Page 150 of Bonded in Death

The droid would deal with it. Later.

It didn’t surprise him to see the boy hobble to the door, try to pull it open.

“Tried to run, so earned the bullet in the brain I was giving him anyway.”

Still, he considered the disobedience warranted some pain first. And maybe, just maybe, he’d kill the boy’s family after all. At some point.

All those years locked away he’d forgotten just how satisfying taking a life could be. He’d had to be so careful to follow the rules, even when he’d been free again.

The mission came first.

Satisfied with the recording—perfection—he walked up to the bedroom level, and into the room where he kept his wigs, facial enhancements, putty, alternate wardrobe, and all the rest.

Though he doubted he’d need one, he selected his persona.

The red wig with the ridiculous stub of a pigtail. A larger nose, prominently hooked. Though rarely used—he hated the feel of facial hair—he added a dramatically pointed goatee that matched the wig, and bushy eyebrows.

Meticulously, he gave himself a scatter of freckles, then a few more. A large stud earring, left ear. A bit of padding around the waist. Pressed jeans, a white collared shirt that would show the temporary tattoo he affixed on his left biceps.

He added an army-green canvas satchel, slung it over his shoulder.

And examined himself in the triple-glass, full-length mirror.

“There now, thanks to Chameleon’s tutelage, your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. Not that the selfish bitch ever would if she still lived.”

Which she didn’t.

She’d deserted him and his sad sack of a father. God knew why he’d bothered to track her down after he’d joined the military.

Maybe to kill her.

But she’d already been dead—dead by her own hand.

He shook that away. No matter now.

On the way out, he checked the monitor again. The boy was curled in a corner, crying. His hands, tied together, bled a bit.

Tried to beat down the door. Pathetic.

Potter shut down the droid, then went out through the garage.

He drove south, then east, parked. He walked to the bus terminal he’d earmarked. He’d already checked the schedule, so simply strolled around to the bus leaving for East Washington at eleven.

He bought a ticket—cash, to Boston—then filed out with others heading north. Just another hapless slob taking a bus trip.

Then he peeled off—found the correct bus.

He slipped inside, fixed the ’link to the underside of a seat in the middle of the bus.

Just as he walked back to the front, a uniformed driver stepped up.

Potter thought about the knife in his right boot.

“Hey, man, you want to board early, I need to see your ticket.”

Potter affected an American accent. “Early? But we’re leaving in like, you know, five minutes.”

“Closer to twenty.”

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