New York City
"Getting quickly acclimated to the good life, aren't we, Monsieur Montag? But, then again, those who live on the razor's edge often live such."
"What?!"
The two women stopped their foreplay and scattered as Grissom dove for his desk. Not for cover -- but for a weapon.
"There's no use. You can't kill me, anyway. And I'm merely here to talk to a fellow businessman."
Something about the man's eyes spoke volumes. Dark volumes. Well over six feet tall, his red hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, his beard cropped close. His appearance was multiethnic and ageless. But Montag still kept his focus on his eyes.
"My name is John Sainte-Germaine. At least it is this week. I've been watching you. You've shown the same ruthlessness in business you've shown on the battlefield. Some of the companies you've poached were ones I had my own eyes on. Not to say your miniscule fortune threatens mine, but it's a fair start for a self-made man, so I have an offer for you."
"I'm not for sale."
"It's not a bid, it's an invitation. On the night of April 1st, I am having a get together with other members of the Draco Group and their allies to nominate this year's members of the Plumed Serpent Society. The normal idle rich and hoi polloi will be there, boring us all. I'd like you to come as well -- I'll have more to say there."
Sainte-Germaine strode forward and took a cigar from the humidor on Montag's desk, lighting it.
"You don't need to answer now. Showing up at Rauza Bal in Kashmir that night will be answer enough. Bring a date -- a real one, not these medically-liscensed whores. There's a world you don't know the full truth of out there, Monsieur Montag."
Grissom Montag began his usual sort of retort, but Sainte-Germaine wasn't listening. He merely walked straight to the plateglass window, removed it from the wall frame by hand, and leapt out at a stand to a hovercraft waiting three stories below.
"You'll get an answer, you meta bastard..."
