'What I learned last time was barely scratching the surface. I almost ended up in a body bag because I underestimated them.
Every single fraud compound here is backed by a fully mechanized private army. They aren't street thugs; they are heavily armed and highly trained mercenaries.
Don't rush it. We want the same thing. Give me a few days to crack their patrol routes, and then we burn them down together.'
Hank replied.
Putting the phone away, Mira and Owen exchanged a look before heading straight for the front desk.
"Could you arrange a meeting with your boss for us?" Mira asked the receptionist with a polite smile.
"Well..."
The clerk hesitated, clearly reluctant. Without missing a beat, Mira slid two crisp hundred-dollar bills across the counter. "Please. We just have a few questions for him."
The moment her fingers brushed the bills, Mira subtly smeared a fast-acting, time-delayed sedative onto the paper.
The local economy thrived on Mavarian cash, making the bribe universally irresistible, and practically everyone understood the language.
The receptionist's eyes lit up with greed. She snatched the cash, shoving it into her pocket before frantically dialing her desk phone.
In this impoverished, blood-soaked economy, that amount of money could buy a ridiculous amount of luxury.
Naturally, a motel clerk's salary was basically pennies.
The tourist rate for their room was barely twenty bucks a night, and the locals paid half that.
Room service was decent but demanded cash upfront for every single plate.
The clerk rattled off a string of rapid-fire local dialect into the receiver, though she had spoken perfect Mavarian to Mira.
Slamming the phone down, she flashed them a plastic smile. "Right this way."
The motel was only six stories high. The clerk led them up to the penthouse suite on the top floor—easily the most lavishly decorated room in the entire building.
The moment Mira and Owen stepped onto the plush carpet, the clerk bowed her head and slipped out, closing the heavy oak door behind her.


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