Tucking his keys in the pocket of his long black coat, he strolled toward it.
“That’s him,” he heard a man inside murmur, his voice vaguely familiar.
The driver’s door opened. A man wearing a black suit, white dress shirt, black tie, and a chauffeur’s hat emerged. Closing his door, he opened the one behind it.
A frail old man stepped out.
Nick swore silently. It was the man from the hospital. Richard Roubal.
“Can I help you?” Nick asked guardedly as he approached them. Stopping, he feigned recognition. “You’re the man from the hospital, aren’t you? The one who knew my grandfather? Richard something.” He snapped his fingers. “Richard Reuben, wasn’t it?”
The old man’s lips tightened with annoyance as he leaned heavily on his cane. “It’s Roubal. Richard Roubal. But then you already knew that, didn’t you?”
The chauffeur stood behind the old man, his hands clasped in front of him.
Nick shrugged and offered him a good-natured smile. “I’m afraid I’m not very good with names. Can I help you with something?” He lowered the wattage of his smile a bit. “If you’ve come to speak with my grandfather and swap war stories, I’m afraid you’re too late. He passed away ten years ago. We lost my grandmother shortly thereafter.” The network had even posted fictional obituaries in the newspaper.
The old man made his slow way forward. “So that’s how you’re going to play this? You’re going to keep pretending you’re your own grandson?”
Nick gave his head a regretful shake, wondering why the hell this man had rejected the story and tracked him down. The network tended to make that unlikely when they helped Immortal Guardians relocate and gave them new identities, often as their own descendants in case shit like this happened. “There’s no pretense here, sir. I thought we cleared that up at the hospital.”
“The hospital was bullshit. This”—he motioned to Nick—“is bullshit. I want to know how you did it. I want to know how you stayed so youthful while I turned into this.” He motioned to his frail body.
Nick glanced at the chauffeur. “Is there any way you could call his son? I don’t remember his name. I only met him the once at the hospital. But he said Mr. Reuben here—”
“It’s Roubal, damn it!” the old man snapped.
“He said Mr. Roubal here gets confused like this sometimes and might know better how to handle this.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it!” Roubal shouted, his thin, withered face darkening with rage. Swinging around, he pointed at the chauffeur, who was drawing a cell phone from his pocket. “Touch that phone and you’re fired.”
The man dropped the phone back into his pocket, then clasped his hands in front of him once more. “Yes, sir.”
The old man turned back to Nick. “The cancer and dementia have not eradicated my intelligence. I know you’re who I think you are.”
Nick held both hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m sure you believe that, sir, but I can prove I’m Nicolas Belanger’s grandson. I have pictures of us together.” Thanks to the network’s techno geeks, their AI-assisted aging software, and their phenomenal photo-altering capabilities, Nick actually had several photos of himself either standing beside or sitting with an artificially aged image of himself. “I’d be happy to show them to you. I can bring them out here, or you’re welcome to step inside my home for a few minutes.”
The old man started toward Nick’s home. “Stay here,” he barked over his shoulder.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Roubal.” The chauffeur opened the driver’s door, settled himself behind the wheel, and closed it again.
Nick accompanied the old man to his front door and preceded him inside. Pocketing his keys, he headed for the living room. “Wait here, please.” He crossed to one of the bookcases and grabbed the framed photo of himself with his granddad-self that Oliver kept there for shits and giggles. Returning to the old man, he held it out.
Roubal took it with a scowl of suspicion.
“There are more I can show you if you’d like to see them.”
“You do that,” Roubal ordered gruffly, frowning at the picture.
Nick couldn’t decide if the man was incredibly stubborn or incredibly astute. Either way, he didn’t seem to be buying the cover story at all. Heading into Oliver’s office, Nick drew his cell phone out of his pocket and texted Seth: SOS. A man who knew me in Vietnam recognized me at the hospital and showed up at my house. He’s here now.
A few seconds ticked past.
Seth abruptly appeared, a katana in each hand. His shoulder-length black hair was windblown. Glistening streaks and droplets of blood adorned his black cargo pants, T-shirt, and long coat. Wiping the crimson-coated blades of his katanas on his pants, he quickly sheathed them. “Where is he?”
Nick nodded toward the front of the house.
Seth’s boots thudded on the bamboo floor as he followed Nick back to the elderly troublemaker.
Richard Roubal glanced up from the photograph. His arthritic hand tightened on the frame as he stared up at Seth. His eyes widened ever so slightly before he opened his mouth to bluster who-knew-what. Then his face went blank. His hand lowered to his side.
Nick took the photo from him before he could drop it.
Seth stared intently at the old man for several minutes, then glanced at Nick. “It’s done. He won’t remember coming here. Nor will he remember the incident at the hospital. I’ll have to bury the chauffeur’s memory, too, and track down a few men at Roubal’s office.”
Nick winced. “Sorry about that.”
Seth shook his head. “Occupational hazard. It happens. His occasionally foggy mental state will help blow this over. But we do need this to blow over.”
Something in his voice sparked a feeling of dread. “Why?”
“He owns an empire built upon oil and gas as well as weapons manufacturing. And because he served so long in the military and left on good terms, he nets a lot of government contracts.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No.”
“Shit.” The last thing they needed was someone with Roubal’s connections getting wind of immortals. In recent years, Immortal Guardians had engaged in vicious battles with mercenaries who had learned about them and done their damnedest to get their hands on immortals and vampires, salivating over the billions of dollars they could earn hiring out supersoldiers to the highest bidders. “What can I do?”
“Not much more than you already have really. I’ll walk Roubal back to his car and take care of his driver. Then I’ll head to the network and have Henderson and his crew help me rectify the rest.”
Roubal turned and faced the door as though he were in a trance.
Guilt suffused Nick as he opened the door for Seth. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention running into him at the hospital.”
Seth patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. You had a lot on your mind. And this sort of thing happens from time to time. How is Kayla doing?”
“She’s good.” He stepped outside with Seth and Roubal. “The cuts on her face are looking better and the bruising is fading.”