlight to slice through the gloom. The kitchen was warm and clean; it was clear the man didn’t use it much.
Style gestured toward a coffee table by the wall. “Sit.” He took the opposite chair, his weapon never wavering. Trevor and Spion took their positions behind the man like sentries. It felt strange to Trevor; he felt as though they were guarding a prisoner. He glanced uncomfortably at Spion, who seemed completely unfazed by the role.
“Name. And your history with Bran Schmidt,” Style demanded. His voice was devoid of emotion, sounding more like a machine than a man.
“Am I… am I under arrest?” the man stammered, his eyes darting from the muzzle of the gun to the exit. “I have rights. I want to call my attorney.”
“We can do this the easy way, or we can make it messy,” Style said softly. He reached into his coat and produced a small, silver folding knife, clicking the blade open before setting it squarely on the pine table between them. He leaned forward, his gaze locking onto the man’s with a chilling, predatory focus. In that moment, Trevor didn’t just see a friend—he saw a lethal professional. He began to wonder if Style’s ‘agent’ persona wasn’t an act at all.
Ludwig’s gaze darted between the blade and the muzzle, the math of survival clear in his eyes. “Mein Name ist Gereon Ludwig,” he rasped. “Three weeks ago, Bran approached me. He wasn’t looking for a common street thug; he wanted professionals. He wanted an execution that would make headlines, and he made it clear that money was no object. I just… I made the introductions. I’m a facilitator, that’s all. I have no idea what they’re actually planning.”
“You facilitate a terrorist strike and then just walk away?” Style’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “You expect me to believe you handed over the keys and let them bypass you? A man like you doesn’t give up his leverage that easily. Why wouldn’t they just cut you out of the deal?”
“Because they can’t,” Ludwig hissed, leaning forward as his fear turned into desperate pride. “I placed the call. I put Bran in a room with their lead operative, but I stayed by the door. These people don’t trade contact info like business cards; they’re ghosts. They only trust me to bridge the gap. And no, I won’t give you their number. If I talk, they won’t just come for me; they’ll go after my wife and daughter. They know exactly where they sleep. That’s the cost of doing business.”
“Then give me the paper trail,” Style countered, his voice dropping to a low, reasonable tone. “They paid you a commission. If you give me the account numbers that funded you, we can trace the source. It’s a bank inquiry, Ludwig—not a snitch’s testimony. It keeps your hands clean.”
Ludwig stared at Style for a long moment, a slow, weary smile spreading across his face. “That’s the FIA for you. You want the banks to take the heat so they don’t suspect me of talking. Clever.” He sighed, the tension in his shoulders finally breaking. “But they weren’t sloppy. They didn’t use a single vault. They split the commission into three parts across different international branches. It’s a headache to track.”
“We’re used to headaches,” Style replied. “Show me.”
Ludwig hesitated, glancing at the gun one last time. Seeing that Style wasn’t going to stop him, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. His fingers flew across the screen, navigating through encrypted layers until he reached his private ledger. “Here,” he whispered, sliding the device across the pine table.
On the screen, three separate wire transfers glowed in the dim light: one from Deutsch Bank, one from Ottoman Bank, and a third from Kemet Bank.
Trevor leaned in, snapping a high-resolution photo of the screen while Style verified the details.
“Vielen Dank für Ihre Mitarbeit,” Style said, his tone shifting back to that of a polished gentleman. He slid the phone back across the table and, with a fluid, practiced motion, reclaimed his weapons. The knife disappeared into his sleeve, and the gun returned to its holster. “Herr Ludwig, I trust you’ll stay put. It would be a shame to lose such a resourceful contact. Perhaps we’ll have the opportunity to ‘collaborate’ again soon.”
Ludwig wiped a bead of sweat from his upper lip and managed a weak, opportunistic smile. “Herr Offizier, if I am to be your man on the inside, I expect the rewards to be as significant as the risks.”