Chapter 17 - The Feline InfiltrationElsie scrambled down from her small chair by the window the moment she heard the squeak.
She pattered across the hardwood floor in her wool socks, skidded to a halt in front of the orange kitten, and stared down at it with the same clinical, level gaze her mother used on syndicate capos.
The kitten didn't run. It puffed its tail out to twice its normal size, let out a tiny, raspy hiss that sounded like a deflating bicycle tire, and lunged forward to bat playfully at Elsie’s shoelace.
"He's dirty," Elsie announced solemnly, looking up at Julian. "He smells like wet garbage."
"A distinct improvement over Bennett Cole," Julian noted dryly, walking over to inspect the newcomer. He knelt down beside the tiny creature, poking it gently with his finger. The kitten immediately grabbed Julian’s finger with four sets of needle-sharp claws and began chewing on his knuckle with ferocious determination.
Rex let out another low, mournful sigh, dropped his heavy head onto his paws, and closed his eyes as if refusing to witness the ultimate degradation of his household status.
"Where on earth did it come from?" Camille asked, crossing her arms as she looked down at the tiny intruder.
"The perimeter sensors didn't flag anything," Julian muttered, carefully untangling his bleeding knuckle from the kitten's death grip. "Either our security grid is getting old, or this creature crawled through the drainage culvert beneath the west gate."
"A drainage culvert," Camille repeated, a faint, amused smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "So it's a criminal trespasser with a background in underground tunneling."
"Naturally," Julian stood up, wiping a speck of mud off his bespoke sleeve. "Every good estate needs at least one wildcard to keep the staff on their toes. What are we going to call it?"
Elsie picked up the orange kitten with the practiced ease of someone who had once washed a Belgian Malinois with a thumb-sized bar of soap. The kitten immediately buried its head into the collar of her sweater and began to purr like a small, vibrating chainsaw.
"His name is General," Elsie declared, looking directly at Julian. "General Mustard."
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Julian looked at the tiny, flea-ridden ball of fur, then down at the massive, eighty-pound war dog sighing in defeat on the rug, and finally at Camille, whose eyes were shining with undisguised warmth.
"General Mustard it is," Julian said solemnly. "Welcome to the syndicate, General."
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