The Dinner with the Colonel

The Dinner with the Colonel


The smell of roasted lamb floated through the chandelier-lit dining hall as I raised my glass toward Colonel Vickers. The man’s belly hung over his belt, his laugh was the kind you could hear from the barracks, and his appetite was nearly as monstrous as his need for favors. I admired him in a way, because he didn’t even bother pretending.

“To old friends,” I said, my voice smooth, my eyes steady. “And to new opportunities.”

He clinked my glass, already a little drunk, and nodded with a stupid grin. “You always know how to put things, Crest. Always the diplomat.”

I smiled. Inside, I thought, Diplomat? No. Parasite, maybe. Predator, certainly. But never just a diplomat.

The dinner wasn’t about friendship. It was about making sure my hands stayed clean while others did the dirty work. Vickers controlled transport routes on the west border, and that meant he controlled what came in and out. Smuggled weapons. Powdered goods. Sometimes people. The sort of things no official logbook should ever see.

“Tell me,” I asked, cutting into the lamb on my plate. “How difficult would it be to move three trucks past your checkpoint without too many questions?”

He hesitated, glanced toward the other guests at the long table, then leaned closer. “Depends who’s asking. And what’s in the trucks.”

I swallowed, chewing slowly. Then I lowered my voice. “Let’s just say it isn’t wheat or potatoes.”

His eyes brightened with understanding. “Ah. Then you know the price goes higher.”

“Price is never the problem,” I said softly, and I felt that sweet rush I always felt when a man realized just how far I could go.

Across the table, I caught the wide-eyed gaze of his daughter. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Blond curls and a dress that clung too closely to her growing frame. She pretended to look away, but I had already seen the way she studied me, the way she lingered on my smile. I let my eyes rest on her a heartbeat too long before returning to my meal. Just a taste of attention, enough to spark her curiosity.

I am not a man who rushes. I plant seeds. And I watch them grow.

The colonel went on about the routes, about soldiers who could be paid to look the other way. He waved his greasy hand in the air like he was conducting an orchestra of corruption. And I nodded, smiled, and let him talk.

What he didn’t realize was that I already had two of his men in my pocket. Tonight was not about securing passage. Tonight was about reminding him who held the strings.

After dessert, I excused myself to the study. It was quieter there, away from the laughter and the music. The room smelled of tobacco and old leather. I sank into a chair, pulled out my notebook, and jotted down a few lines. Always notes. Always records, but never in plain words. Anyone who stumbled upon them would think them the scribbles of a sentimental fool. But I knew what each phrase meant.

“Three roses in the garden.” That meant three trucks.
“The night is kind when the moon is blind.” That meant the bribes were secured, the soldiers bought.
“Little sparrow at the window.” That one was for the girl. A reminder. A mark in my private code.

I closed the book as the colonel stumbled in, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “There you are. Thought you’d slipped away.”

“Never,” I said with an easy grin. “I was only thinking of tomorrow. There’s much to prepare.”

He laughed, too loudly, too easily. He didn’t know he’d already sold his soul to me. And as he spoke of another toast, another night of promises and indulgence, I found myself glancing once more at the doorway—half expecting to see his daughter standing there, listening.

I felt that familiar heat in my blood. The heat of power, of temptation, of ownership. Not tonight. But soon.

Always soon.