Cassidy Jones and the Seventh Attendant (Cassidy Jones Adventures, Book Three) by Elise Stokes Page B
Authors: Elise Stokes
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the phone to his ear.
“This is Moreau,” he said, then spoke in French. He spun his finger at the security guard. “Your account number, please.”
The security guard recited a string of numbers that Moreau repeated into the phone. While doing this, the security guard glanced uneasily at “Meyer.” It was understandable, considering how menacing Emery’s dad looked.
“ Je vous remercie, Monsieur ,” the Frenchman said, ending the call. He placed the phone back in his pocket and told the security guard, “Your new bank account balance will satisfy you.”
The security guard grinned. “Nice doin’ business with ya.”
Moreau returned the smile, the sort of highbrow smile that said, I tolerate you because I must. Mr. Phillips’s face held no expression.
“Good of Queen Kiya to visit the Emerald City,” said the security guard, and swept a ridiculous bow. “Good for me.”
“Good for us all,” agreed Moreau in a pleasant tone. “That is, if the security schematics that I have paid handsomely for are what you have guaranteed—”
The guard ceased his celebrating and glanced at the Frenchman.
Moreau added to the threat: “If they are not, then we have a problem. To be precise, you become Mr. Meyer’s problem.”
The security guard stared with fear at the man he knew as Meyer. Mr. Phillips’s mouth turned up into a slow, chilling half-smile. His eyes were heartless.
“It’s all there and up to date,” the guard assured them hastily. In his nervousness, he repeated, “Nice doin’ business with ya, Mr. Moreau.”
“Yes, my friend. It has been a pleasure.”
The guard couldn’t get away fast enough.
As he walked past the chest where I hid, Moreau muttered something in French that I was sure was an insult about the security guard. Then he asked Mr. Phillips, “Have arrangements been made?”
“Assassin data recovery is set for oh-one-hundred hours Wednesday. Drop-off has been confirmed for zero hours on Sunday.”
I caught a gasp. Assassin? Serena’s Assassin?
“Excellent, Meyer. Shall we?”
The men came out of the burial room. I shrank behind the chest.
“If that cretin has sold me a blank thumb drive, you will put a bullet in his head for me, won’t you, Meyer?”
“With pleasure.”
Moreau chuckled. “And I am not one to deny another man his pleasure, especially—” Moreau abruptly stopped speaking. Their feet stopped moving, too.
I held my breath. I judged them to be on the other side of the chest.
“Did you hear some—” Moreau began, cutting himself short again. I imagined Mr. Phillips flipping a hand up for Moreau to stay silent so he could listen. If he had my hearing, he would have heard my heart crashing into my ribcage.
“Lohan, Brinkley, and Sanchez are assembling,” said Mr. Phillips. The men began walking again. I waited until it sounded like they were halfway down the corridor before releasing my breath.
By the time they exited the tomb, I had a pretty good idea what was going down. Mr. Phillips and Moreau planned to rob the Queen Kiya exhibit on Wednesday at 1:00 a.m., if I was calculating military time correctly. What I couldn’t figure out was what Assassin had to do with the exhibit. And I wasn’t sure whether or not to tell Emery about his dad. The thought made me sick. Was it necessary for him to know that his dad was involved in orchestrating a heist in order to come up with a plan to thwart it? And why was Mr. Phillips after a biological weapon’s data—data that had been destroyed?
Or had it?
What do I do? What do I do?
Emery needed to know about the robbery ASAP, especially since it had something to do with Assassin .
But he doesn’t need to know his dad is in on it just yet, I decided. And he doesn’t need to know his dad is a cold-blooded killer. Moreau had said as much, and Mr. Phillips’s “with pleasure” confirmed it. Jared and my gut had been right: Mr. Phillips was bad to the bone.
My heart sank at the thought of
“This is Moreau,” he said, then spoke in French. He spun his finger at the security guard. “Your account number, please.”
The security guard recited a string of numbers that Moreau repeated into the phone. While doing this, the security guard glanced uneasily at “Meyer.” It was understandable, considering how menacing Emery’s dad looked.
“ Je vous remercie, Monsieur ,” the Frenchman said, ending the call. He placed the phone back in his pocket and told the security guard, “Your new bank account balance will satisfy you.”
The security guard grinned. “Nice doin’ business with ya.”
Moreau returned the smile, the sort of highbrow smile that said, I tolerate you because I must. Mr. Phillips’s face held no expression.
“Good of Queen Kiya to visit the Emerald City,” said the security guard, and swept a ridiculous bow. “Good for me.”
“Good for us all,” agreed Moreau in a pleasant tone. “That is, if the security schematics that I have paid handsomely for are what you have guaranteed—”
The guard ceased his celebrating and glanced at the Frenchman.
Moreau added to the threat: “If they are not, then we have a problem. To be precise, you become Mr. Meyer’s problem.”
The security guard stared with fear at the man he knew as Meyer. Mr. Phillips’s mouth turned up into a slow, chilling half-smile. His eyes were heartless.
“It’s all there and up to date,” the guard assured them hastily. In his nervousness, he repeated, “Nice doin’ business with ya, Mr. Moreau.”
“Yes, my friend. It has been a pleasure.”
The guard couldn’t get away fast enough.
As he walked past the chest where I hid, Moreau muttered something in French that I was sure was an insult about the security guard. Then he asked Mr. Phillips, “Have arrangements been made?”
“Assassin data recovery is set for oh-one-hundred hours Wednesday. Drop-off has been confirmed for zero hours on Sunday.”
I caught a gasp. Assassin? Serena’s Assassin?
“Excellent, Meyer. Shall we?”
The men came out of the burial room. I shrank behind the chest.
“If that cretin has sold me a blank thumb drive, you will put a bullet in his head for me, won’t you, Meyer?”
“With pleasure.”
Moreau chuckled. “And I am not one to deny another man his pleasure, especially—” Moreau abruptly stopped speaking. Their feet stopped moving, too.
I held my breath. I judged them to be on the other side of the chest.
“Did you hear some—” Moreau began, cutting himself short again. I imagined Mr. Phillips flipping a hand up for Moreau to stay silent so he could listen. If he had my hearing, he would have heard my heart crashing into my ribcage.
“Lohan, Brinkley, and Sanchez are assembling,” said Mr. Phillips. The men began walking again. I waited until it sounded like they were halfway down the corridor before releasing my breath.
By the time they exited the tomb, I had a pretty good idea what was going down. Mr. Phillips and Moreau planned to rob the Queen Kiya exhibit on Wednesday at 1:00 a.m., if I was calculating military time correctly. What I couldn’t figure out was what Assassin had to do with the exhibit. And I wasn’t sure whether or not to tell Emery about his dad. The thought made me sick. Was it necessary for him to know that his dad was involved in orchestrating a heist in order to come up with a plan to thwart it? And why was Mr. Phillips after a biological weapon’s data—data that had been destroyed?
Or had it?
What do I do? What do I do?
Emery needed to know about the robbery ASAP, especially since it had something to do with Assassin .
But he doesn’t need to know his dad is in on it just yet, I decided. And he doesn’t need to know his dad is a cold-blooded killer. Moreau had said as much, and Mr. Phillips’s “with pleasure” confirmed it. Jared and my gut had been right: Mr. Phillips was bad to the bone.
My heart sank at the thought of
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