Blitzed(120)

"Do I even want to know how you got hurt?" she asked. "Or will I be upset that you nearly got yourself killed? Besides, isn't doing stupid physical stunts my son's job?"

"Mother . . .” Francois fumed. "It only happened a few times."

Jordan was about to ask what we were talking about when an unfamiliar car pulled into the backyard area of the house, and two men got out. One of them, a huge bulky man that I immediately pegged as North African, probably Lybian or Moroccan, took an immediate look around, security screaming from every unspoken word of his behavior. The other was indeterminate, he could have been any of two dozen different backgrounds. "Who’s this?"

"Stay here, I'll find out," Francois said, motioning for me to stay down. He went out into the yard, where he and the second of the two men, clearly the boss of the pair, started talking, too low for me to hear. The man pulled out a document, and Francois looked it over before staring at the man in shock, then crumpling the paper and throwing it in his chest.

I was on my feet in an instant, the pain in my ankle forgotten as the larger of the two men, obviously a bodyguard of some type, pulled a pistol from under his jacket and pointed it at Francois. "Stop!" I yelled, walking out of the house. My ankle was screaming at me, but there was no way I was going to show these men I was hobbled in any way. "What’s going on here?"

Francois was staring at the men, his face red with anger. "This . . . man claims that he has taken possession of our lands in Albania."

"What?" I asked, turning to him. “What are you talking about?”

The man, who I could now tell was certainly of mixed blood, most likely Albanian, Turkish, maybe some Arab, picked up the paper out of the dirt. "You are Felix Hardy?"

"Yes. You still haven't answered my question, and I don't exactly appreciate your friend there pulling a pistol. Put it away." The bodyguard looked to his boss, who nodded. "Now, how can I help you?"

"I am . . . well, you can call me Al," the boss said, clearly using a false name. "I represent a group of investors who look for international real estate bargains and other areas of profit. Recently, we took possession of a property, just north of the city of Durres, Albania. It was a governmental repossession, and my group has requested that I be the one to notify you of the situation. Here, the papers are all in order."

He handed me the crumpled sheets, and I looked them over. Unfortunately, the political pressures of the recent months had made things chaotic in Albania. Refugees, Greek banks, and just in general the economy of the European Union meant that it was not very well settled. According to the papers, the Albanian government had implemented a new tax, and that my family's property had not paid it. Swooping in, these vultures had paid the tax and had placed a lien on the property. With what were obviously bribes and the assistance of some corrupt officials, they now had a legal claim to the property. It was one of the advantages and disadvantages of living in Southeastern Europe. Corruption meant that you could get away with a lot. But it could bite you in the ass very quickly if you were on the wrong end of things.

I turned to Syeira and Charani, who had come out of the house along with Jordan. "Did you know about this?"

Syeira looked the papers over and shook her head. "No, of course not. When you left for America, everything was in order. My cousin should have notified me if something like this occurred."

Charani shook her head. "No, nothing. These papers must be a lie."

"Lie or not Mrs. Hardy, the facts are, we have the property. But, my group isn’t heartless. Instead of us fighting for what could be years or even decades in various courts, letting your property waste away and fall into disrepair, there is another solution."

"Yes," Charani replied, her spirit rising. "We are Romani. That is our land, I dare anyone to try and take it away from us."

"Mrs. Hardy, we’re ready to do what’s necessary to secure this land. I’d advise you to not make a fuss. Like I said, we’re not heartless, and my investment group is willing to give the title back to you, for a simple piece of work."

"What kind of work?" Jordan asked, speaking up for the first time.

"You must be Miss . . . what is it, Burrows? Or is it Banks?" the man said with a tight grin. "Not that it matters. We want to employ the Hardy brothers in a demonstration of their unique talents."

"What unique talents?" I asked, frustrated. While Jordan's papers may have fooled a customs official in Paris, they obviously were not as foolproof as I thought. Or else this man, Al, had connections with some of the very same people that I worked with. Either way, it pissed me off. “I’m just a Romani vineyard owner."

"You’re the son of Guillaume Hardy, the Mist," the man replied, using my father's nickname. "You and your brother are also following in his footsteps. Although that job in Los Angeles didn’t go as smoothly as expected, did it?"

"What do you want?" Francois spat. “Just get to it already.“

The man nodded, relaxed and as cool as a cucumber. He reached inside the long coat he was wearing and pulled out a disc.

"Technical specifications and data on your target, as well as what we know of the security involved. You have one week to decide, Mr. Hardy. If you agree to our terms, there’s an encrypted e-mail that you may contact. Good day, Mr. Hardy."