[i]House Rahaim
Yas Marina Circuit, Abu Dhabi, one week ago[/i]

“This light does not… suit you, father,” Mazina Rahaim noted.

And it did not. Muhammad Rahaim’s discomfort was visible in the light shining through the glass of the balcony overlooking the circuit. The effects of the anti-UV lotion applied earlier that morning were just starting to fade. Now, in the stark sunlight, the discomfort of the aged vampire patriarch was beginning to look frightfully clear. 

“I know, my jewel,” he muttered. “But we must keep up appearances for the meanti-”

He paused as the Formula One cars roared past them below, eliciting raucous celebration from the masses in the bleachers and some polite applause from the more reserved in the balcony on top. 

Once the last whine of the racers had come, Muhammad turned to a smaller, bespectacled and slightly plumper man by his side wearing a plain white headscarf. By the looks of it, he had clearly enjoyed the race more than his two masters. Muhammad, stooping his six foot four frame, whispered feverishly into the smaller man’s ear.

“Khalil. Is the race over?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then inform the others we will retire to our quarters.” Muhammad made a gesture as if to go. “And tell the American we will be waiting for him back at the penthouse.”

Khalil nodded and moved to engage in conversation with the others at the balcony. Muhammad and Mazina discreetly made their exit.

“What does the Yankee want again?” he asked her once they were safe and sound in the limousine.

“He is from Washington, father.” Mazina was styling her nails, experimenting with some scarlet and gold glitter. Muhammad smiled. In a sense, she hadn’t really grown up from the young girl she was centuries ago. 

Mazina continued. “He wants to talk to us on the Guerrera deal.” 

“I thought the Guerrera deal was done and finished with.”

“Evidently not for him, father.” Mazina reapplied deep, ruby red lipstick. “He is… unhappy about the ‘assault’ Fariq fixed on the convoy.”
Muhammad chuckled. “Is he now?”

And he was. Standing in front of the Rahaim residence half an hour later was a diminutive American in a nondescript suit and tie, who, though flanked by an entourage of heavily-armed US Marines, was struggling to maintain his composure. 

When the guards had left them, they both sat down in the residence’s spacious botanical courtyard. The flamboyant array of flora and fauna starkly contrasted with the arid desert outside. 

The American, ignoring the cold cup of black coffee in front of him, adjusted his tie. “Mr. Rahaim.”

On the other side of the table, Muhammad coolly sipped from his hot cup, with a dash of blood mixed in. “Robert Brode. Aide to the Undersecretary of the US Department of Defense.” 

“Flattery will not work this time, Mr. Rahaim.” Brode menacingly leant forward. Muhammad barely met his eye. “What happened to the Guerrera deal?”

“An ambush.” Muhammad put down his cup. “That your people have been generously compensated for.” 

“You can’t just throw money at us and expect the matter to be closed! Thanks to that ‘ambush’, three hundred Kalashnikovs are [i]not[/i] in the hands of the militias in Kirkuk!” 

“Let us remember, Mr. Brode, that you chose to have them transported via the faster route in the first place.” 

“It’s not just that!” Brode was shouting now. “Do you know what happens if they trace the guns back to us, and some mopey CNN reporter gets their hands on them? The [i]embarrassment[/i] of the United States on the world stage! The press everywhere in my people’s business, and yours!”

“Our people have nothing to worry about.” Muhammad grinned, allowing some of his canines to slip out. “At the end of the day, Mr. Brode, we have fulfilled the terms of our deal. This matter is ended.” He stood and turned to leave.

“Don’t turn away from me, Muhammad!” 

Muhammad looked back. Brode was red in the face, the same color as his tie.

“I know who you are.”

Muhammad raised an eyebrow. “And who might I be?”

“Monsters. Monsters that feed on flesh and blood, who never die and who burn in the sunlight. I know you’re not just an ordinary gun runner, Rahaim. You’re something else. And soon everyone will see you and your family for who you really are!”

Muhammad said nothing. Brode breathed in deeply, beginning to realize the gravity of what he had just said.

Muhammad, a face as unreadable as stone, turned away. “Good day, Mr. Brode.”

Once back in his personal study, he reviewed the CCTV footage of Brode’s convoy pulling out into the desert. He dialed a number.

“Khalil.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Have Dhareed kill the American, please.”

The other side was quiet, for a while. “...Are you sure, sir? That will be quite high-profile, no matter how quietly we do it.”

“Are you [i]scared[/i] of them, Khalil?”

The other side fell silent again, this time for longer. “How would you like it to be done, sir?”

A week later, the body of Robert Brode would be found in a Boston alleyway, with a face so disfigured that  it had looked like it had been crushed by someone’s bare hands - and to those in the know, it had. In Abu Dhabi, Muhammad Rahaim called out to his daughter.

“Mazina!”

“Yes, father?”

“Pack your bags.” Muhammad motioned to a butler familiar. “We are going to New York.”

“For what reason, father?”

Muhammad sighed.

“We have some explaining to do.”