"Come on, everyone! Everything has been wonderful so far, don't fall short on me now! Dinner starts in twenty minutes, and I want that Bourguignon cooked to perfection. Jacob, the wines are all set?"

"Breathing now, Chief. We have both the Krug 1998 Clos du Mesnil Chardonnay and the Château Pétrus 2005 Red, just like you requested."

"And the Moët & Chandon 1996 Dom Pérignon?" There was a moment of silence. "Jacob, please..."

"It'll be here in ten minutes, I swear."

James Weller had to force himself to take a deep breath, running a hand through short blond hair, and remind himself that he had promised he would not yell. Yelling would do no good. People did not like yellers. Yellers did not motivate well. He would not yell. He would not yell. All the same, Samuel Ingrahm was the kind of catch that didn't come again, and having him on his list of satisfied customers... it would do incomprehensible wonders for his reputation. Everything had to be perfect. But he wasn't the only one who knew that.

"Fine. It's fine. Just [i]make sure[/i] it is ready to go by the second course." Jamie looked around again, his eyes settling on the only portion of the back room that was not bustling with activity. "Where the hell is Harrison? He's the only patisserie we have, and that mille-feuilles should have been started a half hour ago!"

"I thought I saw him go upstairs."

"What the hell is he doing up there? Someone, find a recipe for chocolate eclairs and start breaking some eggs. We don't have time for the Napoleon anymore." Jamie took another deep breath. He would not yell. He had the best team in the world, and they knew him, and he knew them. Except for when his pasty chef broke his arm in an accident, and Jamie had to hire a complete stranger to replace him.

"I'm going to go find Harrison. I'll only be gone a minute, boys and girls. Don't light anything on fire while I'm gone." He paused, and then said as an addendum "Unless it is supposed to be that way!" There was a faint, appreciative chuckle from the gathered crowd of caterers, chefs, and aesthetics, and then James was out of the room. He would never, ever hire someone based off of reputation alone again. And certainly not for an event as important as the Ingrahms. He would make sure that everyone in the business knew what kind of worker Harrison was, and he would spend the rest of his life making cakes for the birthday parties of five year olds. What could have possibly possessed the man to go gallivanting away at this time in the preparations, when everyone else was already occupied with their own task?

Jamie took the back stairs two at a time, straining his ears for an sound. There was absolutely no reason for Harrison to be up here. It was then that he saw Harrison, pulling the drawers out of a filing cabinet in Ingrahm's office. Jamie strode forward, a look of absolute fury on his face, enough to quell the guardian of hell. "Harrison! What the hell do you think..." Jamie grabbed the man by the shoulder, forcibly trying to spin him around. That was, at least, until he realized there was a gun inches his face.

A second later their positions were reversed, with Jamie pressed up against the wall, and his former pastry chef pressing his forearm up against his throat so hard that Jamie couldn't breathe, and the muzzle of the gun was pressed against his forehead. 

"Please..." Jamie whispered, desperately trying to get a sound passed the arm obstructing his windpipe. "Please."

There was a sudden sound from behind the thief. It was the sound of the other door into the room, the one directly opposite the wall that James was pressed against, rather than perpendicular, where Jamie had entered. The thief spun around, dragging Jamie with him, the gun still firmly lodged against Jamie's head even as the thief did his best to hide behind the rather thin event planner who had suddenly turned into a human shield.

Directly in front of him was an FBI agent, her gun leveled right at them.