Millennium Falcon Business Class is a bit of an unhinged crime caper.
This is part 2 of 5.
Conradin Caspar — the ‘package’ — is the head of Caspar Wealth, an exclusive boutique investment bank and fund in Zurich, serving as a money hatchery for the wealthiest of Europe’s cookies — ensuring the Old Continent’s crème de la crème stay within safe margins from the three commas line. God forbid, someone would see their net worth slump into the multi-millionaire territory. Just imagine the shame!
Wheelchair-ridden, paranoid to the bone, Conradin runs a tight operation. He’s the sole person in the whole organization authorized to sign financial transactions. Not even so much as a paperclip can be purchased without Herr Caspar’s biometrics — let alone the millions worth of stock moves he makes on behalf of his clients every day.
A call from Aira — an intern at Caspar Wealth and a member of The Posse as we call our rag team — came in this morning, kicking the plan in motion, making a mess of my nuptial ceremony while at it. The moneybag was on his way to Zurich airport to embark on a 12-hour flight to Singapore. A company limo delivered the boss to the VIP terminal and handed him over to the ground crew, tasked with breezing Conradin through the formalities directly into the business class cabin on a Swissair Airbus. The well-versed workflow for the frequent traveler came with a caveat this morning — Alex, who met the banker at the entrance, wasn’t employed by the airport or anyone else for that matter. His only allegiance was to The Posse.
“Alex got into a bit of a snafu when some dumbass security guard called him out about being parked for too long, so he had to leave and do an additional lap, but he made it just in time for the intercept.” A follow up report from Kevin has me worried for a split-second but I shake it off. Alex has versed this to a point that it’s now probably ingrained into his DNA and will pass on the kidnapping gene down the lineage of offsprings.
He’d probably said something along the lines of ‘Let’s get you on the plane, Herr Caspar’ in that perfectly accented Zurich lilt of his, while gently tapping the older man’s hand, the microneedles on a postage stamp sized transparent patch in his palm delivering a cocktail of Etorphine, Midazolam, and Hyaluronidase with a hardly noticeable sting, putting the target under in mere minutes. All that was left to do was to turn around and load the unconscious banker onto an unmarked van.
Stage #1 complete. The package is en-route to the Box.
While I have you, my tiny but feisty dark story Perfectopia is currently just 99c on Amazon (or free with Kindle Unlimited subscription). It's a totally unhinged near-future dystopian shit. You’ll love it.
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