Europe (Cytherea & Closed)

[Doc]

Doc came out of the restroom, adjusting his tie, looking at his wife who seemed absorbed in her recent purchases, “So I have some business to take care of..” He said it in a nonchalant, quiet tone, as though he was hoping to get out without a fight.

“It’s our vacation,” Cytherea said as she held up an Ellie Saab creation in her left hand judging it against the Dior she held in her right. Her tone was absent, as though she knew she was giving him a hard time and was enjoying it.

Doc looks at her and sighed, “Private jets that cater to our specific night time needs are not cheap…”

Cytherea rolled her eye and said in an exaggerated tone, “Ooooo like seven grand is going to break you..”

“Yes.. coupled with midnight haute couture shopping excursions for the ball and chain? Yes.. it just might.” He bit bit out striving hard not to snap at her.

“What is it this time, hmmm? Another medical consultation.. or some dry as dust equipment sales pitch?” She gave him a quick, but knowing look.

“Equipment.. a Mass Spectrometer,” He decided to bore her for good measure, “You know I have been wanting to upgrade for a while now.” Warming to his subject, “There are a myriad of uses and applications that the a mass spec help me with. In addition to determining protein structure, function, folding and interactions; identifying a protein from the mass of its peptide fragments; detecting specific post-translational modifications throughout complex biological mixtures,” he paused and gestured with a finger,, “not to mention the usual determinate or quantitate proteins in a given sample and monitor enzyme reactions, chemical modifications and protein digestion; this latest one has several bells and whistles in the genomic area.” He again paused, as Cytherea cut him off.

"Yes yes.. I get it. Go do your little business thing..." she says as waves him off in a dismissive way, then calling out as he leaves, “Don’t forget, we have an appointment at Van Cleef and Arpels tomorrow night…They have a gorgeous emerald bracelet I am coveting.”

Though he had been dismissed, Doc smirked as he left the rented apartment. He was free for the night.
-----

An hour later found Dr. Charles Nilson at the preordained location. It was a bar. High end. Lots of female flesh showing their wares for the right price. He wasn’t interested. He was here for the job. A job that was less than ethical for a physician. For the next several minutes he nursed the whiskey sour he had ordered on his arrival. He sipped it, while not actually imbibing. If the contractor did not arrive soon, he would be pegged as a cop, since the drink wasn’t really touched.

He frowned, it was for inner thoughts, than for anything that had happened. He sighed. In all the ways that being a vampire helped him, there were those few critical ones that bit him in the ***. No mirror reflection. He always had to scope a meeting location out first to make sure there were no mirrors. Not able to process human food. It seemed a small thing, but it was something the criminal element seemed to focus on. Cops didn’t like to drink. Even if they were under cover, no drinking. It dulled the senses. So the criminal element keyed in on that small but effective point of reference. He couldn’t metabolise human food. And because of that small but hard fact, he could be pegged as a narc.

Doc could play the odds and try drinking the drink. However, his last few forays into that line of action, gave him gut wrenching pain, that left him doubled over a trashcan, while sitting on a toilet. Were he not on a ‘vacation’ with the ball-and-chain, he might have tried it. But he knew that his vindictive-she-cat of a wife would find so much amusement in his pain that he would rue the day. So **** that option. No way in hell was he giving the Ball-and-Chain a one-up on him. It was all he could ******* do, not hack her into bits and bury her some days. The ***** of the thing was, he liked her. She pushed him to be better, without outdoing him. But that look she gave him when she knew she had him… that was infuriating. Pushing the drink back, he made a move to leave, when a voice interrupted his actions.


“Leaving so soon?”


Doc growled inwardly. He had been so focused on his own thoughts, he let the contractor get the best of him. ****. He gave the owner of the voice a grimly displeased look. “Do I know you?” His tone was confrontational, and the look in his eyes clearly said he was more than willing to ‘put up’ rather than ‘shut up’.

“Now do not be offended mon ami.. I apologize for being tardy. Ze traffic was, how do you say? Zicker zan expected. Zere was an auto pile up.” The man took a seat across the small table from him. He laid an envelope in the center of the table, and pushed it toward Doc.

Briefly eyeing the envelope, Doc made no move to take it, as he gave the newcomer a steady look. Outwardly it may look like an arrogant stance, but in reality, Doc was studying the man. Taking note of the man’s hands, did they know manual labor? His teeth, were they cosmetically corrected? The suit he wore, did it show signs of wear or was it pristine? The answers to these questions could tell Doc the type of contractor he was dealing with. Rough hands, uncorrected teeth and worn cuffs of the suit would tell him, this contractor was a low level minion. Smooth hands, perfect teeth and a crisp suit would mean he was dealing with a high level face. A face that would be careful about who they are seen with. And Doc’s guest was a high level face.

Taking a moment to ease back into his seat, Doc played with his drink, but still not drinking from it. “And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

The man, purposely mirroring Doc’s movements, by easing back into his own seat, “I am Jean.. and you mon ami?”

Without missing a beat, Doc lifted an eyebrow and said seamlessly, “Rufio.” He paused, giving the man a look and gestured to his jacket pocket, as though silently, indicating he was reaching into his pocket. Careful to make no sudden moves, he withdrew his cellphone. He tapped his password into it and then pulled up a screen. The cell was placed beside the envelope.

“When that account reaches 200k, the job will commence.”

The man smiled widely, “No no no, mon ami.. only on ze completion of ze job.”

Doc patronizingly smiled in return, “Half now. Half on completion.”

The man’s smile grew more wary, “400 is steep.”

Doc shrugged, “It is to look natural. Natural is expensive. It could be done for half; but it will not be natural.”

The smile gone, the man became all business, “And if ze authorities are suspicious?”

Doc smirked, “Then you do not owe the other half.”

[Cytherea]

The marriage between the Doctor and herself would hardly be considered conventional, not in the least. The foundation of their vows was built upon a twisted sense of humour, and then layers of manipulative games, though in the midst of it all they had seemed to develop feelings for each other, albeit her own seemed to shine through more than his. But it was nothing she had not anticipated, he was not forth coming with his emotions. Only on a few occasions had she seen the truest part of what he held for her, buried beneath the depths of his untrusting nature. And that was enough for her.

So it was only natural that when they were shopping that she felt the need to bait him, to create a situation where he would either rise to the playfulness and offer some sharp words in return or snap in his ire. Cytherea was always aware of her intentions and the outcome that would befall her. So when she appeared to be more engrossed in the recent purchases that had been selected hours prior, when her words seemed to lack any depth, merely a need to drain her husband of the money he had earned, she was in fact dissecting what he had said. Something was askew. It gnawed at her conscience, telling her that good Doctor was up to something. And thus she dismissed him, keeping the pretence that the belongings before her held more of an interest than he did.

And that had been all the approval he'd needed, like the hounds of hell were on his heels, Charles left their room, seemingly pleased with himself. But if only he knew what his wife truly thought. It would be a given that he would know her curious nature overcame anything else. It was how she had been killed by her sire after all. That curiosity.

With haste she discarded the dress she'd bought for Dom, and slipped out after her husband. She'd find out what he was up to. And thanks to the use of the powers she'd acquired it was easy to keep tabs on him at all times. Though she'd never disclose that to him, she could just envision his reaction, his outrage. But she'd use that look, the one he knew all to well, that made him cave on more than one occasion. Manipulative? Indeed. But if it saved an argument she'd do what she could.

Cytherea played it smart, she dared not be close to her husband, after all, who knew if they bond they shared would alert him to her presence, and then the ruse would be up. But when she arrived at the destination that called out his certain location, she felt the need to march in and confront him. A brothel of sorts it appeared. High end, distinguished with lavish decorations and such, but it didn't conceal the true use of the establishment.

What on earth would draw a man like Doc to this place? And whilst they had deep rooted issues, infidelity was not something that ever entered her mind. And the more she mauled over it, she summarised that was not why he was here. Ever with that, she still felt uneasy.
That was quickly discarded though, as strong arms encased her from behind, the stench of alcohol invading her senses and causing her delicate features to contort in disgust. That was not the worst of it though, no, this man, he whispered his intentions in her ear. HE THOUGHT SHE WAS A PROSTITUTE?!
For one, she was wearing a dress that concealed most of her chest, save for a little cleavage and it ended just below her knees.
And secondly she refused to believe she even looked like one. Though, the women fluttering by in their flimsy outfits looked well taken care of. But still.

Rage was the first emotion to rattle her, and that was never good. This was her weakness, once provoked she found it difficult to reel the monster back in. So without little thought, or the fact that Doc was not far from her current position, or that she was in a crowded area, Cytherea allowed her heeled shoe to find his foot, making sure she made him scream, nice and loud. But she wouldn't be done there , not until he was on the floor, begging. No, so she grabbed that arm that had dared to touch her, and she twisted it, up and around so it was now pressed uncomfortably against his back, threatening to break at any moment. He fell to his knees then, shouting, protesting, swearing at her. And with each word she moved the limb a little further up his spine, threatening to break it if he didn't shut up. Instead she offered her own words. ''What was it you were going to do? Hm?''

The commotion had caused a crowd together, faces of fright, awe, some of the women even dared to look pleased. But most of all it was shock. Shock that a little woman such as she had managed to bring such a brute to his knees. This would be a little difficult to explain. Maybe.

[Doc]

Having completed his business with Jean, the first half of the money dutifully transferred into the aforementioned account, Doc silently pondered his way out of the bar. The last thing he wanted was to be followed and the odds that Jean would have someone try to follow him, were high. Once outside he could lose the tail easy enough, but he didn’t want to be followed at all. It was an ego thing. He was a hired killer, anyone tasked with following him, should find it impossible to follow him. And it was then, that fate stepped in on his behalf.

There was a commotion at the front of the establishment. Doc lost no time in vacating the premise while everyone’s attention was toward what appeared to be a fight. Casting a quick toward the distraction, he absently noted the drunk that had been groping all the females earlier, was getting his comeuppance by an irate female that was blocked by the gathering crowd. Doc smirked, the drunk deserved it.

Once he was outside and several blocks away, assured he had not been followed by any of Jean’s minions, Doc slipped out of shadows. Pulling the envelope from his inside jacket pocket, he looked at the photo and and read the dossier on the target. His hit was to be a high ranking member of the French Parliament. It was no wonder why they wanted it to look like a natural death. Politics were deadly. This was definitely a high stakes game. If the death failed to look natural, the authorities would be called in, and not just the locals. The French government would move heaven and earth to find the culprit, including pulling the American FBI, CIA, Scotland Yard and whomever else they could squeeze to help them.

However, Doc wasn’t worried. He had a cocktail that was built from a stack of ECA, along with some other nasty components that were quickly metabolized by the human body system, and once metabolized could not be tracked back by blood panels. That was not to say that the compounds could not be traced at all, but rather, someone would have to know to be looking for those specific compounds in order to put ‘two and two’ together, to get the answer. And even if they did get ‘two and two’, they were all over the counter medications that someone could have easily ingested. Looking back at the photo, the man’s bulk would work in Doc’s favor. A man that large, even if in good health, people would not be that surprised at him dropping dead of a pulmonary infarction.

Studying the dossier on the mark, Doc learned that the mark was a regular at a bar not far from where he was. He had the rest of the night free, Cytherea wouldn't expect him back for hours, so it seemed a logical plan to go do some reconnaissance on the bar and the mark.

Upon finding the bar referenced in the dossier, Doc entered and was greeted by smell of cigar smoke and leather. The lighting was good, though on the dim side. Elegant tufted leather chairs were grouped around highly polished wood inlay tables. The waiters were dressed in black tie. Though there were a few women in the place, it was obvious they were wives or significant others, instead of hookers looking for a john. The majority of people present were men, still in business attire. One would get the feeling this was where business was transacted, business that would not or could not be transacted in public.

Moving further into the establishment, a waiter approached and motioned him to the bar. Not wanting to call attention to himself, he allowed himself to be directed that way. Behind the bar, was a wall of liquor bottles that would many any liquor connoisseur jealous. There was no low end stuff here. Every bottle was top shelf reserve or higher. He would definitely look out of place if he did not drink. ****. He needed a reason to return if he was recognized, without causing any undue alarm bells to ring. As the bartender approached, Doc thought fast, “Taxi s'il vous plaît?” His American accent clearly enunciated for effect.

“Ah Très bon, monsieur” The bartender nodded and moved to make the call for the lost American.

While he was waiting, Doc scanned the room openly, smiling and nodding as though he approved of the place, when he saw his mark, the Parliamentarian, was headed his way to the bar with a group of other men. He was about to be able to get an up close and personal chance to see the man’s possible weaknesses.

Upon the Parliamentarian and his cavalcade arrival at the bar, right beside Doc, the bartender lost no time in setting a glass down in front of the man, and set about fixing the others theirs. Without looking at the glass, to even ensure it was there, the Parliamentarian's hand reached out snagged it, he downed the drink in go, and set it back down, flicking an absent and airy gesture to bartender. The bartender filled it again. It was clear that this Parliamentarian expected and got presidential treatment. Again the drink was downed without a glance, and refilled. once more by the bartender.

Casually withdrawing a pen and notepad from his inside jacket pocket, Doc made a scribbled note, then caught the bartender’s eye and tapped his wrist as if silently asking the time.

The bartender responded, “Onze heures, monsieur.”

Doc nodded his thanks, “Merci.”

He turned toward the door as if expecting the taxi driver to come through at any minute. Doc held his pleased smirk back. It had really been too easy. The Parliamentarian lurched backward into Doc while choking and clutching his chest. The Parliamentarian’s associates moved in clustering about him, trying to give him aid, while two of the others shouted in French at Doc, to move aside. Stepping back, Doc quickly re-pocketed his pen and notepad, while watching with unabashed curiosity, as any uncouth American would do, even going so far as to say “Do you have 911 here? Someone should call 911.”