Solomon's assumed identity was that of a Jewish tycoon, whose family enterprise focused on energy and banking. His personal role in the family was managing the banking sector, and he was one of the lesser heirs in line for inheritance. His reason for being in Washington was to discuss a secret deposit arrangement with a certain congressman, who then introduced him to the mission target. Taking on this identity had been remarkably easy—the real Jewish tycoon was currently snoring away in the trunk of his own car. First, Solomon had used Sleep to disable the man's entire security team. Then, he dragged the tycoon out of his mistress's bed, injected him with a sedative, and stuffed him into the trunk. Out of the kindness of his heart, he'd even force-fed him some nutritional mush to ensure he wouldn't starve to death. Others might not have been so considerate. After all that, Victor Von Doom went off to awaken the security team, while Solomon searched for the necessary documents—and gave that stunning Latina lady a kiss for good measure.
"Sweetheart, did you change toothpaste?"
"I was in the mood for mint today."
Everything from target selection to assuming the identity went so smoothly that Victor couldn't help but wonder where Solomon had learned these skills. He was certain it hadn't come from the Kamar-Taj library—otherwise, Solomon would've just used illusion magic. But the question didn't bother him for long. He remembered Solomon had fought in the Battle of New York, and it all made sense.
"Driver." Solomon lounged in the backseat of the extended luxury limousine, lazily opening the minibar and feeling quite satisfied with the car owner's taste in alcohol. He exaggerated his tone as he addressed Victor in the driver's seat. "I believe we're running late. If I miss this deal because of you, I'll make sure you're driving a cab next week. Do you know what a D.C. cabbie makes per month?"
"Aren't you taking this a bit seriously?"
"You've never lived a wealthy life, Victor Von Doom. Though you've never cared about money, your past poverty still leaves a mark on your behavior." Solomon poured Victor a glass of wine and passed it through the divider. "Do you know how much it costs to 'buy' that Latina woman—yes, the one whose ass could balance a martini—for a year? And the guy she's with is married. I'm pretty sure his wife has her own long-term lover. That doesn't even include jewelry, property, or island vacations that cost more than a family's yearly income. Most people work their whole lives and can't afford that, eating mass-produced garbage and dying from treatable illnesses."
Solomon poured himself a glass of red wine. "That's your flaw. You were a poor student half your life. You'll never be able to fake the kind of arrogance and extravagance bred into the truly rich. I've had professional training. Anyone with wealth and status sees me as one of them. Otherwise, I'd stick you with the dull job of chatting with these idiot politicians. Just stick to the plan. I'll stall the target, but remember—"
"Arrogance? You mean playing myself?" Victor's expression remained stone cold as he drained his wine in one go. Truth be told, he didn't even like this dry red, but he didn't show it. Instead, he flung the glass out the window into a nearby bush. "My own gadgets are more than enough to complete this mission. I don't need magic."
"Magic can't feed your people. Neither can your gadgets. You need me. You need to see how I run a nation—how I feed all those people. But that's okay. You'll see. I don't even need to show my face."
While Solomon schmoozed with politicians and Victor crawled through ventilation shafts mentally plotting how to crack a safe, Camila had finally arrived at her destination in South America with Lara Croft. The Eternal City agent who came to pick them up in a beat-up pickup truck saw nothing but a group of ragged, weapon-laden wildlings.
"We got lost," Camila said casually, brushing aside the sheer ordeal they had just endured. Lara Croft and Jonah, once settled in, devoured their food and then passed out in their rooms.
Camila, barely keeping her eyes open, turned to the agent. "I need to contact the Eternal City. We've found Trinity's tail."
"The medical team thinks you should rest. I agree." The intelligence agent, having mapped their route based on Camila's description, was stunned to find they'd overlapped multiple times with Trinity's mercenaries. Not only that, but they'd also come dangerously close to search teams from the Eternal City. Finally relenting to Camila's insistence, the agent disclosed a small piece of intel. "The radio's over there. I hope you remember the codes. Camila, to be precise, it's Trinity that's found your tail."
"What does that mean?" Camila asked. The tropical jungle posed a major obstacle to satellite surveillance. With current tech, it was nearly impossible to locate a few scattered humans in such terrain. Camila had relied on GPS and a compass to lead her team out of that green hell. Everyone was half-starved and running on fumes.
"Trinity arrived before you. They bought off local drug traffickers with weapons and cash to serve as their eyes. I'm pretty sure they saw you being picked up today. We can't tell the difference between locals and cartel members down here. Honestly... regardless, I need you all to rest up. A sudden attack from either the cartels or Trinity is likely. We have to be ready to survive until Eternal City reinforcements arrive."
"I know the cartel here. Don't worry."
"Wow, that's even worse. I guarantee they're not your friends anymore." The agent clearly knew a thing or two about South American rebel forces. Despite their shared opposition to oppression, they were notorious for brutality—often allying with drug dealers and arms smugglers to try and overthrow governments. The result was always predictable: no chance of success, no public support. The agent pointed impatiently at the building. "If someone recognizes you, it won't just be Trinity coming for us. The military might show up too. With our current gear, we can't fight the army. We've got exactly one heavy weapon—a machine gun!"
"Where's the armory?"
The agent pointed to a corner of the room hidden under clutter.
"Have you opened it?"
"Of course not. But the manifest says it's a heavy machine gun."
"Thanks. That's good enough." Camila forced a tired smile. She knew exactly what "heavy weapon" meant in Eternal City jargon. That box probably contained a blast cannon—something not even Peruvian government APCs could withstand. And with the anti-tank missiles still in her jungle pack, Camila was confident they could hold the line until reinforcements arrived.
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