Glennon
She stoodin Triumph’s control booth, waiting. Her feet were shoulder-width apart, hands hanging down at her sides, her eyes riveted to the monitors that were never turned off.
Two men stepped into the frame at the front door, and one was tapping keys on his phone.
A muffled ding came from her pants pocket.
Extracting the device, she looked dispassionately at the text. A photo—Francesca in Tripoli’s arms, safe.
A smiling Guillermo looked up into the camera above the door, his white teeth brilliant against his skin, even in black and white.
He puckered his lips and blew her a kiss.
Asshole.
Cesar put his phone away and replaced it with the bracelet they’d cut off Francesca’s wrist. Holding it up to the door, he was then able to enter the code, and the front door opened, allowing them and two additional men to pass inside and close the door behind them.
Time to pay the piper.
When she’d been in here two nights ago, Triumph had never gotten a chance to show her anything because they’d gotten distracted. Being a CIA agent, however, she had wonderful memory skills, and from the short time she’d been alone in the booth, she had a basic knowledge of the layout of the sound and light boards in front of her. They didn’t turn off the main power, machines, or monitors, so it had been easy to use the computer to put the club in operation mode.
The four men stepped into the lobby. She’d already prepared them for which way to go. The lighting beyond the entrance was dimmed, but some of it winked and moved, as it normally would when guests were here. The music played at its preset volume, which seemed far too loud with no one but the cat and her mice in the maze.
If things weren’t so grim, she would have enjoyed the way the situation matched the club’s labyrinth and illusion.
She didn’t expect to leave the club.
But she didn’t plan for Cesar or Guillermo to leave either.
The two foot soldiers she couldn’t care less about.
There were omnidirectional microphones throughout the club, placed there so Triumph and his staff could communicate while making repairs or installations, and they didn’t have to try to talk to each other over phones when their hands were needed for other things. Even though the music played throughout the club, she could hear the click of Guillermo’s designer dress shoes on the flooring. The steps were slow and measured, as if the person moving had all the time in the world.
He’d quickly discover that was incorrect.
Guillermo stood in the main aisle, near the heart of the labyrinth, looking all around him. With a flick of his head, he sent each of the men with him in a different direction.
Not surprising. It would have been nice if they had stayed together, but she’d planned for this option.
“Gigi.” Guillermo. He made a tsking noise. “Why are you hiding,corazón? Makes me think you don’t want to see me.”
Her advantage over him was slim at best. She had one night in the club. He had none. She needed to lure them further into the club where she could pick them off one by one.
Finally, she moved. She leaned over the console and, with one finger, slid the volume lever to its maximum setting.
A cacophony hit them all.
The slightly tinny, never-ending, iconic carousel tune.
Eighties hair-band music poured from the speakers in the arcade.
Dance music leaked out of the big tent and into the far end of the arcade.
Voice-overs of the carnival barker looped to the nonexistent audiences.
She pushed another button, and the prerecorded announcements from the mini-stages and entranceway overlapped each other, creating a harsh dissonance with the music playing.
A second button caused the strobe lights in the long straightaway of the labyrinth to flicker on and off as the projectors threw spatial illusions against the walls, floors, and ceilings.
