Page 82 of Shark Bait

Once Igor disappears into the elevator, I press a button on my electronics disruptor and wait a few seconds for the cameras to switch into still mode before I come out of the staircase wearing a ball cap and gloves.

I pick up the white all-access card from the carpet in front of the elevators and continue to the end of the hallway, toward the corner room.

It’s almost six o’clock, and right before the time the man should come home from work.

This mission came with many unknowns, but one unknown that could pose the biggest problem is that I have no idea if La Falena is holding another person in the room. If I find someone, he or she becomes a witness, and because of that, I roll the ski mask down over my face before I slip quietly inside the room. Pausing, once I close the door behind me, I listen for signs that anyone’s here.

Silence greets me.

But my ears aren’t dog ears, so I engage the thermal search and prowl through the large suite. It’s not the penthouse, because that’s reserved for high-end clientele, but La Falena secured a large one-bedroom corner suite. The bedroom door is closed.

Thermal reveals no signs of life beyond the door, but since Troy managed to evade the thermal scan, I only trust my eyes. Before entering the bedroom, I send a prayer to the Big Man, who may or may not be listening to me.Let it be empty.

I enter on silent feet. Unremarkable off-white hotel sheets lay bunched up on a king-sized bed surrounded by used condoms, trash, and empty bottles of alcohol. On the glass table by the window on the left, I swipe a gloved finger over some white powder and bring it to my nose, inhale. Yup, that’ll get a man high, all right. The object in the corner catches me off guard.

There’s a cage near the bed. Leaning against it is a guitar I recognize from Troy’s social media posts. Why does he carry this thing around? It’s a little difficult to understand a mentally deranged person, but that’s what Dr. Gruber is for. He profiledLa Falena, and I’m unsure if the guitar plays a role in the kind of profile Dr. Gruber came up with.

Not that it matters. I’ve already planned exactly how I’ll spend my time with La Falena, but now that I’ve seen the setup he kept Troy in, with her guitar just out of reach, I think I’ll get more creative. I grab the guitar and pull out one of its strings, then place the instrument inside a black case covered in cute pink girly stickers.

Boy oh boy, I’m going to enjoy the last five hours of this man’s life. Is it six o’clock yet? I can hardly wait for him to arrive. I’m so excited to get started on him that I think I might pee my pants when I see him.

Which reminds me… Before he arrives, I need to close the curtains in the bedroom, take the guitar, and set it on the table so Troy’s brother doesn’t miss it when he gets here at eleven. He’ll want to have it. I’m certain of it.

The fact Denver agreed to a meeting in the hotel room instead of a public place speaks volumes of how clueless he is about blackmail and about criminal behavior or safety. I understand he’s desperate for any news about Troy, but one really shouldn’t meet a man who’s blackmailing you in a such a private space where he could take your money and end your life at the same time. But then again, sometimes, we don’t have choices.

Sometimes, bad people manipulate us.

And that’s not okay.

But Lucifer’s middle name is Karma, so they will all get what’s coming for them. Case in point: La Falena got me. I’ve arrived for him and he’ll get what’s in store for him in about ten minutes. But first, prep work.

I secure the suite, double-check all the electronics that might be monitoring, including my own phone. There’s no reception and the screen is glitching. Good. Next, I dump my duffel on thewriting desk next to the guitar and open it, take out my worn black leather tool caddy, and roll it out on the table.

I marvel at the beauty of my sharp tools. Wait no. There’s one dull one. The hammer. I guess you could say I’m like any other handyman. Never showing up to work without my toolbox. Mainly, I carry surgical scalpels, a few knives of different sizes and styles, blades, wires, pliers (hoses aren’t sharp either; my bad.)

I rub my hands, getting a serious hard-on now.

I yearn to take off my mask and gloves and lay them beside my tools so mine is the last face he sees before his fall into the pits of hell, but I don’t because I’m risking not only my life, but the lives of my family by not sticking to the plan Alessio and I agreed on.

On my way to the kitchen, I walk by the TV in the living room and spot a single lollipop inside a decorative bowl. What the…?

I pick it up and remove the wrapper. Green. “Let this be a sign.” I pop it into my mouth to taste the sour apple. Unbelievable! If I told the story of finding my favorite lollipop flavor in a target’s apartment, nobody would believe me. They’d say I made this shit up. Fiction, they’d say.

And because of that, because I have no other witness to my Karma-tic (that’s not a word) lollipop-finding event, I part the curtains, even though it’s risky. I’m old enough to know someone could see me and interrupt my jolly old time with the man who hurt the woman I love.

The sky’s not dark yet, so I have a clear view of the moon and stars. “Lord, universe, Force, and everyone up there, thank you for the sour-apple-flavored lollipop. I’m taking it as a sign that I’m on the right path.” I close the curtain and, instead of pocketing the candy wrapper, toss it on the floor for the forensics team.

I make my way into the kitchen, where I open the fridge and look inside for something to drink. I grab bottled water that costs more than a magazine for my Walther, which, by the way, I didn’t bring. I came unarmed.

Well, I came without a firearm because I have no intention of being quick or clean. I’m going to make a mess that Alessio will have only one way of cleaning up.

Oh, hey, a jar of pickles.

Uh-oh. An idea pops into my head. It’s a good one. So good.Don’t, don’t, don’t say it.

“You’re a bloody genius.” There, I said it. Very bloody. More bloody than genius, but it is what it is.

I search the kitchen for a toothpick (only because I’ll have more fun using the toothpick than the fork) and stab a pickle, and taste it. Mmhm, fancy little pricks.

---