Thankless in Death (In Death 37)

He posed, tapping thumbs to his chest. “I’ve got all your money. I’ve got all your shit that’s worth taking. I look iced, and you look like crap.”

Smiling, smiling, he stepped closer to her. “And you did everything I told you to do. You’re the useless one. The stupid one. And I’m the one who’s going to live in a totally mag apartment. I’ll probably get one in London or Paris, too, once I finish my … personal business and hire out. People pay a lot of money for an experienced hit man—governments, too.”

His eyes narrowed at the derision in hers. “You don’t think I can make the big bucks, bitch? I already did, and most of it used to be yours. With my rep I can name my own price. I’m rich, and I’m famous, and you’re sitting in your own piss. Who’s the winner now? Who’s the winner now?”

He ripped the tape off her mouth, taking dried flesh with it.

She looked him hard in the eye. Her voice was little more than a croak, as dry as her skin. But she’d have her say. “You’re nothing. Nothing but a vicious little turd.”

He punched her. He hadn’t intended to because, fuck, it hurt his hand. But nobody was going to talk to him like that. Nobody.

“You think you’re better than me. You think I’m nothing? I’ll show you nothing.”

She knew she was dead before he put the plastic bag over her head. She’d come to accept it. Still she fought. Not to survive, not any longer. But to cause him pain. To give him something back.

She rocked in the chair, even as he twisted the opening of the bag tight, even as he tried to wrap the tape around and around. She shoved back with what strength she had left, hoarded the small satisfaction when she felt the chair slam into him, heard him yelp and curse over the roar of blood in her head.

The chair overbalanced, her weight carrying it back. Though she gulped like a fish, her body screaming for air, somewhere inside she smiled when he screamed in pain.

He kicked her. Her belly exploded with agony, her chest burned, and everything began to shake.

Then it quieted, and all slid away.

She died with the smile deep in her heart.

He kept kicking her long after she went still. He couldn’t stop.

She’d called him nothing. She’d hurt him.

It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. So he kicked her, and he wept and raged until he’d exhausted himself.

Dropping into a chair he struggled to get his breath back. His foot throbbed like a rotted tooth where the chair, with her fat ass in it, had dropped like a boulder. And his midsection hurt, felt bruised and tender where she’d slammed the chair back against him.

He should’ve sliced her up. Fuck the mess, he should have sliced her to pieces like he’d done with his old lady.

Now he was sweaty, shaky, and he thought maybe something in his foot might be broken.

He ought to burn her house down and her with it. That’s what he ought to do.

But he wasn’t stupid, he thought as he swiped tears away. He wasn’t nothing. The longer it took them to find her fat, dead ass the better.

Besides, they’d never tie him to it. Who’d tie him to the old bitch? Some bitch who taught high school Comp Science?

All he had to do now was walk away. And he could soak himself, and his aching foot, in his new jet tub.

He rose, let out a whining whimper, and was forced to limp out of the room. Blinking back tears of self-pity, he hobbled downstairs where the droid stood awaiting further instructions.

“Take the rest of this, on foot.” He made another memo cube, with the address, instructions. “Straight there, straight to the concierge. Give her that memo, and get things set up. Where’s the money?”

“Here, sir.” The droid handed him an envelope.

After a moment’s consideration, Reinhold pulled out a few bills. “Walk to West Broadway, that’s far enough. Take a cab from there. No leave those,” he said when the droid reached for the duffel and one of the suitcases. “I’ll take those. I want everything set up before I get there. Then you go out, buy what you need to make me a big steak dinner, and a martini.”

“Yes, sir. Gin or vodka?”

Reinhold went blank. He hadn’t known martinis came in more than one variety. “What do you think, Asshole? Vodka—and don’t get cheap shit. Now get moving.”

Reinhold hobbled into the kitchen. He’d seen blockers in there. Hunting them up, he took two. Then out of pique, he yanked dishes, glassware out of cabinets, hurled them against the wall, used a kitchen knife to gouge at the refrigerator, the front of the dishwasher, across the counter, the cabinets.