Page 117

“I’ll save you the ‘hurt her and I’ll kick your ass’ speech,” Rhys tells him. “But if you hurt her I’ll kick your ass.”

I interrupt to save all of us the embarrassment. “I loved watching you play tonight. You’re right, I need to come to more games.”

Rhys’s grin spreads wide. “You’ve got tickets whenever you want them. But dude . . . no more signs.”

I sink deeper into the driver’s seat of my Cutlass that’s parked across the street. The window’s cracked just enough to let in sound from the outside, along with the scent of wet leaves and concrete. I’ve been here long enough that everything feels damp, including my clothes.

The windows are covered with rain beads, but that’s okay, I don’t need to survey the comings and goings of people into the building—which are none tonight. All of my surveillance is happening through the network that I’m parked close enough to in order to access the router.

With my screen dimmed to the lowest possible setting, I tap the keyboard balanced against the steering wheel as I collect information about my target. I have no idea what it’s being used for, and I don’t ask. It’s none of my business.

Tattooing is my main occupation, but occasionally I take on side gigs for the cash. Always cash—no favors or strings attached to follow up on, no waiting to pay off a debt. Half before the job, and half after. There’s nothing legal about the way I obtain information, which means my services are expensive, and my clientele are less than savory. However, it’s jobs like this that allow me to hire asbestos cleaning services, say, for places like a repurposed run-down motel. It’s kind of like a bed-and-breakfast . . . Except for the breakfast. And the disproportionally high cleaning fee.

Killing a guy? Easy—fun, even! Getting rid of the body? Huge pain in the ass. I will happily pay a small fortune to delegate that task.

A list of connected devices populates across my screen. Phones, a smart TV, headphones, a few things with default manufacturer names because whoever owns it never bothered to change it in their settings. A few cameras, but I’m not here to watch, I’m here to gather.

This is a job I’ve been working on for a while—maintaining persistence. Basically I’ve been in the system for a while, lurking and waiting, giving my access time to stabilize before I make any moves. Keeping a low profile helps avoid triggering any intrusion detection. It’s the low-and-slow method.

As soon as I’ve captured the information I need, I close the laptop and stow it in the Faraday bag I keep in my car.

Time to obtain my next target.

I pop the last hinge on the bathroom door and wrap my fingers around the hollow-core wood, easily jerking it off the rusty hardware. My wolf mask doesn’t even budge, which makes me feel very professional.

I rest the door on one of the two motel beds—same dated establishment as before, but I’ve been issued a new room. Apparently, the last one I used needs more time to air out, which works better for me anyway, since I needed a larger bathroom. I’ve been told if I leave another stench like the last one, I’m no longer allowed to book a reservation. Can do.

This time my friend is restrained to the toilet. His wrists are cuffed to the ADA grab bars—one behind him, the other to the side—keeping him twisted just enough to stay restless; that’s okay, though. He’s been walking around far too comfortable over the years.

His ankles are secured with a chain looped behind the back of the toilet base, spreading his legs open, his navy slacks bunched up around his shins. It’s quite the awkward position, but it’ll have to do.

A yellow tow strap cuts into his torso, anchored to the grab bar behind him and keeping him upright, though his head continues to hang forward, chin touching his chest as drool lands on his slacks. He’s napping.

I turn around and pluck the scissors off the counter, then drop to my knees and begin cutting his slacks starting at the bottom. The cold metal has him shivering when I get up to his thighs. Little drops of blood pool at the tip of his nose before falling. A couple of them land on the forearm of my diver suit as I work.

His relaxed breathing picks up.

“Somebody is waking up . . .” I singsong, removing his belt before I finish cutting straight through the waistband. I mirror the action on the other side, then rip away the material from under him, jostling his limp body.

He groans, slowly raising his chin that’s been wilted to his chest. The once-white dress shirt is now spattered with both dry and fresh blood. He was a fighter—an ineffective fighter—but a fighter nonetheless.

Robert Vayle tilts his head, taking in the small room and the fresh plastic sheeting I’ve hung. His eyes are unfocused and almost seem to move independently while he gets his bearings. He blinks a few times and they sluggishly sync. I admire my handiwork with him. It was definitely the right decision to take off the bathroom door; now I have more freedom of movement.

“Good evening, Starshine!” I beam, cutting off his shirt and leaving him to slouch pathetically in his brief-style underwear.

He coughs and sits up straighter. “I don’t know who sent you,” he rasps, trying to hide the shake in his voice. “But I’ll pay you double, okay? Double. Just let me go.”

Every time he turns his head to the side, a drop of blood falls from his nose, making a small tapping noise on the plastic-covered floor.

“I’m flattered, but this isn’t really a referral situation. You’ve pissed me off all on your own.” I chuckle. “Though I’m sure I could find plenty of people who despise you, I pinky promise no one loathes your existence more than I do. This is your party—Surprise! You’re the occasion!”

He sniffles, and it slows the blood dripping from his left nostril. “You’re mistaken. I haven’t done anything.”

I scoff. After the attempted bribe, it’s pretty clear we both know he deserves to be here.

“Why me?”

“Hello, am I talking to myself?” I hold out my open palms, glancing around the room. “I just told you. I hate your guts. Forever and ever, shitdick.”