The Saltport ATM

2. Tridents are Compelling Arguments

A white, iridescent light glows against my closed eyelids. Slowly, they open to see a chandelier overhead. Thousands of tiny crystals hang from the top in concentric circles and cast glitter on the walls lined with bookshelves. The plush, dark gold carpeting zooms in and out of focus for a moment. My head reels; I can barely process anything.

What happened? Where am I?

Memories of the boardwalk trickle back into my consciousness: the ATM, the strange shadow...

The cash.

I blink several times to clear the haze from my vision. Angling my head down, I can see a brown bag by my feet, right beside my purse. I exhale in relief only for my heart rate to spike again. Metal squeaks, and my gaze whips to an easy-chair across from me. A man in a black suit leans against silvery cushions, his legs crossed and his arms folded in his lap. The metallic, scaly pattern of the material reflects the light. He stares at me with the most bored blue eyes I've ever seen.

"Who are you?" I ask. It seems like a reasonable enough question to ask.

"My name does not matter," the man replies, monotone.

I'm not quite sure if I should feel scared or annoyed, though I'm leaning toward the former. But as I tell my clients, panic can derive from a feeling of helplessness. If one asserts control over a situation, it can prevent a fight-or-flight response and promote rational decision-making under pressure. I square my shoulders, noticing for the first time that neither my wrists nor my feet are bound. That's a good sign. It marginally reduces the chance that I've been kidnapped.

"Well, I would like to know who I'm addressing," I say after a moment. "Mister..."

The man just stares at me. There's so much expression in non-expression. His face is sort of oblong with a squared, yet narrow chin, giving him an air of permanent disapproval. His eyes and mouth are small, his nose slender like his face, and besides a deep line running along his jaw, which I'm assuming is a scar, not a wrinkle creases his skin.

There's a click, and the door to the left of the man swings open. A second slender man pokes his head inside the room. He looks identical to the first, from his dark, buzz cut hair to the black suit. The only difference is that his scar runs along the right side of his face.

"She's awake?" Right-scar asks.

"See for yourself," says Left-scar.

"I'm awake," I say. "And I'd really appreciate it if you could tell me where I am right now."

"You're in a chair," Right-scar says dryly.

"I mean location-wise."

Right-scar shuts the door with a slight bang. Irritation — and apprehension — prickle up my spine. Walking out of a conversation like that is extremely rude. I turn to the remaining scar-boy in the room.

"Will you please tell me what's going on? I don't have any—" I cut off, my gaze drifting to the bag at my feet. I was about to say that I don't have anything valuable, but it occurs to me that I do. A new question assembles, though: if they were after money, why wouldn't they just take the $70,000,000?

"We know about the money," Left-scar says. "That's quite a bit you have there. More than I would've expected based on our research."

"Research?" My gaze snaps up just as the door reopens and Right-scar slips inside.

"The Prince will see you now."

"Prince? What Prince?"

"He does not have time to be kept hanging," Right-scar says. "Come on." I hesitate a moment. My brain can't keep up with what's happening. Right-scar huffs. "Come on, you have two legs. Let's get a move on it."