<strong>Caleb Hatcher -- Hurry Up and Wait</strong><br/><br/>The ice rattled in the bottom of the glass as Mr. Hatcher rolled it between his thumb and middle finger. Feeling the cold against his palm helped to distract him from the cold that these days seemed permanently coiled around his heart, but only a little. One Italian-loafered foot tapped a steady rythym on the plush carpet, instinctively keeping time with the generic melody the pianist was tickling out in the lobby. With a lifted eyebrow and a charming smile that he didn't feel, he caught the attentions of one of the hotel restaurant's waitresses, a pretty little slip of a thing with long red hair and breasts guaranteed to make a man tip twice the price of any entree on the menu. He raised his glass wordlessly, and in an equally silent exchange she brought him a refill. His drink of choice was old fashioned iced tea; today, he was drinking Johnny Walker Black.<br/><br/>Hatcher sipped his drink and pushed his coat sleeve up, checking his watch; quarter past noon. His...guests weren't due until perhaps one o'clock or so, but at this stage there was really nothing else to be done, and sitting in his suite held about as much appeal as sitting in traffic. At least in the restaurant he could pretend he wasn't as nervous as a sack of cats in a kennel. And hell, maybe one of them would show up early.<br/><br/>A thick sheaf of envelopes and manila folders sat on the table in front of him. Hatcher set the glass down and picked up the first folder, opened it to its first page. He already knew its contents; the permits and records from the original construction of Harrowgate Manor, lists of names of workers and suppliers involved, bank account records, preliminary blueprints and architectural sketches. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. Except...a bill of lading for an unspecified cargo from an unknown shipping company. Ms. Pike, his personal investigator, found no records of the company either in the U.S. or overseas, and the company's logo turned up no matches. According to all available reports, the company never existed.<br/><br/>Two brothers with a mysterious fortune, recieving mysterious cargo, from a mysterious freight company. It might have been nothing, a collection of European art the Harrows acquired during their military service, maybe even the gold bullion or whatever served as the foundation of their wealth. Or it might have been something a lot worse.<br/><br/>Hatcher checked his watch again: half past. Another glance at the door confirmed his suspicion that he'd be waiting the full hour--<br/><br/>Wait. There, at the front desk. Hatcher plucked an envelope from the bottom of the pile and tipped its contents onto the table, rifling through a series of summarised dossiers. Each file contained a brief public-record biography of each of his expected guests, along with a copy of their DMV photos and a general description of their professed abilities. He scanned the photos, and...yes. Yes, that was definitely one of the pyschics he was expecting. As he stood, waving from his table to attract their attention, he noticed another one entering the revolving front entrance.<br/><br/>He supposed they must have been anxious to get started. The poor fools clearly had no idea what they would soon be facing...