The Third Estate Devil's Tango

Freddy Martin stood near the base of the chapel steps and studied the line winding up the hill. “Do you think he’ll have the nerve to show?”

Mourners trudged up the path, faces half-hidden beneath dripping umbrellas, each one another entry in a ledger written in secrets and blood. The air carried a brittle stillness, like the split second before glass surrendered and shattered.

“Only if he wants to occupy the grave next to Manning’s.” Shorty Jensen smoothed his jacket and straightened his tie for the fourth time since arriving at the funeral.

Freddy lowered his voice. “If he’s alive, he’ll be here. He and Manning were tight.”

“Word is, Manning found something that puts people in the ground.” Shorty stared into the distance.

A black sedan curved into the circular driveway and stopped short of the line of parked cars. Two late arrivals stepped into the rain and climbed the hill. The man reached the chapel steps first, broad-shouldered with his dark overcoat hanging open enough to show the compact lines of someone who carried weapons the way other men carried wallets. The woman followed with a leather folio tucked beneath one arm, her heels clicking against wet stone in an even, unhurried rhythm.

Freddy counted faces as they moved through the rain. Twenty Assassin’s Guild members. Finance. Personal. Tactical. Tactical can only mean one thing. Trouble. “What are they doing here?”

Shorty glanced over. “Who?”

“Owen Vale and Celia Thorne.”

Vale reached them first and clasped Freddy’s shoulder. A thin scar cut from the corner of his mouth to the hinge of his jaw, pale against weathered skin. “Freddy. Still vertical.”

“On my better days.” Freddy nodded and turned his head. “Celia.”

She offered her hand, black glove immaculate despite the weather. “Frederick.” Her gaze shifted. “Shorty, I almost didn’t recognize you with a tie on.”

Shorty adjusted the knot again. “Funerals bring out the best in people.”

“Or the worst.” Vale looked past them toward the chapel doors. “How bad?”

Freddy shifted his weight and studied another pair of mourners hurrying up the hill beneath a single umbrella. “Bad enough that half of the Assassin’s Guild’s tactical section cleared their afternoon to attend.”

Vale followed his gaze. “Too many tactical at a finance funeral.”

Celia shifted the folio beneath her arm. “Ryan handled books, routes, shells, and cutouts. Finance operatives don’t die from simple mistakes.”

“No,” Vale said. “Men like Manning die after they open the wrong door.”

Freddy rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyone hear anything useful, or just the usual graveyard poetry?”

Celia glanced toward the mourners lining the path. “Three shell companies dissolved in the last month after Ryan touched them. Two procurement channels closed overnight. One account surfaced in Brussels, then Virginia, then somewhere near Colorado Springs before it vanished. The money moved through legitimate structures and disappeared before anyone could audit the trail.”

Freddy frowned. “Government?”

“That would almost be comforting.” Celia kept her voice low. “Government leaves fingerprints, audits, committees, and people eager to save themselves. This was cleaner. Someone buried inside the machinery, but not part of it. Money routed through legitimate channels and then ghosted before daylight.”

Shorty twisted his pinky ring. “Third Estate.”

A gust of wind kicked rain against the chapel windows, spraying Freddy. “I didn’t say...”

“You didn’t have to,” Vale said.

Freddy studied the line of black umbrellas inching toward the chapel. Finance men. Personal specialists. Tactical operators scattered through the crowd. At a glance the mourners looked like any other collection of well-dressed professionals paying respect to the dead. A second glance told the truth. They kept distance like men and women used to angles, exits, and sight lines.

“I still don’t understand how the Third Estate touches Guild business. We take contracts. We don’t hold office.”

“No,” Celia said. “They prefer people who do.”

Vale snorted. “That’s the trick, Freddy. Men like us pull triggers. Men like Manning follow money. The Third Estate finds people already sitting in the right rooms and whispers in their ears until policy starts to look like fate. That’s how power works when it wants to stay invisible. They don’t need to hold office. They need access to the people who do.”

Freddy gave a short laugh and shook his head. “Rich men in candlelit rooms deciding who runs the world?”

Shorty kept his eyes on the path.

Celia didn’t smile. “No. Worse.”

Freddy glanced at her. “Come on.”

“I’m serious.” She shifted the folio beneath her arm. “Not cult robes in the woods. Well-tailored suits in boardrooms. People with money, leverage, and the patience to place the right person in the right seat, then make him think the decision was his idea.”

He looked back toward the chapel doors. “That still sounds like every power broker since Rome.”

Celia brushed rain from her sleeve. “Bases, labs, elections, procurement, appointments. Anywhere information and pressure meet. They don’t need every lever. Only the right ones.”

Freddy sighed. “I’m not saying Manning died over bad bookkeeping. I’m saying I’m not ready to blame every ugly thing on some shadow order.”

Shorty kept his eyes on the path. “Manning got too close to something, and now he’s dead.”

“Maybe.” Vale planted his feet at the base of the steps and scanned the tree line, posture easy, eyes not. “Or maybe he took a side job for someone he should’ve refused.”

Freddy looked at him. “Lovac.”

Vale lifted his shoulder. “Ryan and Lovac go way back. Finance and tactical. Different trades, same appetite for risk. If Lovac came calling, Ryan would at least listen.”

“Listen, yes,” Celia said. “Take the assignment, maybe. Depends on the number and the target.”

“Not if it was Lovac asking,” Vale said.

Freddy lowered his voice. “You think Manning was working off the books for him?”

“Manning was too smart to stumble into this blind,” Celia said. “Smart men still die when loyalty outruns caution.”

A hush moved through the crowd as headlights swept across the road below. Engines quieted. Umbrellas tilted. Even the wind paused.

Vale adjusted his coat. “Manning found something. Lovac asked him to keep digging. Third Estate found out. End of story.”

“Assumption,” Celia said.

“Experience,” Vale corrected.

Freddy rubbed his neck. “So Manning dies because he found something for Lovac. Third Estate fingerprints float all over it, but no one can prove a damn thing.”

“Welcome to the modern age,” Celia said.

Vale checked his watch. “Then there’s the other problem.”

Freddy did not need him to say the name. “Lovac.”

“Is the contract still open?” he asked.

Celia looked at him as if the question itself insulted her. “Three years and counting.”

Freddy swore under his breath. “No payout is worth that.”

“All contracts are worth something to someone,” Celia said. “That’s how markets function.”

Vale folded his arms. “Not this one. A contract on Lovac isn’t an assignment. It’s assisted suicide with scheduling.”

Freddy glanced at Shorty. “Anyone actually try lately?”

“Bottom feeders. Drunks. A pair out of Tulsa who thought Lovac’s reputation was a myth.” Vale’s expression didn’t change. “One lost an eye before he hit the pavement. The other didn’t make it that far.”

Freddy turned toward Celia. “The payout must be obscene by now.”

She nodded toward the mourners. “It is. That’s why the number keeps climbing. Risk drives price. Price attracts greed. Greed creates widows.”

“Still not enough,” Freddy said.

Celia shook her head. “For most people, no.”

Vale kept his eyes on the tree line. “A contract like that doesn’t stay open because it makes business sense. It stays open because someone wants him exposed, exhausted, or dead. Preferably all three.”

Shorty smoothed the front of his blazer. “If the price climbs high enough, eventually someone tries.”

Vale glanced at him, then back to the path. “And dies in the process.”

The priest lifted a hand and motioned the mourners to hold. The line stalled, black coats and umbrellas gathering near the chapel steps. Freddy took one last glance down the winding path.

Nothing.

No figure breaking from the rain. No dark silhouette moving in the shadows. No sign that the man everyone feared would come.

A hand settled on Freddy’s shoulder, firm and unhurried.

“Don’t let me interrupt.” Kai Lovac stood behind them, rain beading on his dark coat, his face calm, almost amused.

Vale shifted first, not much, just enough to clear his coat from the weapon riding under his belt before returning his arm to his side. Freddy’s chest tightened. Celia turned her hand, planted an air kiss on Lovac’s cheek, and whispered, “Three years off the grid and you still know how to make an entrance.”

Shorty adjusted his pinky ring, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and dragged both palms down his slacks before he turned to face Lovac. “No… no, sir. Of course not. It’s just...” He stuttered. “I… we weren’t expecting to see you here.”

“Why?” Lovac studied the stalled line of attendees.

The funeral motorcade drove up the circular driveway and stopped at the bottom of the steps lined with pots overflowing with white chrysanthemums. The hearse arrived without ceremony, its black frame easing to a stop. The engine cut. Thick, deliberate silence followed. Attendees stepped back in unison, umbrellas folding, coats drawn close, an unconscious widening of space that left the vehicle alone at the foot of the stone stairs. No one approached. Not yet. Governed by rules older than grief, the rear doors opened slowly, and the pallbearers moved with practiced restraint, sliding the coffin, adorned with a mix of roses, carnations, and orchids, out of the hearse. They straightened. Shoulders squared. Eyes forward.

Father Hansen led the way. The pallbearers ascended the stairs, entered the chapel, and proceeded down the center aisle to the altar.

Only then did the line move.

Lovac followed Freddy and Shorty up the stone steps to the chapel door. Forget-me-nots and white lilies adorned the wreaths on easels in the vestibule. The serene voices of the three-person choir filled the church with Ave Maria, echoing off the high vaulted ceiling.

Inside the vestibule, the widow stood beside the receiving line. Flanked by her private guards, she thanked the attendees, young and old, and accepted condolences. As they moved forward in single file, the guests surrendered their individual protection to Freddy, who placed the guns, knives, a small drone, and other sundries into a collection box. Accompanied by chapel security, Freddy closed the latch and tucked the container behind the altar.

Freddy returned to the line and clasped the widow’s hand. “I’m sorry for your loss. He taught me everything. I’ll miss his guidance. His gift for decoding money trails was legendary. Thank you for inviting me. I’m honored.” He stepped back, stared at the floor, and avoided eye contact.

“You’re Frederick Martin.” She glanced at her assistant, who nodded in agreement. “My husband spoke highly of you.” She lifted Freddy’s chin.

“If you ever need anything, you call Freddy,” he said.

“Mrs. Manning, we must keep the line moving. The ceremony will start in a few minutes,” one guard said. She put on her black Belle & Bloom wool cape, smoothed her silk gloves, and glided toward the doorway where the priest waited. As she passed Lovac, she reached out and clasped his hand for a second. Their eyes never met.

Father Hansen opened the casket for viewing, and the widow and her security detail joined the men at the front. Silent tears tracked down her face. She dabbed her cheeks with a tissue, preserving her makeup, then squared her shoulders and addressed the congregation. In her tailored black Adrianna dress and matching 3-inch patent leather pumps, she stood poised, exuding confidence and control. She brushed a single stray hair away from her eyes with her exquisitely manicured nails. Her sentinels, standing by her side, rested their hands on their holsters. She faced the guests, and the room fell silent. “Welcome. Thank you for attending this service to honor my husband. Remember why we’re gathered and behave accordingly.”

Flanked by her guards, she entered the first row on the left facing the front of the church. Father Hansen began the ceremony and spoke of Ryan Manning’s life and accomplishments. Shorty chose a seat in the last row on the right and angled himself toward the aisle. Freddy climbed over him to enter the pew.

“Why are you sitting at the end and taking my spot? And where’s your wedding ring?” Freddy said.

“She divorced me.” Shorty whispered, his face still as stone.

“Gambling again?” Freddy asked.

Silence filled the room as Father Hansen paused for a moment of reflection.

Freddy scratched his head and refocused his gaze on Lovac. “What’s he been doing for the past three years?”

“Blending. Staying off the grid doesn’t erase a contract.” Shorty smoothed his blazer. Sweat gathered on his brow as he scanned the room.

“I can’t imagine anyone being suicidal enough to sign it.” Freddy read the memorial program and placed the pamphlet in his pocket.

“The Third Estate pays well. Everyone’s got a price.” Shorty stared at the cross above the altar.

“And how would you know?” Freddy tugged on Shorty’s sleeve. Shorty yanked his arm away.

They both glanced at Lovac, who sat alone on the bench across the aisle. Without moving his head, Lovac gave them the side-eye. Shorty tucked his shirt soaked with perspiration into his pants, and readjusted his tie.

“What’s up with you today?” Freddy said.

The priest put a finger to his lips as the choir closed with Amazing Grace. He invited Mrs. Manning to join him at the podium.

“Thank you for attending Ryan’s memorial,” she said. “I encourage you to visit the altar and say goodbye.” She returned to her seat and bowed her head. Her sentries nestled closer.

A man in the middle pew stood up and buttoned his jacket. He reached the end of the bench and prepared to enter the aisle. Lovac strode past him. The man resumed his seat.

* * *

Lovac surveyed his surroundings. Two guards at the back exit. The widow, with her security detail, front row left, right row empty. No cameras or video surveillance. Two assistants and Father Hansen behind the altar. One exit to their left. One person in the shadows, or three?

He slowed as he approached the casket. His world narrowed. A soft piano melody hummed in the background. He nodded to the widow in passing. Standing before his friend’s coffin, Lovac felt something he hadn’t in years: the sting of loss. His jaw tightened. He slid his left hand into his pocket and, with his right, adjusted the white marble Pikorua double-twist pin, set in a gold triangle, on his friend’s lapel.

A long way from the college library.

He allowed his mind to drift back to freshman year. He and Manning smoked in separate corners of the basement when the fire alarm screamed. They converged at the same exit and, with each other’s help, escaped unnoticed. Fast friends from the first day, their lives intertwined well past graduation. They helped each other when possible, Ryan in finance, Lovac in tactical. Loyalty forged young had not wavered, but hardened into respect.

“He spoke of you often.” The widow came to the casket and hooked her arm around his. “It’s been three years since Santorini. Do you remember the ocean-view restaurant?”

“Esperisma,” Lovac said.

“Yes, Ryan’s favorite. Happier times.” She rested her head on his shoulder.

“Did he leave a…?” Lovac asked.

She lowered her voice. “The dossier you asked for three years ago?” She clasped her hands.

“How do you…?”

“Ryan told me everything. I don’t have it.” She bowed her head beside the casket, lips moving as if in prayer. “AMCC does.”

Lovac’s gaze stayed on Ryan’s face. “Where is he?”

The widow slid one black-gloved finger beneath her cuff and withdrew a folded scrap no larger than a prayer card. She didn’t hand it to him. She opened it against her palm.

Lovac read the printed text upside down.

Missing piece found. The girl is the key. Players repositioning. One more stop before

His attention locked on the last word.

“Before what?”

She folded the scrap once.

“Ryan stared at those last four words for an hour.”

Lovac scanned the church.

“Did AMCC send another note?”

“No.” She tucked the paper back beneath her cuff. “But Ryan stopped sleeping after he read it.”

A mourner shifted behind them. Fabric brushed wood. The widow lowered her head again; grief arranged perfectly across her face.

“Come find me before you leave.”

She returned to her seat.

Lovac didn’t move. He listened.

The clouds receded. Sunlight filtered through the angel stained glass window on the far wall. Brilliant colors spilled across the altar and caught the emblem on his friend’s collar. The dimmest of shadows clung to the casket’s edge. The air shifted. Lovac didn’t turn.

A voice whispered in Lovac’s ear. “Leave with us now, and no one gets hurt… except you.”

Two men materialized behind him, one pressing a gun to the back of his head, the other scanning the room. Lovac slid his left hand into a hidden compartment along his sleeve. His breathing slowed; his mind reviewed through the chapel layout in fast, clean loops. Options flickered in still frames.

Left target: solution found. Right target: fifty-fifty.