A/N: I'm on page 232 of Bejerot's Diagnosis and Lisa and Jackson have just now left Miami. SO. LONG.

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For being such an expensive whore, Surabhi didn't have the best disposition, and if Jackson didn't know any better, he'd have sworn that Lyna specifically gave him her name on purpose. The eight days he wined and dined her were the longest of his entire life to that point and he was fairly certain the precedent would stand for years to come. All she seemed to talk about was herself, her clothes, her jewellery, his money, and his fake diamond mines. Having become a relatively good actor over the last few years, he was able to muster a smile and treat her like more of a person than she bothered treating him. Really, all that kept him going was the knowledge that the money he was spending on her wasn't his own—if he bought himself a prostitute, she was going to at least service him every now and then.

By the third day of deliberations, Jackson found out from her boasting that she went to the presidential villa every other Saturday with a couple of other girls from the same place he'd picked her up. The next time was going to be that coming Saturday, and once Jackson realised that if he didn't get this done, he was going to have to spend another two weeks with her, he became more forceful with her. With a call to regional headquarters back in Cotonou, he was able to attain a pair of stunning diamond and pearl earrings that he presented to her on the fifth night and a lovely pearl necklace on the sixth. Later that night he gave her another 'pearl necklace,' much to his college student pleasure.

She actually slept in his hotel room on the sixth night, and on Friday, 7 June, they spent the entire day around Maitama buying expensive clothes to match her new jewellery. As long as he kept giving her gifts, she kept at least falsely warming up to him, trusting him, so when she announced that she was going to be gone the whole day on Saturday, he was quick to produce a bottle of Champagne Krug Clos du Mesnil for her to give as a gift to President Abacha. She accepted gracefully and as a last minute thought, he added that she should be sure to try some of it also when it was served. With just a little pat on his face and that stereotypical prostitute look she was so fond of, she finally left his suite at the NICON Hilton and he threw himself down on the bed, sneezing at the aura of sandalwood she left behind and thanking God he'd never have to see her face again unless it somehow came out on the news.

The next few hours were completely nerve-wracking for Jackson. Every sound he heard outside his door set him on edge. At any moment he expected Abacha's armed guards to storm in to take him to execution, but the entire afternoon passed without issue. As the sun went down, Jackson went onto his balcony and started up on the second pack of cigarettes he'd consumed that day, looking out towards the presidential palace with half-closed eyes as he punched in a number and pushed the talk button on his cell phone.

'Bayley-Hudson.'

'Hey Peach,' he said, his voice slightly shaky as he took a drag at the cigarette.

'Jacks, what's wrong?' she asked, and he could hear her turn off the kitchen sink. 'Do I need to call the organisation for you?'

'No, no,' he replied, rubbing his forehead with his three free fingers, still holding tenaciously to the cigarette. 'I'm just paranoid, it's all right.'

'Did something happen?'

'No, and that's what I'm worried about.'

'Well… it is a dictatorship. If the dictator dies, it's probably not going to make the news very quickly,' she said quickly. 'Wait… what did you end up doing?'

He looked around before whispering into the phone. 'Sending in a prostitute with poisoned Clos du Mesnil.'

'Classy.'

'An expensive prostitute too.'

'Very classy then,' Melissa said and he could tell she was smiling by her tone. 'Who did you play this time?'

'Daniel Plaatje, graduate student and heir to a diamond mining fortune.'

Melissa laughed very loudly. 'Diamond mining? That's a load of shit if I ever heard it.'

'This woman was just self-concerned enough to ignore implausibility.'

'Was?' she asked before groaning. 'Oh, Jackson, you told her to drink the champagne too, didn't you?'

A laugh was his answer and she sighed loudly. 'If I'm assigned to do a job, I'm going to take it all the way to the bitter end.'

'Take no prisoners,' she said dryly.

There was silence between them for a few minutes and all she could hear was him taking an occasional drag at his cigarette and blowing the smoke out smoothly.

'Listen, get some room service, turn on the television, and if there's nothing about it by the time you're finished with dinner, go to sleep,' she said. 'Don't worry about it anymore; by tomorrow, everything will be figured out.'

'Or I'll be dead.'

'Or you'll be dead, yeah,' she said brightly. 'Have a nice night.'

'You too,' he said with a grimace.

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The next morning when Jackson woke up, he started so badly that he fell off of the bed and onto the tray of dishes from the night before. Very glad that he'd put the metal plate cover back over the porcelain, he glared up at the bed, or more specifically the woman in the bed. She smirked at him.

'I thought you might want a little company.'

Jackson looked over at the television, which was tuned into the BBC News Network. Sani Abacha's picture was in the top left hand side of the screen and although the sound was muted, the closed captioning was rolling across the bottom of the screen steadily. It had all been attributed to a heart attack and there was no mention of the three prostitutes that Jackson knew had been there—he had a feeling they would be coming up in news stories in the future, but now was no time for that. He just stared at the screen soaking up everything about his solo victory.

'Peachy,' he murmured as he rubbed his tailbone, walking over towards the television.

'You've been given a bonus,' she purred in her thick accent.

He turned to look at her coldly. 'That bonus better be in cash, not in kind.'

She gave him a pouting look, putting a hand over her chest. 'You hurt me, Jackson.'

His eyes fell over her exposed breasts that peeked out over the comforter but then trailed back up to her face. The air of seduction around her was almost palpable. She tossed her head and her long, nearly black hair slipped in a sheet behind her shoulders, exposing some of the scars crisscrossing her pale skin. Pulling a long leg out from under the comforter, she licked her lips as she slowly pushed the bedding aside, looking at him with the eyes that mirrored his own. He moved towards her, placing his hands on the edge of the bed and crawling over to her, settling himself over her despite the fact that he was still wearing his pyjama pants. She ran her hands over him, giving him a dirty smirk as she scratched long marks down his chest. His face dropped slowly down towards her own, his long hair brushing her face, but right as their lips touched, he turned his head and rolled off of her, sitting on the edge of the bed. She glared at his back as he slumped forward.

'What?' she spat, sitting up and reaching over to grab his shoulder, but he stood before she could take a firm hold.

Lyna fell onto the mattress and glared after him from behind dark hair. He was moving slowly away from her, and as she pushed herself up, he pulled back his foot and kicked the room service tray with all of his force. Running a hand roughly through his hair, he stalked over to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. A moment later, there was the steady sound of the bathtub filling and Lyna ripped at the sheets, seething as she looked between the bathroom door and the shattered dishes cast across the floor. Slipping off of the bed, she went over to the door and jiggled the handle, banging on the wood madly.

'You immature fuck!' she shrieked, slamming her fist over and over again on the door. 'Get out here and behave like a man!'

There was no response from the other side, so, growling, she went over to her dress, which was now covered in the broken room service items, and pulled it up, feeling through it with her eyebrows raised. After she'd searched every inch of the little black dress, she drug her toes through the shattered plate, pausing as a loud bang came from the bathroom. Turning, she dropped the dress and stalked back over to the bathroom door, tapping it lightly.

'Jackson…' she said in a sugary voice. 'What was that?'

There was no response, so she just pressed her ear to the door. The only thing she could hear was the running water, and a moment later, the water started creeping out from under the door. She stepped up and down in it for a second before going back to the room service mess and picking up a knife. Jabbing it between the door and the doorframe, she was able to open the door after a half-minute of intense fellowship with the lock. Looking in, she was more pissed about what she saw than upset. Jackson had taken it upon himself to shoot himself in the stomach and then lie facedown in the overflowing bathtub. A couple of long strides brought her to the tub and she ripped him out of it, throwing him down on the wet tile floor and immediately pressing down on his chest. It didn't take long for him to cough up the water he'd swallowed. Blood was pooling everywhere under his back, so once he was breathing on his own again, Lyna retrieved her cell phone and dialled the organisation's directory assistance.

'Cotonou, s'il vous plaît,' she said, glaring down at Jackson, who was now gritting his teeth in pain as stomach acid poured into his abdomen. 'Bonne matin, Cotonou. One of our managers has just tried to kill himself, and I will need assistance in Abuja.'

Snapping her phone shut, Lyna kicked Jackson in the arm, but he didn't respond with much force.

'If you're going to kill yourself, at least do a good job of it, you pussy,' she hissed before leaving the room.