Oliver Grant
He stepped from the battered taxi onto the marble drive of the Kalyana in a loud Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and scuffed sneakers. Red hair mussed, sunglasses crooked on his nose. Peeling paint behind him, gold-veined stone beneath his feet. The contrast was almost obscene.
The entrance stirred anyway.
Staff appeared as if summoned. Two attendants reached for his luggage at once, murmuring apologies. Another held a silk umbrella against a sun that threatened nothing. The lobby doors opened, releasing cool air and the faint scent of lotus.
“Welcome to the Kalyana, Mr. Rieper,” the concierge bowed, voice dipped in reverence.
Guests in tailored linen slowed. Jewelry caught the light. Whispers followed him across the marble. No one questioned the shirt. Or the sneakers. Here, reputation moved faster than money — and opened more doors.
The phone rang the moment he reached the desk.
The receptionist stiffened. “It’s for you, Mr. Rieper.”
He picked up. “Yeah?”
“Ah, Mr. Rieper. I trust the reception was warm?” The voice was smooth. “Your benefactor expects the matter resolved quickly.”
“Of course.”
“And you won’t be… distracted?”
He didn’t answer at once. A beautiful woman crossed the lobby. He lowered his sunglasses slightly for a better look.
“Mr. Rieper?” The voice sharpened. “Already?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll handle it.”
Cursing crackled through the line as he hung up.
Oliver Grant was a myth in the assassination world — brilliant, precise, lethal.
Unfortunately, Mr. Rieper had terrible taste in timing.
The entrance stirred anyway.
Staff appeared as if summoned. Two attendants reached for his luggage at once, murmuring apologies. Another held a silk umbrella against a sun that threatened nothing. The lobby doors opened, releasing cool air and the faint scent of lotus.
“Welcome to the Kalyana, Mr. Rieper,” the concierge bowed, voice dipped in reverence.
Guests in tailored linen slowed. Jewelry caught the light. Whispers followed him across the marble. No one questioned the shirt. Or the sneakers. Here, reputation moved faster than money — and opened more doors.
The phone rang the moment he reached the desk.
The receptionist stiffened. “It’s for you, Mr. Rieper.”
He picked up. “Yeah?”
“Ah, Mr. Rieper. I trust the reception was warm?” The voice was smooth. “Your benefactor expects the matter resolved quickly.”
“Of course.”
“And you won’t be… distracted?”
He didn’t answer at once. A beautiful woman crossed the lobby. He lowered his sunglasses slightly for a better look.
“Mr. Rieper?” The voice sharpened. “Already?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll handle it.”
Cursing crackled through the line as he hung up.
Oliver Grant was a myth in the assassination world — brilliant, precise, lethal.
Unfortunately, Mr. Rieper had terrible taste in timing.
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