Chapter 14
Vengeance Planning for Former Spies
A t 3 a.m., Ottilie’s alarm went off and she got up quickly. She pulled on the outfit she’d selected before bed after her drinks with Monique had run late. She might have had only two hours’ sleep, but she’d be back in bed before long.
Monique had done a lot of “processing” via the minibar last night. She’d seemed rattled in a way that was both out of character and understandable.
How true her words of days ago had been. That the powerful can be made to feel powerless. Power was nothing. If someone wanted to take it away, they could. And they could do it with surprising ease.
Obviously, Ottilie had pointed out that it wasn’t Monique’s fault. Any of it. The role reversal was painful almost after their earlier conversation about consent just three days ago.
“I always assumed I could pick out the monsters,” Monique had announced, holding a cold glass of gin beaded with condensation against her forehead. “It was a conceit, a lie I told myself, that allowed me to work unafraid.”
“Will you be afraid now?” Ottilie asked slowly.
The long silence felt physical and sticky. Monique put down the glass. Her red-rimmed eyes met Ottilie’s. “Honestly? I don’t know.”
And then, to Ottilie’s great consternation, Monique Carson—fearless, flirty, confident Monique Carson—had started to cry.
In that moment, as Ottilie had hesitantly slid her arm around Monique’s back, rubbing soothing comforting circles, she’d decided Carrie Jordan deserved to suffer in the worst possible way.
Ottilie checked her phone now to ensure her first wave of damage had been executed. Social media was filled with furious complaints about Carrie Jordan’s opening night concert. Power outages, light issues, weird sound feedback were all part of the Snakepit hacker service.
Switching to her secure texts, Ottilie found one from two minutes ago saying Ready .
She texted back a confirmation and left her room. The Housekeeping maid she’d offered a generous bribe to earlier was waiting in the stairwell. Tired, dark-brown eyes filled with relief. She’d probably worried that no one would turn up and that all this had been just a bad joke.
“Fifteen minutes,” the maid told her. “Then I need it back. They’ll notice it missing from the board.”
“Understood.” Ottilie pocketed the key card.
“She is alone. No entourage.”
“No special guests this evening either? After her concert?”
“No. I watched her, like you said. She was in an awful mood, shouting at everyone because of her concert, but then she left her people in the lobby and went to her room alone.”
“Good.” A controlled environment was essential. “Did you bring the other item I asked for?”
“Yes.” The maid passed over a plastic drink bottle. “It’s not mine,” she said quickly, indicating the contents.
Ottilie tucked it into a black nylon pouch at her waist, zipping it closed. “I don’t care whose it is.”
“Interesting hat.” The maid was now staring at her jaunty navy beret, which hid her hair.
It was designed to distract. Often people would remember an unusual item of clothing long after they’d forgotten someone’s face or features.
She wore black pants, a black T-shirt with long sleeves, and thin black gloves. If anyone somehow managed to get a glimpse of her, they’d never pick her out in a lineup when she was back in her formal, crisp tweed skirt suit, and the matching personality.
Ottilie handed the Housekeeping employee an envelope. “The agreed amount.”
The woman counted out the bills, then put them back into the envelope, and tucked it into her pocket. “There are cameras in the hallway on the penthouse floor. Pointing at the door.”
“I know. But they’re having a small technical glitch right now.”
“They are?”
“Well, they will be. They’ll be out for half an hour. I’ll return to you before then.”
“Fifteen minutes. No more. The night supervisor will be back at that time. I’ll wait here.”
Ottilie nodded, then climbed two flights up before exiting and taking the elevator the rest of the way.
When the elevator reached the forty-ninth floor, she texted Snakepit: Now.
The doors opened on floor fifty. She waited inside, finger pressed on the Door Open button.
Her phone lit up. Go.
Exiting, she confirmed that the security camera above the elevator, pointing down the hall, had no red light on. The hotel wasn’t equipped with 24/7 security guards watching monitors, so no alarm would be raised until the morning. Maybe it wouldn’t even be noticed then, if the guards had no reason to review the footage.
Ottilie used the keycard from the maid to swipe open Carrie Jordan’s suite. She closed the door softly and dropped to a crouch, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
Question one: was Jordan alone? Had she picked up some company for the evening after leaving her team?
Soft snores came from the master bedroom. Only one set. Crawling, she quickly cased the rest of the suite and confirmed there was only one occupant.
Good .
Ottilie stood with a soft groan, her knees cracking. Infiltration and payback were a younger person’s game.
She moved to the main living area where she’d seen several bags. Rifling through the biggest suitcase, she hit the jackpot. Passport. She extracted the bottle the maid had given her, then poured half its contents onto the passport. Just to send a message about disrespect. The stench of urine filled her nostrils.
Zipping the bottle back into her pouch, she moved to the kitchen. An empty phone charger sat on the main counter. She withdrew a small pair of wire cutters and snipped the cable. Annoying things to replace. Attack of fleas. If she’d learned nothing from The Fixers’s security crew, repeated irritating little attacks could be far more annoying to people than full-on ones. Especially if they lasted longer and were a constant source of pain to correct.
Next was the bathroom. A curling iron and expensive hair dryer lay on the counter. Her wire cutters made short work of both. Two new, unlit scented candles were on the counter. Retrieving the bottle, she dribbled a tiny amount of urine on each wick until it soaked in. This “gift” wouldn’t be evident until the candles were lit, which could be weeks later. A lasting and noxious reminder.
Slipping the wire cutters back into her pouch, she turned her attention to the pills lined up under the mirror. Hunger suppressants. Illicit uppers. Iron pills. Vitamins. Heavy-duty headache formulas. Nothing too unexpected for an A-lister, especially one performing nightly. And no medical condition that might explain her abhorrent behavior. It seemed she simply chose to be an assaulting asshole.
How disappointing…but not too unexpected. Ottilie had met far too many A-listers with entitlement issues.
After dribbling urine in each bottle, she left the lids off so Jordan would know the pills had been tampered with. She was about inconveniencing the pop star, not poisoning her.
She returned the plastic bottle to her pouch and moved on to the master bedroom.
Carrie Jordan was in bed on her back with only a sheet around her. Her shoulders were bare. On the floor lay a cell phone with a cracked screen. Clearly it had been used to vent some recent fury—not surprising since the evening’s concert had been a disaster.
It was tempting to destroy the phone and its contacts—nothing would annoy Jordan more. But Ottilie left it. It would be needed untouched when officials seized it to search for those illicit photos Snakepit had reported.
She studied the sleeping woman for a moment. How angelic she looked. As though she weren’t a woman who, hours ago, had made a good and gentle woman humiliated and afraid.
Rage slithered into Ottilie at the reminder.
Knotting a black, thin handkerchief around her head so only her eyes were now visible, she positioned herself on the bed. Settling across Jordan’s hips, her weight pinning the woman down, Ottilie leaned in, waiting.
Jordan stirred.
Ottilie tapped the singer’s forehead hard and repeatedly with one index finger, lowering her face as close as possible to Jordan’s.
Jordan’s eyes sprang wide, her mouth opening to scream.
Ottilie pulled back, clamped a gloved hand hard over her mouth, and said, “No, no. Quiet. You will listen.”
Her eyes were as wide as trash-can lids.
“Here is your one warning: your concert tonight was no accident. The technical failures were planned. This was payback.”
Her eyes grew even wider.
“This was just a small demonstration of our power. We can do this, and much worse, every day for the rest of your life, if we want.”
Carrie’s nostrils flared.
“You want to know why,” Ottilie stated.
Under her clamped hand, the singer nodded.
“Maybe this will refresh your memory.” Ottilie released her hand from the woman’s mouth and reached into her pouch, withdrawing the half bottle of urine.
“The hell?” Carrie gasped out, struggling to sit up as she saw it.
“Cease moving,” Ottilie barked at her.
She froze.
Slowly, Ottilie poured the urine over Carrie’s hair until rivulets were running down her face.
Carrie squirmed and gagged a little but stopped under Ottilie’s warning look.
“What you did to Ms. Carson yesterday was unacceptable.”
“ She sent you?” Carrie asked in shock.
“No. She is unaware I’m here. But we heard what you did, and my organization is most unhappy. You should know that if you try to hurt her again—or any sex worker—we will know and we will ruin you.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Carrie tried hurriedly. “The hooke—Ms. Carson…”
“Of course you did,” Ottilie said sharply. “You wanted her humiliated, and you wanted your former manager humiliated.”
“My manager ?” Now Carrie looked truly furious. “Did she —”
“No. She did not.”
“I’ll fuck you up! I have money!”
Ottilie gave her an unimpressed once-over. “Look at you. Just a cruel, spoiled brat. Abusive and entitled. A disgrace.”
She remembered Monique’s broken expression as she had cried in Ottilie’s arms and decided to twist the knife hard. “What will your parents think? Back home in…Charlotte, wasn’t it? They seem so nice. Wholesome, even. Do you think your little brother will get into art school?” she asked conversationally. “Mark’s work shows promise, but his GPA isn’t the best, is it?” Ottilie affected her most thoughtful expression.
“Jesus!” Carrie gaped at her in fear. “Leave my family out of it!”
“I’m not the one about to be dragging their name through the mud with disgusting antics.”
“Please!” Carrie begged, and the emotional cracks finally appeared. “I’m sorry!” She wrenched herself into a sitting position, and her sheet slipped down. Now they were both staring at her bare, perfectly round breasts.
Carrie glanced quickly at Ottilie, as if assessing whether the view was having a positive effect.
Was she kidding? Drenched in urine, young enough to be Ottilie’s granddaughter, possessing none of the humor, wit, or charm of Monique? “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said coolly. “Your body is as appalling to me as the rest of you.”
Carrie drew the sheet back up. Her cheeks reddened.
“You’re thinking of reporting this, despite the publicity fallout,” Ottilie said with certainty. “That’s pointless. The cameras outside your room have been disabled. Anything you do in retaliation would end badly for you. Go back to sleep. In the morning, you’ll wonder if it was just a bad dream.” She gave the softest of snorts as she slid off the woman’s hips, back to the floor. “Maybe it was?”
Ottilie left the penthouse suite and checked her watch. Four minutes left.
Striding down the hall—red camera light still off—she was in the elevator within moments. Stopping it two flights from her floor, she exited, ripped off the handkerchief, and ran down the stairwell.
The maid jumped to her feet, tension and relief sharp on her face. Ottilie gave the key card to her and the woman then shot off down the stairwell.
After texting Restore feed to Snakepit, Ottilie then removed her beret, squeezed it into her small waist bag, and headed back to her room.
It was done.
Idly, as she channel surfed and waited for her adrenaline to calm the hell down, she wondered what Monique was doing. Had she been able to sleep? Was she feeling any better?
How odd that they’d gone from parting on terse terms to this: Ottilie fretting for a woman she’d never thought she’d see again.
There was no denying the enormous satisfaction she’d gotten from punishing the singer for hurting a woman she…appreciated. Someone she apparently greatly cared what happened to.
She would probably never get last night’s look of defeat in Monique’s eyes out of her head. Or the moment her soft, gentle eyes had welled up with tears and embarrassment. Monique had looked at her with so much shame, then hid her face in her trembling hands.
No, Ottilie would never forget that until the day she died.