Page 89 of Exit Strategy

How many women had Kurt and I gathered up and removed from his trailer?

Some of them had bruises, bright and fresh.

The makeup Calanthe sometimes wore, thick almost pancake-like, and the oversized glasses.

There was a spark.

“My phone has the encrypted files from the house security system,” I said.

“Does it now,” the Englishman said.

“That will show the truth,” I said. “It recorded what happened in Calanthe’s puzzle room, and you wouldn’t have been able to alter it.”

“So, you’d accept that evidence?” the Englishman asked.

I nodded.

The sociopath had my phone and handed it to the Englishman. I told him the passcode, and he took it into another room. I wanted to follow him, but I couldn’t turn my back on this room of fiends.

“I’m glad you didn’t shoot her,” the sociopath told the brunette.

“It’s only because she was standing in front of the Van Gogh. There is no way we could get blood off of thePoppy Flowers.” Her tone was matter of fact, and she was indeed, still carrying the revolver. The color on her face where I hit her was also hard to not notice.

Regardless of what happened, I was going to pay for that one.

“I’ve got the files downloading,” the Englishman called from the next room. I moved closer to the door, giving Kurt room, and Calanthe sat next to him and put her arms around him. He would probably need a doctor from that last hit.

The Englishman sat at a computer rig with multiple screens and the hum of electronics. I could see the files popped up on the screen while several progress bars seemed to be running.

“What are you doing?” I asked, keeping an eye on the rest of the room.

“Running several decryption programs. I’ll have this cracked quick enough. Looks like commercial stuff, and I have tools for those.”

“I’m going to call Max,” the brunette said. “I think Kurt has broken ribs, and hopefully this shaved sasquatch didn’t damage his spine.”

“Watch it, Barbie,” I shot at her.

“I have the revolver, missing link,” she quipped.

“And you don’t want blood on your cheap paintings,” I fired back.

“That’s an honest to God, Van Gogh,” she said, and pointed to a painting of some yellow flowers in a vase.

“I really don’t care,” I said, swapping back and forth between the banked monitors and the room full of hostiles.

“Here we go,” the Englishman said. He hit a few buttons and the feed popped up, the four rooms that were the inner zone of the house – the bedroom, Calanthe’s puzzle room, the solar, and the media/entertainment room. I saw Arik and Calanthe, but they were moving jerky and fast.

“Replaying at twice the normal speed,” he said. “No need to watch real time.”

They seemed to avoid each other, at high speed. Calanthe had her small space she stayed in, and Arik was almost manic moving through the rooms. He left, came back with coffee, watched television, then more coffee. Other things happened but the feed was too fast to pick up the fine details.

When he pulled Calanthe out of bed and pulled her clothes off, I didn’t need fine details to see what was going on. God, it was rough, but thankfully it didn’t last long.

There was nothing tender about what he did.

She left the bed, went to the bathroom, showered, took something from the medicine cabinet, and then Arik was in the room.

Jerky movements, but the confrontation was obvious.

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