2. Trouble

Unknown location, Greece, Europe;

He expected the inside to match the grandeur of the estate outside, the stainless, white walls, and chlorine-purified swimming pools. However, dank light filtered through the hallway, between slits in decaying, wood-slat blinds that covered the mouldy, frame-edged windows; the dark glow only just showing up the dust-cleared pathway others had taken through the maze of rooms.

Following the smear-y route, the sunken-faced man edged through cracking doorways, and cobweb lined arches. Finally he reached a room, guarded by a single, gun-toting ape of a man, who eyed him suspiciously.

"Onoma? Name?"

The giant specimen of the human species, growled out his speech, spitting words like so many piercing, iron splinter nails, and looking as though he wished they were. Leering down on the scrawny man approaching him, he waited for the answer, one hand running lightly along the length of the charcoal-grey, gun barrel.

The nearing man watched the movement apprehensively, before speaking up,

"Stefanos Chatzidranias. I have an appointment with… Mr. Aspros."

"I see."

The hired-muscle (one hand still on the cold, metal gun that was casually aimed at the stranger in the hallway) reached out behind him to rap smartly on the faded, wood door. It edged open a crack, and he muttered something to the person hidden behind, and was returned in rapid-fire Greek.

Not able to hear the fiercely whispered conversation, and thinking that he probably wouldn't be able to understand anyway, Stefanos edged away slightly, not liking the almost angry sounding tones that were being used.

He instinctively held his breath, muscles tensing slight on their own, his heart knowing that if he wasn't expected, that if the message of his arrival hadn't quite made it through, he'd never make it out of the building alive. These weren't the kind of people with whom you could just drop in, and share tea and scones with.

No. They were the kind of people, mothers told their children about to make sure they returned home before dark, and didn't talk to strangers.

"You are in luck, He will see you."

The door was pulled back, to reveal another bulky, muscle strapped man, equally as menacing as the first, hair shorn down to a business length, and shoulders filling the doorway.

"Entos. Inside."

Illinois, United States of America;

The City-Heights Restaurant was decked out in deep purple and dashing crimson, oozing class and riches. Virgil Tracy had opted to treat his brother after his latest Super-Cars win, taking him out to the local, high-rollers diner, for a meal and company.

They were seated in a secluded booth, hidden from the views of wondering public by falling drapes and tall, potted-plants. Most tables were situated similarly, only with the long, business banquet tables actually out in the open; chairs filled with raucously laughing, slightly sherry red-faced bankers and such like, hammering out deals and contracts over a Michelin starred meal.

"So, Champ, what are you dining on, tonight? Oak-smoked salmon? Goose liver?"

Sighing, and almost showing a crude gesture before remembering the suited and dressed company the establishment held, Alan replied,

"I'm not champion… yet. I wish all of you guys would just remember that. And stop calling me 'Champ'."

Waving away his brother's annoyance as though it were a fly, hovering about on the day's air currents, Virgil answered,

"Yeah, well, this evening you can be. Scott's paying."

"Scott's paying?" The young race-driver couldn't quite keep the astonishment out of his voice, just as his older brother hadn't quite managed to keep the secret he'd been sworn to.

"Uh-huh." Virgil pulled a silver-y credit card from his pocket, purposefully showing the imprinted name before twirling the plastic between his fingers, still smiling.

The smile slipped though, replaced with confusion and concern, when his youngest brother groaned, and put his head in his hands.

"What? What's up? I thought you'd help me out here, spend someone else's money with me?"

From between his hands, Alan muttered something that sounded like,

"Please tell me he knows."

Honestly shocked and a little disgusted, the older man pocketed the card again, slipping it back into his dinner jacket's velvety, inside pocket.

"Of course he knows, Idiot. I'm not Gordon. I want to make it to my next birthday, if you know what I mean?"

Raising his head again from his hands, and settling back against the plush, cushioned chair, whilst casually picking up the menu, Alan smiled just a little too sweetly for the young man he was fast becoming.

"Well, I guess if the billionaire's heir really is paying…"

Shaking his head, Virgil said nothing, picking up his own red-bound list of options. It'd been Scott's idea, actually, that he made this trip in the first place.

Gordon had wanted to travel out to the States, to see Alan's final few races of the season; he alone out of his vast family knew just how close Alan was to having a successful application to the N.A.S.A. Training Programme and leaving the race circuit, to follow in the historic footsteps of both his father and John.

He wanted to see, what could possibly be the last races his only younger brother would take part in professionally.

However, his all-powerful father had vetoed the idea, saying the Gordon wasn't yet up to unnecessary, long distance travelling, and the disgruntled aquanaut, elsewhere, was finding himself stuck instead in front of a broadcast, listening to some dull, brainless commentator continue on about different fuel set-ups, completely missing the racing itself, and the real excitement of race-day.

It had been just a year since an almost tragic, and nearly fatal hydrofoil accident had occurred involving the second youngest Tracy son. Whilst the redhead was physically capable of taking the trip across the Pacific, his father was perpetually anxious and jumpy these days about his well-being, something that was much to the annoyance and smouldering, chagrin of Gordon. Especially when he had to sit and watch his brothers jetting off around the world, to save lives and wow the world, with International Rescue.

Nearly losing a child did that to a parent though, apparently, Kyrano had said.

So, instead, as the family had promised Alan someone would be there, Scott had suggested Virgil head out instead. He could stop by the farm in Kansas too, to check up on how everything was doing out there; including Grandma.

After all, Scott had reasoned just as Virgil had started up the engines on the family jet and he had jumped clear, both he and John would be back at the Island to cover any calls for International Rescue, and Gordon could always fly the desk for data feeds if their Father was needed elsewhere.

It'd only been after his wheels had left the tarmac that Virgil realised he'd totally been set-up and bribed with the offer of his brother's bank card. Scott had persuaded him so subtly to go to the mainland, that he'd forgotten how badly wrong everything had gone last time he spent time on the road with Alan.

However, a young girl stirred the middle Tracy out of his thoughts, as she approached the table and lightly coughed before speaking.

"Good Evening, sirs. My name's Jessica, and I'll be serving your table this evening. Could I get you any drinks to start with?"

Alan had already looked up from where he'd been studying the food list, and Virgil had to kick him under the table, before the youngest Tracy managed to answer the girl.

Okay. So she was pretty good-looking. All right, make that very, with shoulder length hair tied to one side, loose, in a ribbon, and big, dark eyes.

Waiting until drinks had been decided and requested, and the waitress was out of earshot, Virgil eyed his younger brother with a hard stare.

"Hands off, Alan." He warned firmly, his voice betraying nothing but seriousness.

Playing the innocent as ever though, the racer raised an eyebrow, up for making a game out of it all.

"I have no idea what you mean, Virgil."

"Sure, Sprout. Sure. Just leave her alone; she's like, what? Half your age."

Still acting nonchalant, off-hand, the reply was sly; like a double-edged razor blade.

"Actually I'd say she probably is about my age, and well, I don't really think you're the one to be giving pep-talks on that subject. Besides, I saw her first."

Damn. Maybe he hadn't been quite as subtle as he thought he'd been when watching the girl walk away towards the kitchens.

"Didn't."

"Did, too, Brother. I saw her walking here, whilst you were still staring, blindly at your menu. What did Gordon always say when we were little?" He made a show of pretending to think hard, rapping a hand against his head a couple of times.

Sighing, Virgil shook his head.

"How can you two be ganging up on me, when you're so far apart." He paused then; trying his best to stare down a defiant, still-just-about teenager, changing tact at the same time. "He's not even here and you're going to end up seriously hurting because of him."

The obvious, absolute warning was there; subtle as a grey, baby elephant on a busy, shopping street, in Manhattan, at noon.

As always, maybe because he liked the danger or maybe because sometimes he could be a little stupid, Alan ignored his brother completely, as though he'd never said anything.

"Oh, I know. Finders, keepers."

"The moment we leave here, Alan…" Virgil growled out, before stopping as the smiling, young waitress reappeared with a tray carrying drinks.

Greece, continuing on from earlier;

Heavy, dark, floor-length curtains were pulled across the window roughly, blocking out light except for a sliver of silvery-white brightness that highlighted a strip of dusty, wooden floorboards in the centre of the rectangular room.

The hired-muscle prodded Stefanos in the back with the end of his gun, forcing him out into the small amount of light with a jump and anxious glance behind.

"So you bring information, Mr. Chatzidranias?"

A deep voice came out of nowhere, causing the visitor to squint into the darkness, as he tried to find the owner of the voice. All he could discern though was a shadow, lurking somewhere in the corner of the room, out of sight.

"Yes. I have been researching all that I can. There are few similarities, but… there are some."

The man moved in the corner, shifting his feet across the floor as he turned to look at the new comer, without ever exposing himself to the stranger.

"Well, Mr. Chatzidranias, what are they? Time is money, as the English would say."

His English was heavily accented, and sounded like a dusty record, pulled off the shelf and played for the first time in many, long years. Following the switch in languages, Stefanos continued in a more comfortable tongue than the pig-Greek he was struggling by in (he may have a native name, but was definitely not a local, having grown up in the outskirts of Reading, England).

"It would appear that they respond to any radio signal, so long as there is a broadcast, they will come."

"I see. And there is more?"

"A little. The larger one is always there. The smaller one, not always. Only sometimes."

The end was as abrupt as the start. Finishing as suddenly as April showers come and go.

"Thank you, Mr. Chatzidranias. That is all. The money will be in your account before the close of the day."

Unsure of what he was expected to do, but certain that his welcomed stay was ended, Stefanos turned to look at the armed companion, who stepped back and opened the door wide enough to omit one.

Rushing out the room, the informant didn't look back until he was out of the house and down the street. They definitely weren't as friendly as the advertisement had made out, and that house was somewhere he did not want to ever return to.

Wasn't likely to either, after all, he'd played his part. The act had begun.