“I’m nothing if not reasonable,” he continues. “Surrender now, and I’ll make it painless. You have my word.”
He smiles.
Teeth white. Lips blood-red.
“Delay,” he says, “and I get creative.”
Jacey shrieks.
Not a scream.
Ashriek—pure, unfiltered horror squeaking out of her throat like a kettle set to “emergency.”
Voltar doesn’t wait.
He moves.
Fast.
One giant fist slams into the holo-emitter—right through the heart of Tugun’s projected image. The device crumples, sparks flying. Something inside hisses like an angry wasp.
“EMP charge,” Voltar mutters, grabbing the smoldering remains and shoving them into a reinforced disposal case he pulls from his belt. “It was primed to detonate. Projection was the distraction.”
My knees feel wobbly.
Not from the light.
Fromhim.
From the hologram. From the voice.
Tugun.
That damn voice.
It’s been years since I heard it in person. But recordings… memories… nightmares?
Those don’t go away.
I force a breath through my nose.
“Confetti shampoo,” I say quietly. “Of course.”
Jacey’s white as a bleach job. “Whosendsa murder hologram in a shampoo box?”
“Someone dramatic,” I say. “Someone who knows I’d open it.”
Voltar doesn’t speak.
He’s crouched over the debris, scanning with something in his palm that makes a soft series of beeps. His jaw is tight. His shoulders locked. He hasn’t blinked in thirty seconds.
I can tell.
Because I’m watching.
Because I don’t want to look at anything else right now.
Because if Ido—if I look at the scorch mark on the floor or the place where Tugun’s fake eyes stared into mine—I might throw up.
