𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐄 || j. daniel atlas

𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

"Your businesses."

"Your loved ones. But all of you were insured by the same company."

And all four of them turned to Arthur and pointed. "Tressler Insurance."

Alena let out a gasp along with the rest of the crowd. She dared to glance over to Jasmine, who she found standing stiffly against the railing. The tension in the auditorium rose into shouts of protest, cries of elation as the audience checked their bank balances. Alena looked back over to the FBI agent, now standing with a walkie-talkie pressed to his lips. He moved out into the aisle and, as soon as he and his Interpol friend were out over her sight, Alena hurried out of the box and down to the lobby.

She cursed under her breath when she saw that there were FBI agents stationed outside the entrance to the theatre. Mustering all of her confidence, she strode through the empty lobby and into the bar. The bartender approached with a smile that Alena tried to return, unable to resist a glance over her shoulder. No one had followed her.

She ordered a whiskey neat, sliding the notes over the bar and clutching the tumbler in both hands as if it would stop them from shaking. If she paid only in cash, the FBI wouldn't be able to trace her to this location.

Alena took small, burning sips until a door behind her burst open and the FBI agent charged through the lobby and out of the theatre. Downing the rest of the drink, she set down the tumbler and nodded to the police who had come rushing in. With any luck, the FBI would be tailing the Horsemen, wherever they may be, and had abandoned their posts at the front of the theatre.

Outside, the Mardi Gras parties were still in full swing, the streets delightfully packed with people. The perfect place to disappear. And if she wanted to stand a chance of fighting her way back to the hotel room before dawn, Alena thought it best to set off now.

As she entered the masses, she found herself more dancing than fighting. Alena swung her hips to the music as she shimmied through the crowd, smiling at the people she passed. One such man caught hold of her hands and spun her around over the pavement. She smiled and thanked him as he adorned her with several beaded necklaces.

Alena got caught up in several more groups as she travelled through the French Quarter. She took shots with a few of them and, as the whiskey began to kick in, wondered why she was in such a rush to get back to her hotel when the party was right here.

Then someone crashed into her, almost knocking her to the ground. The man caught her by the arm and waist, hauling her body up towards him, and Alena was met with those piercing, blue eyes.

"Mr Atlas," she practically squeaked.

"Miss Warbeck," he replied with equal surprise.

"The FBI after you then?"

"Yep."

"Well, shouldn't you be...?" Alena darted her eyes in the direction that Daniel had been running before their collision.

"Yes, I probably should." He flashed her a wicked grin and was off.

No sooner had he let go of her did the Interpol agent hurry past, thankfully taking no notice of her. Alena craned her neck over the heads of the crowds and spotted the FBI agent from the theatre clambering down from a police car.

What she did next, she would never explain, and would later blame on the sudden consumption of very strong alcohol.

Raising her arms lethargically above her head, Alena began to sway again, catching the rhythm of the music and a couple of necklaces thrown from the balconies above. She targeted a particularly drunk-looking man nearby holding a full pint of beer and slipped the drink out of his grip, which was so loose that Alena was surprised he had made it this far away from a bar without dropping it.

The crowd was beginning to part. Alena planted her feet firmly on the ground and twisted her body right into the path of the raging agent. This time, when the two bodies collided, Alena poured the entire pint of beer down her dress and dropped the plastic cup onto the ground.

The agent looked at her in bewilderment for a fraction of a second, ready to throw her aside, but she took hold of him. She dug her nails into the treads of his shirt, impressing on him a wild, drunk fury, and in her best American accent said, "Dude, watch where you're going!"

"Sorry," the agent stuttered, then seemed to remember himself. "Stand aside," he barked, prying her hands from his clothes. Removing her from his path, the agent resumed shoving through the mass of people, leaving Alena soaked to the skin and smelling of beer.

She could only have delayed him twenty seconds or so, but it was something. Maybe it would be just enough for Daniel Atlas to get away.