The Gala d'art Garnier

Service in covert intelligence operations entailed grit, self-reliance, and the most delicate balance of stubbornness known to man. For the past eleven years, Drew Remington had devoted his life to valor, diving deeper into cover—deeper into the void. Dressed to the nines for once, he rolled back his burly shoulders, surveying from the sparse outskirts of the Gala d'art Garnier.

“Team two, copy?”

“All clear, Rem. Standing by,” crackled in return through the comms.

Rem exhaled. Meanwhile, electronic bass music hummed around the glinting two-story atrium.

“And team three, copy?”

Several heartbeats passed without reply.

“Team three, copy? Layla? Respond.”

“Ah, yes. We’re clear. Ah, in position. Over.”

The seasoned team leader let it slide. Few recruits were immune to first-mission jitters. And assigned to outdoor perimeter patrol, Layla Tides had drawn the short straw on a late winter’s Saturday night. The young fireball would’ve found difficulty hiding in a breathtaking gown amid a mass of snappy bidders and their elegantly dressed partners, anyway.

“How are we looking, boss?”

“Fair skies, champ. Except that head of yours. Hell, what’d you pay for half a haircut? Looks like Big Bird shat on you.”

“Piss off, Walker,” Rem said with an exaggerated eye roll. “Clear comms everybody.”

He dropped his left hand from his earpiece and straightened his dusty-sage Merino wool suit jacket. Admittedly, a luxury venue like the Cirque Conference Center easily marked one of Rem’s most out-of-place experiences. The rotunda structure with floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the snow-capped mountain range beyond. The hypnotic, vaulted trompe-l'oeil that blanketed overhead in textured clouds. And an expansive atrium ripe with trimmed Proconnesian marble, the milky white base and bluish-gray streaks mimicking frozen water. Of course, the CCC could host a multi-million dollar art auction to perfection.

“Bonne soirée, ladies and gentlemen,” resonated from the main stage’s speakers.

The prime minister and host of the night’s gala, Olivier Garnier, held his right palm up to the onlooking crowd as their murmurs ceased. Accordingly, stragglers departed the atrium floor’s scattered exhibits, each painting carefully up-lit on a revolving pedestal. A chipper visage and a maroon-trimmed white suit gave the center-stage politician a warm aura behind the silver podium—the digital GdG logo displayed in front. He slicked his soft-black hair back and continued.

“On behalf of the entire Garnier family, we thank you for being with us tonight.”

Uninterested in the impending speech, Rem cycled through the recent intel that steered his team to guard the exclusive soirée. The Messengers of Destruction persisted in swarms, even without their fabled leader, Gunther Talbot. Rem’s small of back holster burned at the thought of the name. Still, the MODs refused to disband wholly and denounce their crimes. After last month’s attempted raid on a wealthy studio loft in Monaco, every intelligence support agency left Rem a message, flagging all pending events including six-figure artwork. Tonight’s gala—no exception.

“Heyyah, Rem. All assets are stable. Nothing out of the ordinary on any feeds.”

Sean Walker had mastered surveillance technology. Once a budding recruit, the now stubbly gray-haired agent sported one too many scars to function as an on-site presence. The team’s esteemed director preferred to operate as the eye-in-the-sky.

“Copy that, boss,” Rem said. “Santos, send half of team two to secondary…leisurely. No attention. Keep eyes on the little girl when Madam Olivier heads onto stage soon.”

“Will do. Team’s patrolling now.” And Santos, the overwatch, withdrew to his perch on the darkened atrium balcony.

Trust remained essential to Rem, and Rafael Santos earned a lifetime’s worth from their last mission. Operation Crescent. Flawlessly, the two agents eliminated Talbot after tracking him through North Africa. As he reminisced, Rem chuckled at the irony. The heroes had joked about retiring after the score of a lifetime, but bossman Walker had convinced the senior operatives to stifle the MODs’ dwindling flames. And Santos was right—laurels couldn’t pay the bills.

“...with your cotisations, as they say, together we can spread the love of art and revitalize our modern conceptions of une vie avec une âme.”

Garnier, with flushed cheeks, paused as his captive audience interrupted with a shallow applause. Golden jewelry and timepieces speckled throughout the shadowed crowd. Meanwhile, a crisp taste swarmed Rem’s mouth on account of the bottomless wine glasses resting in every patron’s hand. A low-probability ‘survey-and-protect’ mission offered equally low adrenaline. Unlike the previous ‘capture: dead-or-alive’ objective versus Talbot. To guard millions in unique paintings and the beloved Garnier family still required an elite presence. The Remington special.

“Team three, any motion outside?”

Rem held his breath as static cut through momentarily.

“Oh, negative. All’s quiet at the moment. Uhh, over.”

“Copy. And Layla, stay warm out there. You’re doing great.”

“All right, all right. Enough, you two,” Walker chimed in. “Before the rest of us get sick.”

Rem smiled. Miss Tides naturally fulfilled his simple yet exotic attraction: lighter-colored hair than his and a daring decisiveness fit only for life as a spy. After only her first round of utility training, the Californian bachelorette insisted on expediting her instruction, a stunt Rem seldom approved. A covert profession and a concealed romance proved too much for the blonde couple to manage. The team understood—in exchange for the occasional jest.

“...and before we turn the evening into la vente aux enchères, I would like to invite my lovely wife to join me for a moment of dedication.”

As Garnier gestured to his right, the bright stage lights panned to Madam Bernadette. She advanced along the side steps in a royal-blue sequined maxi dress, shimmering like a disco ball. Beneath her half-up chestnut-brown hair, the woman of the hour flashed a smile through her round face and waved to the cheering crowd.

Wafts of buttered scallops and baked brie bites trailed the passing wait staff, yet Rem remained still. Two of their three primary protectees stood in the spotlight while Daphne, the Garnier’s twelve-year-old daughter, lingered beside the family’s aide ten meters offstage. Amid the sea of favored private guests, the venue possessed a single child. The youthful girl stood dolled up in a coral outfit with a matching hair bow. Rem’s team one and Santos’s team two prowled the atrium’s edges as the night continued as scheduled.

“...we are beyond honored that each of you could join Olivier and me for such a wonderful event.”

If the MODs intended to strike tonight, their efforts prevailed under wraps thus far. Whatever unorganized criminals endured the loss of Talbot, they likely pegged the Gala d'art Garnier too high-profile. Doubtful of an attack, Rem scratched his clean-shaven chin and ruffled his gelled hair. Within a year, the remaining MODs inevitably would fizzle out. Then the intelligence community would officially book the Talbot-slayer as a hero—a legend, even. And he and Layla could escape happily ever after. For a moment, the warmth from the room’s abundant stage lighting transported the team leader to somewhere secluded with her. A beach. Toasty. Tender. A better, wholesome void. And he could—

Vibration from his welt pocket interrupted his reverie. Not expecting any calls on-duty, Rem clipped his team earpiece and raised the receiver to his opposite ear.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“Do you believe in evolution, mister Remington?”

The wicked voice slithered through the mobile speaker. Rem froze. After tracking the MODs’ founder for almost a decade, he knew the man’s preferred cover tactics, his blood type, even the first registered email address of the crafty-boy-turned-evil. Talbot’s voice still haunted Rem whenever he wielded a handgun.

“Talbot—how the fuck are you alive?” Rem snapped in a hushed tone.

“Through evolution, we rise…Surely, you understand elementary biology? Only a few fleeting relationships removed from your schoolyard days, yes?”

His once-broken jaw aching again, Rem glared upward, above the stage—Santos’s perch. Instead of his trusted partner, the previously declared dead gangster hovered. Alone. Pasty skin and his pointed features—an exclamation point for a chin, eyebrows toe-nailed above a witch’s nose, and jagged silver hair—all accentuated a guile smirk.

***

Gunther Talbot absorbed the gathering’s collective vitality below. The original Messenger of Destruction had defeated death. Outplayed the debt that all men pay. Prepared to dodge Drew Remington, his entire team, and anyone else who opposed their cause for another decade. That much closer to a high-tech world. An artless existence.

Raised from the dead, the mastermind of the MODs continued his discreet phone call amid Madam Garnier’s amplified remarks from below.

“This world we live in, of course, has a natural order. Isn’t that right? Rem?”

Talbot awaited the steadfast operative’s reply. But even if Remington sent a dire alert to all surveillance teams, they’d all soon fail to protect the prized Gala d'art Garnier.

“You snake. What the hell did you do with Santos?”

“Ah. Your most-trusted partner?” The mastermind paused, snickering. “A hyena. You see, we’re all bound to the natural order. Some species must—let’s sayyy—manipulate to survive.”

Center-stage below, the Madam neared the conclusion of her scripted address. And Talbot equally prepared the end of his phone call.

“You’ll regret laying a finger on a single piece here tonight. What are you after, Talbot?”

Threatened but unperturbed, the MOD leader leaned his free arm on the icy balcony railing. From afar, he basked in Rem’s scowl, an expression unfitting to the chiseled bachelor.

“How nice of you to ask. Perhaps in addition to your kindness, you will learn how to accept others’ tendencies and find reason to advance a superior cause,” he said, pursing his dry lips. “All creatures behave by evolution. Expressiveness results in demise…You know moths, Rem? The ancient winged insect?”

Talbot timed his comment as the crowd burst into applause. He slipped a stocky pair of black glasses from his pants pocket as the prime minister stepped forward to his celebrated wife, reaching for a hug. The signal.

“Cut the bullshit. Give it up, Tal—”

“Like moths, you will obey the light.”

As the Garniers’ embrace subsided, the gallery cracked into white like a flashbang. The heavy stage lights, patterned wall sconces, every scattered exposition uplight. The patrons cowered, dropping to the floor and shielding their eyes. Wails, groans, shattering glass. The venue’s precious, exquisite marble reflecting light rays about a hundred times over. The once perfectly organized gala—in disarray.

***

“Walker!” Rem shouted. “Walker? What’s happening?”

He crouched, squinting toward the assembly, but his eyeballs seared at the sight.

“Rem, I can’t see shit! The cams are whited out. I only got angles outside. What—”

“Talbot’s here! It’s the MODs!”

“How is that son of a bitch alive?”

Rem pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyelids clamped shut even harder. Talbot? And Santos? For the past twenty seconds of chaos, he had fought the disorientation through his body’s every fiber. Not only were the delicate paintings vulnerable to the intense light rays, but the Garniers remained exposed amidst the illuminated white flood.

“Rem? What’s going on?” Layla’s voice strained his earpiece. “The center looks like—like an exploding lighthouse from out here!”

“I don’t know! But we’ve got to cut the lights and secure the Garniers!”

“I’m coming. Team three—move inside!”

Rem didn’t have the standard authority to object. To expose the perimeter left more escape routes for Talbot and whoever else besides Santos betrayed the gala tonight. But damage control had already become future-Rem’s problem.

“Team one—get eyes on primaries!” Rem shouted. “Assume team two is compromised. Move—if you can!”

Clamor resonated from the valued guests throughout the atrium. With a grunt, Rem ripped the seam of his jacket’s lower flap pocket and slapped the cloth band over his eyes. The smooth pastel-colored wool offered a makeshift translucent shield. Though trashed with broken glass and hunched bodies, the center floor prevailed at least. A few patrons had crawled to reach the atrium’s walls. As Rem struggled to break into a dash toward the main stage, the Garniers lay flattened.

“Walker! Keep those angles outside! Locate Santos—he’s the one working with Talbot!”

“Aghhh! This is a shitshow! I’m not seeing any movement!” The eye-in-the-sky responded.

Rem swerved through the dishevelment. Suits, dresses, broken glass, silver platters, food scraps. All replaceable, but lord knew how damaged the displayed paintings might be. Let only the gala’s hosts.

“Rem! Entering door one-seven now!”

“Layla! Look for the girl! I’m securing her parents!”

Rem huffed, leaping onto the stage platform. As he reached the Garniers, the blinding lights vanished. Darkness swallowed the atrium. The agent lowered his makeshift eye cover, imploring the emergency lighting to grace the scene. Uneasy, he crouched beside the prime minister’s still, prone body and grabbed the man’s near shoulder.

“Sir, are you okay?”

“What? Who is it?”

As Rem loosened his grip in relief, a faint buzzing surfaced from overhead and behind. Within a few seconds, the emergency system triggered, casting streaks of light above the perimeter doorways and along the atrium floor. His eyes adjusted well enough to spot Bernadette’s body quivering—another consolation for the moment.

“It’s Drew, Sir. Our team is securing the area!”

“Ugggh,” Garnier said, twisting his neck to eye his rescuer. “Please! Help us. Get my family to safety!”

“Yes! Yes! Hang tight, Sir.” And Rem spun on one knee toward the Garnier daughter’s last known location, hopeful to find the harmless girl sheltered with the family aide.

Empty.

“Rem, where are you? Are the Garniers secured?”

Layla’s innocent tone interrupted Rem’s disbelief.

“Uhh, yeah, yeah. Parents are fine. On stage.” Rem let out through rushed breaths.

“I’m just east of the lobby. One sec!”

Rem mustered his composure and rose, staggering before bracing his right arm against the nearby podium. A minute ago, the gala existed—pristine, spirited, unthreatened. Before that same minute, Talbot was dead. And the MODs on their course to join him. Now, a state-of-the-art facility lay in shambles. Its painting exhibits likely ruined—reduced to insurance claims and salvaged discount sales. MODs on the run, their newest and next objective unclear.

After a series of rapid blinks, Rem raised his left hand to his earpiece.

“All teams…Daphne is missing. I repeat…Daphne is missing.”