Page 131 of Thankless in Death

“In your office.”

“I take the ‘idiots’ back. Get to work anyway.”

She walked into her office, touched and still surprised to see the neat piece of cake on a small disposable plate on her desk. She stowed the medal in a drawer, programmed coffee.

And sitting at her desk, broke off a corner of the cake, and got back to work herself.

Fifty-five minutes, she thought. Longer than she’d hoped, but still the whole thing had taken under an hour. And what, she wondered, had Reinhold been up to for the last fifty-five minutes?

•••

He had a plan. No reason he could see why it wouldn’t work—and he’d have some fun with it. Plus, changing things up would save him some legwork. His foot still hurt like a bitch!

He sent the droid out with a shopping list, and instructions to buy each item at a different shop.

And while he had the apartment to himself, he blasted music as he limped through, speculating on where to set the stage.

The living area. Sure, the second bedroom was big enough, but he liked having the easy access to the kitchen, and the dining room. It made more sense, he thought, since he was having company for Thanksgiving dinner.

It would be his most daring kill, and he’d do it all in his own space. Good practice for when he started selling his services, he decided. Body disposal could be an option he needed to offer clients, after all.

Sometimes people like the Mafia or the CIA or whatever didn’t want bodies found. He’d read shit about that.

The cops didn’t have a clue where he was—how could they—or now who he was. In his own place, undisturbed, he could take all the time he wanted with his... selection.

No, prey. He liked that term. They, all of them, were prey, and he was, code name: Reaper. He really liked it.

Reaper. Death for sale. Anytime, anywhere. Terms to be negotiated.

Something like that, he decided.

When the droid got back, they’d set the place up, just the way he wanted it. Then, contact, lure, trap. Snap, snap.

He’d have all night, through the next day to do his work, while people were sitting around pretending friends and family meant a single happy shit.

He could stretch it out another night, if he wanted. If he got bored, he’d end it.

Then between him and the droid, they’d take care of body disposal.

“I have the best job in the world!” he shouted over the music, then dancing—wincing a little—out to the terrace.

For the hell of it, he yanked down his pants and mooned New York.

It seriously cracked him up.

He went back in, popped another pain pill, got a beer. It was great to be able to drink when he wanted, eat when he wanted, do whatever he wanted.

All of his life people had held him down, held him back, fucked with him.

Now he was the one doing the fucking.

And he was never going to stop.

“Found myself, Ma!” He cackled it. “And today, oh yeah, I am a man.”

He turned as the door opened, and the droid carted in a big box. He saw the droid’s mouth move, but couldn’t make out the words.

“What? Jesus. Music off. What?”

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