Going around in the semi-darkness, she would have much preferred to strip off her white-on-white camo parka and snow pants—doing this in her black bodysuit was a cliché that was nonetheless practical. No time, though, and she was more worried about being sighted outside in the winter landscape than here in this empty house.
Benloise’s private workspace was, like everything else under this roof, more stage set than anything functional. He didn’t actually use the great desk, or sit on the mini-throne, or read any of the leather-bound books on the shelves.
He did, however, walk through the space. Once a day.
In a candid moment, he’d once told her that before he left each night, he strolled through his house looking at all his things, reminding himself of the beauty of his collections and his home.
As a result of that insight, and some other things, Sola had long extrapolated that the man had grown up poor. For one, when they spoke in Spanish or Portugese, his accent belied lower-class pronunciations ever so subtly. For another, rich people didn’t appreciate their things like he did.
Nothing was rare to the rich, and that meant they took stuff for granted.
The safe was hidden behind the desk in a section of the bookcases that was released by a switch located in the lower drawer on the right.
She’d discovered this thanks to a tiny hidden camera she’d placed in the far corner during that party.
Following her triggering the release, a three-by-four-foot cutout in the shelving rolled forward and slid to the side. And there it was: a squat steel box, the maker of which she recognized.
Then again, when you’d broken into more than a hundred of the damn things, you got to know the manufacturers intimately. And she approved of his choice. If she had to have a safe, this was the one she’d get—and yes, he’d bolted it to the floor.
The blowtorch she took out of her backpack was small, but powerful, and as she ignited the tip, the flame blew out with a sustained hiss and a white-and-blue glow.
This was going to take time.
The smoke from the burning metal irritated her eyes, nose, and throat, but she kept her hand steady as she made a square about a foot high and two feet across in the front panel. Some safes she was able to blow the doors off of, but the only way in with one of these was the old-fashioned way.
It took forever.
She got through, though.
Placing the heavy door section aside, she bit down on the end of her penlight again and leaned in. Open shelving held jewelry, stock certs, and some gleaming gold watches he’d left within easy reach. There was a handgun that she was willing to bet was loaded. No money.
Then again, with Benloise, there was so much cash everywhere, it made sense he wouldn’t bother having the stuff take up safe space.
Damn it. There was nothing in there worth only five thousand dollars.
After all, on this job, she was merely after what she was fairly owed.
With a curse, she sat back on her heels. In fact, there wasn’t one damn thing in the safe under twenty-five thousand. And it wasn’t like she could break off half of a watchband—because how in the hell could she monetize that?
One minute passed.
A second one.
Screw this, she thought as she leaned the panel she’d cut out against the side of the safe and slid the shelving back into place. Rising to her feet, she looked around the room with the penlight. The books were all collectors’ editions of first-run antique stuff. Art on the walls and the tables was not just super-expensive, but hard to turn into cash without going underground…to people Benloise was intimately connected to.
But she was not leaving without her money, goddamn it—
Abruptly, she smiled to herself, the solution becoming clear.
For many aeons in the course of human civilization, commerce had existed and thrived on the barter system. Which was to say one individual traded goods or services for those of like value.
For all the jobs she’d done, she’d never before considered adding up the aftermath ancillary costs to her targets: new safes, new security systems, more safety protocols. She could bet these were expensive—although not nearly as much as whatever she typically took. And she’d entered here taking for granted those additional costs were going to be borne by Benloise—kind of pecuniary damages for what he’d cheated her out of.
Now, though, they were the point.
On her way back to the stairs, she looked over the opportunities available to her…and in the end, she went over to a Degas sculpture of a little ballerina that had been placed off to the side in an alcove. The bronze depiction of the young girl was the kind of thing her grandmother would have loved, and maybe that was why, of all the art in the house, she zeroed in on it.
The light that had been mounted above the statue on the ceiling was off, but the masterpiece still managed to glow. Sola especially loved the skirting of the tutu, the delicate yet stiff explosion of tulle delineated by mesh metalwork that perfectly captured that which was supposed to be malleable.
Sola cozied up to the statue’s base, wrapped her arms around it, and threw all of her strength into rotating its position by no more than two inches.
Then she raced up the stairs, unclipped her router and laptop from the alarm panel in the master bedroom, relocked that door, and headed out of the window she’d cut the hole in.
She was back in her skis and slicing through the snow no more than four minutes later.
In spite of the fact that there was nothing in her pockets, she was smiling as she left the property.
THIRTY-EIGHT
When the Mercedes finally pulled up to the front entrance of the Brotherhood’s mansion, Qhuinn got out first and went to Layla’s door. As he opened it, her eyes lifted to meet his.
He knew he was never going to forget the way her face looked. Her skin was paper white and seemed just as thin, the beautiful bone structure straining against its covering of flesh. Eyes were sunken into her skull. Lips were flat and thin.
He had an idea in that moment of how she would look just as she died, however many decades or centuries that would happen in the future.
“I’m going to carry you,” he said, bending down and picking her up.
The way she didn’t argue told him exactly how little of her there was left.
As the vestibule doors were opened by Fritz, like the butler had been waiting for their arrival, Qhuinn regretted the whole thing: The dream that he’d briefly entertained during her needing. The hope he’d wasted. The physical pain she was in. The emotional anguish they were both going through.
You did this to her.
At the time, when he’d serviced her, he’d been solely focused on the positive outcome he’d been so sure of.
Now, on the far side, his shitkickers planted on the solid, foul-smelling earth of reality? Not worth it. Even the chance of a healthy young wasn’t worth this.
The worst was watching her suffer.
As he brought her into the house, he prayed there wasn’t a big audience. He just wanted to spare her something, anything, even if it was simply being paraded in front of a cast of sad, worried faces.
No one was around.
Qhuinn took the stairs two at a time, and as he came up to the second story, the wide-open double doors of Wrath’s study made him curse.
Then again, the king was blind.
As George let out a chuff of greeting, Qhuinn just strode by, gunning for Layla’s bedroom. Kicking open the door, he found that the doggen had been in and tidied up, the bed all made, the sheets undoubtedly changed, a fresh bouquet of flowers set on the bureau.