“Thank you for accepting my invitation. I’m elated we can spend this time together.”
Joshua Constantine smiled broadly, sending a chill down his guest’s spine. There was no congeniality in it, only restrained rage and malevolence. The billionaire walked to the nearby custom designed Michael Weatherly corridor bar, opening the left door to peruse the assorted spirits. He selected a Remy Martin Black Pearl Louis XIII Cognac in a Baccarat decanter before turning back to his visitor.
“Would you care for a drink?” he asked with mock sincerity. “No? Suit yourself.” He smiled wistfully before filling a Waterford crystal snifter halfway, holding it under his nose to take in the delicious bouquet. “If you’ve never savored the Black Pearl, you’ve not yet lived.”
The impeccably dressed man sat in a Foretti Bergere armchair, the sunlight streaming through the large window behind him bathing the area in a contradictory heavenly glow. Joshua smirked with self-satisfaction, fixing his impossibly blue eyes on the figure across from him. Constantine casually sipped his drink, swirling the remaining cognac after each offering as he studied his guest with equal parts loathing and admiration.
“You can’t imagine how long I’ve waited for this,” he said with a far-away look. “I hope it will equal my expectations.” He raised his glass in a toast, hunger in his eyes. “I’m sure if we work together, we can make it exceptional.”
The billionaire’s unwilling guest struggled against the restraints with rage-fueled strength, determined to break free and wipe that smug look off his face. The titanium reinforced shackles held firm and after a moment, the struggles ceased.
“You shouldn’t overexert yourself,” Joshua said. “It’s going to be a long night, you can trust me on that. I’m counting on you to live up to your reputation.” He narrowed his eyes. “In fact, I’d love an exhibition of that amazing stamina the newspapers endlessly extol.”
Constantine touched a button on a nearby remote, sending 1000 volts of electricity through his guest’s chair, causing a series of anguished screams. The air filled with ozone as the deranged billionaire hit the activator again and again, testing the limits of the previously mentioned stamina. The electrical onslaught singed the ends of the visitor’s long hair, causing the room to fill with the unmistakable and unpleasant odor of burnt follicles which stopped the barrage momentarily. The torture victim’s breath came out in raspy, agonized grunts, putting a sly grin on Constantine’s face.
“Unnngh…I-I’m gonna make you…nnnhnnn…p-pay for this.”
“Yes, I’m sure you would, given the chance,” Constantine countered. “I have no doubt you’d use all the marvelous gifts at your disposal to exact a measure of revenge against me, as you’ve done with all your enemies. But, I’m sorry. I simply can’t allow it.” The billionaire solemnly shook his head back and forth, studying the effects of his words, and the electricity on his captive audience of one.
After a few moments, he stood and straightened his suit jacket before crossing to the bar to refill his glass. As he poured the liqueur, a buzzer sounded on his desk, followed by a voice over the intercom, “Mr. Constantine, sir? Your guest has arrived. I’ve taken the liberty of escorting him to the conference room.”
“Thank you, Miss Jennings,” Joshua replied. “I’ll be along momentarily.”
The sadistic businessman went to his desk, removing a small briefcase. He opened it, checked the contents and closed it once more before moving toward his reluctant guest.
“As I said, I can’t allow any of your usual…heroics while I’m away, so please forgive this interruption,” he said, taking a small syringe from his interior pocket and removing the protective cap. “I’ll return just before you awaken.” He injected the hypodermic needle under his captive’s jawline, turned and walked out of the office. The shackled prisoner was unconscious before the door closed.
Three days earlier, just after midnight, a lone figure huddled on a rooftop near N. Basin Road in Queens, New York. He adjusted the eye lenses in his custom-made facemask to telescopic, night-vision mode, surveying a nearby warehouse with growing trepidation. The international freighter docked at the 11th Street Basin over twenty minutes ago and two dozen men were busy unloading a major drug shipment for Jimmy “Moon-boy” Mooney, the head of the city’s Irish Mob contingent. The onlooker surreptitiously made his way to the opposite corner of the roof for a better vantage point, making sure stay in the shadows.
As he arrived on the other side, he saw movement in his peripheral vision, turning quickly to confront any would-be attacker. The rooftop was empty but the cautious man still felt uneasy, as if he was being watched. He knew from experience to trust his instincts, scanning the surrounding area with every setting on his lenses: night vision, heat sensitive, x-ray, ultrasonic and radar. Nothing. Just to be safe, he placed three small motion detectors behind him before turning his attention back to the dock and warehouse.
Nicholas Hart surveyed the tableau unfolding below through gritted teeth. He’d spent almost three weeks getting intel on this shipment and devising the plan to disrupt it. It was, by far, the best chance to cripple “Moon-boy’s” smuggling and drug running operations. It might be months, maybe years before another opportunity to inflict this much damage in one fell swoop presented itself. He didn’t have that kind of time. The anxious man raised his head, surveying the surrounding rooftops, hoping to see his partner nearby. He couldn’t take two dozen men by himself. The best he’d ever done was eight. “Where are you?” he whispered, closing his eyes. The determined man tried to calm his inner turmoil, his mind involuntarily replaying the events which made this mission so vitally
important to him.
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