Disclaimer: I do not own Vampire Academy or anything surrounding it (but I do own this plot :D)


JPOV

I inhaled, the air filling my lungs and the fresh oxygen set to work immediately by clearing my head and quelling my heartrate. "He's approaching the door now." I said, watching Guerra stride towards the doorway just to leave the restaurant.

Ibrahim nodded. "Leave it a moment."

"But he could-"

"Just a moment." he said, silencing my argument. The nervousness and unease returned. When we were at Court, as Guardians the earpieces in our ears provided an all but constant stream of either information relevant to the target or regarding another one of our positions; it served like an imaginary blanket on a cold winter's night - a security. Here, we had no such luxury. Dealing with such an advanced and developed enemy meant that Ibrahim and I were cut off from our headquarters, fending off only on the resources and information we had in our heads, which did not, in this case, include a detailed floor map of the hotel. I had a sense that Ibrahim had been here before, but I had an equal sense that that was some time ago; there was no way he remembered every detail, even for him, that was too much. And we couldn't be sure he was going straight up to his room, we couldn't afford to assume anything. With all these thoughts swirling about in my head like magma under the Earth's crust, I was ready to erupt with worry.

"Ibrahim, you've had your moment; now, can we go get this guy?" I said.

He nodded. Rising up, he reached into his pocket and dumped a wodge of lira on the table. I mirrored him, jumping to my feet, attempting to maintain some form of decorum, but the adrenaline pulsing through my veins had me in full Guardian-mode, rather than the girlfriend-mode I was supposed to be in.

Acting had never been my forte.

I was stopped from sprinting out of the restaurant by Ibrahim catching my arm and bringing towards his. "Discretion, Janine." he whispered. He was neither irritated nor commanding, rather calm and gentle in such a way that, and perhaps out of sheer empathy, I felt calmed. In truth though, I was a mess; if Guardian Peters could see me now! Good gracious, he would be appalled. Every Guardian instinct drilled into me from my infancy at St Vlads was telling me to bolt: if you saw a threat, you dealt with it. You did not dilly about with edict and allow the Moroi, whom you were supposed to be protecting and keeping out of danger, lead you by the arm headfirst into danger. Then there was also that nig - a nagging feeling that just would not shift. Something wasn't right.

We left the same way Guerra had and my eyes began immediately scanning for the man. I caught sight of his large form as he entered the elevator going up.

"Shit." I muttered.

"Fret not," Ibrahim said, following my gaze.

"And how exactly do you imagine I should do that? He could be going anywhere!" I hissed.

But Ibrahim did not flinched. "The main body of in-hotel entertainment is on this floor, with the pool and gym facilities underneath. Negating the fact that Mr Guerra does not particularly strike one as one to visit the gym, that lift is going up. The only thing up is rooms and we know which one he is in."

"He could be going to someone else's." I pointed out.

"If you have the presidential suite, you would not be visiting other rooms - they would be coming to you." He said.

"Unless, of course, you wanted to be subtle." I responded, my rational returning as I began to fully assess the situation as objectively as I was capable.

"Janine, this man booked out the presidential suite - he ain't going for subtlety."

I conceded on that point, even with Ibrahim's uncharacteristic use of slang. Swiftly yet not so much as to attract any suspicion, I made our way to the dual elevators; Guerra had taken the one on the right and the left had just arrived. As I stepped in I discovered that the lift inside held a certain optically phantom quality: it was smaller than one would initially think, given the strategic placement of the mirrors, making the squeeze of the five or so people who joined Ibrahim and I in the small box substantially tighter. Thankfully though, none of them were heading up to the very top floor, so there was relief to be had when they left.

"How will you do it?" I asked as the question formed in my mind once Ibrahim and I were alone, the lift casually pulling us up through the earlier half of the teens to get to the magic twenty-three.

"How will I do what?" He replied with a slight frown.

"Get him to talk - give you the information you want." I elaborated and then again. "You don't have Vincent."

He let out a loud chuckle. "I am so glad you consider me capable of interrogating someone on my own." There was a lick of bitterness in his words.

"That's not what I meant." I replied flatly as his chuckle died down. "I'm just saying you don't have the benefit of telepathy."

"Most people find themselves lacking in that particular department," he said with his usual teasing tone, "however, and most fortunately for those of us who are in want, there have been developments in the department of acquiring information."

I tightened my lips together and looked away, fearful of just what that entailed. It was a struggle, no matter who it was, to watch someone hurt another person, made all the worse by not being able to do anything about it. Not only was it unjust, it also painted a completely different picture of a person, particularly when it was someone you knew. I was well aware of the dangers of a false persona, but still had grown rather attached, daresay even fond, of the image I had of Ibrahim as a devious, but never violent con-artist. To have that broken...I feared I would loose a dear, dear friend.

"Do you know what one of the prevailing causes of the events of Berwick in 1590 was?" Ibrahim had clearly noted my silent contemplating and deemed it appropriate to react as he thought best.

"Funnily enough, I don't." I replied.

He cocked a brow. "You did not study history?"

"Not extensively - academia wasn't exactly high on the priority list." I pointed out. "If it's not 1066 or the First World War, then I don't have a clue."

He smiled. "You do not know what you are missing." he said with a wink.

I rolled my eyes, but could not fight the tug on my lips. "Go on then, what was the prevailing cause of the events in fifteenth century Berwick."

"Sixteenth," he corrected.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. "Mate, I don't even know where Berwick is."

"Really?"

Reopening them, I looked back at him. "Yeah, really."

"That seems unlikely…"

"And why might that be?"

He paused, analysing my expression to find any trace that I was joking. When he realised my ignorance was true, he had to fight the ever growing smile that would have plunged him into laughter. "Berwick is in Scotland, Janine."

I blinked. "You're fucking kidding."

He shook his head, a little laughter escaping from the corners of his mouth. I sighed and gently hit my head against the side of the lift. Composing himself, Ibrahim cleared his throat and brought my disbelieving attention back towards him. "The point I was trying to make…"

"Were you?" I said, still humiliated at my lack of knowledge.

He chuckled. "Yes. If you'll indulge my metaphor for a moment, the point I was making is that unnecessary violence in an effort to acquire information leads to Witch Hunts. It is always unreliable."

I felt the echo of a previous conversation run through me - an eerie sense of déjà vu. Smiling, I looked back up at him. "All bark, no bite."

He nodded. "You know, perhaps I should have that tattooed somewhere for you as it seems to be a popular topic of conversation." he said. I shot him a slight glare, but he merely raised his eyebrows, feigning a sense of innocence.

The elevator had the good courtesy to arrive at our destination.

Ibrahim took the lead leaving, something that was neither discussed nor something I was particularly happy about, but I hung back, covering his back and assessing the floor for dangers. So far I could see four doors, one of which was the entrance to the suite, the others were unidentifiable. I assumed one lead to the stairs and the others were perhaps storage cupboards for the cleaning staff, but the knob who had designed this place had decided to make all the doors look the same so there was no viable way of differentiating any of them. Going off my account of the first floor, I assumed that the stairs were behind one of the two doors on my left, therefore slightly elevating the chance from 33% to 50%. Then there were the windows, though given we were twenty-three stories up, that seemed unlikely, but I wouldn't overrule anything when it came to La Luz.

I was so busy making mental note of the surroundings that I nearly bypassed what Ibrahim was doing.

"Whoah, you're not just going in there!?" I said, jogging a little to catch up.

He turned to face me. "Are you going to stop me?"

"We-I-"

"I thought not." he said moving past me.

I stepped back in front of him. "Right, mister, your safety may not be very important to you, but it is to me and I am not willing to watch you try and kill yourself because you weren't thinking and just waltzed into a terrorist's room."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Whilst I am undeniably flattered that my life is of such value to you, I feel that you are not exactly dressed for the occasion."

I blinked. "And who's fault was that!" I exclaimed.

"Almost as if I did it by design." he said, tapping his chin. I scowled. Oh, no way he was winning this. I bent down in front of him. He took a step back. "What are you-" he stopped himself as he saw I had unstrapped my heels and rose to kick them off.

I smiled, a cruel and sickly smile. "I have both a gun and a stake strapped to my calf right now and a decade and a half of training on how to use them."

He raised a brow. "And who told you I wasn't armed…?" he countered.

My smile increased and I stepped towards him and closed the gap between us. Placing my arms round his waist, I was surprised at how much boldness I was managing to maintain in that moment. This was not lost on Ibrahim either who couldn't have been more shocked if I had stripped right in front of him. Of course, his distraction was the point: he was completely none the wiser to the fact that I was essentially patting him down to check for weaponry, but in a slightly more seductive way. "I know," I said, rising on my tiptoes (slightly regretting the fact I had taken of the heels) to have my lips reach his ear, "because the gun isn't mine…" And with that, I pulled back holding the glock that was concealed in by his suit in my hands. Ibrahim, clearly suffering from a severe case of disorientation, took a moment before coming to his senses.

I had anticipated his anger, but instead was rewarded with his growing smirk. "You said it was strapped to your calf..."

I inclined my head. "No, I said I had a gun and a stake strapped to my calf." And I lifted my skirt to prove my point.

His smirk grew to a grin. "Well played, Hathaway. Well played."

I smiled, feeling rather pleased with myself. "Right then," I said, returning to my usual brash nature. "You wait here," I said with extra emphasis. "And I will signal to let you in." I said.

Ibrahim smiled still for a moment, his whole demeanour softer than I had ever seen, before raising his arms and stepping back. "Of course, Guardian Hathaway." he said.

I rolled my eyes and turned away, gently opening the door to the suite and stepping in. I found myself in a hallway of sorts, clean and decorated, with a mirror on the wall to my right. Avoiding being caught on my reflection, I ducked down, the dress proving difficult to move smoothly in, but I made do. No point moaning about it now. Sliding through the hall, I got to the main body: an open planned living, dining area, the bedroom off to the far left with an ensuite no doubt located thereabouts, if the running water was anything to go by. I scanned the room, looking for anything and anyone who should not be there: it was silent, lonely, desolate. The open-plan view and Guerra's evident laziness with closing doors made my task all the easier to the extent where I didn't have to move from where I was crouched at the threshold between the hallway and the rest of the suite. I seemed perfectly clear to me that the only person here was in the shower, and that said person was an awful singer.

I edged back towards the door, poking my head out to let Ibrahim in whereupon I found the foyer area empty...

Panic surged in my body as I fully exited the room and began frantically looking around. No, no, no! My head was screaming, my heart racing. Two minutes - not even that! Ibrahim, please!

"¡Pero qué mierda!" The distinct sound of a gruff, clearly frightened, Spanish man filled my eardrums. I shot my head back towards the room and darted in quickly and silently, edging towards my former position to see Guerra's large form staggering out of the ensuite, through the bedroom and into the main space, followed by a most notable man...

Son of a bitch!

Ibrahim gave me a quick wink, but raised his hand slightly to keep me where I was. I clenched my jaw.

"¡Quién eres tú! ¡Que quieres!" Guerra was in full yell, attempted to assert some form of authority which was difficult considering he was just in a towel.

"Silencio, por favor. Eres demasiado ruidoso, señor." Ibrahim quipped.

"And who are you," Guerra said, still in full enraged Spanish, "to tell me what to do!?"

Ibrahim shrugged, still wandering about the room like he owned the bloody place. "A concerned civilian."

"You are no civilian" he spat.

Ibrahim smiled. "How right you are." He cast Guerra a long side glance. "I am so much worse... " trailing off, Ibrahim gave his voice a dangerous edge that had Guerra swallow and consider, made worse by the subverted sound he made with his Spanish inflection.

"You want money, I have money-" Guerra said, pleading in a way I would not attribute to a confident, terrorist informant. Then again, Pablo wasn't exactly a picture of tranquility, but in his defense, he was just a boy. This was a middle-aged man, cowering beneath Ibrahim's feet. Clearly, Ibrahim had picked up on this vibe and his eyes narrowed in such a way that I knew he was a little confused, but Guerra was none the wiser.

"Why would I desire your money, sir?" Ibrahim asked, feigning curiosity.

"I am rich, very rich - my work, I am an operations manager for a hotel chain! I am paid well! Please, take my money!" It was honestly quite sad to watch. There was no way this guy could stand anywhere near someone as intimidating as this Abuela seemed to be. Unless of course he was a very, very, good actor.

Ibrahim paused and considered for a moment. "That does not answer why I would want it…" he said, toying with the sobbing man. "Look at you, you are pathetic! Oh, what a disgrace you would be to your grandmother…" Ibrahim said, dropping the word Abuela into his speech and watching for the reaction.

"I am sorry, please, I am sorry!" he continued to sobbed vehemently. With a slight glance towards me, Ibrahim's face hardened still and he strove to cover up his confusion.

"Where is your computer?" He asked, still holding that dangerous tone.

"Bedroom! It's in the bedroom! On the desk!" Guerra said, pointing frantically towards the door. Ibrahim cast me a glance and I nodded; he walked into the room and I watched Guerra, looking for any signs of a false display. But this guy was not letting up: he continued to sob and blubber as he trembled against the large couch; the fear he exhibited was so large, it was almost tangible. He still hadn't seen me, but I think he was too occupied with what Ibrahim was doing or could do to him. No-one could act this. This was real.

Guerra was not our guy…

Ibrahim returned, striding confidently back into the room and slamming the open laptop down onto the table. The act made Guerra jump, but Ibrahim ignored him. Typing rapidly for a few moments, he stared at the screen and then a knowing, but bitter, smile lifted on his face. He rose, and turned to the quivering man.

"The money?" he questioned.

Guerra began rapidly pointing towards the picture on the wall. Ibrahim smiled, striding towards the painting and throwing it off. Guerra curled deeper into his chair and continued to sob as Ibrahim studied the safe before typing in a combination and the safe opened. With a smile, he walked back towards Guerra who scooted as far back on the couch as he could.

"A word of advice, Mr Guerra," he said in a much softer, but still eerie tone, "man up. If I were a real mobster, you'd be dead and you'd have lost everything." and with that he rose to his feet.

Guerra widened his eyes and watched Ibrahim intensely. "You are not…" he trailed off.

Ibrahim shook his head. "The company sent me to make sure security measures were being taken seriously. I am afraid, you have failed spectacularly and this will have to be reported back." he lied with such eloquence, I nearly believed him.

Guerra suddenly burst out laughing, the relief clear on his face. "¡Qué horror! Oh, you really terrified me."

"Clearly." Ibrahim said with a slight smile. "Maybe work on those security measures, huh?"

"Oh, absolutely!" Guerra said, flopping back in such a way his towel dislodged and I had to look away. I did not see Ibrahim's reaction, but it was followed by a: "I must go: good evening, Mr Guerra." And with that he walked back towards me.

Guerra's voice carried through the large room. "Oh, adios, mi amigo! Muchos gracias por su atención."

"Por nada," Ibrahim said as he passed me and we left the room. Out in the carpeted hall of the twenty-third floor both Ibrahim and I looked at each other with deep confusion.

"He had no idea," I said, "about any of it…?"

Ibrahim shook his head. "None at all. No-one could act that."

I stuttered for a moment before speaking again. "Are you sure, because-"

"His password to his personal laptop was 'password' and combination to the safe containing at least the equivalent of four-hundred million dollars was '1,2,3,4'." He pointed out. "No terrorist group would hire that much of an idiot."

I blinked. "He's a business manager though…"

"Yes, it does make you worry…" Ibrahim said, walking over to the lift and pushing on the button. I picked up my heels and stood next to him.

"But it doesn't make sense: he was Kravitz' Spanish connection…" I said.

Ibrahim pondered. "Maybe we were wrong about Kravitz?"

"And it is just a massive coincidence that he was planning a big event with a Spanish colleague on the night of the attack and one such colleague just so happens to be in Istanbul?" I said.

"Not so much coincidence as misunderstanding." he said as the lift doors opened. We stepped in and Ibrahim pushed the button for the ground floor.

"You think I misheard him?" I asked, thinking back to that night and relaying everything I could for the evening's proceedings. My memory wasn't perfect, but I could not bring myself to admit I had cocked this up that badly.

"Maybe, but given your so highly regarded training, I find that unlikely. It could just be a case of misinterpretation, rather than mishearing." Ibrahim said.

I closed my eyes and looked away. "You don't have to come up with theories on my account." I said, highly suspecting I had majorly messed up.

Ibrahim brushed his curled index finger under my chin and brought my gaze up towards him. "I can assure you, I am not." He said, looking down at me. He did not pull away and I felt myself falling into some sort of trance. And a bloody strong one at that. I was pretty sure that if he had asked, I would have done anything he wanted.

It was then that the lift stopped and the doors opened; a slightly older lady took one look at us and shot us a knowing smile. Ibrahim's hand lowered and he looked away. Me, I still took a moment to shake the feeling that still lingered within me, all the while I knew that the lady was still smiling.

As we were going through the lower floors, more people joined us and left, until eventually we reached the ground floor. Ibrahim and I hadn't said a word to each other the whole way down, but a question had formed in my mind. Given that speaking on trains was a no go, I suspected that rule extended to cramped lifts.

"How did you get in?" I asked, once we were fully outside of the Ritz, walking back to Hamlet's as we needed the time to process what just happened (and I'm pretty sure Ibrahim couldn't be bothered to call a cab).

"Cleaner's door - it backs into the storage cupboard. Needs a key, but I am pretty good at picking a lock." He said with a shrug.

Well, that explains the second door. I thought, attempting to find some solace in the fact he had outdone me... again.

"And why, pray tell, could you not just wait?" I replied.

Ibrahim smiled and shook his head. "Going in the front would be too obvious and not nearly as intimidating." He said.

I paused as that sunk in. "Hang on - why were you arguing with me before then!?" I explained, a little affronted.

"Ah, well I needed you distracted and with a sense of victory given the uncomfortable position you had found yourself in, though I wasn't anticipating just how you intended to get your way." He said.

I scowled. "Desperate times call for desperate measures." I muttered, very much annoyed that my presumed victory was actually his. Bastard. "So, what now then?" I said, the irritation in my tone remaining steadfast and stubborn.

"I suppose we are going to have to recheck Croft's list, if we entertain the possibility that Kravitz had nothing to do with this." Ibrahim replied with an equally notable irritation in the his tone that made it clear that he was not enjoying that particular prospect. "A rather inconvenient notion." He muttered.

"Sorry," I apologized.

Shaking his head, he waved me off. "It's not your fault."

I scrunched up my face. "I mean, it is."

He smiled. "Perhaps a bit, but how were you to know?"

"I should have known better." I replied and nothing Ibrahim could have said would have convinced me otherwise. I should have known better - looked at the evidence objectively. I mean, sure, the overwhelming opinion was that Kravitz had something to do with this, but it didn't help that I had my own agenda to this: I wanted him to be the mole. Not only would it have made our job here easier, but his son had hurt me and there was no denying that had played a part in my mind convincing the rest of me of his guilt. As a Guardian, we were taught to separate our work from our personal difficulties and I think what we have here is a fine example of just why we should do that. But it wasn't just Alistair. No, the other issue came in the form of another man and one who I could not seem to get out of my head. I could not think straight or clearly these past few days and it had a lot to do with the man I was presently walking back with. I needed to get over this, and fast. No good could ever come of it and nothing ever would. It was stupid, foolish even, and something that was inhibiting me from my role as a Guardian.

They come first.

"Are you going to put those on?" Ibrahim said, breaking me out of my thoughts.

"Hmmm?" I asked. He nodded towards the heels in my hand. "It's honestly more comfortable without." I said.

He laughed. "I believe you." he said, causing me to chuckle.

And thus we walked; it was a pleasant stroll back to Hamlet's house, remarkably void of any misdirections, but I suspected Ibrahim was well versed on the layout of Istanbul. It just seemed like the kind of thing he would just randomly know. The conversation was light and mostly pointless, though I think the levity was much needed given the slightly disappointing revelation of the evening. It was about an hour before we arrived back at Hamlet's home, to which we were met by the sight of a cab pulling away into the distance. I turned to Ibrahim and frowned.

"Were we expecting anyone?" I asked following the cab with an air of deep suspicion.

Ibrahim too had his focus on the disappearing taxi. "Not to my knowledge."

I turned my gaze to him. "If I ask you, would you please hang back andlet me go in first?"

He turned to me and nodded lightly. "Yes." he said.

"Right then, please?" I asked.

He smiled. "As you wish, Guardian Hathaway."

I had given the glock back to Ibrahim at the start of our journey back, so I bent down and retrieved my stake from my ankle. Easing open the door, I stepped in; I remained acutely aware of Ibrahim behind me, not allowing myself to lose him for what would be a second time that evening. Edging my way through the call, my fingers danced against the cool metal of the hilt. I halted suddenly at the sound of laughter coming from the living area. Frowning, I moved a little faster and saw the source:

"Ah, a very good evening to you, Janine."

I blinked. "Vincent?"

The British Moroi offered me a bow, before straightening up and running his fingers through his hair. "A pleasure as always. Though perhaps not quite what you were expecting." He said, nodding to the stake in my hand.

"Nice to see you on the ball though, Hathaway," Hamlet said, bringing Vincent a cup of tea.

Ibrahim walked past me and deposited his blazer jacket on the arm of the couch, "It is more that you cannot seem to get her off the ball," he said with a quick wink.

I shot him a scowl. "Thanks." I said with unconcealed bitterness. He chuckled. Deciding it would probably be best to ignore him, I turned my attention to Vincent. "What are you doing here?"

"Aside from escaping my relatives?" He said and I saw Emyl shake his head from where he was sitting at the table with Harriet and a large pizza between them.

"I think the bigger question is what you two found out from Guerra." Hamlet said, settling himself in the armchair by the fire.

I glanced towards Ibrahim who groaned as he collapsed onto the couch. "Well, we did learn that Guerra has absolutely nothing to do with La Luz."

"What?" Emyl said, looking up sharply from his dinner. Harriet too looked shocked and Hamlet just looked confused.

Ibrahim nodded, leaning forward on the couch. "With all certainty, he is not a member of La Luz. Which is most irritating as we may need to reconsider the suspect mole in the Court." The disappointment of the room was as heavy as lead.

"B-but Kravitz was perfect…" Harriet said, trailing off a little; the desperation in her voice was enough to make you cry.

Hamlet came out of his momentary mediation to give Harriet the slight harsh reality. "These things are never perfect, my dear." he said.

"Well, that's certainly put a damper on the mood." Vincent said with raised eyebrows and taking a sip of his tea.

Hamlet let out a sigh. "I have feeling that we are about to be victims of Charles' ever-hopeful optimism." Ibrahim snorted as he flopped back against the couch.

Vincent just looked quirkily between his two colleagues, before shrugging. "Well if that is the attitude you chaps are going for, perhaps I won't tell you where the supply base is?"

The whole room froze.

Ibrahim opened his eyes and snapped his head towards Vincent as Hamlet looked up with a look of shock on his face. Harriet gasped as Emyl choked and I just dropped my stake whilst also dropping my jaw.

Vincent...well, he just looked rather smug.

"What?" Ibrahim said through the startled silence that followed.

His British comrade did not reply immediately, instead going for another sip. "As it turns out, our dear friend, Pablo Torres knew a little more than he was letting on. I doubted even his superiors knew of his knowledge and, well, whilst he may be a decided chieuse most of the time, as we know, la renard is most talented at getting people to talk..." he said with a sly looking grin. "But, if you don't want to hear…"

"Vincent, are you saying you know where the La Luz supply base is in Istanbul? As in, a specific address?" I said, a certain eager hope boiling up inside me.

Vincent glanced towards me with his wide, grey eyes that sparkled with a childish joy. He brought his cup to rest just in front of his lips, but his words were as clear a crystal:

"Guardian Hathaway, that is exactly what I am saying…"