Moments
Retrieval at Shindig: Part 2
"Oh my, you're the most ducky shincracker for a career banker that I have ever met!" giggled the blond in his arms.
She did that a lot, giggled that is, and while that was an annoying trait in any dame, it was an even more undesirable trait in a prop in one's eavesdropping scheme.
As soon as Grey had pulled his trademark move and cut in on Ms. Bridges' dance, Jack had left his corner and charmed the nearest girl onto the floor. But thanks to this chit's giggling and chattering, he had yet to hear a word that they were saying.
He did notice that for a renowned con-woman she struggled to hide her emotions when it came to Ethan Grey. He had caught more than one flash of fury flick across her face as Grey whispered something into her ear.
But what scared him the most was the satisfied smirk that settled there when the alarm went off.
EEEP! EEEP! EEEP!
He barely even registered it when his dancing partner's father jerked her away from him and muttered something about Balder having a safe room.
He was only fixated on that triumphant smirk of that Bridges broad and had only one thought: Peggy was caught in this bitch's trap. Peggy was in danger.
Bang! Bang!
The alarm's blaring and his frantic thoughts were interrupted by the sound of gunshots.
He followed the sound and the resultant screaming to its source – Grey holding a gun and firing it into the air, beneath him was the prone and unconscious body of a guard.
He watched Grey toss the gun into the nearby punch bowl before heading for the same servants' stairwell that Carter had disappeared into.
Knowing that Carter had backup coming, (ruthless and cutthroat backup was swell by him), meant that he could now focus on his mission again.
And just in time too, as he spotted her emerald green-clad form disappearing into the aforementioned 'safe room'.
Spotting the nearest dignitary – the charity's foundation chairman – he acted as if he were his assistant/bodyguard and got them both hustled into the room before it was sealed.
As soon as he heard the door click shut behind him, he prayed that he made the right decision – because there was no way he could help her now.
~A~
The safe was a bust. Or rather there was no bust, no statue of the trickster god.
She didn't have long to dwell on the empty safe. Two guards came bursting in with guns raised.
Not seeing any other recourse, she allowed them to take her into their custody. This wasn't Jack or Daniel. They would shoot.
They handcuffed her hands behind her back and led her through a series of doors to a back corner office. It was so far in the back that she did not think anyone could hear her screams, even if they did turn off the still blaring alarm.
They wordlessly sat her in a chair in the middle of the room and tied her arms and legs down. These silent goons had this down into such a pat routine that she wondered if Emil Balder's 'black market side-business' was actually a side-business.
And she was not at all surprised to hear (aside from the fact that they spoke at all) one of them say to the other, "Go get Cleaver. The boss will want her questioned before the cops get here."
She was expecting 'Cleaver' to look like all the other toughs that she had ever seen who were favored in beating information out of someone, especially women.
But she certainly was not expecting to see Ethan Grey come charging through the doors holding out a handful of red rhinestones and exclaiming in a high tenor voice:
"There you are! Look! Look at what you have done to your dress! It's a travesty!"
"Sir, you shouldn't be here."
"Shouldn't be here?" Ethan asked the man in outrage, like a man who had just had his lost button pushed. "Damn straight, I shouldn't! I should be in the Hamptons sipping a dirty martini. But nooo, I have to be here ritzy-ing and spiffing up Sergei's latest dolly so that he can compete with all 'de Western glitterati'."
It was quite the performance. And he had the snooty Parisian fashionista accent and mannerisms down to a tee. Her ability to switch from her native cadence to an American drawl and back again was one of the best tricks he had ever taught her.
He was so good that the man got caught up in his tale of woe and asked hesitantly, "Sergei?"
"Yes, Sergei Ilyich!"
At that well-connected name, the guard blanched.
"Oh, I see you recognize the name," Ethan commented wryly and then with even more plaintive exasperation, he pleaded, "And what do you think that man will do to me when he finds out she has ruined – ruined, I say – a £12,000 dress?!"
And while with one hand he dramatically held out his pile of rhinestones that she had unobtrusively picked off her less than $100 dress to leave a trail through the maze of doors, he pointed the other accusingly at her lap.
When the man actually bent down to examine her 'folly', Ethan seized his moment and slammed his rhinestone-filled fist into the guard's temple.
And just like that he was out for the count and slumped over her lap.
While Ethan untied her, she wriggled in her seat to scoot the chump off of her. As soon as he hit the floor with a gratifying thud, she asked, "So the statue? Yolanda?"
"Gone," he admitted with a resigned sigh. "Just like we need to be."
She nodded her agreement, even though it left a bitter taste in her mouth.
As soon as her blood was flowing into her extremities again, they hastily made their way to their escape route. Neither one of them wanted to tango with 'Cleaver' or any of his buddies.
It was now all up to Jack.
~A~
Jack watched as Saffron Bridges made her way through the crowded room like an angel of mercy. Kind and encouraging word here to a distraught debutante, a pat on the back to an elderly woman there, or a brave smile and handkerchief to a young bloody-lipped man there.
He watched her progress and noted that while it may have seemed to be directed by those in need, he could clearly see that the end goal was to the back of the room, which was lined with shelves filled with valuable of objets d'art – including the one and only Swedish green marble figurine of Loki.
As soon as she reached its spot, she turned to face the room and waited patiently like all the rest of them. Occasionally, she would remember to hug that box-purse of hers (that she had somehow miraculously managed to have with her) as if trying to comfort herself. It was enough of an act that no one noticed that she still seemed far too pleased with herself.
He had to give it to her though. She had reason to be. Her plan was clever and utterly diabolical. Blackmail Ethan Grey to rob a competitor, set him and whichever Resistance girl he turns to for help up as bait, and when the trap closes, use it as a distraction to get into the place the prize really is, and then be escorted out to safety by the clueless police whenever they show up to save the day.
It was a brilliant plan. And it might have worked except for the fact that Grey's Go-To girl wasn't just any girl – no, she was SSR Agent Peggy Carter, the bane of HYDRA's existence in any form.
And Carter had him.
So when the local P.D. finally did arrive and the commotion of the frightened party-goers bustling out of the tightly packed room prevented him from witnessing Ms. Bridges make the actual swipe of the figurine, his sharp eyes did note that her box purse looked considerably heavier than it had been a few moments ago.
He followed her out the door (a few people back), and when they exited the mansion, he signaled his men.
Sousa tripped her with his cane as she passed him on the stairs, sending her and her bag flying. Ramirez went in and lifted the statue from her purse, replacing it with a brick of equal weight before disappearing into the crowd, and then sweet baby-faced Palmer, honorably-looking Fisher, and apologetic Sousa all clamored to help the poor fallen damsel.
And what did he do? He whistled to himself as he passed them, content with a job well done.
For that is one thing that he had learned as interim-Chief, how to use resources well and delegate wisely.
The woman never stood a chance.
~A~
"Letter for you, Carter."
Peggy looked up from the cryptography report she was reading to see that Niedermayer had tossed un-postmarked envelope on her desk.
She picked it up curiously and cautiously. The lack of postage stamps told her that it wasn't from the Howling Commandos (and her family wouldn't send anything to the office). It also told her that it had been hand-delivered. That and it was very fine stationery told her that it was from one of two people.
Trying not to attract the attention of anyone, she kept her face blank and her breathing even as she used her letter opener to carefully slit the envelope away from her. When there was no puffs of mysterious powder, she reached inside and pulled out the letter and immediately recognized the elegant handwriting.
My dear Lizzie,
First of all, I wanted to say that was a job well done.
You managed to obtain the list. I hope it is proving helpful
in identifying and locating those pesky deep-cover Zodiac
agents.
(It had. They had two left of the twelve on the list that had been hidden in the base of the statue. The SSR had moved fast enough on ten of them so that their comrades' warning had not reached them in time, which is the main reason Johnson hadn't fired them and had only reprimanded them for 'not keeping him in the loop'.)
I hear that you also managed to return the Trickster to
its rightful owner before Emil's man got his grubby paws on
it.
(She had, via a contact in Interpol).
Secondly, I wanted to say thank you for playing bait
that night. I knew Yolanda would not have been
able to resist watching you and me meet our
bloody ends, and I was able to send my man
in to her hotel suite to reacquire my property. It is
so nice when your opponents act in a predictable
manner.
(Peggy wanted to roll her eyes at his smug tone. As if she didn't know that had been his end game all along.)
It would have been equally nice if your young
man had done the same. Then my people could
have reacquired the statue as well. I had an
overeager buyer all lined up for it. (I would have
of course given you the list.) Ah well, c'est la vie.
I do not know if you want to tell him, or not (I know
how you don't like your men to think too highly
of themselves), but I was rather impressed with
how well he played our game of Charity Charades.
He's a good match for you, Lizzie. He'll keep you
on your toes.
Au revoir,
Ethan G.
Peggy was entirely unsure of how to respond to that last part. Grey had assumed that Jack hadn't told her what he was going to do. He had assumed that she was continuing to be lone wolf, self-reliant Peggy.
Now granted, when Jack had first brought up his plan, she had vetoed it. But he had brought her around by arguing that just because Johnson couldn't be trusted not to respect the term 'confidential informant' didn't mean that others couldn't. Jack had proven that she not only had her partner watching her back but her team as well.
She was jerked from her reverie by the man himself sitting on the edge of her desk, as he tried to nosily read her letter, asking, "Is that from …?"
She pulled it close to her chest, even as she confirmed, "Yes. He was just saying congratulations for the purpose of reminding us that we are even."
"So he got his super-secret documents, did he?" he mused sardonically.
"Yes."
He sat there for a moment longer, thinking what she did not know, and she was just about to ask him to shove off so that she could get back to her work, when he smirked down at her.
"What, Jack?" she asked impatiently.
His smirk widened.
"Well, Carter, his debt with me may be cleared, but yours isn't."
"Oh?"
He stood up then, but only to lean down to smugly whisper in her ear, "Yeah, you owe me an uninterrupted dance."
He then sauntered over to his desk to begin going through his own mail, leaving her slightly flushed and mouth agape.
'Her man' keeping her on her toes, indeed.
A/N: French to English translation: c'est la vie = such is life
Also, 'ducky shincracker' = 'good dancer' in 1940's slang
So thoughts?
