Chapter 14
“If this were an actual job, it would be the simplest thing in the world.”
“It is an actual job,” Ricardo said with a sigh, the sound vaguely tinny in August’s earpiece.
“You know what I mean.” August glanced away from the pool to inspect his arms for any sign of redness.
Of course he’d used sunscreen, because hello, no skin cancer for him.
Or worse, becoming leathery and wrinkled because he voluntarily exposed himself to UV rays.
No. He would be ghostly and beautiful for the rest of his life, thank you very much, but it never hurt to check.
“I don’t understand why this guy had such a high-level contract.
” They’d been going to fake another one, but when Heidi pointed this one out to them, Ricardo had been quick to snap it up. August still wasn’t sure why.
Said “guy,” Herman Darrow, was currently doing the breast stroke in the hotel’s pool.
He wasn’t much to look at—medium height, medium weight, gunmetal gray hair slicked back as he swam from one side of the pool to the other over and over again.
He had a few pockmarks on his face but no noticeable scars. Essentially, he seemed… well, dull.
“He travels alone,” August went on as he lazily scrolled the file on his phone.
No new information popped out at him. “He’s usually armed, but that’s hardly a deterrent.
He’s certainly got a job worth eliminating”—taking out arms brokers for warlords was one of Ricardo’s favorite things to do —“but it’s barely a seven-figure payout.
Hardly enough to gather your interest or mine, on a normal day. ”
“You’re right,” Ricardo said, and August smiled as he picked up his drink. “But what you don’t know is that there’s actually a bonus riding on fulfilling this contract.”
August frowned and swallowed quickly, stifling a cough. Curse this shitty gin. “There’s no indication of a client bonus on the file.”
He could almost see Ricardo shake his head from where he was surveilling them in their hotel room. “It’s not a client bonus, it comes from RateYourHit itself. See the different first letter of the file name? The C in bold?”
“Yeees…”
“That indicates that Mr. Darrow has eluded not one, but two previous hits arranged through the site. The bonus is an additional twenty-five percent increase on your rating for the hit if you take him out successfully.”
August’s jaw dropped. He stared at his phone for a second, then furiously brought up Ricardo’s job history. He ran down the file names, and his sense of umbrage grew with every second. “You… almost a third of your contracts have a different letter in front!”
“Do they?” Ricardo asked mildly.
“You’ve been gaming the system since you started, you shit!”
“I’ve been utilizing my knowledge to the greatest advantage.”
“Same fucking difference!” August was tempted to throw his phone, but drawing attention to himself right now wouldn’t help things. Darrow wasn’t supposed to know they were here, after all, and NightRaven… well, if he didn’t know they were here yet then he wasn’t paying attention.
“Baby,” his husband said in the placating tone that August hated, “most of the people who evade hits are trained soldiers. They’re not your type of target anyway. You like useless rich people and kidnappers, remember?”
That was true, but August didn’t have to admit it. He opened his mouth, then paused. “Do you think this is part of how NightPigeon has been upping his rating so quickly?”
“I’ve considered it,” Ricardo replied. “And I wouldn’t put it past him, but in this case it doesn’t really matter. The fact that we’re here should be enough to draw him in. Speaking of, any sign of him so far?”
“Not yet.” August hadn’t just been keeping eyes on Darrow while he lounged by the pool.
He was also checking every hotel employee who walked by for the telltale features of their nemesis, which so far were vague at best. Skinny, long face, possibly brown hair and blue eyes but those things could be changed so easily, but most of all a certain smoothness to his gait that spoke of knowing exactly where he was meant to be. “You?”
“I’m keeping a watch on the video feed of Darrow’s hallway and ours. Nothing so far.”
Hmm. August didn’t like the ambiguity of the situation, but there wasn’t much he could do about it either. They were balancing on a wire right now, and the only advantage they had was in being the first to lay a trap. Speaking of… “You took care of his car, right?”
“Of course I did.”
The contract against Darrow specified that, ideally, his death should look like an accident.
No bullets to the head, and a sudden poisoning or allergic reaction verged on too dramatic.
They’d considered carbon monoxide poisoning, but that was tricky in a hotel, and staging a random mugging would be challenging to keep out of the eyes of possible witnesses when the man spent so little time out and about.
Luckily, Darrow was a fan of expensive cars.
He’d been in San Francisco for the past week, and every day he rented a different car from a local auto club to speed around their exclusive track on.
Today’s automobile of choice was a Lotus Elise GT1 in white and green, a gorgeous machine conveniently prone to oil line malfunctions.
By the time he was on his second lap, all things going to plan, the engine should burst into flames.
Couple that with Ricardo’s handywork on the door locks, and Darrow ought to go out with a bang.
A new drink was set down in front of August by a petite young woman in a hotel-branded blazer. Not the NightPigeon, clearly. He smiled his appreciation, even though he had no intention of subjecting himself to more of their cut-rate liquor, and glanced back at the pool.
Darrow was just getting out. He headed over to where he’d left his towel and phone and dried himself off, then slipped into a pair of hotel-provided sandals and began to head inside.
August didn’t follow him, but he watched to see if anyone else did. There was nothing obvious yet, but… “Darrow’s on the move.”
“Got it.” There was a pause. “I’m watching the elevators.”
God, nothing was better than a hotel with its own private surveillance. Especially when your husband was an expert at tapping into said surveillance, with some help from his “Karen” of a spouse who’d given him an in by loudly demanding to speak to the manager. “No NightPigeon yet?”
“No one who comes close to your description.”
He must be waiting to make his move. August stared down at his fresh drink, watching a drop of condensation slide down the side of the glass.
He looked out over the other people sitting there by the pool, conversing quietly as they enjoyed the sun.
There were plenty of empty glasses out there…
and no one was replacing any of them, not until one of the people sitting there got up and went over to the bar themselves.
That made sense, because this was a decent hotel but it wasn’t the kind of place where you could expect a concierge level of service.
So why did he have a new drink?
August picked it up and sniffed at the contents. There was nothing but the overwhelming scent of gin. Maybe the waitress just liked him.
Ha.
“Don’t yell at me, okay?” August said as he raised the glass to his lips.
“Why would I—”
He took a sip, swished it for a second, then immediately spat it out again. This gin was bad, but it shouldn’t be that bitter. Cut-rate fucker should have used Rohypnol. “NightRaven is here,” he said before lifting a napkin to his mouth and spitting into it more thoroughly.
There was a pause on the line before Ricardo said, “What did you just do?” His voice was chilly.
“Tested a theory.”
“August.”
He was already on his feet, but he took care to stuff his napkin into the glass before he walked away.
No one would be sipping that tainted gin, thank you very much.
“I was brought a drink I didn’t order,” he said as he headed away from the pool.
Stepping into the hotel lobby felt like stepping into a fridge by comparison, but August shook it off.
“That’s not the norm for this place. I tested it, and I’m pretty sure it was spiked. ”
“You tested it how?”
“I asked it what two plus two equals,” he snapped. “How do you think?”
“You—” Ricardo’s impending tirade cut off. “Darrow’s elevator just stopped.”
August could see that, the digital number above the double doors on the ground floor coming to a halt. “Is he alone in there?”
“Yes.”
“Well, shit.” The number had stopped on 5. Darrow’s room was on the seventh floor. “Do you think he’s going to drop it?”
“Elevators don’t work that way anymore, he can’t just drop it.” Even as Ricardo said it, the number went from 5 to 4. August could hear a sharp yell from behind the doors. The woman with two bickering kids who’d been waiting for it in front of him backed away a few steps, faces uncertain.
“Um… I think something’s wrong with this one,” the lady called over to the front desk. The woman there was already on her way over; it was time to move. August headed for the stairs.
“It seems that perhaps he can,” he snarked as he entered the stairwell and looked up. Great. Seven floors to go.
“Not really,” Ricardo said. “It looks like he cut the power to the elevator… got its emergency supply too, but there are mechanical brakes built into the system to keep it from falling far. I think he wanted to isolate him.”
Well, leaving Darrow suspended in an elevator shaft would do that. It was a decent idea for a hit, but August didn’t trust it. “You check there, I’m going to Darrow’s room.”
“You think it’s a feint?”
“It might be.” That was good enough for August. Either way, they had the NightPigeon covered. Darrow was a secondary objective right now.
“Keep the line open.”
Aww, that was one of Ricardo’s ways of saying “I love you.” It was sweet, if overbearing. “I will, but don’t feel the need to be a knight in shining armor. I know what I’m doing.”