The padded walls and acoustic ceiling tiles gobbled ambient noise with frightening efficiency, so the chime of a bell was more than startling. Half the lights were off, shadows plying their trade against vacant workstations along one side of the extensive corridor that stretched from the server room to the elevator alcove—where a thin slice of light spilled into the hallway, as if one of the bays stood open.
“Hello?” the guard called after a long period of unsettling silence. “Anybody there?”
No answer returned, but the light remained; and when the quiet stretched out like taffy, growing stickier and refusing to break, he stood. “Hello?”
The silence only got louder, and nerves tickled the back of his neck. Finally, he slid the pistol from his holster and began creeping down the hall, wondering if he should be calling for backup—wondering if he’d ever live down calling for backup because no one answered him when he said “hello.”
Reaching the elevator bank, his eyes went wide.
Sprawled across the floor was the body of a young woman, lying half in and half out of an open elevator. Dressed in a charcoal skirt and lavender blouse, her ash-blond hair was a thick tangle obscuring her face.
Dropping to one knee, the guard put his hand on her arm. “Miss? Miss! What happened? Are you okay?”
When the body sprang suddenly to life under his touch, he was caught completely by surprise.
* * *
The advantage to acoustic tiles is that they’re easily lifted out of place; the disadvantage, beyond just how ugly they are, is that they’re also precariously insubstantial.
The second the elevator door opened, Leif boosted Joaquin up, allowing the trained acrobat to dislodge one of the fiberglass and vinyl squares and hoist himself into the dusty space above the ceiling grid. Despite his light weight and slim build, the boy still had to cling to metal and PVC pipes that zigzagged around the lighting fixtures to keep from plummeting through the flimsy tiles to the hallway below.
He could hear the guard calling out as he inched along, could picture his boyfriend on the ground in the alcove, waiting for a man with a gun to come find him. It made Joaquin’s stomach twist into an ice-cold pretzel, but he kept pushing forward. Access to the server room required a level of security clearance they couldn’t duplicate, so their only hope of getting in was for Joaquin to bypass the door entirely and drop in from the ceiling.
And he would. If his sweaty grip on the pipes didn’t give out before he got there.
* * *
“Miss? Miss! What happened? Are you okay?”
Vaulting into action, Leif flipped over, legs swinging. Drawing on a decade of ballet and eighteen months of interdisciplinary martial arts training, he snatched at the guard’s gun hand while simultaneously wrapping his thighs around the man’s neck. Nothing strengthens your quads and adductors like endless hours of barre, pliés, and pirouettes—and simply by flexing his muscles he had the man’s oxygen supply cut off immediately.
Eyes bulging, the guard fumbled for control of his weapon, but Leif had the safety blocked with his thumb; bucking and squirming, the man struggled to breathe, eyes growing glassy and unfocused as his scrabbling fingers slowly lost their strength.
Leif didn’t want to go too far. In an ideal world, he’d have a dart pistol to play with; but Margo had only been able to obtain three, and they were needed elsewhere. So instead, he waited until the second the guard’s eyes rolled back, his body slumping into unconsciousness, and then released his hold on the man’s neck.
“Server guard is down,” he reported into his comm, zip-tying the man’s wrists and ankles together. The guy was breathing deeply, face slack and limbs heavy, and Leif carefully stripped his weapon down and scattered the parts around the fortieth floor.
He was just finishing when a deafening wail split the air.
* * *
The second he knew the guard was out of commission, Joaquin abandoned the concept of stealth entirely and began slithering through the ductwork as fast as he could. By the time he reached a spot above the server room, he was sweaty and breathless, his green dress ruined. His arms aching from the journey, he carefully lifted one of the ceiling tiles and peered into the room below. A gust of blessedly cold air rushed up to greet him, and he almost groaned with relief.
“I see you,” Davon cooed into his ear. “Nice work, Anita Stiffwon.”
Leaning down through the opening, Joaquin scanned the room—the rows of hulking processors, great boxes of metal that hummed and blinked—until he found the surveillance camera, and gave it a little wave. And then he froze. Past the camera, mounted to the wall and flashing a lazy, red light, was a small, square panel. It was half light switch, half bike reflector, and all bad news. Hissing into his comm, Joaquin forced out, “Motion sensors.”
“What?”
“There are motion sensors in the server room!” Now that he’d spotted the one, he quickly found two more. “How come nobody mentioned this?”
The line was silent for a moment, and then Margo’s voice returned. “I didn’t know. They might be new, or … well, Castor’s the only one who could have warned me, and he’s clearly got his own agenda.”
“So what now?” It was Axel. “Do we abort?”
“No.” Joaquin surprised himself with his determination. “We’ll never get another shot at this. Dior, is this anything you can control from down there?”
“Sorry, girl, but I have access to the cameras and that’s it.”
There was a longer silence, and then Margo spoke. “We knew there was a chance we’d trip over one of Brand’s security measures, and we knew this would be a tight window.” She sighed. “I can’t be objective about this. It’s up to you guys if—”
“I’m going in,” Joaquin decided—and before anyone could change his mind, he swung his legs through the gap in the ceiling and dropped to the floor.
Before he even touched down, the alarm started to howl.
42
The alert wasn’t confined to the fortieth floor; sirens whooped on the executive level as well, and the cohort of armed men outside Brand’s office at the other end of the hall raised their voices to compete with it.
“Shit!” Margo exclaimed under her breath. “Shit.”
“Hey, Miss Anthropy?” Davon’s words came through her earpiece. “The outside line is blowing up down here, and your pals on fifty-four are demanding an explanation over the shared frequency. What’s the play?”
“Don’t answer,” she replied immediately. “Stay by the monitors as long as you can, but be ready. The windows down there are bulletproof, and when the cops get here they’ll establish a perimeter first, so we still have some time.”
“I…” Davon exhaled. “Not my favorite thing to hear, but okay. Roger all that.”
“Margo, are you sure?” Dallas arched a worried eyebrow. “You could tell the police it’s a false alarm, and, like … trick the guards into heading for the wrong floor or something. It could buy us some extra time.”
She shook her head. “That’s not the police on the outside line, it’s an off-site monitoring service; they’ll notify the cops, and unless Davon or Axel can produce the current password out of thin air, nothing they say over the phone will stop that from happening.” Margo jerked a thumb at the door. “As for the rented guerillas out there, we’d get two minutes, tops, before they realized they’d been tricked. There are six guards up here and three sweepers making rounds throughout the building; that’s more than enough to cover forty and fifty-four, while more armed dudes go guns-blazing into the lobby.”
And if they regained control of the monitors, all of them would be sitting ducks.
“Our best chance is for Dior and Liesl to go defense, and you and me to go offense,” she stated, loading the third dart pistol. “You up for that?”
Cracking his knuckles, Dallas answered with a wolfish grin. “I’m feeling pretty offensive tonight. Let’s rock and roll.”
* * *
; “Would you please stop pacing?” Seated before the security monitors, Davon spoke through clenched jaws, his expression studiously casual while he fitted a pair of brass knuckles onto one fist. “You are wearing me out, girl!”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Turns out shrieking sirens aren’t great for my anxiety!” Axel replied tartly. He’d been stomping nervous laps since the alarms began, and over Davon’s shoulder, he could see action unfolding on the tiny screens—his little brother searching for the right server, Leif dragging the body of an unconscious guard, armed men in different parts of the building barking into their radios. “I just wish we were doing something, you know? Besides waiting around for ex-military dudes to come down here and open fire, I mean.”
“We are doing something.” Davon gestured at the matrix of camera feeds. “We’re the all-seeing eye!”
Axel couldn’t resist a glance through the massive windows fronting Grand Avenue, at the traffic that swept past—waiting for police lights to come paint the street red and blue. They weren’t even remotely “all-seeing,” and Axel’s stomach twisted into knots that would have confounded a sailor as he thought of all the ways things could still go wrong.
Shutting his eyes, he blew out some air. He was trying to be more positive. If he’d gained nothing else from his visit to Terminal Island, he’d at least realized that where he’d thought clinging to anger had strengthened him, it had done the opposite. His new goal was to reject negativity. But still. “I just wish we were fucking shit up! You know how much I hate sitting around and doing nothing.”
“Would you stop saying that?” Davon shot him an indignant glare. “Whenever some dumbass in a movie says, ‘I wish things were more exciting,’ all the shit hits the fan!”
As if on cue, the walkie-talkie resting on the console sparked to life, a tinny voice echoing through the atrium. “Sweeper team: Lobby’s not answering their radio, and we can’t raise Espinosa on level forty, either. Two of you need to head downstairs, and one of you better check those servers. Guns out, boys; expect trouble.”
With a withering look, Davon crossed his arms. “Happy now?”
“You know something?” Axel perked up as he pulled Margo’s retractable baton from his shoulder bag, extending it with a flick. “I kind of am.”
* * *
His king-sized mattress was from Hästens, and was without question the most comfortable thing he’d ever laid down on. It had been ridiculously expensive, but every time he brought someone home he could brag about the horsehair stuffing, hand stitching, and the Swedish royals who refused to sleep on anything else. It made the one-hundred-and-sixty-thousand-dollar price tag worth it.
But for all that, Addison Brand hadn’t slept peacefully in more than a month. It turned out that once you started poking at your choices and checking for sore spots, you found them everywhere. And the pain was horribly addictive.
At the time, allowing Margo Manning to fuck off to Italy had seemed a wise move. Harland’s death was still making headlines, and if she’d died so soon afterward, it would have invited sensationalism. There’d have been news specials, books, maybe a TV movie. But she was just another airhead socialite, and he had her cornered—or so he’d believed.
Now he couldn’t stop thinking he should’ve had her killed after all, drowned her in a canal or arranged a deadly mugging—or simply handed her over to that bloodthirsty maniac, Petrenko. Now he’d waited too long. She was back in town, planning a coordinated move against him, and for the first time in his life he felt vulnerable.
Once more, Addison cursed himself for pouring that glass of whiskey. He’d been so giddy about Harland’s collapse, so proud of himself for the plan that was finally paying off, that he’d gotten cocky. He’d fed Margo the same poison that killed her father because it pleased his sense of perversity, and now he was paying for it.
When the Yang kid told him Margo knew the remaining samples of the toxin were in his home, he’d nearly choked. Someone was feeding her information, and until he knew for certain how much had been said—and by whom—he was caught in a wretched spiral of self-recrimination. She had to die.
Repeatedly, he had considered destroying the poison, but always balked. The day was approaching when all of Harland’s people would be purged from the company and only loyalists would remain; when scientists he trusted could analyze the toxin, determine how the genetic targeting worked, and re-create it—for the highest bidder.
The electronic chime of a phone call pierced the thin membrane of his restless, fitful sleep, and he jolted upright. Instantly he knew. It was a full week early, and yet without even glancing at the display, he knew who was calling and why.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Brand? This is Kelly, from Sloane Security and—”
“I know who it is. What’s happened?”
“An alarm has been activated at Manning. My computers show a motion sensor was tripped roughly two minutes ago, and several guards cannot be reached over the radio. The police have been notified, but—”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Mr. Brand—sir, I would strongly advise against your heading to the scene until we have more information. We still don’t know—”
He terminated the call abruptly, ignoring Kelly’s words, and heaved a few deep breaths. Margo. Of course. Of course that surf-rat Yang kid had lied to him. Of course.
Dropping to the floor, he pulled a box out from beneath his expensive bed and popped it open. He wanted to be there when the police learned Margo Manning was the burglar. He would be Johnny-on-the-spot with a dazed tale of her violent and grief-fueled visit to his office—maybe embellishing it a little with some off-the-wall threats and accusations. And he would deliver it tearfully, while standing over her dead body.
From the box, he withdrew his nickel-plated Luger and made sure it was loaded. Then his gaze drifted to the window, through which he had a clear view of the Manning Tower. While that pretentious dullard Harland had insisted on living in Malibu, Addison had taken a penthouse apartment in a building in the heart of downtown, minutes from the office. If he hurried, he might even beat the police.
Tonight, Mad Margo had a date with Death.
* * *
Back against the wall, Margo looked Dallas in the eye. “Ready? We only get one try, so I hope you’ve got a strong arm.”
He grinned. “Remember how long I held you up while we were in that kitchen—”
“Let’s not talk about the kitchen,” Margo interrupted hastily, warmth once again flooding the pit of her stomach. “I can’t afford to be distracted right now.”
“Oh? Thinking about our little liaison distracts you?” He pronounced “liaison” with an exaggerated and deliberately terrible French accent, and Margo had to clap a hand over her mouth to keep from guffawing out loud. “You know, I’ve been working out since then, and I bet I have even more stamina—”
“Stop, I’m begging you,” she gasped through her fingers. “Let’s focus on getting not-killed first, and then maybe later we can talk about how much stamina you have.”
“Okay.” He sighed a little, examining the pair of black plastic cylinders he held in his hands. “But I’m telling you, it’s a lot. Like when your favorite song comes on in the club, but it’s a remix, and the intro goes on for like thirty minutes before they get to hook? That’s me. I’m the extended dance remix of boning.”
Margo had to put both hands over her mouth this time. “Why … why … is this … turning me on?”
“Because girls like when guys talk dirty?” Dallas swiveled his hips. “I’m so good at boning they gave me an honorary degree in forensic archaeology. I’m so good they call me Napoleon Bone-aplenty. And I hope you don’t like boneless chicken wings, because—”
This time she put her fingers over his lips, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. When she could breathe again, she said, “I’m so good that scientists measure bone density on a scale of Margos.”
And then they were k
issing, giggling into each other’s mouths while the alarms squalled, and it was totally inappropriate—and very perfect. Finally, forcing herself to stop, she murmured, “Get those grenades ready to fly, Napoleon, because it’s go time.” Into her comm, she announced, “Dior, we’re about to move. What’s it look like out there?”
Davon’s voice came back a moment later. “Six men, armed like Robocop, but right now they’re huddled up in the outer office, so the coast is as clear as it’s gonna get. I’d hang out and watch, but … we’re about to have company.”
“Go. And watch your backs, okay?” Turning to Dallas, she said, “Now.”
When the door opened, she dove out headfirst, somersaulting across the hallway to take cover behind a wall on the opposite side. Dallas followed, and together they crouched beneath a metal fuse box, listening carefully. Voices floated in the distance, strangled by the alarm, and they waited a sweaty eternity to find out if they’d been spotted.
When no footsteps came pounding down the hallway, Dallas slipped out from their hiding spot. Peering around the corner, heart thumping at the base of her throat, Margo watched him prance up the corridor, his footsteps obscured by the siren. She could see the entrance to the outer office, where Harland’s assistant used to sit—where Brand’s men were even now debating their strategy for handling the intruders.
Hunkering behind an upholstered partition that had once been someone’s workspace wall—before Addison Brand had the executive floor emptied out—Dallas activated the cylinders in his hands. Rising up, he hurled them through the air, end over end across the abandoned cubicles, until they landed in the assistant’s office.
A shout came up from the guards, and Margo ducked back, yanking open the fuse box to reveal the breakers that controlled the power for the floor. As the cylinders detonated, with an ear-popping bang and a coruscation of fierce light that rippled across darkened windows, she slipped her night vision sunglasses into place. The explosives were stun grenades, nonlethal incendiaries designed to cause temporary blindness and auditory distortion—to render the private security team disoriented for just long enough.
Death Prefers Blondes Page 36
