Chapter 24
Even with a state-of-the-art antigrav elevator, the ride up to Victor Slayn’s penthouse seemed to take an eternity.
It was the first time Fairchild had truly been alone since the start of the mission.
Over the past few weeks, she had grown so accustomed to the protective presence of Reece, Dutton, and Nash, that she now felt naked without them—and not in a good way.
The last time she had felt that close to anyone had been with her previous team: Bryce, Rook, and Dane.
Right now, Reece and the others would be taking up their positions outside the hotel.
She didn’t know exactly where they were going to be, but that wasn’t her concern.
Her job was to kill Slayn, then hightail it out.
Her guys would be able to track her position with the beacon in the pendant she was wearing.
She just had to trust that they would come to her when the time came.
She did. She trusted them completely.
She trusted them with her body, her life, everything.
The elevator eased to a stop, and the doors gasped open.
A pair of Slayn’s guards were waiting for her on the other side.
Thugs in tailored suits. Both were wearing shades, but Fairchild could still feel their eyes roving over her body, which her skimpy red dress did little to conceal.
Her augmetically enhanced senses picked up both men’s arousal, the sudden rush of male pheromones and the not-so-subtle stirring in the crotches of both men’s pants—none of which had the slightest effect on her own system.
There were only three men who could turn her on, and these two guys didn’t hold a candle to them.
“Mr. Slayn is waiting,” one of the guards said. “Follow me.”
Fairchild followed the men down the long hallway, their footsteps cushioned by the deep carpets covering the floor.
She kept a lookout for any possible means of egress, but she found none.
Just a bunch of closed doors hiding rooms where other guards were probably lying in wait.
Her best bet was going to be to make her escape directly from Slayn’s room, through a window or off a balcony.
If she was lucky, he would be on the western side of the building.
There was a pool on that side, deep enough to cushion her fall.
And if he was located on one of the other two sides?
Then she would just have to think of something else.
For a moment, Fairchild feared the guards were leading her to a central room, one without windows or other external exits. If that was the case, then she would have to fight her way out.
That wasn’t the part that scared her. Fairchild was used to fighting. She was good at it, and she was perfectly willing to die if that’s what it took to complete the mission.
She was worried about her teammates, worried they might do something stupid like breaking into the building to rescue her if things went south.
Yeah, that’s exactly what they would do.
Overprotective lunks.
The thought might have warmed Fairchild’s heart, if she hadn’t been so worried about endangering her teammates’ safety. She could be overprotective too when she wanted to be.
The guards reached a place where the hallway forked. They turned left. Based on her mental map of the hotel, Fairchild knew they were heading toward the western side of the building. Good. Perfect. She resisted the urge to let out a sigh of relief.
They came to a large, wooden door flanked by two more guards in sunglasses and suits. Nods were exchanged. Fairchild’s body was ogled. A doorbell was rung. After a moment, the door swung open.
“About time.”
The woman standing in the doorway was the same one Fairchild had seen with Slayn at the restaurant and in the theater, but tonight she was dressed for business.
A tight-fitting tank top left her broad shoulders and muscular arms exposed, along with the lower portion of her taut, flat belly.
A pair of black cargo pants covered her powerful legs, and the ends were tucked into a pair of black combat boots.
Her bleach-blonde crew cut stood out starkly against the shadowy backdrop of the room behind her.
“You’re late,” the woman said in a voice as hard and cold as her eyes. “What took you so long?”
She’s jealous, Fairchild thought. Unbelievable.
How could someone actually have feelings for a piece of shit like Slayn?
As for being late, Fairchild knew she couldn’t be more than a minute behind schedule, and that was the fault of the guards who had taken their sweet time guiding her to this room.
She didn’t say any of that, however. No point starting shit.
“I’m sorry,” she replied, lacing her voice with an extra-large serving of artificial sweetener. “I hope Victor will forgive me.”
“You will refer to him as Mr. Slayn,” the woman corrected, “unless he gives you permission to do otherwise. And he hates to be kept waiting.”
A second voice spoke out of the darkness behind her, as smooth and luxurious as silk.
“That’s right, Inga. I hate to be kept waiting. So stop badgering our guest and invite her inside before you scare the poor girl away.”
The blonde glowered for a moment, then turned and walked back into the room, gesturing for Fairchild to follow. She did.
The door clicked shut behind them.
The room was cozy but luxurious, with wood-panelled walls and expensive-looking furniture upholstered in rich leather.
The lights were turned down low, allowing deep shadows to congeal in the corners.
There were doors in every wall, leading to other, darker rooms. Fairchild was tempted to activate her optical augmentations, but she knew if she did so, her eyeglow would give her away, so she probed the shadows with her other senses. They seemed to be empty.
The three of them were alone, her and Inga…
And Slayn.
The arms dealer was sitting in a high-backed leather chair, his body lit by the glow from an antique stained-glass lamp on the table beside him.
He was dressed in a satin robe that draped like liquid over his athletic form.
It was obvious he had nothing on underneath.
When he smiled, his teeth looked about as bright as white phosphorus.
“My, oh my,” he said. “Don’t you look delicious?”
Though it filled her with disgust to do so, Fairchild gave him a spin, just as she’d done for her teammates back in her suite. She could practically hear Inga rolling her eyes. Slayn chuckled softly.
“Very delicious. We may have to skip dinner and go straight to dessert.”
Fairchild forced a flirtatious look.
“I hope you don’t think me a cheap date, Mr. Slayn.”
Another chuckle: “Of course not, my dear. I have no interest in cheap things, and I believe there is no better form of foreplay than a fine meal and a stimulating conversation. However, before we get started, there is something we must get out of the way. You see, a man in my line of work can never be too cautious. Inga.”
The blonde stepped in front of Fairchild.
“Raise your arms,” she commanded. “I need to pat you down.”
Fairchild couldn’t even begin to guess what they thought she might be hiding beneath her skin-tight dress, but she went along with it.
Inga slid her hands up and down Fairchild’s sides.
She fondled her breasts, then her butt. And then, before Fairchild had a chance to protest, Inga raised the hem of her dress and slid a hand between Fairchild’s thighs.
A finger parted her folds, pushed inside. Fairchild gasped.
Slayn tented his fingers and watched, his eyes sharp and intense.
Inga pushed her finger deeper inside, stroking Fairchild’s inner walls. Fairchild didn’t enjoy that intrusion, but she pretended that she did, moaning softly and trembling, even bracing her hands against the blonde’s shoulders as if her legs might give out from pleasure.
“So responsive,” Slayn said with amusement. “Perhaps we should invite Inga to stay?”
Fairchild cursed inwardly. She’d oversold it. She needed Slayn alone. She brushed back her hair, pretending to recover from her fake almost-orgasm.
“I wish,” she replied. “But my partners only give me one free pass per cycle, and I like to be faithful to them, even when I’m not.”
Slayn seemed to like that.
“Of course,” he said. “Besides, if we only have one night together, I’d rather have you all to myself.” He flicked one hand, a gesture of dismissal. “Inga, leave us.”
“But sir,” Inga blurted, “I haven’t finished—”
“No need,” Slayn interrupted. “Our guest isn’t hiding anything inside her pretty little ass.” He fixed Fairchild with his gaze. “Are you?”
“No,” Fairchild answered with a flirtatious smile. “But I wouldn’t object to a search.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Slayn waved Inga away a second time. The big blonde hesitated for a moment, eyeing Fairchild with a mixture of jealousy and suspicion.
Then she pulled Fairchild’s dress back down, turned on her heel, and marched out of the room, exiting the same way Fairchild had come in.
After the door clicked shut behind her, Slayn rose from his seat and gestured toward another door at the far side of the room.
“I thought we could dine on the terrace,” he said, “under the stars.”
“How romantic.”
They were alone now. She could kill him if she wished.
A swift blow to his throat would easily crush his windpipe and leave him choking on his own blood.
Still, there was the matter of escaping to be considered.
Fairchild would prefer not to make this into a suicide mission.
If she’d been operating alone, perhaps she would have felt differently, but she had teammates to think about, and she very much wanted to see them again.
She moved in the direction Slayn had indicated, switching her hips as she walked, giving him something to look at while he followed her. She didn’t like having her enemy behind her, but there was nothing Slayn could do to her.
Unless he had a gun.
If he did, and if he tried to draw it, she would hear him and react. Her reflexes were a hundred times quicker than his own.
The next room wasn’t quite as dark as the first. Big floor-to-ceiling windows along one side let in a spill of starshine and ambient light pollution, limning the edges of luxurious furniture and the curves of erotic sculptures positioned along the walls.
A glass door led outside. Fairchild moved toward it.
She was halfway there when she felt a cool weight in the pit of her stomach. It was the same sensation she’d experienced six months before at the thermal plant with Dane and the others. Too easy. This was too easy.
She flipped her hair and glanced back at Slayn. He was a few paces behind, showing no signs of aggression or fear. He winked. She returned a flirty smile.
And kept walking. There was nothing else she could do.
The door slid open at her approach, and she was greeted with a breath of warm air scented with exotic flowers. She stepped outside.
The terrace was big and wide open, a seemingly egregious security hazard for a man as paranoid as Slayn.
But the penthouse was the highest structure in the entire resort, making it virtually immune to snipers.
A drone attack was always a possibility, but someone would have to get it through security first, and Slayn’s team was undoubtedly monitoring the surrounding airspace, ready to activate energy shields at the first sign of danger.
Fairchild could see the generators positioned discreetly around the edges of the terrace.
A table had been set up at one end. A table for two, set with a white cloth, sparkling dinnerware, and a pair of burning candles.
Fairchild went instead toward the railing and peered over the edge.
As she’d hoped, they were on the western side of the building.
Far below, a massive swimming pool glimmered like a sapphire.
An ordinary human would never survive a fall like that, even into water, but Fairchild’s augmented body could withstand the impact. It would hurt—a lot—but she would live.
“Wow!” she gasped, affecting a tone of breathless amazement. “What a view!”
“So I’m told,” said Slayn. “I’ve never seen it myself. I prefer to stay away from the edge.”
“Really?” Fairchild said, pouting. “I was hoping you would take me over the edge tonight.”
Slayn smiled. He was standing by the table.
“Fear not, my pet. We will cross all kinds of boundaries before the night is through. But first, dinner. You’ll need plenty of energy for what I have in mind.”
He pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit.
Fairchild walked obediently toward him, doing her very best runway strut, watching his eyes as they drifted down her body.
She didn’t know what was running through Slayn’s mind, but she knew what was running through her own.
She was thinking about the thermal plant.
About the three good Mercs who were dead because of this vile man.
A snowy wind caressed her skin, followed by a flash of heat.
She stopped at the edge of the table and looked at the utensils there, polished and gleaming atop the snow-white cloth. There were four different kinds of forks, two spoons, one for soup and another, presumably, for dessert.
And a knife.
It wasn’t quite as sharp as Fairchild would have liked, but it would do.
Before Slayn had a chance to react, she snatched the blade off the table and struck, turning her hips as she did so, putting the full weight of her body behind the blow. The knife entered Slayn’s throat right at the apple.
There was no resistance.
None.
Instead of blood, his neck erupted in a spray of colored sand.
The particles swirled for an instant, then reconstituted themselves into a perfect facsimile of flawless, unmarred flesh.
Fairchild only had a fraction of a second to stare in disbelief before the electrodes hit her in the back of the neck.
A pair of them, like the fangs of some metallic viper.
Then a surge of white-hot pain.
Then nothing.