by Lyn Forester
Drake joins me on the platform, eyes fixed on the wall. Sweat covers his brow, and he pants through parted lips. He looks better than last time.
“The door’s broken. Hall looks empty.” I take off my jacket, rest it next to my bag, and roll my shoulders. Prickles rise on my bare arms, the ambient temperature dropping fast as the city prepares for night. I reach back and pull the psy-gun from between my shoulder blades.
“Shit, maybe the thieves came back.” Drake shrugs out of his own coat and sets it next to mine. He goes to the door and tugs on it. The crack widens, and he crouches low to peer inside. “Still clear.”
I pass him the second mask when he stands. He takes it and fits it over his nose and mouth, and I do the same with mine.
He pulls the psy-gun from beneath his arm, the lights on the side orange to indicate a heavy-stun setting.
I step to his left and point my weapon at the door, give him a nod. The thin metal bar shrieks in protest as Drake yanks the door open. I step in front, over the bent remains of their attempt at security, and sweep the hall.
Empty.
I move down the hall fast, sticking to the left as Drake covers the right. When the hall corners to the left, I stop to wait for Drake. He taps on my shoulder, his psy-gun visible in my periphery. Quick slide around the corner, and I fire. Caught off guard, the man slumps forward. Drake takes out his startled partner a heartbeat later.
From our visit last night, I know the next hall splits, one direction for Newland’s office, the other to the club stairs. We pause at the paralyzed bodies on the floor, and Drake nudges one man over onto his back. Panicked eyes roll around before focusing on us.
“I don’t recognize him from Newland’s security, but we didn’t see them all last night.” I keep my voice low so it doesn’t carry.
“I don’t remember him either.” Psy-gun pointed at the bend in the hall, Drake runs a hand under the guy’s vest. He shakes his head and turns to the next man on the ground.
When he rolls this one over, I have a vague recollection of him patrolling the casino floor. His clothes are normal, but I think he might be an enforcer. Or he was casing the place.
“Hard to say.” I shrug. “Looks familiar, but he wasn’t wearing a uniform yesterday, either.”
“Newland can sort it out later.” Drake rolls both men back over so they face the ground before he stands to resume his position.
No guards wait in the next hall.
When we turn into the final path to Newland’s office, his security door hangs from its hinges at the end of the hall. Through the opening, I can see a portion of the ransacked office. Papers scatter the floor among small puffs of stuffing.
With quiet steps, I creep to the opening. No one in sight.
Drake, positioned opposite me for a different vantage point, shakes his head.
I exhale through my mouth and swing into the room.
A pipe comes down across my arms, vibrating my bones, and I drop the psy-gun.
Time locks down to heartbeats.
One, pain shoots up my nerves, and I twist and drop, punch forward. Two, my fist connects with the soft bits between the man’s legs. Three, I come up on a burst of speed, knee bent to catch his face as he crumples forward with a shout of pain. Four, his head snaps back, and I grab the bun on top of his head and throw him into the wall.
Five, a rush of air at my back as Drake leaps into the office to cover me.
He checks for immediate danger, verifying I’m fine with a quick glance. Then he moves around the room, looks behind the desk, and comes to my side. “Clear.”
“Newland’s not here.”
I study the man crumpled on the ground. The bun unravels down his back in a silky mass of auburn. Black leggings show off a spectacular set of legs. I recognize this one. “Fuck.”
“Natasha!”
~
“I sent you the message.” Natasha, Gr8 Games’s bouncer, presses an icepack to the side of his face where a red knee-shaped print forms. I missed his nose by an inch.
“What happened, Natasha?” Drake crouches on the floor, hovering over the man.
The last time we’d met, he’d been dressed in five-inch stilettos and a form-hugging skirt. Now, in low-heeled boots and black pants, he seems smaller, more human. His long auburn hair drapes across his muscled shoulders and puddles in his lap.
“You can call me Nate.” He smiles at Drake, then winces and prods his cheek with light fingers. “I haven’t gotten dressed for the night. Hard to ride a disc-bike with the heels on.”
“Whatever you want.” The aphremore detectors in the room read zero contamination, and his mask now hangs around his neck.
He’s a risk taker like that. I refuse to take mine off, and my mouth feels hot from my own breath. So annoying.
The two make dopey eyes at each other until I clear my throat. We don’t have time for their flirting. “So what happened?”
Nate leans his head against the wall to look up at me. If I were nicer, I’d crouch. But the open door makes me nervous, and Drake’s being nice enough for both of us.
“I got here tonight, same time as usual, and checked that the tables were switched over for 8-Ball.” He pauses a moment to shift the ice bag. “Then I came to check in before changing. Usually, Mr. Clark is on lookout, but he wasn’t there. Then I saw the office and called you.”
“Why didn’t you call the blue guard?” The place between my shoulder blades itches, and I step to the open door to peek outside.
Two guards stand at the end of the hall, broad-shouldered backs creating a human barrier. They haven’t moved from their post since they arrived late to the scene and Natasha had sent them away. A third was dispatched to check on the ones we took down at the rear exit.
“We pay blue guards to not come here. Besides, isn’t this linked to The Hut break in? You’re handling that case, too, right?” He glances between us, and a frown twists at his lips. “Black Corp is keeping this internal, aren’t they?”
“There was no immediate danger. You did the right thing,” Drake soothes as he reaches out to rub the other man’s silk-covered shoulder.
Nate relaxes under his hand, leans into the massage. “Do you know who’s doing this?”
“We haven’t been able to get in touch with The Hut’s owner yet, but we spoke with his cousin. He didn’t think Troy had any enemies.” Drake glances around the ransacked room. “Now the same has happened here. What would the thieves gain from robbing both locations?”
I step away from the door, past the ripped apart chairs, their upholstery slashed so stuffing bleeds out across the floor. Glass crunches beneath my shoes, and the smell of whiskey fills the office. Despite the mask, the fumes burn inside my nose.
The display case against the wall remains unharmed, the knickknacks untouched under the display lights. I ignore the throb in my arms where the bar hit and lift down a human skull. Painted blue, clear crystals sparkle in its eye sockets. With it in hand, I walk back to the pair on the floor and hold it out to Nate.
“Where does the camera feed to?”
“What camera?” Nate’s hand drops to his lap, the ice bag cradled in his lap as he stares up at me.
I shake the skull. “This camera. Where’s it feed to?”
“Mr. Newland’s strict about no cameras in the office.” He shakes his head in denial and winces. “Boss is super paranoid about security. He writes his ledger by hand so he can’t be hacked.”
So the camera will be short range, like the ones I used for Tony’s Delicatessen.
I pick at the jewel set into the right eye, trying to get a nail into the seam. My nail bends, but the crystal won’t budge. I go to the desk, then search the floor for the missing contents.
Drake murmurs something low before he joins me. “What are you looking for?”
“There was a letter opener last night.” I move behind the desk and lift the chair off the ground, setting it back on its feet.
Nate groans and ris
es, hand against the wall for support. Drake leaves the hunt to return to the man’s side, and wraps an arm around his waist. They slowly walk to the desk, and Nate props a hip against it.
“He keeps his ledger in the left drawer with his pen. The letter opener should be there, too.” He cradles his temple, careful of the bruise, and squints. His head must be pounding right now.
My arms hurt, too, so I don’t feel bad.
I sit down in the chair and tug on the drawer. Locked. No place for a fingerprint scanner or key, either. I run my fingertips under the edge of the desk. The switch should be somewhere easy to access from a sitting position, but unobtrusive. Newland and I are the same height so our range should be the same. I check the legs next and find the button just above my knee on the right. A whirl in the faux wood made to resemble a knot.
The drawer pops out, empty.
I open it so I can see the back, then pull it from the desk and flip it over. No hidden cache on the bottom, either. Pulling my palm-port from my pocket, I turn the screen on to light the hole and bend to check inside.
Yep, also empty.
I put my palm-port away and stare at the skull. It looks expensive. I glance at Nate, who leans against the desk with his eyes closed. Drake hovers next to the man, hand on his arm. I lift the skull, slam it onto the tabletop. It makes a satisfying bang and cracks open down the center.
The men jump, Drake reaching for his psy-gun as the security guards appear in the doorway.
“We’re fine. Return to your posts,” I call to the guards. They wait for Nate to confirm my command before leaving us alone once more.
Whatever.
I pry the two halves of the skull apart, pull the hidden device from behind the right eye, and hold it up. “So where would this camera feed to?”
Nate stares at it, wide eyed, and shakes his head. “No idea. Not to the security room.”
“Can you hack it?” Drake leans forward to inspect the tiny device.
“Yeah, but I’ll need my bag.” I glance at Drake, who doesn’t move. “It’s on the fire escape.”
He glances up at me with narrowed eyes. “Let me go fetch it for you.”
As he leaves, I refocus on the camera. Compact casing, small lens—looks like the ones I used on the Laundreman case.
Nate’s staring at me.
I can feel it as a burn on my scalp, annoying and persistent. I ignore him and roll the device over to see the underside. Two tiny holes on the bottom should let me hardwire in, so I don’t waste time trying to locate the correct frequency on them.
“How long have you worked with Mr. Esten?” Nate keeps his voice low, unsure when Drake will return.
“How long have you worked with Newland?” I set the camera down and glance up. His eyes focus on the doorway. If he doesn’t want to get caught gossiping, he shouldn’t start it.
“I’ve been with Mr. Newland since the beginning. He’s a good boss.” He glances at me, skims my face and upper body. He pauses over my breasts, which are awesome, and then on the rubber straps of my holster. They cup my shoulders and keep my posture straight, pulling the material over my chest tighter. Even more awesome.
He scowls and focuses on the desk.
“Better ask what’s on your mind.” I lean back in Newland’s chair. “Drake has a long stride, and he’s motivated to be fast. Four hundred steps max. He’ll return in two minutes, unless he runs into trouble.”
Nate leans forward to whisper, “Are you guys together?”
Another victim succumbs to the Drake vortex. The Dratex.
“I don’t think Drake does together.” I can’t imagine him being exclusive.
“Are you having sex with him?”
“I just vomited.”
Drake hurries through the doorway, my satchel slung over his shoulder and both coats tucked under his arm. He pauses at the sight of Nate leaned across the desk, intimate in his invasion of my personal space. “What are you guys talking about?”
He sounds suspicious, gaze shifting between Nate and me. Nate shoots upright and smooths a hand down the twist of auburn hair that slides over his shoulder.
“I was just telling Nate how we like to spend time at love hotels.”
Drake’s eyes widen as the other man stiffens, shoulders hunching as he lifts the ice pack from where it had fallen. I rub my nose to hide the smile I can’t suppress.
“On business.” Drake glares as he stomps across the room and tosses our stuff on the desktop.
“Yeah, the business of love.”
“Shut up.”
“No, you shut up.”
“I hate you so much right now.”
“You say the sweetest things.” The coats bury my satchel. I shove them off to get ahold of the strap and drag the bag toward me.
“Reagen and I are partners, that’s it.” He runs a hand down Nate’s back, trying to coax him from the slump.
Either the horniness is getting to him, or he actually likes this one.
I dig my folding desk-port out of its protective pocket, a padded barrier in the bag that offers minimal separation between it and my loot. My fingers itch to start organizing the new pieces.
Job first, fun later.
The screen brightens to life as I open the port and type in my passcode. While it loads, I press a narrow slot on the side of the case, and a tray pops out. Thin wires spool inside. I select two, pick up the camera, and slide a wire into each hole on the bottom.
While I wait for them to link, I give my arms a good shake. They still twang with the vibration of metal against bone. The nerves near my elbows throb with pain, a thick bar of red rising across both forearms to form an aching stripe that precedes bruising.
The port screen flickers and pulls up a live feed of the ceiling. “Looks like we’re in.”
Drake and Nate stop cooing at each other to join me. They cuddle close, the heat of their bodies surrounding me, and I shift to the left, as far as the chair will let me go. Through the mask, Drake’s faint burnt-leaf smell mingles with Nate’s musky rose perfume.
Ugh, their scents are already mating.
I click the rewind button and jump the feed back a few hours. When I hit play again, the room is whole. We have a long view from across the office, facing Newland who sits at his desk, ledger in front of him as he jots down notes. The image warps at the edges, elongating to catch the entirety of the room. No sound comes through, the downside to this style of camera. Too small for audio recording.
I tap the speed up to double time, and we spend a few minutes watching the club owner scribble away in fast-forward. When his head lifts and turns toward the door, I put the feed back to normal.
The clock on the video reads 1700, two hours before Half-Light.
Newland’s right arm disappears under the desk, and a moment later the door swings open. A security guy comes in, dressed in black with a psy-gun at his hip. The door remains open as he moves toward Newland.
“Where’s Secretary?” I glance from the folding desk-port to Nate.
“I don’t know. He should be there if someone’s in Mr. Newland’s office.” He leans toward the video and frowns. “I don’t recognize the security guard, either.”
On the screen, Newland shakes his head and taps the desktop for emphasis. The security guard gestures; Newland slashes a hand through the air in refusal. Security Guy pulls his psy-gun and points it at Newland. The club manager raises his hands.
The other man reaches across the desk and pulls the ledger toward him. With the psy-gun steady on Newland’s face, he flips through the pages. He slams the book closed a moment later and throws it across the room where it hits the wall, paper exploding from the spine as it breaks apart.
The feed glitches, and Security is behind the desk, face contorted in a shout. Newland shakes his head in refusal, and Security slams the butt of the psy-gun against Newland’s temple.
“No!” Nate shrieks as the club owner slumps forward.
Security pushes him until
he falls from the chair to disappear from view. Security pulls open the drawers of the desk, empties the contents onto the floor. When he gets to the locked drawer, he tugs on it, then steps back and his foot slams forward.
A slender figure enters the room, also dressed in black, with a hood pulled up to hide his face. Tall, and most likely male from the body proportions, but otherwise unrecognizable. He carries a large bag in one hand.
He joins Security behind the desk, drops the bag on the ground, and sits in the chair. He runs his hands along the lip, following the same path I had moments ago. I know he’s found the switch when he pauses and the other man thumps him on the shoulder in congratulations. He yanks the last drawer open and flips through the papers he finds there before shoving them inside his vest.
The black-clothed man stands and motions to the floor. They bend down, only the tops of their heads visible. After a moment, they stand, hunched and shuffling, as they back around the desk. The bag swings between them, heavy and bent at the middle.
“Is that . . . ?” Through the reflection in the screen, I see Nate cover his mouth with a hand as he sways into Drake’s arms.
“Yeah, Newland’s in the bag.”
“Did they kill him?” Nate’s voice shakes.
“He’s alive,” Drake soothes. “They wouldn’t have taken him if he were dead.”
I’d give him fifty-fifty odds.
Security and Hood shuffle toward the door, their images contorting as they reach the limit of the camera. They disappear from view and the video glitches again.
Black Hood moves around the room with another bag in hand, stuffing items inside. With a sweep of an arm, the entire contents of the desk fall in, the silver letter opener glinting as it goes in.
He walks to the bar at the back and tips it over to check for a hidden safe. The glasses and whiskey bottle shatter, amber liquid splashing across the carpet.
Next, he scoops up some of the loose papers from the ground, motions hurried as he glances at the door. He stands, looks around the room, and steps up to the chairs. A hand rubs along the back of one, and he checks the doorways. Then he pulls out a knife from his boot and slices the fabric off, carving it from the metal frame. White padding spills out. What he doesn’t take, he slashes into ribbons.
