(1934-09-21) Welcome to Cairo
Details for Welcome to Cairo
Summary: Cyril meets the bombshell that is Jacqueline for the first time back in 1934 and the both of them are out to kill the same man. Things go about as expected.
Date: 21 September 1934
Location: Cairo, Egypt

Cairo, Egypt, 1934. The setting finds Cyril Malfoy, famed soldier of fortune sitting by himself in a hotel bar, exchanging pleasantries with the bartender in Arabic. Apparently he's just told the man a joke, as the two of them are laughing quite heavily at something. The Malfoy man is wearing simple clothing; a long-sleeve grey henley with the sleeves pushed up, a pair of cargo pants and a shemagh that's hanging loosely around his neck. Cyril remarks once more in the bartender's native tongue and slaps some money down on the bar, reaching to pull a bottle of whiskey from below the counter along with a small package wrapped in brown paper before he moves to have a seat in the corner.

A woman, alone, uncovered in Cario would be a strange sight indeed. But a woman with screaming red hair, curves to kill a senior citizen, and sunburnt pale skin? Oh yes, Jacque is drawing eyes the moment she walks into the bar. She's in a suit that covers her curves and limbs enough that she won't be stoned on the street, but that's about it. Screaming red material, the piece tailored to hug every bit of her frame, the woman saunters into the bar and up to the far end of the counter — the point where she can put her back to the wall, watch the room, and still order drinks from the bartender. Her target should be here sometime soon. She intends not to miss him.

Cyril sits quietly in the corner where he unwraps the package and tucks it into the waist of his pants, pulling his shirt down over whatever it is. The red-head's entrance does not go unnoticed by the Malfoy and he whistles appreciatively in her direction, unscrewing the top on the half-empty bottle of whiskey that he's just paid for.

The whistle draws her eye, a slow smile of enjoyment spreading across full red lips. She nods towards the bartender and arches a thin red brow in Cyril's direction, quiet inquiry if he would like to buy her a drink. Intelligent gray eyes dip down across his whole body, studying every inch, every limb, trying to figure out where she might recognize him. He looked familiar, but surely not her contact. She smiles a bit wider, turning the study into actually just checking him out.

Cyril smirks at her and regards the bartender once more in Arabic, instructing him to put whatever the woman wants on his tab. Cyril slides the chair across from him out with his foot, an invitation for her to sit down when she has her drink. Normally, Cyril isn't the kind of guy to let a pretty pair of legs distract him from his mission, but hey, it's nice to have something to look at when you're waiting on your target to show up. His golden eyes flicker about her frame, liking what they see.

The offer makes her hesitate. The redhead clearly had hopes he'd come to her position, but those hopes are dashed. She looks back to the bartender, gives a little shrug, and then unfolds from the seat at the bar so she can make her way towards Cyril. At least he's in a back corner. "Don't get too many white boys around this place." Her husky British accent, middle class as they get, almost purrs in his direction. She pulls the chair out so it's back goes against the opposite wall of that corner and sinks down into it. It's slightly awkward sitting, but it affords him a good view of her legs as they re-cross.

Cyril is the very definition of swagger as he sits in the corner, arms hanging loosely between his legs and a half-smirk resting on his lips. When said lips part to speak, a posh English accent slips out from between them, "It's true. We're a rare breed in this neck of the proverbial woods. Though, the same could be said for gorgeous English women." Those golden eyes stop on the more intimate of her features as they make their way towards the door.

All curves. A woman who probably works out, runs regularly, just to stop from becoming chunky, but it means she's all softness and femininity right now. Warm, pale, some freckles peaking through the sunburn that the desert has given her. She reaches into her jacket, pulling lapels momentarily aside to even further reveal generous… Assets. And is that a flash of metal? Surely not a gun under her shoulder. It's gone as fast as it came as she pulls out a small tin of handrolled cigarettes. "Working for a bank… appraising some artifacts that come through this way. Why they sent a woman to this god forsaken territory I'll never know, but here I am. And you?"

Cyril turns his eyes from the door and rests them on her once more, saying, "Oh, I'm just a treasure hunter, really. A bit down on my luck these days." He rubs at his stubble and says, "So, tell me…what's your name? I thought I knew all the appraisers and fences around here…and I'm fairly sure that I'd remember someone like you." Those golden eyes flicker with a hint of doubt, but remain playful nonetheless.

His comment about 'just a treasure hunter' draws a husky sort of laugh to her lips, shaking her head slowly. "Just a treasure hunter. You act as if your sort are a pence a dozen… Like you were a news boy or a taxi driver." Jacque chuckles again, extending her small hand across the table. "Jacqueline Strathcona. But, Jacque is just fine…" Pronounced Jack, but with some odd touch of french dialect to the J. "And this is my first time in Egypt. I generally work towards Germany and France. Still working on picking up Arabic. It is a harder language."

Cyril smirks at her and says, "Well, in the land of the pharaohs, we are a plentiful bunch, my dear woman." He picks up the bottle of whiskey and gives it a swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand afterwards and saying, "I'm Cyril Malfoy and I'm absolutely enchanted." He offers her a charming smile and looks toward the door as he hears a bit of movement out in the hallway.

Malfoy! Her brief recognition was correct. A low, slightly disbelieving little chuckle escapes her throat. "… I thought you looked familiar… I was a few years behind you in school, Malfoy, you know… Not that anyone knows much of a little Ravenclaw." Not so little any more, is she. But before they can continue reminscing on old times, Jacque's eyes flicker to the side and casually try to take in the door as well. If it's the mark, they'll have to continue at another point.

Cyril smiles at her and slowly slides his hand to the back of his waistband, reaching for the Colt that's been stashed there. Calmly he says, "Oh? I'm sorry, but I don't remember you from school. But then again, I was always tucked into my studies and my duels to pay attention to much of anything." His eyes stay locked on the door, his thumb casually sliding the safety off of his pistol as he slowly pulls it out, keeping it out of sight.

Slower than he is, and generally accustomed to taking her kills somewhere far quieter than even a mostly empty bar, Jacque isn't reaching for her gun yet. She's still just casually sitting there, though her chair turns out just a bit more to face the door, so her body is ready for display towards the entrant. On show, hopefully getting enough attention that she can slip back to his room later. She's too concerned with watching the door to realize that Cyril has drawn out a gun already. "It's alright… I remember your family more than you. I wasn't much of anything back then…"

Cyril is quite prepared to make a statement. It's not like he can't just slip out the back once the whole thing has gone down, after all. He rests a hand on Jacque's leg and says, "My dear woman…I imagine things are about to get a little too dangerous for you to handle, so you might want to slip beneath the table in a moment."

His comment actually makes her laugh just a little bit…"I think I can handle myself." But the moment he does give her that warning, Jacque realizes that this isn't going to be her usual sort of contract. Whether they are hitting the same man, she's not sure, but her own hand slips beneath her arm and draws out a sleek looking revolver. From her other pocket, she pulls out a long, curved attachment that she screws over the muzzle, one of the more modern looking silencers, though there is a touch of magic on it as well. She tosses him a wink and a little shrug.

Cyril smirks at her and tilts his head a bit, asking quietly, "You're out for Mubarak, then?" There's a playful twinkle in his eyes as he starts thinking about all the different ways that this contract could go down. He doesn't know who she's working for and in all honesty, he really doesn't care. As long as his bullet is the one that kills Ahmes, he's the one that gets paid.

"…Well fuck." Jacque's response comes, as he finally brings up the elephant in the room and confirms they have an identical mission. For just a heartbeat, he might catch the uncertaintity in her. She's too new to this. She's never had a situation come up like this before. It's making the time line of her hit shift dramatically forward. But there is probably no time to worry about it. She covers up all that worry a heartbeat later. "Good luck." And then she's up and running, for the door. At least they can, hopefully, take it out of the bar.

Cyril looks a bit stunned as she gets up and runs, but he follows suit. She's fast, but he's trained. He catches up to her and clips her foot, sending it to collide with her other one, saying, "Sorry, love!" With that, he slips out of the door quickly and moments later the register of a loud series of forty-five shots can be heard echoing through the building.

Shit. Shit! Jacqueline's on her feet and running, but high heels aren't made for a foot chase and so she goes down with a fast tumble of limbs, slowing her just enough that he's out the door before her. She rolls and is back on her feet a few heartbeats later, but it's too late. The shot are firing out the door. She continues running, at least hoping to catch up with the man, her gun still in her hand. "Sloppy…fucking sloppy.." She mutters to herself as she dashes out into the desert night.

What follows is the stuff of movies. Cyril darts out of the back door of the hotel, tossing the forty-five into an open window as he passes it. He's not the fastest guy around, but he's making a good run of it as he shoves people out of the way and jumps over crates in an attempt to get away without having to fight the buxom red-head with a score to settle.

While the job is done, it wasn't done by her and Jacque needs to know why. For a woman with her curves, she's FAST. She skirts the crates and can get through the crowd far easier just by way of her height and frame. And the fact she still has a big fucking gun in her hand. She keeps pounding pavement, but doesn't jump on him quite yet. She's waiting for him to duck down an alley, or somewhere out of sight for the worst crowd around them. A roadster blares it's horn as she darts across the main road and skids her hip right across it's hood in efforts to close the last few feet of his lead.

Cyril is running out of energy. It's true, he's been slacking when it comes to exercise and it's coming back to bite him in the ass. He almost growls as he turns down an alleyway and kicks in the wooden door to some tiny little hole-in-the-wall house. He runs inside but soon finds himself trapped. "Fuck, fuck, fuck…."

Trapped indeed. Jacqueline is shallowly breathing, but really not that hard off as he comes into the room. Hell, she's so close to his heels that she jerks the door forward, probably slamming into SOME part of his anatomy, meant to put him on the floor before she steps into the room. She's there a moment later and her gun is levelled in his direction, pale eyes shining. "Hands up. Fucking now."

Cyril does, indeed, end up on the floor, breathing heavily. He puts his hands up like instructed and chuckles breathily to himself, moving his legs around under himself as he moves to stand back up, "Well…looks like you've got me, darling."

Stepping forward, Jacque has her free hand out and is suddenly patting him down for any other hidden weapons on his persona. It might almost be an intimate gesture, and there are a few times that her hands linger probably juuuust a bit longer than they should, but she still goes about removing every weapon on his body she can find. "Who the fuck are you working for and who the hell taught you to put someone down so fucking sloppy? You do it in that bar, in full view, you're a wanted man across the whole damn country."

Cyril catches his breath and grins at her as she pats him down. He grunts a bit as her hand reaches his most sacred of spots. She's obviously not the kind of gal to pull punches. He chuckles and says, "Who am I working for? You mean you don't think I'm out here killing gun-runners just for the fun of it?"

They're both slightly breathless, standing too damn close, and for a moment there are other temptations. Especially as her fingertips slip down, closer, to those sacred spots. His mind might be flying for a heartbeat or two, but then suddenly he's being GRIPPED. And not like a lover would. He's about an inch from being dickless, and a bit more pressure from rolling on the floor. Jacque's eyes narrow, "Not work risking your life in some desert hell hole for the fun of it. Who's paying you?"

Cyril bites his lip and grunts, closing his eyes and reaching down to grab her wrist. Although, it's purely reactionary. He exhales slowly and says, "I'm working for myself, dear. I promise…" Those golden eyes open back up and rest on her face, a look of worried sincerity in them.

The woman studies his face even deeper, the grip of her fingertips tightening around his jewels as she considers what he's saying. She finally huffs and quietly lets go, gun still leveled at his chest. "Why?" Jacque flatly asks, still not relaxing, but he's not in danger of losing his family inheritence, so to speak.

Cyril reaches up and slowly grabs the barrel of the gun, slowly pointing it at something other than himself as he speaks, "I'm a mercenary, Jacque. I specialize in the destabilization of countries. If Mubarak continued to live, the Nationalists would've won the war in a year. That wouldn't look very good for my pocket book, now would it?"

The outpouring of information from him makes her stop, as it all seems genuine, and will at least be useful to take back home. Make a file. Keep it hidden. Jacque's eyes narrow just a bit more and she exhales through her nose. "Yes, well… you're going to get yourself killed or arrested if you don't grow some smarts about it all. As far as back home is concerned, he died in a robbery."

Cyril grins at her and reaches to rest a hand on her waist, saying, "He died in a robbery? Why would you come up with such a story such as that? Why not just tell them the truth, hrmm?" He smirks devilishly and continues, "Maybe she just wants to keep the handsome rogue out of harm’s way, yeah?"

The touch at her waist makes Jacque's brows loft, but she doesn't pull back from him. Nor does she drop her gun. She just watches him, dangerously close once again, able to smell the musk of sweat and gunpowder off of his body. "If it was a robbery, you can keep clear… and I won't look like I fucked up the job because someone jumped too soon. We both win."

Cyril smirks at her and strokes her waist softly with his thumb, saying, "A win/win, huh? I guess I could deal with that. His hand begins to drift downward, pulling her a little closer as his hand slides down to her thigh. The gun stay between them, the barrel of it pressing into his chest as the distance between them gets smaller and smaller.

Dammit, Jacque. The woman, as much as she'd like to stay in control of the situation and walk out now, finds her body intending far different things. Heart suddenly thudding against her sternum, she presses closer to him, pale eyes staring up to his handsome features. "You'll have to deal with it, or I'll just kill you and then take the prize for not only killing the runner, but taking care of a dangerous mercenary.”

Cyril grins down at her and says, "Oh, I'm sure that my hide would catch a pretty penny for you. Perhaps even enough for you to retire on." He lips begind to brush faintly across her neck as he speaks, "So, are you one hundred percemt sure that you want to keep me around?" By now, he's taken the gun from her hand and let it clatter onto the floor below.

The moment he tries to release her small hand from that very large gun, it's turning forward and she's pulling back from him. He's got the barrel straight against his heart, and she knows the placement. Between those two ribs, close to the sternum, not further up in the left side of the chest like most of the world might think. Jacque steps back, flushed but stiff again, her eyes narrowed. "Nice try. It's a truce, nothing more. Keep your nose clean, Malfoy… or I might be coming for you next. And I won't hesitate to shoot then."

Cyril grins as she steps back and he releases the barrel of the gun, saying, "A truce, then, Miss Strathcona." Those golden eyes twinkle as he regards her and he steps past her, on his way towards the door. He stops and leans against the frame, looking back over his shoulder to say, "Oh, and Jacque, when the time comes…make sure you don't miss. I know I won't."

"I promise…You won't even see it coming." Jacque calls after him, the gun still levelled, right for his chest, tracing him the whole way out until the door shuts behind, leaving her in darkness.

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