Zik stepped forward, into the line of fire.  At last.  The anarchic interference.  The scam netmails.  The insufferable [i]jokes[/i].  It would be so easy.  So [i]easy[/i] to end them all.

But he hesitated.

The Sur-Clan was [i]smiling.[/i]

Why was he smiling?  He shouldn't be smiling.  He was outmatched!  This was Omus Vol's domain.  He held all the cards!  He [i]owned[/i] the entire deck!  

  "What?--" Short spoke up in protest as Zik's performance went on. 

Vol was paralyzed.  Snared in a labyrinth of second guesses.  He had lost this game too many times to simply brush this off.  Zik [i]knew[/i] something.  The Sur-Clan knew something [i]he[/i] didn't.  Paranoia overtook him.  The pressure suit's lenses stared straight ahead in blank, silent terror.

  "No, that's--"
 
What was it?  Had the guns been reprogrammed?  Were they training themselves on Vol's back even now, their ammunition replaced with cream pies?  

  "Oh, for--"

He was setting up Vol's secretary.  But [i]why?[/i]  What was his grand gambit, his endgame?  What nefarious and circuitous plot was he hatching?  This had to be only the first step.  Where was the pitfall?

  "Listen, pal--"

[i]Fool![/i] one half of his mind asserted, [i]it was a bluff!  He has to be bluffing![/i]  

  "I don't even--"

[i]But what if he wasn't?[/i] shrieked the other half in borderline panic.  It was just possible that Zik was playing some hideous game of reverse psychology.  [i]Anything[/i] Vol did might be the wrong move!

  "You can't possibly think--"
 
She was cut off again and again as the assault leader delivered his next line, prancing and pirouetting like an exotic dancer made of LIES.  As her protests became more vigorous and Vol's Zik-induced paranoia reached a fever pitch, the arms dealer rallied, laying his hands down on the desk and leaning forward.  This charade had gone on long enough.  The eyes of the Dashers and his own people were upon him.  It was time to fold, or to call.  And Omus Vol did not fold.

"[i]*sssssssst*[/i] ...I don't know what kind of [i]game[/i] you think you're playing, Sur-Clan, but--"

The doors slammed open again, packed with T'Loak's personal guard, bristling with heavy weaponry.

"VOL!" bellowed the leader.

"It was her!" Omus blurted, pointing both stubby claws at his (former) secretary.

The woman threw up her hands.  "AW, COMEON!"

The armored mercenaries took up positions along the walls, crouching and leveling their weapons.  "It's over, kid!  We know everything!  Aria wants to talk to you.  [i]Slowly.[/i]"

"You fat, backstabbing piece of Elcor crap!" Short pointed a skinny, accusing finger at Vol before rounding on the Salarian, "And [i]you![/i]  Don't think I don't know you were behind this!  You two think you can just set me up and hang me out to dry?  You'll be sorry.  You'll both be [i]very sorry![/i]"

There was a thunderous biotic detonation, an explosion of reinforced metal, and a fleeing secretary, pursued by Aria's hounds.  Vol stood rigid as the dust slowly settled.  And then he gradually stepped out from behind the desk, simmering.  He spread his arms, forcing a glacially cheery tone.

"[i]*hsssst*[/i] ...My dear [i]friends[/i]," he wheezed, "How... [i]good[/i] it is to see you again.  [i]*hffshhh*[/i] ...If you will just give me a moment to... [i]*hffff*[/i]  ...call my number [i]two[/i] secretary and... transfer some [i]assets...[/i]  Whilst I prepare for your..."

Omus glared murderously at Zik.  His teeth grit so hard behind the sculpted respirator it made the speakers vibrate.

"...[i]Adventures[/i]."

The crooked portrait fell from the wall with a weak [i]thump.[/i]