Vendetta in Death (In Death 49)

Arlo had already finished his mystery meat burger and limp soy fries while he bitched and belched at the Yankees versus Red Sox on the screen.

He didn’t give half a rat’s ass about baseball, considered it a pussy game, but the bartender refused to switch to Arena Ball.

He slurped up more beer, considered ordering some nachos, then noticed the woman come in.

Looked like a street-level whore to him, with the skirt up to her crotch, the fishnet stockings, the tight sweater with half her boobs—nice boobs—spilling out.

She had a lot of purple hair tumbling around to hide half her face—trying to hide the ugly pucker of a scar slashed down her right cheek.

Not much to write home about from the neck up, he thought. But she had it going on from the neck down. In Arlo’s view a woman’s face didn’t much matter when sex was all they were really good for.

He could use a quick bang, if the price was right.

She slid on the stool beside his, ordered a beer in a squeaky voice.

Since she looked like she’d come cheap, and a cheap BJ suited him better than a pussified ball game, he gave the bartender the sign.

“Put it on my tab.”

She looked at Arlo with grateful brown eyes from under the purple hair. “Thanks, handsome.”

“No problem. Haven’t seen you in here before.”

“New turf for me. Just taking a load off. Slow night.” She took a tiny sip of the beer set in front of her, gave him a little flirt. “You come in here a lot?”

“Most nights.”

“I guess I’ll come in more now that I know you hang here.” She took another tiny sip of beer. “Maybe you wanna party?”

“Might. What’s the rate?”

She gave him a smile, ducked her head, tapped a finger on the beer. “You already made a down payment.” She took another sip as she reached over, pressed her hand to his crotch. “You want more, why don’t you finish your beer?”

She leaned in, leaned close. His gaze fixed on her breasts. He didn’t see her pour the contents of a vial in his shot glass.

“Then we can go outside, work out the rate.”

A hell of a lot better than a ball game, he decided. He drained his beer, tossed back the bump. “Let’s go.”

They walked out together, his hand squeezing her ass—and her hand signaling the droid and car on the device in her little purse.

He started to stumble before they reached the corner. She just laughed, held him up, steered him to the waiting car.

“Let’s go for a ride, big guy.”

“Give you a ride. Give you a helluva ride, bitch.”

He passed out before she gave him the second dose. Deciding better safe than sorry, she pinched his nose, tipped back his head, and poured the sedative down his throat.

Pleased, Darla settled back, conserving her energy for the main event.

16

The dreams came, sliding in like curling fingers of fog over a pool of exhaustion. In them she heard the screams of the tortured and tormented rising shrill behind a wide black door. Duty bound, she fought to open it, to break it down, to find the way through while the screams pounded in her head.

Behind her, above her, around her, a voice, calm and quiet as a spring breeze, spoke.

“They get what they deserve.”