“I . . . please.”
Eloise took an unsteady step back, and Carlotta moved through the door.
As it shut behind her, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, had half a second to react before the syringe punched against her throat.
“There now,” McQueen said cheerfully. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He gestured with the point of the knife. “Now get on the bed, Eloise, facedown.”
“Please.”
“You’re so polite. Please, please, please. Sit down or I’m going to open that pretty cheek of yours all the way to the bone.”
She did as she was told.
“Duct tape,” he said as he used it to secure her hands behind her back. “Low-tech, easily available, and so very versatile.”
He continued on to her ankles while she shuddered and wept.
“I could smother you. No blood that way, but to be honest, Eloise, I’m just not that interested.” Tired of her blubbering and pleading, he slapped tape over her mouth. “There now, some peace and quiet.”
Pleased, he turned to the woman on the floor. He rolled her over, took her master, her communicator, personal ’link, earbud, and as he’d done with Eloise, whatever cash and jewelry she had.
Waste not, want not, he thought.
He bound her, gagged her for good measure though he expected she’d be out for an hour, then replaced the tape roll in the briefcase. He’d have preferred to simply cut off her thumb, quick and easy. But so messy.
Instead he took the time to press her thumb to a strip of foil, carefully fixed it to his own, sealed it.
Pumped with success, he strolled over to the bed. “Maybe I’ll smother you anyway. Really with that hair, that pathetic use of enhancers you probably don’t deserve to live. Just kidding!” he said, laughing uproariously as she squirmed and struggled to scream. “Well, not about the hair and makeup. Bye-bye, Eloise—and you’re welcome. You’ll be dining out on this little adventure for years.”
He stepped over the guard, considered a moment. Taking out his jammer, he eased the door open a crack for line of sight. Best not to be seen, if anyone bothered to glance at the right monitor at the right time. He counted off a three-second disruption as he rushed down the corridor to the stairwell.
A long climb, he thought as he started up, but the prize at the end, so worth it.
He broke a sweat, but considered it a byproduct of good, healthy exercise.
He paused outside the stairwell door on fifty-eight. He’d need the jammer again. The master and print would get him in, but the use of it would trigger a record and alert.
Anything over a ten-second disruption would trip another alert and result in a standard check. So he’d have to move fast.
He hit the jammer and bolted. Swiped the card, pressed his sealed thumb. Nothing.
They’d just had to send a woman! One with small hands, little digits.
Cursing, sweat rolling now, he forced himself to steady, did the swipe a second time, and with more care, more delicacy, pressed the print to the pad.
The light went green.
He shoved inside, flicked the jammer off even as he shut the door.
He took a moment to catch his breath, realized there were tears in his eyes. Tears! Of joy, of course. He blinked them away and scanned the area.
How she’d come up in the world, he thought, just by opening her legs for money. Plush rugs over an exquisite tile floor, the dull gleam of silver chandeliers sparkling over the deep cushions of chairs, sofas in rich jeweled colors.
He wandered a bit, struck with a burning envy, noted the fully stocked bar in the same silver as the lights, a long dining table of genuine ebony, a small kitchen that made the one he’d designed pale.
Yet more exquisite tile in a powder room.
This was what he wanted, this luxury. This was what he deserved. His heart galloped as he walked up the graceful curve of stairs to the second level. He wandered the master bedroom, felt the rage vomit up from his belly to his throat.