Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  If he wasn’t such an arrogant dick, I’d almost feel sorry for him.

  Mariana calmly takes a sip of her coffee. Even though she’s disguised as a junkie in mangy jeans and that filthy hoodie, she can’t hide the elegance of her every move. She brushes a strand of hair from her face, and it’s like art.

  I have to concentrate on a hideous still life of rotting fruit on the wall to distract my rising boner.

  She says, “The scanner is a pattern-matching sensor, the simplest of all the biometric units on the market. The algorithm compares the basic fingerprint patterns of arch, whorl, and loop between a stored template and the image pressed to the glass. Unlike the ultrasonic or capacitance models, it doesn’t require a live, three-dimensional finger to unlock, so the only thing I needed to fool it was a photocopy of a registered user’s print.”

  “And how did you get that?” Butts asks, sounding dubious.

  Mariana replies, “I took a tour of the museum several days ago and followed one of the security guards to the men’s restroom near the employee lounge. He left a perfect thumbprint on the metal push plate on the main door. I got it off the door with a lump of Silly Putty, then took a high-resolution digital picture. I printed the image on a piece of photo paper, and voilà.”

  When everyone gapes at her, she rolls her eyes. “Don’t look so shocked, boys. That’s Thievery 101. There are as many ways to pull a print from a smooth surface as there are ways to fool scanners. I could’ve used silicon gel to make a mold, etched a print into the copper of a photo-sensitive printed circuit board, you name it. The only kind of biometric that would have really given me a problem is an active capacitance sensor, which uses a charging cycle to apply voltage to live skin. For that, I’d need an actual finger.”

  Because I’m curious myself, I say, “Tell them what you’d do in that case, Ms. Lane.”

  She looks at me and replies seriously, “Take a hostage.”

  I frown at her. “That’s not funny.”

  In response, she merely smiles.

  Butts snaps, “So we had your face on camera days ago. That’s just stupid! If anyone had reviewed our security footage and saw you follow the guard into a restricted area—”

  “No one ever reviews the footage unless an alarm is tripped. Correct?”

  He stares at her, a flush crawling up his neck.

  She answers her own question. “Correct. Even if for some improbable reason the tapes were reviewed, your surveillance system was installed decades ago. It’s not exactly high fidelity. And my head was covered then as it is now, and I was also wearing thick glasses. You’d have a hell of a time identifying me from your shitty outdated cameras.”

  Her lips lift into a smile that would look at home on a serial killer. “Besides,” she says softly, staring at Butts, her eyes poisonous. “I’m sure you’d be looking for a man anyway, right?”

  From behind his desk, Zuckerman laughs in glee. Butts starts to pace like a caged animal, hands on his hips, every so often shooting Mariana a death glare.

  I wipe a hand over my mouth to hide my smile. “So to recap, you used a homemade mixture of common table salt and H2S04, the liquid found in car batteries, to corrode an opening large enough for you to fit through in the side of the heating duct unit.”

  Starting to look exhausted, Mariana nods. “It works great on aluminum, but has little effect on other metals, and none on glass. I’d probably have used a laser cutter if the unit was steel, but they’re a lot more cumbersome, and the light might have drawn attention to me.”

  I nod, fascinated and, frankly, fucking impressed. “Would you explain why you chose the soundwave generator to break the safety glass on the diamond’s display case?”

  She blows a lock of hair off her forehead and takes another swallow of coffee before answering. “Think of it as the high-tech version of an opera singer using her voice to break a wineglass. All glass has a natural resonance, a frequency at which it will vibrate. The water white safety glass installed by Diebold to secure the diamond is no different. The glazing and laminates make it tricky, but if blasted with a complex sonic shockwave, the amplitude is sufficient to propagate cracks. And cracks were all I needed.”

  Looking utterly defeated, the secretary, a thin man with a shock of white hair and bleary blue eyes, speaks up. “But how did you get the computer login information? How did you know how to traverse the vents? Where to get in, what turns to make to get you to your target, all of that?”

  Mariana shrugs. “The Internet.”

  He makes a high-pitched deflating sound like a punctured tire, his bloodshot eyes wide.

  She explains, “Almost everything in the world is available on the web. You just have to know where to look. For the login information, it was a darknet market where someone—my guess is a disgruntled employee—had linked to your internal server’s security software. As the passwords changed weekly here, they were also updated online. It cost a pretty penny but was obviously well worth it. In the case of the vents, it was architectural drawings from the archives of the DC building inspector’s office.”

  Zuckerman, the secretary, and Butts look at each other. There seems to be an unspoken agreement that someone’s ass is getting kicked, but no consensus on whose.

  I take advantage of the pause in the conversation. “It’s late. We’re all tired. Why don’t we reconvene in a few days after Ms. Lane has had a chance to compile a detailed written report with her findings and our suggestions for how Metrix can further assist the Institution with its security needs? Mr. Zuckerman, you know how to contact me.”

  Before waiting for anyone to speak, I lift Mariana to her feet with a hand under her arm and head for the door.

  “One more question before you leave, Ms. Lane.”

  Mariana and I stop and turn back. Zuckerman is standing behind his desk, patting his moist forehead with a folded handkerchief. He asks, “What’s with the drawing of the dragonfly?”

  Fuck. My hand reflexively tightens around her arm. It’s a protective response, but she calmly shakes me off and even manages a small, mirthless laugh.

  “Oh, it’s just an inside joke. When we conduct these high-level pen tests, we always pretend we’re some famous thief. Like a role-playing thing.” She jerks her thumb at me. “This one always pretends he’s Butch Cassidy. Wanted to be a cowboy when he was a kid.”

  Zuckerman beams. “How fun! What does Mr. McLean leave behind, a toy pistol?”

  “A plastic burro.” When all three men frown, Mariana deadpans, “Because he’s an ass.”

  “Isn’t she a hoot, guys?” My grin is stretched so wide, I can’t feel my lips. “Well, we’re off. See you in a few days!”

  I turn and drag her out the door.

  At least I get a dark chuckle from her on the way out.

  Mariana doesn’t speak again until we’re in the truck I rented when I arrived in DC. As soon as she slams the door shut behind her, she turns to me and snaps, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t bury my knife in your thorax.”

  I start the car, rev the engine, and put it in reverse. “Which knife? The stiletto in your back pocket, the Tanto in your waistband, or the utility blade in your boot?”

  I tear out of the parking spot in the museum’s lot to the sound of squealing tires and growling female.

  “How did you know I was going to hit the museum?” she demands.

  “I bugged Reynard’s place the minute I walked in last week.”

  She gasps, and I grin. “You mentioned DC and the world’s largest blue diamond. Two plus two equals four, etcetera. Yeah, you had a real interestin’ conversation after I left and you popped out of wherever you’d been hiding. If memory serves, you called me gorgeous. No, wait. It was better than that.”

  I pretend to think, as if I haven’t been thinking about it for seven days straight. “Handsome? No. Magnificent? No—oh yeah! Beautiful.”

  I glance at her. She stares back at me in silent fury, nostrils flared, hands clenched t
o fists.

  I say softly, “You called me beautiful, Angel. I been called a lot of things by a lot of women, but that’s a first.” My grin shows up again, twice as big as before. “So naturally I had to follow you across the Atlantic so I could make you say it to my face. Ingenious the way you exited Reynard’s place through the Chinese laundry down the block, by the way. I’m guessing it’s all connected by tunnels?”

  She bites the inside of her cheek. Her fingers flex. She’s itching to wrap them around the hilt of one of her knives and slice me up like deli meat.

  “Reynard—”

  “Is perfectly safe.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How do you think I know?”

  Another growl. She’s starting to sound like a grizzly.

  “Maybe for now he’s safe. But when I don’t show up with that diamond, the person who ordered me to get it is going to kill Reynard! And he’s going to take his time doing it, because causing pain is his passion!”

  “I know it is. Been readin’ up on the guy. And imagine how angry Vincent Moreno would’ve been when you gave him a fake diamond.”

  She shakes her head, blinking fast. “Whaaa…”

  It’s so comical, I almost laugh.

  But I don’t, because I know she’s one laugh away from making me and a colander have a lot in common.

  “The Hope Diamond on display at the Smithsonian is a fake, Angel. Has been since the seventies, when it was stolen by an unidentified group of thieves who posed as tourists, then hid in a utility closet after the museum closed and rammed through the vault wall with a forklift pinched from the loading dock. They were never caught. There’s a lot of politics involved and something about a hinky insurance policy, but the upshot of the story is that the powers that be at the time decided it would be a financial and PR disaster for the Smithsonian if word got out that a smash-and-grab crew filched the Hope, so instead they put a replica in its place, and that’s what’s been on display for the last forty years.

  “It’s right up there with KFC’s recipe as one of the world’s best-kept secrets. Only a handful of the bigwigs at the Institute knew about the theft, and all but two of them are dead now. Even Zuckerman and the secretary don’t know.”

  I take a corner too fast, but Mariana doesn’t even notice. She just keeps on staring at me with big eyes and a wide open mouth. Finally, she asks, “How do you know?”

  “Because, like I’ve told you before, I’m the shit, baby.”

  We zoom through the dark streets, trees and streetlights flying past, with no noise for miles but the sound of the engine and the radio on low. After a pause, she speaks again. “How do you know about Capo?”

  My sigh is extravagant. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m really good at my job before you’ll believe me?”

  She slumps down in the seat, drops her face into her hands, and exhales a long, slow breath. It’s several minutes before she speaks again, and when she does, her voice is so low, I almost can’t hear it.

  “So…basically…you just saved my life.”

  “And Reynard’s,” I point out, trying not to sound smug and completely failing.

  “But…” She lowers her hands and gazes blankly out the windshield. “I can’t go back empty-handed. If I return to Capo with nothing—”

  “You’re never going back to him, Mariana,” I cut in, my voice hard. She stares at me, looking confused. “You’re gonna let your man handle this, you hear me? Now, do you need to pick up anything at your fleabag safe house before we head to New York?”

  She makes a soft, incoherent noise of shock.

  I take it as a no and stomp my foot on the gas, headed toward the interstate.

  Headed toward home.

  17

  Mariana

  I don’t know how long I slept, but when I awaken, morning sun streams through the windshield as Ryan opens the passenger door.

  “C’mon, Angel,” he murmurs, hoisting me into his arms. “We’re home.”

  I mutter a protest at being handled like luggage, but I’m so exhausted I give up without a fight. I sag against the broad expanse of his chest as he kicks the car door shut behind him.

  He chuckles. “You’re heavier than you look.”

  I mumble, “And you’re dumber than you look. Another crack about my weight and you’re a dead man.”

  “God, I love it when you threaten me with bodily injury.”

  My legs dangle over his arm as he walks across a gated parking lot to a squat, brick building with no windows on the first floor. In front of a metal door with no handle, he stops.

  “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” he says to the door.

  Bewildered, I lift my head and squint at him.

  He shrugs. “So I love Mary Poppins. Sue me.”

  The door slides open soundlessly, revealing a lighted steel box about five feet wide and eight feet tall. When Ryan walks inside, the door slides shut behind us. With a subtle clang, the box begins to descend.

  I say to Ryan’s profile, “Do you live near the center of the earth?”

  “Yep,” he answers instantly. “That’s why I’m so hot.”

  He slants me a grin. I close my eyes against its brilliance and tuck my head into his neck.

  “Where are we?”

  “I told you. Home.”

  “No, where?”

  “The Bronx. Ish.”

  “Either it is, or it isn’t.”

  “Normally, I’d agree with you, but in this case, there’s a little wiggle room considering we’re not talkin’ horizontal coordinates.”

  The elevator stops, the doors open, and Ryan walks out into pitch blackness. He calls out, “Raindrops on roses.”

  Overhead lights blink on in orderly rows, revealing a bachelor pad that has probably starred in every male’s fantasy of a bachelor pad since the term was invented.

  High ceilings. Exposed brick walls. Polished cement floors. Lots of steel beams and glass surfaces, and a smattering of leather furniture. A television the size of a school bus hangs on the wall, along with black-and-white abstract art suggestive of nude women. Not a single throw pillow or bright color in sight.

  “Raindrops on roses?”

  “And whiskers on kittens,” he says, nodding.

  I look at him. “Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens?”

  He beams. “Angel! You know The Sound of Music!”

  I gaze around his underground sanctuary that sizzles with machismo and is operated with voice commands taken from Julie Andrews movies, and ponder my predicament.

  Only one reasonable explanation comes to mind.

  “I’m dead, aren’t I? Just give it to me straight. I was shot sometime yesterday, and now I’m dead. And this is…purgatory?”

  He scoffs, “This is heaven, baby!”

  “Heaven? I am dubious.”

  “That’s a one-hundred-ten-inch ultra-high-definition TV! And that”—he swings me around so I’m pointed in the direction of a large kitchen, gleaming with stainless steel appliances—“is a professional-grade chef’s kitchen complete with a grill, a griddle, a double-walled pizza oven, and an infrared salamander broiler—”

  “Maybe purgatory was being too generous.”

  Ryan purses his lips and considers me. “I know what you need,” he pronounces, then strides through the living room, past the gargantuan television and arty nudes, past the built-in wine cellar and wet bar, around a wall composed entirely of live succulents in different shades of green, brown, and gray, and into his bedroom.

  He stops in front of a bed approximately the size of a train platform. The duvet and sheets are black, as are the pillows. A trio of red candles reside on a black bedside table. A fuzzy black rug sprawls over the floor.

  I ask, “So how many vampiresses do you usually sleep with in this thing?”

  “Vampiress?”

  “A vampire of the female persuasion.”

  “Why isn’t that just vampire? Do you say poet
ess too? Seems a little sexist, Angel.”

  “You’re avoiding the question about your abnormally large bed, which I find suspicious.”

  “The bed, or the avoidance?”

  “Both. I also find your choice of black and red as a palette for your boudoir suspicious. Especially when you’re trying to convince a person this is heaven, which I’d like to think is decorated in more cheerful tones.”

  “Boudoir?” he repeats, sounding insulted. “I’m a badass, sweetheart, not a French escort. This is called a bedroom. And it’s awesome.”

  Ignoring his obvious delusion, I point with my foot across the room. “What in God’s name is that?”

  “You’ve never seen a grand piano before?”

  I exhale with what I hope is sufficient disgust. “I’ve never seen one in a bedroom before. It’s ridiculous. I’m picturing you in a velvet smoking jacket, serenading your harem of vampiresses with a little post-bloodsucking Rachmaninoff.”

  Ryan kisses the top of my head. “You’re delirious. It’s probably the proximity to all this grade A testosterone I’m manufacturin’.”

  “Undoubtedly,” I say, trying hard not to find him charming, but failing.

  “Let’s get you to bed.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he strides over to the black behemoth and gently deposits me on it. He kneels at my feet, unlaces my boots, and pulls them off, then peels off my socks and tosses those aside while I watch in something like shock. Only achier.

  He glances up and catches me watching him. “What?”

  “What are you doing?”

  He looks at my feet, then back up at my face. Like you would speak to someone very drunk, he says, “I’m takin’ off your shoes, darlin’.”

  “No.” I close my eyes, inhale, then make a little motion with my index finger indicating the two of us. “What are you doing?”

  When he squeezes my ankles, I open my eyes. Looking straight into them, he says, “Takin’ care of you. And before you ask why,” he says when I open my mouth, “the answer is because that’s what I’m gonna do from here on out. Take care of you. You’re the priority now. You’re mine.”