Bosworth St. James started life with an awkward name. Early in his life, it bothered him, as most unusual names tend to do, but not long after he entered school, he realized he had a unique opportunity. Names, he thought, had certain expectations that came along with them. If a person was named John, or Peter, or Mary, or Catherine, then they had an implied set of standards to live up to. Nobody, he realized, had any idea of how a 'Bosworth' should be.
So he decided to set the standard.
He'd been fortunate to be of school age in the late 1970's when his nation made a serious push to upgrade their education system. He worked hard in school earning his way into the College of the Bahamas where he studied Business and Law, eventually spending a few years in Florida working on his post graduate degrees. There he came to the attention of Drake International recruiters who were looking for the perfect candidate to head up their new offices in the islands.
Bosworth was that man.
He rapidly solidified his position as Drake International's point man in the Bahamas by a combination of honesty, integrity, and a curiously accurate sense of when it was a good idea to question his employer's instructions and when it was a good idea to keep quiet. When your employer calls and says 'I'll be there in three hours, have the Yacht ready. I'll be bringing company," was usually one of those moments that called for discretion.
Bosworth was no fool.
As he stood outside Drake International's Nassau offices, Bosworth St. James reviewed the folder of documents that his employer had requested. As usual for David Drake, they were an unusual mix of facts. There was a summary of Bosworth's latest meetings with the Bahamian government concerning the Fracas Effect Energy Manipulation based power plant that would go online in three months (something the Prime Minister still hadn't quite come to comfortable terms with), a collection of information about some local fishermen who went missing, a synopsis of the activities of known criminal organizations in the islands over the last six months, and a list of all unexplained missing vessels over the last fifty years.
It was the usual things that his employer considered light reading and, as usual, Bosworth had no idea what David Drake was thinking. The CEO was either a genius or a madman and, as Bosworth could see the company car turning the corner onto Bay Street, he knew that it didn't really matter. The company had treated him well over the years and Bosworth was smart enough not to question a good thing..
A normal day on Bay Street was filled with tourists from Midwestern American towns swarming ashore looking for a bit of 'exotic local color' after days of being aboard the carefully orchestrated fun of the major cruise ships. Since tourism was the Commonwealth's major industry, the average Bahamian took it all in stride. Money would change hands, the tourists would go back to the ships happy and slightly sunburnt, and everyone agreed it was a fair arrangement for all concerned. As the car pulled up in front of him, Bosworth thought about his own days working his way through college in some of the same shops. Things, he thought as he opened the passenger door, never changed.
By the standards of her adopted home, where it was not unusual to see demons, angels, aliens and energy beings, people made of stone, steel, or molten lava, Madam Masada was considered exotic, but completely normal. In the Bahamas (as personified by native son Bosworth St. James), she was stunning.
Her pale hair transcended mere 'Platinum Blonde', as it flowed down her back like a waterfall of moonsilver. Her natural skin tone was the exact shade of bronze that cosmetic companies spent billions of dollars trying (and failing) to replicate, and her eyes, normally hidden behind amber toned glasses, were the deep golden brown of Imperial Topaz.
She was wealthy, mysterious, and seemingly ageless. Even without her preferred heels, Madam stood at a well toned six foot tall. Guesses about her age ranged from late 20's to a very well preserved 50's, and every one was wildly incorrect. Rumors about her filled up dozens of websites and, like the guesses about her age, every single one was wildly wrong. Madam Masada used her subtle intimidation as both sword and shield. It saved time in explaining herself to fools and idiots.
Madam stepped slowly out of the back seat of the car. She could see the effect she was having on Drake's man and she could think of a dozen ways to take advantage of that if she felt the need to. He wasn't a threat so she decided to use her most effective offense.
"Thank you. Bosworth was it?"
"I...um...yes."
"I wonder, Bosworth, if you could tell me where I could tell me where I could do a little shopping while you speak with Mister Drake?"
"Um...the...um..." Bosworth's hand swept in a vague arc that could have indicated anything from the Straw Market across the street to Miami over 100 miles away.
"Thank you. See you in an hour David?" Madam asked and strolled across the street before waiting for an answer.
David Drake was a merciful man. He walked slowly around the car and stood quietly next to his chief field agent until the older man's breathing returned to normal. They both stood quietly for a moment watching Madam stroll deeper into the market.
"Do you," Bosworth stammered slightly before beginning again, "do you think she's av-"
` "Available? Bosworth, I don't think she's available to anybody." David patted his man on the shoulder. "You understand you have no chance at all?" he asked quietly.
"Yessir."
"Good Man. I'd hate to see you get hurt, possibly even injured. Don't worry, she does that to everybody the first time"
"Even you, sir?"
"Well, maybe everyone but me," said David almost convincingly. "Come on Bosworth, lets look over those files."
Madam strolled around the Straw Market not really caring about the effect she was having on anyone around her. She'd just spent the better part of three hours trapped in a plane with David Drake and she needed to be anywhere away from the sound of his voice.
He does it on purpose. She thought. He talks endlessly about nothing, then he says something important once he feels he's pushed me too far. Why? What does he gain from it?
Madam didn't have a good answer for that question. Then again, she never did. David Drake had an obsession with throwing people off balance that had infuriated her for years. He seemed to be incapable of simplicity, structure, or even order. Everything with him was complexity, wheels within wheels, plots and counterplots. She was certain that he had at least three ulterior motives for their trip into the islands that had nothing to do with finding her missing people.
She let her mind drift into a calmer state as she looked through the stalls of brightly colored fabrics and craftwork. Most of what she saw, she suspected, was there to feed the common tourist perception of what 'island life' was. Garish, crude, faintly embarrassing, and guaranteed to appeal to Americans with more money than sense. A few things, however, were truly interesting and she made a point of collecting contact information from as many of those sellers as possible. She wasn't intending to buy anything on this trip but there were collectors she knew on the mainland that would be willing to pay healthy sums of money for actual local art.
Sixty three minutes after he first stepped out of the car, David Drake stepped back onto the Bay Street sidewalk. He'd gotten some answers but there were still too many questions. His initial plan for finding the Katana and her crew still seemed to be the one that would provide the best odds for success.
He scanned the street and his mind subconsciously noted and filed the threats in his immediate area. Other than three pickpockets who were busy watching each other and several people in various stages of intoxication, there wasn't anyone that warranted his full attention. For the moment, he allowed himself to relax.
Five minutes later, three things caught his attention simultaneously. The first was the approach of his chief field agent from the doorway behind him, the second was Masada's appearance from the Straw Market, and the third was a group of five men who were trying just a little to hard to look like they were not following her.
"Mister Drake I-" started Bosworth before David hushed him and pointed across the street. The five men had varied their pace and direction just enough that they would all reach a point surrounding Masada at the same time.
"Mister Drake they-" said Bosworth as he saw what was about to happen. He started to reach into his coat when David's arm reached across and barred him from stepping forward.
"Easy, Bosworth. The lady knows what she is doing." David Drake was grinning and enjoying his employee's discomfort. The show was about to begin.
She'd spotted the first of the men twenty minutes before and kept him at the edge of her awareness. She'd gone about her business as he oh-so-cleverly signaled his partners and directed them into position. She altered her own course back to the main street. It was far too crowded inside the market for what she knew was coming.
Out in the open street her awareness shifted as she took in multiple facts all at once. She could see five men moving to encircle her, none of them armed with anything more dangerous than short batons made of pale wood. The sawed off handle of something, she supposed. She could also see Drake and his man Bosworth watching from across the street. Drake was smiling, his man was looking shocked and might have been contemplating being chivalrous if Drake weren't holding him in place.
Good, she wouldn't have to worry about hurting him.
She picked her spot and stopped to wait while the thugs finished springing their elaborate trap. She tried not to sigh as they took forever to perform the simple act of making a circle around a person who was standing still. She'd already slipped a pair of hand sized, metal cased objects from her pockets and had her fingers ready on the raised switches on their sides. As soon as the fools stopped being clever, she could get this over with.
The lead thug smiled. He was about to speak. It would probably be a threat or perhaps a bit of charm to throw the 'helpless rich tourist' off guard. Masada didn't care. As his lips started to move, Masada's fingers pressed down on the raised switches simultaneously extending and electrifying the eighteen inch wands in her hands.
Masada took a sideways step which began a pirouette drawing the end of her right wand across one throat and the tip of her left into solid contact with a nerve cluster in a chest. The two men struck dropped bonelessly as the electricity cut off their voluntary muscles.
A third thug managed to react with a wild swing which Masada simply ducked under and drew both wands across the junction of hips and waist. A fourth thug tried to take advantage of her maneuver and strike from behind only to meet the tip of a wand coming up from below and impacting under each arm.
Whatever word it was that the leader had decided to start with, it went completely unsaid. As he felt the sting of the electricity and the stutter of his heart, his last conscious thought was that a pair of dispassionate golden eyes were telling him, in no uncertain terms, how much of an idiot he was.
Time returned to normal with the sound of everyday street noises and the sound of a single pair of hands clapping. Drake was approaching from across the street.
"Feel better?" he asked once he was close enough.
She did, but she wasn't going to let him try to claim credit. Madam waved a still sparking wand under his nose, "Tell me you didn't set that up."
"I like my people far too much to do that to them, " David replied. "Come on, Bosworth will take care of things here. We have a boat to catch."