Page 15 of Scammed

“Ray.”

“Thank you for calling Ray’s phone. He’s busy right now,” said Code.

“Who the fuck is this?”

“Me? Oh, I’m the man who just used Ray’s phone to wipe out your system and give it the nastiest virus ever, but not before I stole everything off of it. Thank you for that, by the way.”

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with. None!” he screamed. “You will be dead by morning.”

“Doubtful. But listen carefully. We will find you, and when we do, not only will you die, but so will anyone who works for you, your family, your children, your parents, your cousins, everyone. They’re all going to die. Slowly.”

The line went dead, and Code held the phone away from his ear, staring at it.

“Well, that was rude.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Welcome to the Prometheus Foundation, gentlemen. I understand you wanted to speak with someone about making a sizeable donation.”

“We wanted to speak with Amy Fontenot,” said Nine. The man’s face paled, and he shook his head.

“I’m sorry. Amy is no longer with our organization.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” said Gaspar. “I spoke with her directly and will not have anyone else handle our donation. We’ll contact her and see where she landed. Thanks for your time.”

“No! Wait. Let me show you around and tell you what we do here.”

Nine and Gaspar shrugged, Marcel just watching the deception in action. He followed the men toward a conference room, glancing at the paintings on the walls. There was only one he was interested in. The one that was his own, and it was hanging just outside the room.

“That’s remarkable,” said an older woman seated near the conference room. “You look just like Mr. Robicheaux, our founder.”

“Yes, we’re distantly related,” said Marcel. He stared at the painting, suddenly filled with memories and emotions. He remembered sitting for the portrait in the artist’s studio at Belle Fleur.

“Please, Mr. Robicheaux, if you could just sit still a while longer. I’m almost done.”

“This is ridiculous, all so my mother can remember me while I’m sailing the world. I have other things I need to do.”

“Yes, sir. I know, but I’m really almost there.”

“Fine. Just don’t take long. I need to be back on the ship and sail for London tomorrow.”

“You have an exciting life,” smiled the artist. He hoped to engage him in conversation just long enough to finish the painting.

“It’s not exciting. It’s necessary. I bring goods back and forth to the crown and her people, providing for my family’s future and, hopefully, one day securing enough of my own wealth to marry and have a family of my own.”

“I’m sure it will happen, sir.”

It seemed as if it were only yesterday. He’d sat for another hour before the artist was done. He had dinner with his parents, left, and returned to his ship. By sunrise, he had set sail and was on his way to London. Months later, he was returning on a ship loaded with cargo, including gold. By the time he rounded the peninsula of Florida, once ruled by Great Britain, he knew a storm was chasing him home.

“Excuse me? Sir?” asked the man.

“Sorry, I was just realizing how much this man looked like me,” whispered Marcel.

“Oh. Yes, he does look a great deal like you. I’m Paz Sheffield. I’m the manager of the Prometheus Foundation.”

“Sheffield,” repeated Marcel, his fists balling at his sides.

“Uh, hey, why don’t we have a seat,” said Nine, staring at the man. As they entered the room, he leaned over to Marcel. “Stay calm. We don’t know if he’s done anything wrong.”

---