Number Six (The Villains #3)

Chapter 1

Vegas vs. Beirut

In the choice between Beirut and Las Vegas, O ttilie Zimmermann decided it would be a close call. She had stayed in both, nearly died in one, felt like dying in the other, and would rate each as generally unfavorable on TripAdvisor. If she ever used TripAdvisor, which she most assuredly would not.

But now that Ottilie was back in Vegas, experiencing her trifecta of pet peeves—loud noises, flashing lights, and garishness—Beirut was nudging slightly ahead.

As Ottilie pursed her lips hard enough to suck the pulp from a lemon, her sharp gaze mapped the horrors surrounding her. Above, on a giant digital billboard, was a shock-pink, flashing advertisement for nightly shows by America’s sweetheart, pop sensation Carrie Jordan. Next to Jordan was a Coca-Cola bottle slam-dunking itself through a basketball hoop, creating a 3D wave of brown fizz that seemed to leap out of its background.

Below, electric blue letters screamed about a Mega Poker Tournament. Opposite was an advertisement for SlotZilla, a casino tower with a zip line, that invited people to do the “Super-Hero Zoom.”

Ottilie shuddered, and not just because superhero should be one word.

Sighing, she rubbed her aching neck and turned to face Hotel Duxton Vegas’s gleaming front doors. She was only here for a week or so as she tied up loose ends from her former job. And then, finally, she could retire for good, her conscience clear.

Well, clear enough. From the corner of Ottilie’s eye, Carrie Jordan’s dazzling smile widened into smug perfection.

Assuming she could make it that long.

* * *

A man stood behind the reception desk, his name tag stating that he was Graham. He was tall, thin, in his mid-thirties, and apparently incapable of noticing Ottilie. She glanced at herself, analyzing her tweed skirt, brown, flat, sensible leather heels, and an elegant cream blouse pinned down by a pearl necklace.

Ordinarily, being overlooked would please her. After all, Ottilie had made it her life’s work to be invisible. She cultivated a harmless persona that was exceedingly helpful when in the business of collecting and trading secrets. It was exceedingly un helpful, however, when you wanted prompt service.

She cleared her throat and regretted it. Her neckache suddenly reverberated straight into her skull.

A sixtysomething woman appeared from an office behind Reception— Mrs. Menzies , according to the name tag. She took one look at Ottilie, and then Graham, and frowned.

“Are you being attended to?” she asked sharply enough to get her negligent employee’s attention.

Graham started, eyes widening at the sight of a guest. Fear flitted into them. His hands on the counter went from a relaxed curve to straightening out, sharp and flat. A common tension tell, Ottilie noted. Likely, he was anticipating a chewing out as soon as Ottilie was gone. He also did not like his supervisor.

Ottilie examined the woman: a Mayan fertility goddess shape—short and wide—with hard, dark eyes and heated cheeks. The tips of her hair were slightly damp.

Damp? It was one in the afternoon. Why damp? Ottilie mulled that over. The woman didn’t seem the type to work out in the gym on her lunch break. Perhaps she’d just arrived to start a late shift?

Ottilie looked closer. Mrs. Menzies’s pupils were dilated. Well, that narrowed the likely causes down: drugs, adrenaline, recent brain injury, or sexual arousal.

Given her age, lack of fitness or head wounds, and that wet hair, Ottilie’s short list narrowed to one. On a hunch, Ottilie deliberately curled her lips into a knowing smile, one that suggested she’d worked out all her little secrets.

Mrs. Menzies’s nostrils flared and her cheeks flushed. And so began the most rushed room check-in in living history.

Well, well. Theory confirmed and, even better, mystery solved. Ottilie did detest the unexplained almost as much as loose ends, clutter, and disorder.

“I apologize for any delay. You’re in Room 613.” Mrs. Menzies thrust a key card Ottilie’s way and beckoned a porter over. “I hope your room is to your satisfaction,” Mrs. Menzies said curtly, gaze darting everywhere but at her.

“ Satis-faction …” Ottilie murmured innocently. “Yes.”

Mrs. Menzies’s eyes widened, and she looked so rattled, it was funny.

Ottilie spun around and headed for the elevators, smile firmly suppressed.

* * *

Ottilie unpacked her suitcase, willing the pain now at the edges of her skull to dissipate. The source of her headaches—her neck—had never been right since ’85. The neuropsychiatrist at the Walter Reed traumatic brain injury unit had done his best, but what was done could not be undone.

As the years passed by, almost everything set off the clawing, radiating ache: Cold weather. Flying. Sleeping too little. Sleeping too much. Excessive desk work.

Retirement couldn’t come soon enough. Ottilie had been counting down for the past three years. She could almost taste the Mai Tais on a warm Pacific island of her dreams.

Opening the closet, she hung up a row of smart tailored business suits—starched gray or brown tweed skirts, jackets, and cream silk blouses—snapping the sleeves straight.

Her stockings and delicates she folded into exact triangles and placed them into a drawer. The elegance of triangles was that a pair turned into perfect geometrically pleasing squares. She appreciated the symmetry. It was beautiful.

Moving to the hotel bathroom, Ottilie lined up her rows of high-end, anti-aging creams. She’d been persistently fighting her age for decades. No, she did not look sixty-five, a fact she was quietly pleased about. “Early fifties” was the age she was most often assumed to be—occasionally even late forties.

Achieving a younger appearance took effort, time, and money. Sometimes she wondered if a lifetime spent playing an older woman who faded into backgrounds had made her subconscious assert itself and demand she scrape back the years.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. Given all the weaknesses available to humanity, vanity wasn’t a bad one to have.

Ottilie shifted to the bedroom and immediately stripped the duvet from the bed and dropped it, folded, in a corner of the room. Disgusting things; rarely cleaned and harboring who knew what sort of grime—or worse.

Finding a clean, fresh-smelling blanket, she unfurled it onto her bed. Next, she perched on the end and fished out her phone. Only one message—from her realtor—informing her that a potential buyer had accepted her counteroffer on her apartment.

It was sold. Excellent. She was one step closer to her retirement dreams.

Ottilie had never felt much affection for the sleek, polished one-bedroom apartment. It had been a luxurious place to sleep and a central base from which to visit the best museums and restaurants around DC. But it had never felt like home. Aside from her fish tanks, there was little she loved about the place.

Now that she thought about it, nowhere Ottilie had lived had ever felt like home. That would probably be something for a therapist to unpack, if she’d ever deign to see one beyond that CIA-mandated professional she’d once endured. Since then, she’d had no desire to ever step foot in a therapist’s office.

She tapped back one word to the realtor: understood .

Her phone pinged with a new text message. Recognizing the number, Ottilie smiled. H annah Hastreiter. Hannah’s career-climbing son might have anglicized his surname to Hastings to fit in better, but Hannah had no such interest in losing something so precious for such a risible reason. She was aged eighty-four, a former stage dancer, and had a rudimentary (at best) understanding of texting. But her ongoing efforts to connect with Ottilie were always appreciated.

No matter where in the world Ottilie had wound up in the past fifteen months since they’d first met, her friend could be counted on to amuse her in one way or another, and not always intentionally. Ottilie opened the text.

Ottilie, dear, have fun in Vegas! Will you please send me a photo of the showgirls? You know how much I miss dancers and dancing. Oh, how I love the outfits! So much pizzazz. Hannayite

A pause, and then Ottilie’s phone pinged again.

I mean Hannayite.

And again.

HANNAYITE!

Then: Wjat is hapenign! Didnt mean to send that. Sorry

H.A.N.N.A.H

PS I don’t know even what is Hannayite?

Ottilie’s lips twitched as she texted back: Hannayite is a mineral found in animal droppings.

Hannah replied promptly: Oh dear. That is NOT what I meant to write!

Ottilie snickered softly and replied: I gathered. Your phone autocorrected the spelling. Ask your granddaughter to explain it.

She laughed to herself at the thought of a frazzled Michelle attempting that task with her technologically challenged safta. That was a little evil of her. Ottilie resumed texting.

Anyway, I will endeavor to locate you some dancers. The “pizzazz-ier” the better. Have a nice rest of your day.

A vomit emoji appeared, which Ottilie was entirely sure was the last thing Hannah had intended to send. She smiled widely.

Ottilie set to work on her phone, searching for casinos running showgirl productions. Frowning at finding none, she gave up and ambled into the kitchen to assess the facilities. A toaster. Rare, but she’d asked for one ahead of her stay. Tea and coffee options. Excellent, and even rarer—casinos didn’t like customers in their rooms sipping beverages when they could be spending money on the main floor. Again, she’d paid well for the little things.

Satisfied, she returned to the main room, unrolled her yoga mat on the floor, and began a basic routine. It paid to keep nimble as the years passed.

Originally, she’d taught herself yoga to be agile, should it be required in the course of her job to duck or weave from an adversary. Now her routine merely ensured she could scoop things off the floor with ease, slide on stockings elegantly, and stretch to the taller shelves at the store. She was damned if she’d be old before she was ready.

At that reminder, she slowly turned herself into a pretzel and performed her best Lord of the Fishes pose. Her neck protested, and something made an ominous popping sound, but her body complied.

Ninety minutes later, hair sticking to her forehead and cheeks pleasantly warm, Ottilie rolled her mat back up and put it away. She settled again on the edge of her bed and checked her phone. It was early evening now, and a new message had appeared.

Michelle Hastings. Former CEO of Ottilie’s previous company, The Fixers. And Hannah’s granddaughter. Ottilie’s feelings on the woman were…mixed.

Ottilie, why are you telling my safta to get me to explain autocorrect to her? This took me almost TWO HOURS!! She still thinks her phone has an evil gremlin in it doing the changes for kicks. That was NOT an appreciated exercise!

She smirked. Well, she’d appreciated it, at least.

I’ll bear that in mind, Ms. Hastings, she texted back.

Her own comment made her laugh. Unfortunately, that just made the pain radiating at the base of her skull arc up again. Ottilie grimaced as she twisted this way and that. She might need a physical therapist appointment while she was here if it persisted.

After meditating a few moments, the pain faded and Ottilie got down to business. She checked the time—not too late—dialed a number, and said, “I’m in Vegas. What have you ascertained?”

“Uh, Ms.—uh—Zimmermann, ma’am?” came the sputtered reply. Snakepit always sounded so surprised and unprepared, even though he’d been well aware her call was coming.

“Please tell me you’ve narrowed down our target’s whereabouts by now?”

“Um, no new pings,” came the squeaky young man’s voice. “His phone’s still switched off. But Hotel Duxton Vegas absolutely was where he last used it. I could hack the hotel guest registry to see if he’s staying there?”

Ottilie ground her jaw. “ Of course I want you to do that.”

“Oh…um…okay. I’ll get right on that.”

“All right.” Ottilie rubbed her neck again. “Text me when you have something.”

“Yes, ma’am. G’bye, ma’am.” The call ended.

S nakepit was a genius, if lacking in initiative and some fundamental social skills. Ottilie had been benevolent in offering him this one last job as a paid assignment, instead of reminding him about the circumstances under which he’d abruptly left her company. He was aware of that too and seemed suitably grateful he wasn’t being blackmailed.

She hoped he’d be able to deliver because anything that extended her stay here was completely unacceptable. With a scowl at that thought, she retired early for the evening.