The Atlantic Ocean blurred beneath the Bald Eagle Bounty Hunters' "borrowed" charter jet—a rusting relic from Cal's "Air Force One-Off" fleet, dubbed the "Deal-Maker Dreamliner" for its propellers that promised "yuge" lift but delivered "hugely disappointing" turbulence. Jax Hawthorne slouched in the co-pilot's throne (he'd drawn the short shortstack), nursing a flask of recycled moonshine while the autopilot droned like a drone on overtime. The cabin was a clown car of contraband: Lila's grenade garters spilling sequins across the shag carpet, Theo's laptop humming hacks into the in-flight wifi (now rerouted to broadcast #SlateShatter memes mid-flight), and Bubba's violin case rattling in the hold with Cal inside—upgraded to a "cargo crate" with air holes and a "Reformed Rat" label, his muffled gripes syncing to the engine's whine like a bad remix of "Yankee Doodle Dandy."
"Geneva? Neutral ground? Please—Slate's turning the Swiss into her cheese grater," Jax muttered, peering at the dossier Theo had printed on napkins (Auntie's finest, grease-proof for gravitas). The Serpent's Summit: A "global governance gala" at the Lake Leman Lodge, where world "leaders" (read: lobbyists in lederhosen) gathered to "discuss diplomacy" over chocolate and chicanery. Slate's invite? A serpent-embossed envelope slipped under the Oval's Oval Office door, baiting the crew with "Special Guests: The Ronin Reckoning." "Phase Six: She's not slithering away; she's summoning reinforcements. Interpol? Nah—International Plotters of Power. We'll crash it like a cuckoo clock on coke."
Lila Vargas, sprawled across three seats in a flight attendant's uniform "requisitioned" from the galley (complete with a slingshot "name tag" reading "Chaos in Coach"), scrolled her phone with feet-kicked-high abandon. Debtzilla's travel cage doubled as a cocktail shaker, the hamster's wheel whirring with what Jax swore was judgmental judgment. "Crash? Honey, we'll cuckoo her clock! Look at this—#GlobalGalaGoneWrong already trending. Fans speculating: 'Yankee Samurai vs. Swiss Samurai?' With katana fondue forks! And Cal's fanfic exploded—'The Tycoon's Turncoat Tango.' He's got shippers. Gross. But the travel vlog potential? Epic. 'Bounty Hunters' Swiss Miss: Alp-ine Assaults and Afterburners.'"
Theo Beaumont, wedged at a fold-down table with his rig rigged to the jet's nav-com (now plotting "scenic detours" over the Alps for dramatic drops), adjusted his glasses against the glare of encrypted emails. The bowtie bomb from the gala dangled like a dead medal, and his tux remnants hung like a hangover. "Vlog later, Lila—viper first. Summit security's a fondue pot of fail-safes: Neutrality nets (drone jammers disguised as cowbells), cheese-grater gates (laser grids in the gruyere), and Slate's 'Serpent Squad'—mercenary minks air-dropped from private zeppelins. Phase Six: 'The Viper's Venue'—turning the gala into a vote-vortex. Avatars for every nation: Holo-heads of state, programmed to 'endorse' her eternal empire. Sign the 'Global Governance Accord'? Boom—worldwide web of wired votes, no more ballots, just blockchain bondage."
Big Bubba O'Malley, bulked into the jump seat like a bear in a barrel chair, puffed his cigar despite the no-smoking sign (which Theo had hacked to read "No Snitching"). The flask passed his way, sloshing solidarity. Cal's crate thumped from the hold, a rhythmic reminder of their reluctant rat. "Bondage? Kinky for a senator. But neutral? Swiss say 'ja' to chocolate and cheese, 'nein' to nonsense. Lodge is a labyrinth: Underground vaults for 'diplomatic deposits' (gold bars and graft), lake views laced with listener lilies (bugged blooms). We infil as 'catering crew'—Cal's 'culinary consultants.' I handle the heavies; you handle the hors d'oeuvres. But Slate? She's got the Prezidents' Parade on puppet strings—global edition. Crash wrong, we end up Swiss-cheesed: Full of holes, exported to the hole."
The jet juddered over the Channel, turbulence tossing Cal's crate like a piñata of pettiness. His voice bubbled muffled: "Let me out! I got connections—Swiss bank accounts! We team up, I flip the fondue!"
Jax ignored him, fourth-walling the window: "Author, you globe-trotting troll—if this is 'endless,' give us parachutes next time. Or plot armor. This tin can's deader than a deadlocked Congress."
Touchdown was a touchdown of tyranny: A private airstrip outside Geneva, fog-shrouded like a fondue fog machine, where Slate's serpent shuttles idled like limos from hell. The crew deplaned into the chill—Alps looming like judgmental judges in white wigs—disguises dialed to dairy delight: Jax in a chef's whites with Liberty's Edge as a "cleaver cane," Lila in a dirndl that hid her garters (lederhosen grenades now), Theo with a sommelier sash (wine key as USB stiletto), Bubba in a butcher's apron straining at the seams (bat as a "meat tenderizer mallet"). Cal, crate-cracked and collared with a shock-leash (Theo's "reform remote"), shuffled as their "intern-apprentice," polo swapped for a "Sorry I Stole Your Votes" smock.
The Lodge lapped at Lake Leman like a lapdog of luxury: Chalet chic with chalice chandeliers of crystal cowbells, halls hung with "neutrality tapestries" (woven with wiretaps), and a grand ballroom where the Summit swirled—suits from every shore sipping spritzers spiked with "diplomatic discretion." Accents clashed like cymbals: French filibusters, German graft-grumbles, Russian roulette remarks. At the vortex: Slate, serpentine in a sari-suit hybrid shimmering like scales on silk, toasting with a chalice of "Viper Vintage" (venom-laced vermouth?).
"Targets in the fondue," Jax whispered into his cleaver-mic, as they "catered" the canapés—Lila lacing the lobster puffs with truth-tickler mist, Theo tampering with the teriyaki taps. Guests nibbled, oblivious: A Belgian baron blinking at his blini ("This beef? Ballot-stuffed?"), a Brazilian bureaucrat burping "bipartisan betrayal."
Bubba bulked the buffet line, mallet "mashing" a mink-mech that mistook his cigar for a threat—crunch, circuits crumbling into crudités. "Heavies at high tea—Slate's squad, six strong. Swiss guards? Neutral as neutrinos. Cal, play possum."
Cal nodded nervously, circulating the crowd with a tray of "Reformed Relish": Pickles pickled in pettiness. "Senators! Ambassadors! Try the treason tartare—low-cal, high-stakes!"
Theo slipped to the service sub-level, sash slicing a server hatch: Vaults vaulting with vote-vats—holo-heads hatching in humid hives, Slate's accord-scrolls scrolling on screens. "In—hacking the hatcheries. Avatars avalanching... now." His stiletto stabbed a socket; code cascaded, holograms haywire-ing into harlequin horrors: A faux French prez prancing polka, a glitchy German chancellor goose-stepping to "The Chicken Dance."
Upstairs, alarms yodeled—cowbell cacophony—as Slate's sigil flared on screens: "Intruders in the Igloo! Serpent Squad—strike!"
The squad slithered: Mink-mechs multiplied, laser-laced lassos lashing from the rafters; drone-dachshunds deploying from dumbwaiters. Lila leaped into the fray, dirndl flaring like a flamenco of fury, garters grenading the gallery: Explosive edam balls bursting into blinding blasts, minks mewling in melted mayhem. "Fondue fight! Eat this, you yodeling yahoos—lederhosen launch!"
Jax carved through the chaos, cleaver-cane cleaving cables from chandeliers—cowbells crashing like cymbals of surrender, draping drones in disarray. "Slice and dice, Slate! Your summit? Summited. Global governance? More like global gaffe!"
Bubba bowled the ballroom, mallet meeting mechs in mallet-mash: A dachshund drone dodged, then splat—apron absorbing the assault, bat batting it back like a badminton bomb. "Neutral? My ass. Swiss say 'cheese it'—the cops!"
Slate surged from the dais, sari-suit summoning a serpent-staff—energy eels electrocuting the air, zapping a sommelier into spasms. "Ronin refuse! This venue's my vortex—accords ascending, avatars ascending to thrones worldwide! You'll fondue in the flames!"
Cal, cornered by a mink, panicked—tray toppling, relish revealing a remote (Theo's, "borrowed"). He mashed it maniacally: "For the franchise!" A pulse pulsed—vault virus from below, avatars auto-annihilating in a cascade of code-confetti.
The squad stuttered, serpents shorting; guests gawked, then guffawed—diplomats dancing in the debris, toasting "To the Yankee Yahoos!" Slate snarled, staff sparking her retreat: A side-chalet chute, vanishing into the lake-lapped night. "Phase Seven: The Viper's Vault—Arctic assets, Aurora annex. You'll freeze before you fathom it!"
Exfil was explosive: Ballroom backdraft blooming from Lila's last grenade, cowbells clanging cover as they crashed a catering cart down the drive—tires (what tires?) tobogganing to the tarmac, jet jetting just in time. Interpol idled, indifferent—neutrality's nod.
Aloft again, Cal collapsed co-pilot, comb-over combusted. "I... mashed it? Hero status?"
Jax smirked. "Nugget two. But Arctic? Phase Seven: Ice palace of intrigue?"
Lila lounged. "Polar plunge! With penguin posse?"
Theo traced: "Aurora Annex—North Pole nonprofit, Slate's slush-fund silo. Avatars for the Arctic? Global warming waived."
Bubba belched smoke. "Vault? Sounds vaulted. Cold as her heart."
Eddie screeched, dropping an icy glob: "VIPER VAULT: FROZEN FUNDS FIESTA."
The jet veered north, stars streaking like subpoenas. But Slate's whisper-wind whipped the windows: "Hunters: The cold calls. Answer... or avalanche."
The summit summited. But the serpent? Slithered on.