Page 37 of Silent Schemes
I hold one out, still warm from my palm.
She checks the clip, racks it, aims at my heart, then tucks it away.
Always good to be strapped, even in my own club.
She’s ready. I am, too.
The Black Serpent opens to select clients at ten.
At 9:40, we walk through the front, past the waterfall wall and the hostess who would rather set herself on fire than make eye contact with either of us.
I take her through the front lounge.
The decor is courtesy of my taste.
Sleek black marble, booths in blood-red velvet, piano music leaking through hidden speakers.
Every surface gleams.
Every camera is disguised as a piece of art.
Sienna catalogs all of it.
Her eyes slide over the ceiling, the mirrored columns, the server in a too-tight dress with the telltale lump of a sidearm under her apron.
She marks the security sensors with a flicker of lashes, traces the route of every guard by the press of their footfalls in the carpet.
She never misses a detail.
Most people would say she’s paranoid.
I call it professional.
The first checkpoint is a double-door with a thumbprint scanner and an RFID reader hidden in the doorknob.
I place my hand, watch the green light sweep.
It unlocks with a click.
I hold the door for her, a little flourish.
She doesn’t say thank you.
“Neat trick,” she mutters, low enough to vanish under the music.
I smile. “Keeps the rats out.”
The hallway beyond is lined with glass cases, rare whiskey, antique weapons, trophies from a dozen dead men.
She glances at each, but only for the reflection in the glass, checking behind us as we walk.
At the end, Will waits.
He’s leaning on a credenza, arms folded, suit jacket hanging open to show his own gun, holstered but not buckled.
His face shows how disappointed he is, jaw clenched so tight you could break a molar on it.
“Good evening,” he says, deadpan.
