DH AN: I'm back with another chapter of Not As I Know Him. Enjoy Chapter Ten.

Chapter Ten

He takes the contract and pen from my hand to place them in the folio and his shirt pocket respectively. I hear a phone vibrate against the folio's front pocket and watch as he pulls the phone from the pocket, opens the device and then makes his way back to the office with his folio gripped in his left hand while the phone is in his right hand and to his ear. I relax as I hear the door shut. His attention is no longer on me.

I slowly sink into the chair, trembling. I'm terrified of the circumstances I've signed onto for one crucial reason: I simultaneously know exactly what's going on and don't really have a clue. I know how this system works. However at the same time, while I know that one wrong move costs dearly, I don't know what exactly constitutes that one wrong move, or if I've already committed it. I don't know how much of my position dangles by a thread. I don't know what methods remain the same. I don't know where the methods differ. I just don't know and that doesn't sit well with me.

Six years ago, I was prepared for "Welcome to the Rare Hunters" if for no other reason than everything was under control, everything was planned for and that I trusted the assertion to a point.

This time, the phrase left his lips and dropped into my stomach to promptly create a Gordian knot of nerves.

My station depends entirely on his whims, not on a prior track record. As his behavior pre-contract flashes across my mind for an instant, my stomach sours immediately and that knot tightens tenfold. In mild denial, I chalk it up to coffee alone does not a good breakfast make. I'd gladly scarf down a dish of Ful Medames, despite the fact that I'm not a fan of fava beans at all.

Lentils and rice with just a bit of lemon juice or some garlic …

At this thought I start to pace around the chairs, to the front door and back. Anything to attempt to keep myself from creating a mental dinner list. But once A small loaf of warm- Is it rye? It's definitely a darker- bread and a nice hot bowl of Raji's vegetable soup crosses my mind upon my return trip, it doesn't work. And I pine for the one who crafts the dishes as much as I pine for the food itself. As my stomach sounds its protest, I for the first time truly detest my circumstances.

I will show no fear. I halt. Fear is dread. Fear is uncertainty. Fear is second-guessing. Fear is not standing up for yourself. Fear is something that has no place in me. I inhale sharply through my teeth. Fear is all that I've shown him... Anything aside from fear has been a façade… I know it. He knows it and he has no qualms about showing that he knows it. That fills me with understandable dread.

The R.H. I know is rational. The R.H. I know doesn't let you know that he knows. The R.H. I know is not an entirely arrogant jerk- or at the very least, it's more subtle. But, as I'm rather painfully reminded as I hear yelling from behind the door…The R.H. I know is not here.

I can't be bothered to eavesdrop, and thus it's all undistinguishable volume that passes in and out of my ears. However each successive separation or sound of silence that become more frequent fills me with dread for the unfortunate soul on the other end of the call.

I'm jolted from the quietness. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN ANOTHER SHIPMENT WAS INTERCEPTED?!"

My stomach drops and I thank every deity I can think of that I'm not the poor soul on the other end of that line. My mind then races. I know it's neither my job nor problem at the moment- but as I had my ears in just about every area of the organization to some degree- I can't avoid mentally working this problem. I sneak over to an unoccupied desk and temporarily pilfer a pad and pen from the unlocked desk drawer. At the very least I can tune out anymore... outbursts.

If the occupant left their desk drawer unlocked, maybe they left the computer in the same state. A regional map of Egypt and the Mediterranean is not something I have ever been able to mentally pull, on demand or otherwise.

Luck is very on my side today as I make a mental note to log off after I finish consulting the map I'm pulling up.

I locate the city of Alexandria in Egypt, the Crete region in Greece, and the Catania Provence in Italy. Not including out on open water, there are at least three points of interception. Six if you include departure and arrival.

There are three major problems:

The shipping schedule is predictable.

Whatever was on those shipments is highly valuable to one or more other parties in the... business.

Lastly and most nerving, is that whoever pulled this off has to know quite a bit about the organization's habits. And by extension those of its head.

I groan and set the pen down as I hear the door slam. Peachy... he's beyond irritable, I don't think I can play dumb to save my life, and I'm not sure where the line between "knowing too much" and "lucky guess" is. I saved myself just barely with the receipt in the shop earlier that morning. I doubt that kind of saving grace will aid me more than once in a day.

Some things never change... as usual, my luck shifts with a snap of the fingers.

Repeated snaps of the fingers. I pale- I hadn't even heard him come up behind me. Maybe that's why my father doesn't do carpets. It's the only warning I get.

I quickly glance down and realize far too late that my hand and mind were running at the same level of frantic simultaneously.

The three possible interception points and the three problems are messily listed on the pad in black ink. I wordlessly slide it to my right before he has a chance to start another snapping routine. I'm not sure whether I should hope those locations are accurate or inaccurate. If they are accurate-

The phone vibrates again, shorter this time. Once, twice, thrice in rapid succession.

"Care to wager a guess who that is... seeing as you got everything else correct?" I wring my hands- the question is far too calm. I can only think of one person who fits the factors; in that moment, I want nothing more than to sew my mouth shut. He clears his throat and I resign myself to consider the catch-22 I'm in.

I can't say no... even if I had any standing to do so, it's the worst option. But if I say yes and guess correctly... "awful" is the nicest way to put the reaction. The more I mull it over, the more the Phoenix presents themselves as the likely party. I fight down bile as I pull the pad back over and slowly present the four-letter, more local, and seldom used moniker: Benu. I slide the pad back his way, my hand trembling all the while.

Whoever this Benu is... they're a major wrench in plans. The only time I dared ask... I push aside a shudder- that reaction was quite unpleasant. And that was with who knows how many years more age...

I wait for the pending explosion.—————————————————

Setting aside the world mythology volume, he watches her chest rise and fall. A phone, for once clipped to his belt rather than in a drawer or pocket, vibrates three times in rapid succession.

He hates text messages. And he doesn't care much for the only person ballsy enough to ignore that. One sends his blood pressure spiking... three means she's certainly firing for effect.

"Little Bird, your timing is lovely..." The sarcasm drips from his lips. And he half expects it to rouse Arlomhe Sharti from her slumber. She has never verbally chastised him for it, but his sarcasm has always been met with a nonverbal indication of displeasure.

Wanting her awakened is merely a fool's hope, he knows that. It doesn't make it any easier to deal with. He's already tried seeking her mind with the Rod. The attempt was met with a rebuff that was quite unusual.

The phone vibrates once more. He scowls but surmises anything is better than simply waiting for the girl to wake. He begrudgingly sends a text in reply that amounts to admitting he's out of the office until further notice and (probably against his better judgement) enticing an offer of double asking price if the items listed are held for him.

He trembles as his attention returns to Arlomhe Sharti. Her shoulder was definitely going to take a chunk of time to heal. Time that she would likely cut herself short on were she conscious. Perhaps it's for the better that she isn't.

He carefully brushes a strand of hair from her face. "You always come to me willingly..." His voice is soft and hushed as he places a small chaste kiss on her forehead. A soft, sad, near smile follows. "I'll just have to wait longer this time."

DH: If you'll excuse me, I'll be over here bawling my eyes out over that owmyheart last line.