Chapter Text
Jean‑Luc leaned forward in his chair as he reread Belize’s email, updating him on the Tillings and how they were progressing. None of the heists had commenced yet, but the Apprentices weren’t sparing any effort on their prep work. With any luck, they would have several new Master Thieves by the end of next month.
That was good news.
The Guild had been busier than ever lately. It was an election year, and while Jean‑Luc knew he could count on elections to bring in extra money—there was always some politician looking to pay big bucks for dirt on their opponents or offer certain considerations for a job that had to be handled discreetly—this year’s elections were particularly volatile. Money only meant so much in the face of his men running themselves ragged. A tired Thief was a sloppy Thief.
Shutting down his computer, Jean‑Luc stood from his chair, the leather creaking as he moved. Glancing at the clock, he sighed. Dieu, when had it gotten to be ten o’clock?
Crossing his office to where a credenza sat with several bottles of liquor on top, he picked up the bottle of whiskey and poured two fingers’ worth into a glass. The door to his office blew open, smacking the wall with a bang.
“Pere,” Henri called as he stepped into the room, not bothering to knock.
Jean‑Luc rolled his eyes heavenward, wondering if he could chastise his son for his lack of manners. Especially when he himself had been the one to teach Henri about breaking and entering before the boy could walk properly.
Deciding he couldn’t, Jean‑Luc picked up an empty glass and waved it at Henri. “Ya want one?”
“Oui,” Henri nodded. “There’s bad news out of the City tonight.”
That got Jean-Luc’s attention.
“What happened? Is it any of our boys?” Jean‑Luc demanded.
“Non, and Dieu merci for that,” Henri shook his head and waved a hand towards two club chairs near the fireplace in his office. As he settled into his chair, Henri took a draw off his drink.
“Two Runners were found dead in a motel on the edge of the City,” Henri said. “They each had a gunshot t’ the back of their heads.”
“Is that confirmed or just hearsay?” Jean‑Luc asked. Setting his drink down, he leaned forward in his seat.
“Confirmed,” Henri answered. “What’s more, rumor is that they were carrying the blueprints for the KV‑71x.”
Jean‑Luc whistled low. “Is dat right?”
“Oui.”
Jean‑Luc hummed. Rumors about the KV‑71x had been circulating in the criminal underground for over a decade. The gun had first been conceptualized at the behest of the military as a sidearm for soldiers in combat zones. It was purposefully designed to be easy to repair and change out parts.
Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on who you talked to—someone had realized the gun’s potential to be used in gang wars as the interchangeable parts and rise of 3D printers would make it damn near untraceable for law enforcement.
Facing mounting pressure from the public, the government pulled out of the contract, and the gun was never put into production. The manufacturer had gone on record to announce publicly that they had destroyed all of the prototypes and die-casts, but rumors that the blueprints still existed continued to circulate.
Jean‑Luc didn’t doubt it. The KV‑71x had the potential to become one of the most widely produced guns in the world. You didn’t just get rid of that type of cash cow.
Over the years, the Thieves Guild had been approached a number of times by crime syndicates, warlords, and even other weapons manufacturers willing to pay exorbitant amounts of money for the Guild to steal the blueprints. But the fighting with the Assassins Guild had been at an all-time high back then.
Jean-Luc was no fool. It would have only been a matter of time before the guns were on the streets and in the hands of the Assassins. No amount of money was worth inviting that type of chaos on his own house.
“Does Alden have any idea who might have attacked his men?” Jean‑Luc asked finally.
Henri shook his head. “If he does, he’s not saying anything, but some of the Runners are already blaming the Assassins.”
“I’m not surprised. The Runners Guild has been on edge for the last few months. Alden would be a fool t’ accuse Marius formally without more information.” Jean-Luc replied, picking up his glass again.
“You think Alden would go that far?” Henri asked in surprise.
It wasn’t unwarranted. Alden might have been the Guildmaster of the world’s largest arms syndicate, but confrontation had never been his style. He thrived on backroom deals and friendly alliances, keeping good ties with everyone and, by extension, keeping money flowing into his Guild.
“He may not have a choice. If he can’t calm his men down and keep them under control, he’ll have to make a formal accusation. If only to avoid losing face with his own men.” Jean‑Luc frowned. Losing the respect of your men usually meant mutiny. That never ended well for a Guildmaster or his kin.
“Alden called just before I came up here. He is calling for a Boucherie. He wants the Thieves to mediate between his Guild and the Assassins.” Henri raised his glass and took a sip of his bourbon.
Jean‑Luc mulled over the idea. Boucheries were a tradition nearly as old as New Orleans herself. The term referred to the Cajun tradition of families coming together to slaughter a hog, but the Guilds used it any time a face-to-face meeting was called between two or more of the Guilds. For serious discussions, a Guild or even the High Court might be called on to act as a mediator between the two feuding Guilds.
Accusing a Guildmaster of killing another Guild’s men certainly warranted mediation. Jean‑Luc paused. “He’s not asking for the High Court?”
Henri shook his head. “I’m not sure if Alden trusts them, given what happened last time.”
Jean-Luc snorted humorlessly.
The last Boucherie was only a few months ago, and the events were still fresh in everyone’s mind. In the weeks leading up to the meeting, girls from both the Thieves Guild and the Assassins Guild had started turning up dead in the bayous. When Julien Boudreaux suddenly went missing, the Boucherie became a last-ditch attempt to avoid an all-out war. Alden nearly lost his head when suspicion turned on him, and he was accused of trying to instigate and profit off an arms race if the Thieves and Assassins went to war.
It was only because Rogue, a pretty little Mississippi spitfire who had caught his youngest son’s eye, had figured out who the real culprit was that war had been avoided. She managed to rescue two Guild Apprentices and save Julien’s life, fighting off five armed men to protect Julien while the girls got help.
Jean‑Luc would never forget the terror in Remy’s eyes when the two bruised girls burst into the Boucherie, yelling over one another about Rogue staying behind to defend an injured Julien. Things had been better between the Thieves and the Assassins since that night, but the Runners Guild had been wary of retaliation from Marius on behalf of his Guild’s honor ever since.
Sighing, Jean‑Luc swirled the bourbon in his glass, watching the amber liquid. “Tell Alden that the Thieves Guild is willing to serve as mediators.”
“You sure?”
“Oui,” Jean‑Luc drained the last bit of his drink, “It’s better to get ahead of this before the situation becomes more unstable.”
“When do you want to have it?”
Jean‑Luc paused, thinking. “Set it for two days from now. Remy will be home by then. I’d like to have him at the Boucherie so the Thieves can present a unified front.”
“Mercy’s not going to be there,” Henri announced. Jean‑Luc raised an eyebrow at that.
“Is dat so? Did you talk to her about that?” Jean‑Luc asked, already knowing the answer.
“Pere, she’s pregnant. Pardon me for wanting to keep my pregnant wife away from two Guilds that are out for each other’s blood.” Henri’s eyebrows pulled together. Jean‑Luc resisted the urge to roll his eyes and prayed for patience.
“Henri, I love you, but your wife is a Master Thief in her own right. You’re not going to be able to trap her in the Guild Hall for the next seven months,” Jean‑Luc pointed out slowly, hoping the boy would see sense. Mercy—bless her soul—had been tolerating Henri’s mother-hen act for the last few weeks with all the patience of a saint, but Jean‑Luc could see it was starting to wear on her.
“It’s fine, Pere. She doesn’t need to be worrying about the Assassins’ and Runners’ foolishness right now.” Henri waved a hand dismissively, “She’s got enough to deal with.”
Jean‑Luc sighed and shook his head as he stood from his chair. The boy would learn sooner or later, and privately, Jean‑Luc was betting it was going to be sooner.
“Henri, let me put it t’ you this way. When your wife kills you, and I end up owing Marius Boudreaux a favor for disposing of your body, I will feed your corpse to their gators…without last rites.”
“Corpse. Gators. Got it.” Henri rolled his eyes and stood up, pulling a burner phone from his pocket. “I’m going t’ call the Pawn Shop to set a date for the Boucherie. I’ll call Alden and Marius first thing in the morning and let them know the Thieves have agreed to mediate. Anything else?”
“Non,” Jean-Luc waved a hand. “Go spend time with your wife.”
As the door to his office closed, Jean‑Luc moved to stare out the French doors. A little ways away, he could see the moonlight reflecting off the water, silhouetting the pier and boathouse in the otherwise dark yard. Everything was still.
Turning back towards his office, Jean‑Luc’s eyes landed on the antique map of New Orleans hanging over the fireplace. It had hung in this office since he’d been a boy. It was the map the Guilds used to divide up the City in an effort to create peace.
Not that it ever seemed to last long. Peace in this world was fleeting at best.
Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Jean‑Luc moved back towards his desk. Nostalgia was a wasted emotion. His men would mostly be kept out of harm’s way in this latest turn of events, but complacency wasn’t an option. He would do his best to smooth things over between Alden and Marius. There was something to be said for preserving the status quo, after all.
Even if things did sour between the Runners and Assassins, there would be new opportunities to take advantage of. Growing up, Henri and Remy hadn’t called him The Chess Master for nothing. Jean‑Luc’s lips curled into a smirk as he started up his computer again, letting his mind churn with the possibilities of how to press this new development to his advantage.