Death Prefers Blondes

by Caleb Roehrig

  “Freeze.”

  Leif’s voice, crackling through the comm, brought Joaquin to a stumbling halt. At the top of the steps, he’d ducked into a sewing room decorated in gaudy shades of pink, and from there into a self-consciously masculine smoking room, the walls hung with hunting scenes and antique rifles. Here, moonlight slashed through the windows, making crystal decanters of amber liquid glow, while Joaquin stood paralyzed beside an antique globe.

  “Two big guys are headed for the smoking room from the salon. Go back.”

  Joaquin hesitated. His destination was the drawing room, just ahead through a connecting door; he could see it. But the sharp hiss of approaching whispers in the salon made the hair on his neck rise, and he pivoted, darting back into the sewing room’s rosy embrace. Plastering himself to the wall, he waited, breathing through his mouth.

  “Shit. They’re looking around. I don’t know if they heard you, or if—wait.”

  His heart thumping hard, Joaquin swallowed, eyeing the door to the rear passage and breezeway—but that was a dead end. Of course, the castle was nothing but dead ends; what made this part of the plan so dangerous was that there was literally no way out for him. Not yet. Holding his breath, he focused on the quiet conversation in the other room.

  “Okay, wait. They’re just … they’re going for the bar cart.” Leif’s words were drenched in cool relief. “They’re bumming a drink of the boss’s whiskey. I think you’re safe.”

  Joaquin stood frozen for a handful of endless minutes, listening to the world’s longest story about the world’s most boring bar fight, every muscle tensed just in case—until the heavy footsteps at long last sounded again, this time receding.

  “They’re heading back into the salon,” Leif announced, and Joaquin exhaled again, the back of his neck slick with sweat. “Give it one more minute … okay, the coast is clear. Move that cute little butt.”

  Joaquin almost tripped as he hurried back through the smoking room, suddenly feeling Leif’s eyes on him—suddenly very aware of his ass. Wherever the cameras were mounted, he hoped they couldn’t see the stupid grin on his face.

  The drawing room was appointed with raw silk wallpaper, pastoral landscapes, and a fireplace big enough to stable a pony. Fresh wood was stacked in the grate, but the hearth and firebox—subject to meticulous, routine cleanings—were both pristine. Crawling in on his knees, Joaquin reached up to open the damper and clear the flue.

  Designed long before the days of central heating, almost every room in the castle had a fireplace for warmth. Now in LA, they were mostly ornamental—a touch of continental class—but in an interview with Vanity Fair when the reconstruction had first been completed, Petrenko bragged about preserving their functionality. Most were built back-to-back, arranged overtop each other floor by floor, so that the smoke from all eighty fireplaces vented out through only fourteen chimneys.

  And the same chimney that served the drawing room, also two floors up, served Arkady Petrenko’s bedroom.

  Joaquin shrugged off his pack—it was going to be a tight fit—and tied it to a length of cord. Securing the other end to his belt, he snapped on his night vision glasses and slithered up into the narrow column of brick and mortar.

  * * *

  Through the grainy feed on the monitors, Joaquin’s pack looked like a fat nylon spider, dangling beneath him as he inched up the chimney and out of sight. The next minutes were critical, and Leif tried not to think about how there were no cameras inside Petrenko’s bedroom—that he wouldn’t be able to help if anything went wrong.

  The guard at his feet was still unconscious, and Leif continued to suck clean oxygen through his rebreather, eyes turning to the feed from the grounds. He had a clear view of the rear gate, and could see the guards lurking there, but no sign yet of Axel or Davon.

  Removing his mask just long enough to activate his comm, he advised, “Hold tight for a minute, guys. Anita Stiffwon is on her way up to the nosebleed section now.”

  “Standing by,” Margo’s reply came, crisp and professional as always, and Leif idly wondered what it would take to disturb her sangfroid.

  He wondered if Axel was even half as collected just then, knowing what Joaquin was about to attempt all alone.

  * * *

  Crouched in the brush, hands clammy inside his gloves, Axel was about two seconds away from pissing himself. That rustling sound was definitely a fucking rattlesnake.

  * * *

  The chimney was remarkably clean, with only traces of soot, and Joaquin wondered if they were ever used at all. Hand-and footholds were easy to find on the rough brick around him, and the ascent to the third floor went even faster than he expected.

  Once he was in position, feet braced against the walls, he peered down the angled channel that guided smoke from Petrenko’s private fireplace into the chimney column. Reeling up his pack, he drew out the surgical tubing, still fitted tightly onto the canister’s nozzle; then, scarcely daring to breathe, he reached down and very slowly eased the damper open just enough to feed the hose through and into the room below.

  They had no idea what the actual dimensions of the master suite were—how many modifications might have been made since the Vanity Fair piece had been written, how many windows might be open to the night air—and so Joaquin simply cranked the valve all the way open and flooded the room with anesthesia. Rebreather in place, he waited, watching the needle on the gage plummet to zero.

  Only when the canister was completely empty did Joaquin ease the damper the rest of the way open, nerves buzzing like an alarm clock. He could see into the firebox, the pale stone flickering with the unmistakable glow of a television set. Newsy-sounding voices murmured quietly in Russian, and a faint snore rattled the air. Dizzy with nerves, Joaquin slid feetfirst into the Petrenkos’ fireplace—rebreather in place—and entered the bedroom.

  Despite molded ceilings and soaring windows, the suite was dishearteningly garish: cornices gleamed with gold leaf, personalized frescos covered the walls, and a Roman statue loomed over a velvet settee. Sprawled in a four-poster canopy bed, faces slack and colorless, were Arkady and Olga Petrenko. It was only the twinned rumble of their breathing that kept Joaquin from thinking they were dead.

  The room held a fortune in goods, many that could be easily carried out, but Joaquin had no time for browsing; he was there to get two things only, and the first of them he found in plain sight on Petrenko’s armoire. Then, skittering to the bedside, he pulled out Margo’s fingerprint duplicator—a small device with a sensor plate to read loops and whorls, and a miniature 3-D printer with enough liquid latex to produce two exact copies.

  Petrenko lay on his back, breath wheezing slowly in and out. Jumpy and anxious, revved on adrenaline, Joaquin carefully disentangled the billionaire’s right hand from the sheets, and held his index finger to the sensor. This part was do-or-die—literally. The master suite was flanked by the bedrooms of the couple’s personal bodyguards, and it was well-known that Arkady kept a loaded gun within reach at all times. But neither sleeper stirred as a red light slid across the duplicator’s screen, reading the print, its machinery warming in the boy’s hand.

  Petrenko snorted loudly then, and Joaquin jolted back. The man’s mouth slopped open and shut a few times, his eyelids bunching for an awful, spine-tingling moment … and then he sagged back into sleep with a blubbering sigh. The duplicator chose that moment to give a soft click, and the boy took only long enough to make sure he had two clean copies of Arkady’s print—and then all but fled for the door, twisting open the numerous locks and darting out into the gloomy upper hall, his heart clenched like a fist.

  18

  “I’ve got the prints!” Joaquin’s voice, breathless with pride and disbelief, sounded over the comm; and hearing it, knowing his brother was alive and well, was enough to make Axel slump against the snake-infested hillside with gratitude to the powers that be. “I repeat: I have the prints. Phase One is complete; go, Phase Two!”

  Davon
didn’t waste a second; with easy strides, he marched straight up the path for the back gate, his blue wig shining like a gas flame in the moonlight. The approach was deliberately noisy, and two guards were already waiting when he reached the trailhead, glaring suspiciously through the iron bars.

  “This is private property,” the guard in front snapped brusquely, his version of a greeting. “I’m gonna have to ask you to turn around.”

  “Private property!” Davon exclaimed, sounding impressed. “You mean the whole canyon? Or just this side of it?”

  “Ma’am, this isn’t a joke.” The guard came closer to the gate, a hand resting on the butt of his gun, and Axel tensed. This was a delicate dance—the second guard was still too far back, lost in the shadows, and Davon needed to draw him out for the plan to work; but if the first guard pulled his weapon, they were done before they started.

  “I know it’s not a joke; it’s why I’m not laughing.” Davon stood back from the gate, but leaned forward theatrically, making a show of peering through the bars. “Who lives here, anyway? Is it an actor? I bet it’s an actor. Is it Iron Man?”

  The second guard shuffled forward a bit, but not close enough, and the first guard’s hand closed on the hilt of his weapon. “Ma’am, if you do not disperse now, you will be in violation of trespass laws.”

  “Show me,” Davon said immediately.

  “Huh?” The first guard screwed up his face in confusion. The second guard still hung back, and Axel huffed impatiently. Come on, asshole. Just two more steps.

  “Show me the deed to the property where it says I’m trespassing.” Davon crossed his arms over his fake breasts. “How do I know you own this part of the hillside when your wall stops over there?”

  The first guard was quickly turning the same red color as Axel’s wig. “Ma’am you will turn around and vacate this area immediately. This is your last warning!”

  “Excuse you?” Davon stepped to the side, clearing Axel’s line of sight. The second guard was finally approaching the bars, and Dior Galore was turning her act up to eleven. “I don’t care if you do work for Iron Man, you don’t tell me what to do! You let Mr. High-and-Mighty up there know that if this is how he treats his fans, his ass will be sponsoring car dealerships in Fresno!”

  The second guard stepped into the light at last, just as the first guard drew his gun, shouting, “You need to cease and desist and clear these premises immediately!”

  Axel hesitated. But only for a second. Easing up, he lifted his hands, a Taser clutched in each one; with a steady exhale, he fired. There was a snap, and four metal prongs flew across the clearing and hit home. It was a hell of a shot: fifteen feet, past the bushes and between the iron bars of the gate, catching both men simultaneously—and Axel absolutely allowed himself to gloat when both guards dropped, bodies locking up and then going limp.

  Davon spun on his heel. “Are you brain damaged? That dude had a fucking gun on me! What if he pulled the trigger when he started seizing?”

  “He never took the safety off,” Axel replied smugly as he climbed onto the trailhead.

  “What if that’s because the safety was never on in the first place?”

  “Girls, stop,” Margo cooed as she trotted up the sloping path to join them. “You’re both pretty.” Activating her comm, she announced, “This is Miss Anthropy at the back gate, requesting entry.”

  “Ah yes, Miss Anthropy!” Leif’s voice came back. “You are indeed on our list tonight!” There was a buzz and a click, and the iron gate slid open. “Welcome to the party.”

  Quickly, they bound and gagged the guards, locking them into separate stalls in Krasavitsa’s barn. Then they gathered up any radios, cell phones, and weapons, and hurled them from the trailhead into the tangled darkness of the hillside. It wouldn’t stop them from alerting their comrades or rearming themselves if they managed to get free, but it would slow them down.

  Looking toward the castle, its lights sparkling from far across the vast lawns, Margo set her jaw. “Okay. This is where shit gets real. In case we’re separated, just remember: the safest route is from the band shell to the hedge maze to the south wall. There’s very little cover on that last stretch, so stay low and stay alert.”

  “Got it.” Davon nodded, and Axel signaled his agreement.

  “All right, then.” Margo activated the comm one more time. “We’re moving in.”

  * * *

  His skin tingling all over, Joaquin’s feet barely touched the floor as he darted down the stairs from the servants’ corridor to the basement. Suddenly he could understand cliff divers and bungee jumpers risking their lives for nothing but the thrill of it—adrenaline was an incredible drug.

  Hurrying past the corridor to the guardroom, he blew a kiss to the surveillance camera. A moment later, his comm crackled. “What was that?”

  “A preview,” Joaquin replied, feeling unbeatable, capable of anything.

  “A preview of what?”

  “Kisses aren’t the only thing I know how to blow.”

  There was a moment of silence just long enough for him to worry that he’d gone too far, and then Leif crowed with laughter. “Careful, you might have to put your money where your mouth is—so to speak.”

  “Why, Electra Shoxx, was that a proposition?” There was that adrenaline rush again, everything around him a little more real than real.

  “Maybe,” Leif answered coyly. “Maybe we need a Truth or Dare rematch.”

  Joaquin was grinning ear to ear by the time he reached the old servants’ entrance—a door just off the kitchen, designed to let “the help” come and go discreetly. Made of solid wood, it looked damn near indestructible, and was alarmed to boot. “I’m in position now, waiting to hear the secret password.”

  Margo’s voice returned immediately. “Open sesame.”

  “Alarm disengaged,” Leif announced a beat later, and Joaquin undid the dead bolts, heaving the massive door open to find Margo, Axel, and Davon waiting outside. They slipped into the kitchen, a cavernous space filled with stainless steel equipment and a huge wood-burning oven.

  “How’s life in the castle?” Davon asked, gazing around at the massive refrigeration units, the tub-like sinks, the hanging rack that dripped with bright copper pots and pans.

  “Productive.” Unable to hide his smug expression, Joaquin gave Margo and Axel each a copy of Petrenko’s fingerprint; and then he handed over the other item he’d lifted from the bedroom—the man’s wallet.

  With a greedy smile, Margo flipped it open and fished out two identical electronic key cards. “We’re in business.” Turning to Davon, she said, “You know what to do. We’re going to make this as quick as we can, so we’ll see you soon.”

  Saluting, Davon vanished into the hallway, heading on soundless feet for the stairs.

  To Axel and Joaquin, Margo arched a painted eyebrow. “Who wants to go try on some Czarist jewelry?”

  * * *

  Margo and the Moreau brothers had been inside the castle before, and together with every interview and human interest story they could find that referenced its layout, they’d sketched a floor plan for the other boys. Davon had studied the blueprint so many times he could see it on the back of his eyelids, and soon he was in the garage, where the air smelled like home—motor oil and damp concrete and fresh wax. Even with the night vision glasses painting everything that sickly, paranormal green, he shivered when he saw the four magnificent cars before him. In addition to Valentina’s BMW, there was a Mercedes S-Class, a Ferrari, and a gleaming Aston Martin.

  “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,” he sang to himself, “I choose … you.”

  Grinning like a lovesick schoolgirl, he crossed to the Aston Martin, already reaching for the tools in his pack.

  * * *

  There was only one entrance into Petrenko’s turret treasure chamber: an arched doorway blocked by a massive steel shutter, protected by a double-lock mechanism. It was located at the back of the castle’s game room, on one corner of th
e ground floor, where the walls bristled with antlers mounted above framed hunting scenes. Taking up her position left of the door, Margo fixed Petrenko’s print to her right glove.

  “Both key cards need to be inserted simultaneously, or the alarm will go off,” she reminded Axel again. The double lock consisted of two electronic card readers, spaced too far apart for one person to manage alone. “The machines are linked, so when I scan the print, both will activate. I’ll do a three-count, and we go on four.”

  “One, two, three, insert,” Axel confirmed, pasting the second latex print to one of his own gloves. The display cases in the turret room were also secured by biometric locks, but thankfully only required one person to open them.

  Squaring her shoulders, Margo pressed her fake print to a scanner plate beside the card reader. It lit up, glowing first white … and then red.

  ACCESS DENIED.

  Tensing, she adjusted her glove and tried again.

  ACCESS DENIED.

  Fighting the urge to panic, Margo stepped back, trying to calm down while Axel watched her with worried eyes. If the fake prints weren’t good enough to fool the system, then this was the end of the road; they could lift a few thousand dollars’ worth of crap from some of the rooms, just to keep the effort from being a write-off, but they’d taken too many risks to be satisfied with such a paltry payoff.

  Thinking quickly, she reached behind her ear, rubbing the false print against her own skin to coat the latex in natural oils; then she tried again. This time, the sensors on both sides of the door turned a bright green, and relief flooded her veins.

  ACCESS GRANTED.

  “One … two … three…” she counted out loud, and on four, she and Axel slipped their electronic key cards into corresponding slots. A moment later, there was a chunk and a whirr, and the metal shutter slowly rose up from the floor …