The agents formed a loose perimeter around him, their posture relaxed but their eyes sharp. They weren't amateurs, that was clear. But to Max? They might as well have been children playing bodyguard.
They guided him toward the factory's main entrance — a giant, rusted sliding door that groaned loudly as two agents forced it open. Inside, it was dark and dusty, with broken machinery and old catwalks looming above like metal skeletons.
Dim lights flickered on, revealing a makeshift setup: a few folding chairs, a table, and standing behind it... a group of figures in sleek suits and expensive coats.
Max's eyes lazily scanned them. None of them were Emma Frost — that much was obvious. Just more messengers, more pawns.
Tch. No beauties, no challenge. This really might be boring after all, he thought, cracking his neck as he swaggered casually toward them.
Max approached the group of well-dressed individuals standing behind the makeshift table in the dimly lit factory. Their expensive suits and coats contrasted sharply with the dilapidated surroundings, suggesting they were out of their element. The air was thick with dust and the faint scent of rust, adding to the oppressive atmosphere.
The man at the center, a tall figure with slicked-back hair and a calculating gaze, stepped forward. His piercing blue eyes locked onto Max's, attempting to assert dominance. He extended a hand, adorned with a gold signet ring, and introduced himself in a smooth, rehearsed tone.
"Mr. Max, I presume? I'm Jonathan Crestfield. My associates and I represent certain... interests that could align with yours."
Max glanced at the offered hand but made no move to shake it. Instead, he smirked, his eyes glinting with amusement.
"Cut to the chase, Crestfield. I don't have all day."
A flicker of irritation crossed Crestfield's face, but he quickly masked it with a practiced smile.
"Very well. We've been observing your recent activities and believe that a partnership could be mutually beneficial. There are... obstacles in our path that someone of your unique talents could help remove."
Max's smirk widened.
"Obstacles, huh? And what do I get out of this?"
Crestfield gestured to one of his associates, who stepped forward holding a sleek, black briefcase. He set it on the table and opened it, revealing stacks of crisp, high-denomination bills.
"This is just a token of our appreciation. There's more where that came from, should you choose to assist us."
Max chuckled, the sound echoing off the factory's metal walls.
"Money's nice, but I'm more interested in the details. Who exactly am I dealing with here? And what kind of 'obstacles' are we talking about?"
Crestfield's smile tightened.
"Let's just say we have influential connections, and the obstacles involve certain... competitors who have become a nuisance."
Max's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Competitors? You mean Emma Frost?"
A brief, almost imperceptible pause.
"We prefer not to name names. Discretion is paramount."
Max leaned back slightly, crossing his arms.
"Discretion, huh? Funny, considering you dragged me out to this dump for a clandestine meeting. If you want my help, I need specifics."
Crestfield exchanged glances with his associates, a silent conversation passing between them. Finally, he nodded.
"Very well. Yes, Emma Frost has been... interfering with our operations. We need her influence diminished."
Max's smirk returned.
"Now we're getting somewhere. But taking on the White Queen? That's no small feat."
Crestfield's expression hardened.
"We have resources and information that could aid you. And, as I mentioned, substantial compensation."
Max pretended to ponder, tapping his chin thoughtfully.
"Tempting. But I'll need more than just cash and vague promises. I want access to your intel, your networks. Full transparency."
Crestfield hesitated, then nodded slowly.
"Agreed. But we expect results."
Max's grin widened.
"Then we have a deal."
He extended his hand this time, and after a brief pause, Crestfield shook it. The air between them was thick with unspoken challenges and mutual distrust.
As the handshake ended, Max glanced around the decrepit factory once more.
"Next time, let's meet somewhere with better lighting. And maybe a bar."
Crestfield allowed a small, tight-lipped smile.
"We'll be in touch."
With that, Max turned on his heel and strode out of the factory, leaving the group of well-dressed conspirators in the shadows.
Outside the factory, the night air was cool and sharp, a welcome contrast to the heavy, stale atmosphere he'd left behind. Max tucked the slim, leather-bound file under his arm, the one Crestfield had slipped him just before he exited.
He made his way across the cracked concrete yard to his car, an unassuming black sedan parked between two rusted-out shipping containers. The whole setup screamed "trap," but Max had long ago made peace with walking straight into danger — it was practically a hobby by now.
Sliding into the driver's seat, he locked the doors with a click and tossed the file onto the passenger seat. For a moment, he just sat there, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, staring at it.
"Let's see what you're so desperate for me to do," he muttered under his breath.
He cracked the file open.
Inside, there were glossy surveillance photos of Emma Frost — some of her leaving a corporate skyscraper, others of her at private galas, her platinum hair gleaming under the chandeliers. Each photo was meticulously labeled with dates, times, and notes about who she was meeting. Max flipped through pages of dossiers: names of her known associates, security details, routines. They even had internal schematics for her various properties, down to the maintenance schedules and guard rotations.
Impressive, Max thought. Either Crestfield had deep pockets or deep connections — probably both.
Near the back of the file was something that made Max pause: a list titled "Potential Leverage." Beneath it were several names, a few dates, and one chilling word circled in red: Family.
Max exhaled slowly, the amusement from earlier draining from his face.
"Dirty bastards," he whispered.
They weren't just looking for sabotage. They were willing to tear down everything around Emma to get what they wanted — and they expected Max to do the wrecking.
He leaned back, thinking. Crestfield and his cronies might think they could control him with a fat stack of cash and promises, but Max didn't play anyone's pawn. He played for himself.
Still... this could be an opportunity.
He closed the file and started the engine, the car rumbling to life. The factory shrank in his rearview mirror as he pulled onto the desolate road.
***
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It's 22 chaps ahead